Hallowed Ground (19 page)

“Is that your beef, Linderman? These guys don’t fit the Waspish western South Dakota ideals?”

“No. You’re getting off track. I’m here strictly because I’m worried about Rondelle. When she told me what she’d discovered at that place, I urged her to turn the evidence in to the FBI.”

Evidence. Bud Linderman knew about the disk.

The pieces tumbled into place like three cherries on a slot machine. Linderman’s concern wasn’t for Rondelle; he wanted to use the disk as a business opportunity to run the competition out of Deadwood.

“Why didn’t
you
turn them into the Deadwood Gaming Commission?”

“The evidence needs to come from an unbiased source, not from me.”

After my conversation with Rondelle, I know she wouldn’t have spilled her guts to this self-serving ass wipe, no matter how much he claimed she’d always been “more than just an employee.” Now I knew why Rondelle had told me not to trust anyone.

I took my time extinguishing my cigarette. “If you’re so buddy-buddy with Rondelle, why aren’t you voicing these concerns to her? Why are you coming to me?”

“I haven’t been able to get in touch with her. You saw her Saturday night. I wondered if she’d mentioned anything about her plans or where she’d be this week?”

I studied his impassive face. Owning a string of casinos probably contributed heavily to his ability to bluff.

My bluffing skills had improved, but I was nowhere near pro status. “We didn’t discuss her schedule.”

“What did you discuss?”

“That’s between me and Rondelle,” I said, with a toothy smile.

His eyelids dropped to half-slits. “She told you about the disk, didn’t she?”

I didn’t confirm or deny, although my unease with the situation grew when I thought about Rondelle telling anyone—especially this scumbag—what was on that recording.

“Rondelle was supposed to give that disk to me,” he said.

“Yeah? Why?”

His shoulders slumped; his disillusioned sigh was almost believable. “So it didn’t get into the wrong hands.”

The change in his body language was a dead giveaway. He was lying and I was absolutely dying to hear whatever bullshit explanation he’d just concocted. I waited, knowing it wouldn’t take long.

“See, we were supposed to meet on Sunday. She was going to hand the disk over to me for safekeeping but she didn’t show up. I’m afraid the reason I haven’t heard from her is because she’s gone and done something stupid.”

“Such as?”

“Such as using that disk to blackmail the people involved in it instead of turning it over to the proper authorities like we’d discussed. She could be in danger.”

Danger? Blackmail? “Wow. I didn’t realize you were working with law enforcement, Linderman.”

From the hallway outside the offices I heard the squeak of the handcart as Ralph the UPS guy went about his daily routine.

“What?”

“You just said she was going to give the disk to you. Somehow I doubt that
you
qualify as the

‘proper authorities’, unless of course, you are working with the Feds.”

Caught in his own lie, his hand rose to the black cords of his bolo tie.

I rested my forearms on my desk blotter. “Didn’t you tell me about two minutes ago that in order for the contents of that disk to be taken seriously by the Deadwood Gaming Commission, it’d have to come from someone
other
than you? Now you’re trying to convince me that Rondelle was willing to let you have it? For ‘safekeeping’?”

I paused, enjoying his discomfort. “Wrong answer, Bud. I’m not that stupid and neither is Rondelle. I think you wanted that disk and she wouldn’t give it to you because she knew you’d use the disk for blackmail yourself.”

Bud Linderman’s immediate good ol’ boy grin was so strained his mustache had stretched out six additional inches. “Now, that’s a downright fascinatin’ theory.”

I batted my lashes, coquettishly bowed my head. Scarlett O’Hara would’ve shed a proud tear.

“Except it’s wrong,” he said.

“Then why don’t you tell me why you’re all fired up to get your hands on that disk?”

“No. I don’t think I will.”

I hadn’t been expecting that.

He stood. “When you talk to Rondelle again, tell her it’d be in her best interest to call me.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Remind her that I always get what I want. Always. And I want that damn disk.”

Bud ambled to the door; his cowboy lackeys instantly materialized by his side like flies on horseshit.

He turned. “One other thing. Tell her she’d better hope you find her daughter before I do.”

My belly plunged like I’d swallowed a spur. No mistaking his meaning that time. Before I found my voice to demand how the hell he knew about Chloe, he’d rounded up his posse and they’d rode off.

Had I really wanted to keep going with this case just to prove I could? I was in way over my head and sinking fast. Nothing made sense.

I focused my frustration with Rondelle and anger at Bud Linderman on something productive.

Pulling up the emergency number Rondelle had given me, I called it, left a message, and smoked while I waited.

MY PREDICTION RONDELLE’S FRIEND WOULDN’T CALL back was short-lived. My cell rang at noon. The caller ID read: Rapid City pay phone. Uneasiness prickled my skin like a sudden rash.

“Hello?”

“Julie Collins?”

No distorted computer voice.

“Yes, this is Julie Collins,” I said.

“I got your message.”

“Good. I’m, ah, a friend of Rondelle’s.”

“Yeah?”

Silence.

“You want proof?”

“Yes.”

“Okay the word you’re waiting for is
tiblo
.” God. I felt like an idiot.

Pause. “I’ll meet you at Storybook Island behind the Humpty Dumpty concession stand. Thirty minutes.”

“How will I know you?”

“You won’t. Tell me what you’ll be wearing and I’ll track you down.”

Not exactly reassuring and plenty stupid on his part to think I’d blindly agree to his plan. “No dice. I need something more substantial to prove
you
really are a friend of Rondelle’s.”

Dead air.

Had he hung up? I’d had enough run-ins with Rondelle’s “friends” for my trust issues to be completely justified.

“Rondelle trusts you because her brother, Harvey, doesn’t.”

Good enough for me.

“I’m blond and wearing a pink silk tank top.” I punched the off button and clipped the phone to my waistband.

After closing down the office, I drove up Main Street until just before I reached the National Guard camp and turned left on to Sheridan Lake Road.

Storybook Island is exactly what the name implies; a kid’s wonderland filled with life size characters from children’s stories and rhymes. Kids can climb inside a giant concrete pumpkin like
Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater
, run through the crooked house built by the crooked man, see
The Three Little Pigs’
houses made of straw, twigs, and bricks, complete with a big, bad wolf huffing and puffing down the chimney.

My favorite display was Willie the Big Blue Whale, not for biblical similarities to Jonah, but because Willie had survived the 1972 flood.

That night in June, Rapid City had received over ten inches of rain in a few short hours. Rapid Creek had swelled, sending a wall of water crashing through Dark Canyon, and then roaring through town, destroying houses, bridges, cars, businesses, and over 200 lives.

I don’t remember much about that tragic night, but I do remember riding in the car with my mom several days later when we’d ventured out to witness the damage. Seeing that concrete whale upside down near the Baken Park Shopping Center drove home the seriousness of the situation.

That broken image is the one that haunts me to this day.

The parking lot overflowed with family cars and campers. It was an odd place for this meeting.

Adults didn’t hang out here unless they had a kid or two in tow, so it’d make it easier to pick out a strange, single man.

I snuffed my cigarette and locked the Browning in the glove compartment. Hot wind blew off the pavement and ruffled my hair. The concrete path curved around waterways dotted with bright green moss, swimming ducks and swans, gurgling fountains, crossing under the stone castle and around the moat until it reached the main entrance—a fiberglass replica of the shoe in the
Old
Woman Who Lived In The Shoe.

Once I’d ducked inside, I tried to get my bearings. I took the left fork. The first concession booth was by the birthday house. “Custard’s Last Stand” boasted frozen treats and cold drinks. Bet the Native American kids and their parents who visited didn’t find humor in the pun.

I passed the mini-maze, and finally saw the concession stand with a cracked egg on top.

The bench behind it stood empty.

No suspicious types lurked behind Barney. I felt totally out of place in my mauve business suit. I crouched in front of the glass partition and ordered a Diet Pepsi from a red-haired, freckled teenaged girl, appropriately costumed as
Pippi Longstocking
.

The waxy cup nearly slipped from my hand as I dodged a gaggle of kids who’d cut me off.

Parents pushing strollers apologized as they hurried after them.

I watched the byplay with a pang of envy. Did these children realize how lucky they were? Did they understand that love, laughter, and fun were not a guaranteed part of everyone’s childhood?

Probably not.

Fortunately the bench was in the shade. Unfortunately, I couldn’t smoke. Avoiding a white splat of bird poop, I plunked on the other end and slurped my drink.

Straight away a tall man slid into my peripheral vision.

“Julie Collins?” he asked.

I swiveled toward him. “Yes. Who are you?”

“Luther Ghost Bear.” He offered me his hand. We shook.

He wasn’t what I’d expected. I’d prepared myself for this mysterious friend of Rondelle’s to be a total dirtball since Rondelle’s life choices hadn’t impressed me so far.

Not your job to judge her
, a little voice reprimanded.

This man was in his late sixties. His sepia-toned face was pockmarked and scarred, but his brown eyes were clear, sharply focused. A braid—black threaded with silver—looped over his shoulder, reaching the waistband of his crisp jeans.

A group of kids trooped past, matching turquoise shirts proclaiming, “Camp Courageous!” One boy stumbled and scraped his knee. Luther rushed to help the youngster to his feet, patted him on his blond head and sent him on his merry way with an indulgent smile.

“Seems years ago I went away to camp,” he mused as he reseated himself. “Do you have any children in your life?”

I shook my head, thinking of Kiyah.

Luther looked at me with unrestrained curiosity. Kevin looked at me like that—or at least he used to—as if my eyes were a conduit to my soul. I wasn’t comfortable with anyone probing that deeply so I looked away.

My attention darted to a Skittles wrapper tumbling across the grass. “I suppose you wonder why I called you.”

“Yes. If this is about Chloe—”

“It isn’t. I mean it is.” I blew out a frustrated breath. “Let me start over. Have you heard from Rondelle?”

“Have you?”

“No.” I swished the soda around in the cup. “But I got a visit from Rondelle’s old boss Bud Linderman today.”

“In person, eh? What did you think of him?”

“Beneath that cornpone façade he’s mean and slippery as an eel.”

Luther chuckled. “
Shee
. How long ’fore he told you what he really wanted?”

“Oh, he took his time. Started out full of concern for Rondelle, which I didn’t buy. Got him to admit he wanted the disk.”

He reached beside the bench and plucked up a cottonwood leaf wide as his palm. “What else he say?”

“That it’d be in Rondelle’s best interest if I found Chloe before he did. I’m sure he’ll deny it, but there was no mistaking what he’d meant.” I paused, wondering how much this grandfatherly man knew about what’d been documented on that disk. “Have you seen the disk?”

“Yes.”

Before I could wrap my brain around that, he added, “I told Rondelle she oughta turn it in. And not to the Deadwood Gaming Commission either, but to the Lawrence County States Attorney’s Office.”

I agreed.

Deft fingers pleated the green leaf while he spoke. “Everyone wants to place blame. Linderman shouldn’t have sent Rondelle in there.” His hand stilled. “He knew Little Joe was bad news.

What that poor girl suffered through for his greed makes me sick.”

Whoa. A bad feeling whipped the soda in my belly into foam. “Wait a sec.
Linderman
sent Rondelle to work for the Carluccis?”

“Yes.” The fan-shaped leaf floated to the ground.

“News to you, eh?”

I squeezed the cup until the plastic lid popped off. Rondelle’s tearful explanation about not knowing who’d hired her had been complete and total bullshit.

Ah hell. I
so
didn’t want to share this information with Martinez and Harvey. Now I didn’t know what to believe.

“Well, Luther, since it appears Rondelle has lied to me about everything, maybe you oughta tell me what is going on.”

Alarm passed through his eyes. “That she lied to
you
ain’t the problem.”

“Then what is the problem?”

“Not what.
Who
.” He paused, considering his response. “She lied to Bud Linderman.”

My bad feeling mushroomed.

“Rondelle told me to tell you everything if you called. Don’t think you’re gonna like it much.

But don’t judge her too harshly until you hear it all, okay?”

I nodded.

His gaze tracked a tiny gray finch pecking at crumbs on the concrete. “Couple months back, when she was still workin’ for him, Bud ‘asked’ Rondelle to apply for a job at Trader Pete’s.

Wanted her to spy on the Carluccis and report back on anything she saw that might interest the state gaming consortium. Was obsessed with provin’ they were doin’ something illegal.

“Rondelle refused. Said she wasn’t gonna get mixed up with them for no amount of money.

Linderman thought it was because of the Carluccis supposedly being one of them east coast crime families. But Rondelle wouldn’t do it because of her connection to the Hombres.”