Read Blood Ties Online

Authors: Lori G. Armstrong

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Murder Victims' Families, #Women Sleuths, #Suspense, #Thrillers, #Crimes against, #Women private investigators, #Indians of North America, #South Dakota

Blood Ties (4 page)

BOOK: Blood Ties
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Chilly air bit my ankles as I retrieved my newspaper.

Shorts, skimpy tops, and opened-toed sandals were off the wardrobe list again today. I’d been stuck with the same damn wool clothes for months.

Winters in western South Dakota are erratic. Temperatures range from sixty degrees above zero to sixty degrees below. I’ve barbequed steaks in my bare feet in February only to be slapped in the face a day later with wind chills dipping to the thirty-below-zero mark. Th e

constant freeze-thaw cycle wreaks havoc; from roads and sidewalks to the premature budding of trees and fl owers.

Potholes and cracked concrete are fi rst true signs of spring.

But spring is as fi ckle as winter. Balmy spring days blossom into heat as eff ortlessly as they turn ugly with unwelcome snow fl urries.

Th

e story about the unidentifi ed victim was not the headline, but fi gured prominently on page one, overshad-owed by early projections for the upcoming agricultural season. Seemed Samantha’s demise
had
rated the same level of coverage as the Native American drowning deaths.

31

Hair combed, teeth brushed, dressed in fl annel-lined jeans and a sweater, I was ready to rock-n-roll. My Nissan Sentra didn’t warm up until about halfway into the twenty minute drive into Rapid City. On Main Street, I whipped into the fi rst open parking space.

Kevin’s business is nestled in one of the historic buildings downtown. Around here, historic can mean anything from buildings built during the 1876 Deadwood gold rush, to ones erected in time for the 1941 completion of Mount Rushmore. Architecturally the building looks Russian, with a spire resembling a jumbo Christmas orna-ment. It doesn’t have that slightly seedy look I associate with fi ctional PI’s. Th

e rent is cheap, probably because the

owners haven’t updated the plumbing or electrical since the 1930’s.

Th

e narrow staircase in the back led to the third fl oor.

Th

e door to Kevin’s suite was closed against the rank smell of permanent wave solutions drifting up from the downstairs salon.

I crossed the reception area to Kevin’s offi ce and left

the door ajar.

Kevin sat at his desk, phone glued to his ear. He motioned me to a brand-spanking new chair before refocusing on the conversation. My hand caressed the butter-soft yellow arm. Buff alo skin. It fi gured. Not that I could aff ord the indulgence. Th

e PI business pays better than

lowly secretarial work; consequently Kevin has the money 32

to back up his great taste.

My opportunities to study Kevin the way he likes to scrutinize me are limited, so I reckoned that entitled me to a little open leering. Pathetic, I know, but what else was I gonna do to kill time without a TV?

Dressed in casual clothes today, he seemed approach-able, the kind of guy you’d share a beer with, not the attractive, professional-looking type of man I avoid like church.

In junior high, my girlfriends labeled him cute, with his unremarkable brown hair, mossy green eyes, and easy smile. As a man, “cute” no longer applies. Quite simply, he’s striking. Tall, muscular, and confi dent, he’s grown into his angular features, pumped up his once-slight frame, and success fi ts him as well as the double-breasted suits he favors. His smile, no longer quick and easy, is more potent because of its rarity.

He favored me with one of those smiles after he’d hung up. “Morning, beautiful. You look chipper for a rainy day.”

I decided showers were overrated. “I assume everything with your client is A-okay?”

“Yep, he’ll be here any minute.” He reached in the small fridge behind him and tossed me a Diet Pepsi.

“You ready?”

“For what?” I popped the top, slurping foam from around the rim.

33

“You are leading the interview.” Kevin’s eyes searched mine. He started to add something else, but a soft knock had him looking away.

Th

e client wasn’t what I expected. A young man, nineteen or so, an unshaven baby-face marred by black smudges of grief. Th

at same look stared back at me in the mirror most mornings, and my sense of unease rose accordingly.

“David LaChance, my associate, Julie Collins. Julie works for the Bear Butte County Sheriff ’s offi ce. When

I’m lucky, she also works for me.”

I pumped David’s hand and skipped the usual “nice-to-meet-you” bullshit, reluctantly off ering him the deep-cushioned chair. Cold metal stung my behind as I settled into the cheap folding variety shoved against the wall.

“LaChance? Any relation to Charles LaChance?”

“My father. Mr. Wells said you know him.”

“Yes,” I said, keeping my face neutral.

With grace born of athleticism, he slid into the seat I’d vacated. “You don’t like him, do you?”

Charles LaChance had repulsed me long before he metastasized into a personal injury attorney. Five years older than Kevin and me, he’d skulked around with high school kids long after he’d graduated. He had no friends; a weasel like him rarely did, but he’d provided a useful link to local liquor stores. During his senior year, Chuck knocked up a fi fteen-year-old cheerleader from the Catholic high school. Rumor: Her father threatened a charge of 34

statutory rape unless Chuck married the girl. Apparently, I sat hip-to-hip with the result of that blessed union.

“No, I don’t like him. Does that matter?”

“Guess not because I don’t like him sometimes, either.”

“Does he know you hired an investigator?” Fortunately, Charles LaChance reciprocated our feelings and never used Kevin’s investigative services.

“Yeah.” He squirmed, earlier poise gone. “Umm, he didn’t approve.” Two spots of color dotted his high cheekbones, square chin met muscled chest. “Said it wasted my money to fi nd some two-bit whore I was better off without.”

Kevin said, “David, why don’t you start at the beginning? Julie’s asking questions since this is basically review for me.”

Finally, the chance to try out my interview techniques. I hoped I wouldn’t come off as a hard-ass, and I bestowed my most sincere smile on David. “Start whenever you’re ready.”

His words tumbled out like a child’s wooden blocks.

“Sam and I met last summer working at the resort off Highway 79. I’d fi nished freshman year in college, thought I was hot shit, working the primo gig in the golf pro-shop.”

He closed his eyes. “She waited tables in the clubhouse and wasn’t impressed with me in the least. I fell for her, fell hard.

Crazy in love with her the fi rst time I ever saw her.” His awkward chuckle was sweet. “Sounds corny, doesn’t it?”

35

“No, it sounds nice.” I lit a cigarette. “Go on.”

“We dated, neither of us expecting much since Sam was only sixteen. But she wasn’t a typical sixteen.”

I wondered what passed for typical these days.

“How so?”

“She didn’t hang around me while I worked or call me three times a day. Didn’t brag to the other girls she’d hooked up with a ‘frat’ guy or expect me to chauff er her around. We just had fun.”

When he smiled, a deep-set dimple popped out. I was utterly charmed. No wonder Samantha had played it cool.

“She sounds like an interesting girl.”

He nodded. “Sam was the best. She had depth, intelligence, and a great sense of humor.”

“So, she wasn’t much like her friends?”

David eyed my Marlboro Light with polite distaste.

“She didn’t have many friends except for her little sister.”

“How old is her sister?”

“Meredith?” He scratched his chin, perplexed. “I dunno. I guess about fi fteen.”

“So, if Sam had a problem, she’d talk to . . .”

“Meredith usually, or me. Sam was pretty much a loner.” He shrugged, as if that were natural. “Sometimes she’d go to a priest at her church if something really bugged her.”

“What about her parents?”

He gave me: you’ve-got-to-be-kidding.

36

“Did she tell you everything?”

“I think so.”

“Were you intimate?”

His chin notched higher, but the brightness in his eyes showed discomfort. “Not until the last few weeks of summer. She was pretty hardcore Catholic and wanted to wait.” His cheeks fl amed. “But, well, we didn’t.”

Ah. Guilt. At least he wasn’t yet full of male swagger, but no doubt with his looks that’d happen eventually. Pity.

“Did you continue your relationship after you’d gone back to college?”

“Yes, we talked on the phone and I came back to see her at least once a month. We spent all of our time together during Christmas break.”

I balanced the killer whale ashtray I’d bought Kevin on my knee. “How did your parents and her parents feel about your relationship?”

“My father dismissed her; my mom was concerned that I’d ‘get her in trouble.’ ” David picked at the corner of his thumbnail. “Her parents didn’t care.”

“What do you mean, ‘didn’t care’?”

“Look, its no big secret Shelley had a drinking problem.

It embarrassed Sam. She never wanted me to come inside when I picked her up at her house, since Shelley was usually wasted. Dick wasn’t a hell of a lot better. Most nights he’s at Fat Bob’s, that biker bar on the outskirts of town.”

I let the last sentence sink in. Just another perfectly 37

adjusted Midwestern family. “Did she consider running away?”

“Never.” David’s troubled hazel eyes locked with mine.

“Th

at’s why I hired Mr. Wells. She’d never just disappear.”

Wisps of silence hung in the room much like the clouds of mist outside the window. What David revealed about Samantha Friel didn’t fi ll in the gaps. It made for interesting conversation, but we were talking about death, not love. Why hold anything back when he was paying for answers? I waited, using the time to practice my hard cop stare.

“David. Julie can’t help if she doesn’t know everything.” Th

is from Kevin, my silent partner.

“Can I have one of those?” David pointed to my soda.

Kevin handed him a can. I watched David open it, the carbonation slowly released in little pops and hisses.

He fi ddled with the metal tab, twisting until it snapped off . A quick fl ick of the wrist —
ping
, it dropped inside the garbage can. One teeny sip followed another.

God. A fi fty dollar bottle of Merlot deserved that much enjoyment, not a Pepsi product. I tamped down my impatience.

At last, he looked directly at me. “Sam found out recently Dick Friel wasn’t her biological father.”

My gaze fl ickered to Kevin, but he’d hunkered over his notebook. Remarkable; he played blind man as convinc-ingly as deaf man today. I stubbed out the cigarette. “How 38

did she fi nd out?”

“Two months ago, her mother checked into that private alcohol rehab center out on Highway 44. It’s a long program, something like three months. Sam was thrilled Shelley had fi nally acknowledged her problem and prayed this time the treatment would work.”

I held up my hand. “Wait a minute. Shelley’s been in rehab before?”

David stared deeply into his magic soda can. Finding no answers, he glanced back at me. “Twice. Once for drugs when Sam was fi ve, then for alcohol three years ago.”

Twice.

Th

e initial fl ashback I’d had last night to that long ago keg didn’t create the same warm, fuzzy feeling.

“Was Shelley doing okay in rehab this time?”

“Sam thought so. Th

ere’s counseling sessions: one-

on-one, family, marriage . . . Th

is one counselor had a

‘break-through’ with Sam’s mom and insisted all of Shelley’s drinking problems stemmed from one suppressed incident. Naturally, this counselor convinced Shelley in order to ‘heal’ she needed to come to terms and ‘share’ it with her family.”

Th

e sarcasm in David’s voice surprised me. He didn’t think much of counselors. We were on the same page there.

In my experience, most mental health workers fi lled heads with double-speak mumbo-jumbo bullshit that meant nothing. Any combination of words sounded reasonable when emotions ran high. Th

eir professional solutions were

39

nothing besides the patient’s words rearranged and tossed back in the form of a question. I equated it to asking a panhandler for advice on managing your stock portfolio.

“I take it Shelley ‘shared’?”

Th

e empty pop can crashed into the garbage as David stood. “God. I shouldn’t be telling you this.” He paced and I resisted my urge to trip him. Pacing is pointless, an irritating waste of energy that just plain pisses me off .

Guess I still needed to work on the patience angle.

“David.” We glanced at Kevin. His steely stare matched the infl ection in his voice. “Tell her or I will.”

David clenched his fi sts at his side. “Shelley was gang-raped when she was nineteen. She got pregnant and told Dick the baby was his.” He turned to watch my reaction.

Th

e soda burned in my stomach like battery acid, rising halfway up my throat before I swallowed it back down.

“Jesus. Samantha told you this?”

“She freaked out and called me at school right after the session ended. I drove all night to get here.” He sank deeper into the chair, deeper into himself. “She was a fucking mess.”

I started to ask another question but David interrupted.

“Do you want to know the worst thing?”

I shrunk back, not believing there could be anything worse.

David’s bitter voice peeled the air like old paint. “Dick Friel, her
father
for her whole fucking life, told her he didn’t give a shit about her since she wasn’t his kid. Wasn’t his kid,” he repeated. “What kind of man does that?”

I thought of my own father and how ruthlessly, almost gleefully, he’d abandoned his own child. Yeah, I knew exactly what kind of man Dick Friel was. But this wasn’t 41

about me, although the parallels were eerily similar.

“David?” I prompted at another bout of his silence.

He’d dug his elbows into his knees, handsome head cradled in his youthful, unlined hands. I couldn’t see his face. God, I hoped he wasn’t bawling. Men always complain when women cry, but it was a cakewalk compared to a sobbing boy on the cusp of manhood. “Yeah?”

BOOK: Blood Ties
7.57Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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