Blood Ties (9 page)

“What the hell was that about?” Ray demanded.

“Nothing.”

He punched the support beam on the porch. “Didn’t sound like nothing.”

Ray’s periodic bouts of anger don’t bother me; I suspect it’s all for show. I can handle it, even when that side of him reminds me of my father. Was it some subconscious thing that I was attracted to men who resembled my dad?

I shivered. I’d had enough mental traumas today to even consider the idea. I wanted to erase the day’s events by retrieving my Sentra, eating a decent meal, and indulging in a sweat-soaked round of sex or two.

Not necessarily in that order.

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“Let’s just forget about it, okay?”

Ray shook his head, and shoved me aside with a practiced pout. “I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

“Who?”

“Th

at asshole Wells.”

“How does he look at me?” I breathed against his rigid jaw, inhaling sweat, anger, and dust. “Like this?” I slid my hands up his denim shirt, kissing him until his heartbeat increased under my palm. Th

en I whispered a suggestion

in his ear that would not only wipe the look off his face, but would most likely cross his eyes.

No big stunner that Ray followed me inside without any additional stupid questions.

At that point sex as a cure for emotional ails seemed less dangerous and addictive than tequila.

Missy came in ahead of shift change on Friday so I could leave early. Although we’d forged a truce of sorts in the last week, I doubted she’d ask me to co-host her next Mary Kay party. Th

e sheriff stayed tight-lipped and terse in my presence too, even after I scrubbed his offi ce. Al,

well . . . Al was just sweet, harmless Al, a bumbling, red-faced buff oon. Sometimes I wondered what it’d take to get him riled.

I’d kept Ray in the dark about my Friday night plans with Kevin. He’d get pissed off and pouty, whine that another Friday slipped past and I didn’t hang around to watch him play pool or off er to chalk his stick.

Th

e things I put up with for a decent orgasm.

On the drive to Kevin’s offi

ce, I popped REO Speed-

wagon’s
High Infi delity
into the CD player. Music chronicles most events in my life. Th

ese tunes reconnected me

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with the vortex of grief after my mother’s death. AC/DC

thrashing guitars bring to mind wild kegs in the Hills and my lost virginity. Th

e B-52’s, Th

e Cure, and Oingo Boingo

were reminders of the off beat path I’d chosen in college.

Ditto with the hair bands, Dokken, Winger, and Tesla in my dusty LP collection. When Ben died, nothing besides REM off ered me comfort.

Meredith Friel was close to the same age I’d been when my mother died. Did she use music to drown out reality? Or did she ignore it? Would she even open up to us? Or would she presume in her youth that we, as adults, couldn’t possibly understand her angst?

God, I hated just how much I did understand.

I parked in the back lot and huff ed up the stairs. Damn.

I’d been smoking way too much lately. Usually, I kept in shape by long hikes in the Hills and target practice shooting with my bow, but the only activity I’d participated in recently — which counted as an aerobic workout — was of the sexual variety. A regimented exercise program is not my style. Donning Lycra tights and prancing around in public? Forget it. Th

e only time I run is if someone is chasing me. Still, panting like an overweight basset hound at age thirty-four is completely uncool. I waited in the hallway until my breathing evened out. Wouldn’t want Kevin to see me wheezing.

Th

e reception door was ajar and I stepped inside.

Kevin’s suite of offi

ces is enormous — not the tiny

89

windowless, airless, colorless cubicles which are the bane of new construction. Kevin had let me decide the decorating scheme, and frankly, I’d outdone myself.

No neutral colors; walls painted the hue of toasted pecans to showcase Native American artwork, deep-cushioned Berber carpet in a cinammony red; chocolate-colored leather furniture; beaded, metal and stone sculptures scattered on wrought iron pedestals. Th

e space oozed warmth

and civility. I felt more at home here than I did at either the sheriff ’s offi

ce or my father and stepmother’s place.

As usual, the phone receiver had become one with Kevin’s ear. I tiptoed to his ubiquitous stash of Diet Pepsi.

When his murmurs gave way to a low, rumbling chuckle, I froze. Only two things in my experience evoked that response from men: money or sex. I sipped my pilfered soda, snuggled into my favorite new chair, and waited.

After he’d hung up, I asked sweetly, “Good news from your stockbroker?”

“No.” Kevin scribbled on his Palm Pilot. “Th at was

Lilly.”

Shit. It fi gured. “Everything is set up with Meredith?”

“Yes. Anytime after seven.”

I lifted a brow. “A fi fteen-year-old on a schedule?”

He shrugged. “Evidently Dick is gone to the bar by then.”

“She’s okay talking with us?”

“Seems that way. Although she was pretty aloof. Why?”

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“Just curious. Does she know we’re going to Fat Bob’s tonight?”

“I don’t know that we are.”

“Come on.” I slurped around the rim of the can, just to see Kevin frown at my poor manners. My purpose for riling him was the old bait and switch; in his distraction, maybe he wouldn’t see how profoundly his relationship with Lilly bothered me. Th

ings were getting serious be-

tween them and I had no idea where it left me. I’d rather provoke his anger than his pity. “We planned this. We have to talk to Dick sometime.”

“I know. But unless there’s a stabbing or shooting, even the cops steer clear of Fat Bob’s. Maybe it’d be best . . .”

Kevin’s concerned glance changed the fi ne hairs on my nape into hackles and they rose accordingly. “Does this have anything to do with our discussion from yesterday?”

“Nope.”

Chink chink
echoed as he tapped his pen against the Black Hills Bagels coff ee mug next to his ten-key. “I don’t know if Friday night in a biker bar is the best time or place to question Dick Friel.”

His point was valid, but born out of a sense of protection? Guess I needed to remind him I wasn’t on the endan-gered species list. “We have to. Dick Friel is my number one suspect.”

“Seriously?

Th

en waltzing into Fat Bob’s is defi nitely a bad idea.”

“But on the other hand, he might be more inclined to 91

talk freely on his own turf.”

“Turf,” he repeated, and rolled his eyes. “Been watching
West Side Story
again?”

I stuck my tongue out at him.

“Jules, have you ever been in that bar?”

“No. Have you?”

“Once, for about fi ve minutes.”

“So, what’s it like?”

He sighed, his chair wheels squeaked on a backward roll. “Half as big as Dusty’s, twice as smoky, and the clien-tele consists mostly of bikers, ex-cons, soon-to-be cons, and the skankiest women outside of
Easy Rider
magazine.”

“Sounds like fun. Should I bring my bow?”

“Hold that thought, Xena. If we decide to go, I think we should bring Jimmer and leave your dominatrix outfi t at home.”

“Isn’t Jimmer off playing terrorist in some jungle?”

“He’s back. We had lunch on Wednesday.”

I tried to wrap my brain around the idea of Kevin, and our 6’6”, three-hundred and seventy-fi ve pound friend, doing lunch. I assumed Jimmer ate his meat raw. After he killed it. With his bare hands. I suppose everyone’s entitled to the occasional civilized meal.

“How long will this thing with Meredith last?”

“Hard to say.”

“Ballpark, Kev. You know Jimmer doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

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He shuddered. “Don’t remind me.”

“So, you want me to call him?”

Kevin stretched out of his chair. “Sure. We’ll hit Fat Bob’s tonight, but
only
if Jimmer can make it.”

“Cool.” I tried rolling my T-shirt sleeve over my pack of cigarettes. Didn’t quite achieve the James Dean look, nor was I showcasing a tattoo. Damn. And I’d wanted so badly to fi t in. “Can I be your biker bitch?”

“You’ve got the bitch part down, but we’re short on the bike part, babe.”

He unknotted the funky tie I’d given him for Christmas — red, covered with purple fl ying pigs — and lifted it over his head, mussing his hair. “Tell him to meet us there at nine. I’ll change and we can grab a bite before we head out.”

Th

e door to his spare offi

ce shut fi rmly behind him.

I punched in Jimmer’s number, and waited for him to pick up. Th

e loud mechanical whine of his ancient answering machine scorched my ear. Double damn. Kevin had said we could only go to Fat Bob’s if we had backup and without speaking to Jimmer in person . . . I couldn’t count on Jimmer retrieving his messages. But Kevin would cancel our outing, and frankly, I was looking forward to grilling Dick Friel. After the beep, I explained the situation, told Jimmer where we’d be, and hung up.

Th

en I made the call to my own answering machine.

Five calls from Ray. In thirty minutes. Each one increasingly 93

agitated. I didn’t even want to think about that situation.

Kevin was still dressing when he re-entered the room.

He strolls around me partially clothed, apparently believing I’m unaff ected by the sight of his toned body. Not true.

So
not true as I glimpsed his rock hard pecs and lean stomach. I kept my salivary glands in check as I watched him tuck his T-shirt into the half-buttoned waistband of his 501 jeans and strap on the black nylon shoulder holster.

“Did you get a hold of Jimmer?”

“Yeah.” It wasn’t really a lie, since he hadn’t asked if I’d actually
spoken
to him. Kevin fi nished buttoning before he unlocked the bottom drawer of the fi ling cabinet and pulled out his weapon, an H&K P7. After he checked the clip, he locked it in place, testing the weight in his palm before he jammed the gun in the holster. “What?”

I almost asked if he wanted me to leave so he could fondle it in private. Th

en again, it might be fun to watch.

“Nothing.” I said.

“You’re

staring.”

“How big is that thing?”

His depraved grin sent my blood racing. “Why, darling, I never thought you noticed.”

Holy hell. I blushed. Good thing Jimmer hadn’t been around to hear that one; I’d never hear the end of it.

“Th

e caliber on this one’s 40mm.” Kevin patted the holster with the aff ection men saved for inanimate objects.

“Big enough to knock anyone on their butt.”

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I drained the soda, sucked the last hit off my cigarette.

“Now you are starting to sound like Jimmer.”

Two sharp raps echoed over the open door; we spun unison toward the persistent sound. A short man, monkish coiff ure, fi lled the threshold between the reception area and Kevin’s offi

ce.

Eww. Charles LaChance. In the fl esh. My own fl esh beaded and crawled all the way up to my scalp. I glanced at Kevin, but he seemed unruffl

ed.

“Charles,” Kevin said. “I wasn’t expecting you. Come in. Caught me at a bad time, however. Julie and I were just on our way out.”

But Kevin’s words were lost on Charles, busy as he was leering at my body from lips to boobs to hips. I stared back. Besides his rapidly receding hairline, he hadn’t changed much from the last time we’d crossed paths: A civil case in which he’d won his client — a former Bear Butte County employee — an undeserved, lifetime supply of cash. Unfortunately his share of money hadn’t changed him; I knew the skin under his expensive suit was one-hundred percent snake. I slid my hands under my thighs, a move that wasn’t lost on him. No way was I shaking hands with a reptile.

LaChance’s grin split from hairy ear to hairy ear. “Th e

beautiful Julie Collins. You haven’t changed a bit.”

Even I occasionally succumbed to false fl attery, but not in this case. “Cut the bullshit, Chuck. What do you want?”

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Kevin laughed out loud.

Charles set his briefcase on the antique library table on the wall opposite Kevin’s desk.

“Charming as ever, I see.” His pupil-less eyes focused on Kevin. “Do you always let your friends speak to your customers that way? No wonder your business is,” his pity-ing gaze swept the offi

ce, “sadly lacking.”

Kevin smiled benignly, far above our petty behavior.

“I assume there is a reason you’re here?”

Th

e locks on his briefcase clicked open. “Yes. I’d like to hire you.”

I snorted and crushed out my cigarette.

“For what?” Kevin asked.

Charles angled his head at me. “I’d rather discuss it in private.”

I stood. “I’ll be waiting downstairs. I’d say it was nice seeing you again,
Chuck
,” I emphasized the nickname, knowing it annoyed him, “but hell is full of liars and cheats and I’ve no interest in spending eternity with you.

However, it was nice meeting your son. Glad to see bad genes can be overcome.”

LaChance’s soft, feminine hand on my arm as I brushed past sent waves of disgust rolling across my skin. “How do you know David? You in on this business of bilking him out of his inheritance?”

“You’d know all about that since you perfected that trick, righto, Chuckie-poo?”

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“Julie,” Kevin warned.

“What? You and I both know he isn’t here to hire you.

And you’d never work for him anyway.” Against my better judgment, I leaned in, witnessing up close the black void of his beady eyes. “Am I right? You’re here to buy the rest of David’s contract?”

He laughed with gusto. “Still smart as a whip too.” His bout of hilarity was short-lived as he withdrew a checkbook ledger. “Drop this ridiculous wild goose-chase.”

“Why?”

“Because Samantha’s been found. Th

ere is no reason

for Kevin to continue investigating.”