Blood Ties (2 page)

Al, sensing Missy’s damsel-in-distress signal, stepped forward.

I stayed put.

“Well, glad it didn’t happen here.” She muttered a bunch of “uh-huhs” before adding, “No problem. I’ll tell him straight away. Bye, now.”

“What’s up?” Th

is from Al, the brave, blushing warrior.

Missy’s shifty gaze wavered between Al and me.

“Nothing in our neck of the woods.”

Skirting the desk, she hustled down the hallway, Al hot on her Ferragamo heels as she rapped daintily on the sheriff ’s door.

I got the distinct impression Missy wanted me to leave. So, naturally, I followed the merry little band into the inner sanctum of Sheriff Tom Richards’ offi ce.

He didn’t respond immediately to our interruption.

His back, roughly the size of a Cadillac hood, greeted us, a constant
click clack click clack
echoed from the keyboard.

Th

e plastic slide-out tray bounced, and although I didn’t 8

see his hands, I knew they fairly danced over the keys. My typing skills are half-assed on a good day. It amazed me thick fi ngers could be so nimble when it came to offi ce

drudgery.

“Sheriff

?”

His acknowledgement was a harsh grunt.

“Gene Black called.”

“Yeah? What did he want?”
Tap, tap, tap.

“Th

ey found a fl oater.”

His movement stopped; his spine snapped straight as an axel rod. He turned. “When?”

“Th

is morning. Some fl y-fi shermen hooked it in Rapid Creek.”

He scowled at the clock. “He’s just calling me
now
?”

Missy’s

fl eshy shoulder lifted; the gesture a nervous twitch, not a casual shrug. “Wanted to give you a heads up before the media did.”

“Whereabouts was this?”

She plucked a loose paperclip teetering on the desk edge. “Up in the Hills, off Rimrock.” Her pudgy fi ngers twisted the metal into a caricature of modern art.

“Pennington County claimed jurisdiction, but Rapid City PD was on scene as a courtesy. Th

en a whole mess of

people showed up.”

Th

e sheriff chugged his coff ee, gorilla hands dwarfi ng the cup.

Being around him every day makes me forget how im-9

mense, how out of proportion he is with the rest of the world. At six-foot nine, he has the distinction of being the biggest sheriff in the state. His arms, legs, and torso are perfectly balanced, but his huge head isn’t: It resembles an overgrown honeydew melon with ears.

His button nose is centered in a grayish face; his coff ee-colored eyes withhold any trace of softness. Spikes of black hair protrude from his head and chin, reinforcing the ogre-like image from a fairy tale. Th e knife scar connecting the right side of his mouth to his jaw line creates a constant scowl and discourages most comments, either about the state of the weather up high, or whether or not he plays basketball.

“Gene said they weren’t allowed to move the body right away,” Missy continued. “Th

ey called in the DCI

from Pierre. Which also caught the interest of the Feds.”

“Th

e Feds and DCI? Why not the NPS, too? Who the hell did they fi nd up there?”

Don’t go there,
my brain warned, but my mouth ignored the plea. “With that much manpower?” I said. “I’ll guarantee it wasn’t another Indian.”

Ugly silence followed, thick as buff alo stew.

In the past two years, fi ve transient Lakota males —

varying in age from thirty to seventy — had become life-sized bobbers in Rapid Creek, which twists from Pactola Lake and zigzags through Rapid City before dumping into the Cheyenne River. Despite the toxicology reports of the 10

drowning victims, which revealed blood alcohol levels approaching blood poisoning range, cries of outrage among the Sioux Nation and resident supporters fell on deaf ears.

It seemed neither local law enforcement nor federal agencies were spurred into action, especially the FBI, still smarting from Yellow Th

under Camp in the 1980’s and the con-

troversy surrounding the 1972 siege at Wounded Knee.

Not even the appearance of Native American activist/

Hollywood actress Renee Brings Plenty, who’d lodged a protest march down Main Street to the Pennington County Courthouse, had changed the status quo.

Th

e “so-what” local attitude remained: Another dead, drunken, dirty Indian out of the gutter and off the welfare rolls.

Who

cared?

I

did.

Th

ree years had crawled past since the discovery of my brother Ben’s body in Bear Butte Creek. Unlike the other Native Americans, Ben hadn’t drowned, no alcohol or drugs showed up in his tox reports. With his throat slashed, his body discarded like garbage, he’d washed to the bottom of Bear Butte Creek, an area the Lakota consider sacred.

And like my mother’s death, I hadn’t gotten over it, I hadn’t moved on. In fact, I’d moved
back
to South Dakota from Minneapolis for one specifi c purpose: to fi nd out who had killed my brother and why.

Probably masochistic to abandon a promising career 11

in the restaurant industry to apply for a secretarial job in the miniscule county where Ben had been murdered.

In my pie-eyed state following his funeral, it’d made sense. With unfettered access to legal documents, I suspected I’d uncover a secret fi le on Ben — like on those TV

detective programs — detailing why, how, and whodunit, and I could get on with my life.

Th

ere wasn’t any such fi le. So, here I am, years later, stuck in a rut that’s developed into a black hole: a dead-end job, sexual fl ings that masquerade as relationships, and the tendency to avoid my father and his new family like Mad Cow disease.

No one understands my anger, frustration, and the sadness wrapped around me like a hair shirt. Some days, I didn’t understand it. Time hadn’t healed the wound of grief; rather it remained an ugly sore, open for everyone to gawk at and for me to pick at.

In the immediate silence, Missy’s globes of cleavage turned into blushing grapefruits. She avoided my eyes, but her clipped tone was the voice of authority. “Th ey prefer to

be called ‘Native Americans’.”

I snagged the mangled paperclip and pointed it at her, hating the saccharine tone she bleated in the presence of testosterone. “No, they don’t. Most of them prefer their tribal affi

liation. Native American is a politically correct term.”

“Whatever,” Missy said with a drollness she’d yet 12

to master.

“So, fi ll us in,” I said. “What color
was
the body they found?”

Al shifted toward the fax machine, away from me.

Missy furnished me with a view of the bra straps crisscross-ing the folds of her back. “White. Young, female, about sixteen, fully clothed. Th

e body wasn’t decomposed, ac-

cording to Gene.”

“Suicide?” Tom asked.

“Didn’t say. Th

ey’re keeping the details quiet.”

A disgruntled sound cleared my throat before I stopped it.

Missy whirled back to me, coquettish manner forgotten. “Don’t start. Th

is doesn’t have a thing to do with

your brother’s case.” She whined directly to Al. “See?”

Hands shoved in my blazer pockets, my fi ngers curled longingly around the pack of cigarettes stashed there.

Damn those crusading non-smokers.

Th

e sheriff shot me a withering look, but asked Missy:

“She been identifi ed yet?”

“Th

ey notifi ed next of kin.”

“What else did Gene tell you?” His gaze swept the bulletin board overwhelmed with offi

cial notices and the

never-ending explosion of papers on the desk. “I don’t remember seeing any reports of a missing local girl.”

In a community our size, a missing dog is big news.

A missing child is tantamount to calling out the National 13

Guard.

“Th

at’s why they’re keeping it low key. Th e girl was a

minor living in Rapid City, but for some reason her parents didn’t report her missing.”

Again, my mouth engaged before brain. “Well, lucky thing we’ve got local law enforcement, the Feds, DCI and everybody and their fucking dog concerned about this one dead white girl.”

Th

e sheriff gaped, hooking his thumbs in his gun belt loop. His sigh was a sound of utter exasperation. Touchy, feely crap was not his forte’ but I didn’t give a damn. Let him fl ounder. God knows I’d done more than my fair share.

“Aren’t

you

off shift now? Go home. Forget you heard any of this.”

“I think that’s why Gene waited to call,” Missy off ered slyly. “He knew
she’ d
react this way.”

Again, my reputation for resentment had eclipsed the real issue.

“Th

is case doesn’t aff ect us,” Sheriff Richards said.

“Ben’s death is irrelevant.”

“Irrelevant to whom? Not to me.” My thumb ran along the grooves of my lighter. In my mind I heard the click, watched the orange fl ame fi re the tip of my cigarette.

Mentally I inhaled.

“Surface similarities, but we don’t know the details.

Besides, your brother’s case is cold, so I’m missing the connection.”

14

“Come on,” I intoned, rookie teaching a veteran a lesson. “A death in
any
local creek is a connection. Maybe now that one with the right skin color has surfaced, Ben’s case will get the full investigation it deserved.”

Th

e ogre in him bellowed, “Julie, will you stop? Jesus!

We did a full investigation. Everybody and their fucking dog

— as you so eloquently put it — busted ass on his case.”

Paws slapped his desk, sending a family picture snapped at an old time photo studio in Keystone crashing to the carpet.

“You know the BIA and AIM still sniff around, so don’t give me that ‘we don’t care because they were Indian’

line of bullshit.”

So much for the short-lived touchy, feely crap. I struggled not to fl inch under the discord distorting the airless room.

He sighed again. “Take the weekend to clear your head; get drunk, get laid, whatever it takes to get you out of here until Monday.”

His

fi nger shook in the same manner as my father’s.

I braced myself for the slap that wouldn’t land, waited for the invariable
but
.

“But I hear one word you were up there playing PI at the crime scene, or asking questions of any agency involved and I’ll suspend you without hesitation and without pay, got it?”

In my mind’s eye, I zoomed inside the safety of my TV

15

screen, a cool cat like Starsky, blasé about getting my ass chewed. Th

ere, in the perfect fi ctional world, the stages of grief were wrapped up within the allotted hour. I wished it were simple. I wished I didn’t live every damn day with sorrow circling my throat, choking the life out until my insides felt raw, and hollow, and left me bitter.

So, for a change, I didn’t argue with him, press my viewpoint or try to change his; it was useless. Recently, even
I’ d
grown weary of my combative stance and reputation. Unfortunately, my uncharacteristic silence didn’t help the sheriff ’s disposition. He’d brought meth-crazed bikers to tears with his practiced glower, which quite frankly, right now aimed at me, tied my guts into knots that would make a sailor proud.

“Get some help,” he said. “Grief counseling, anger management, whatever. Deal with your loss and stop making it some goddamn,” he gestured vaguely, plucking the appro-priate word from mid-air, “
soapbox
for racial injustice.”

Neither Al nor Missy spared me a glance. Wasn’t the fi rst time he’d broached the subject, nor would it be the last. At this point it wasn’t worth my crappy job. Playing PI indeed. I
was
a PI — albeit part-time. Although Sheriff Richards disapproved, legally, he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

I smiled pure plastic. “Fine. I’ll drop it. As far as grief therapy? I’ll be doing mine at home, in my own way, but gee, once again, thanks for your overwhelming concern.”

16

Self-indulgence aside, the door made a satisfying crack as I slammed it on my way out.

My hand automatically blocked the sun’s intensity when I shuffl

ed down the buckled concrete of the sidewalk. A cool breeze softened the fl ush on my cheeks, yet inhaling a breath of clean spring air had no immediate calming eff ect on me. My mood, like the South Dakota weather, could change rapidly.

Th

e outlook for mood enhancement remained grim when I caught sight of Ray’s rattletrap Dodge pickup parked next to the Dumpster again. I held my breath against the stench, guessing I’d have to hold my tongue too.

His blond head leaned against the back window, his calloused fi ngers tapped on the steering wheel in time with the radio. Ray is good looking in an unpolished way.

With a construction worker’s build and swagger he rates a second glance from other women. He’s not particularly bright, exactly the type of guy I want warming my bed at 18

this stage of my life: young and virile. A man with simple goals, nothing beyond collecting a weekly paycheck and someday owning a vintage Corvette.

At

fi rst the change was good, hanging with a man who wanted me for no other reason besides I was around.

Lately, Ray’s become a possessive asshole, apparently smart enough to recognize my restlessness and the imperma-nence of our relationship. It’s a classic dilemma in reverse: Th

e more he wants from me the less I have to off er.

He grunted and gunned the truck after I’d slammed the door. “What the fuck took you so long? Been sitting out here for twenty minutes.”

My hand shook with residual adrenaline as I torched a cigarette. After the fi rst blessed nicotine hit, I said, “Something came up.”

“Well, I don’t like waiting.”

I blew a stream of smoke in his direction. “So, don’t.”

“Next time I won’t.” His meaty palm batted the smoke aside, then he threw the truck in gear. “Where to?”