Hallowed Ground (3 page)

Kim used her maroon talons to fluff up her flawlessly tousled hairdo.

Glad I wasn’t the only female with the impulse to primp for Martinez. Usually I drew the line at groping a hot man after the obligatory exchange of “nice-to-meet-yous.”

Usually, but not always.

“Ah.” He cast me an appreciative glance. “Julie’s knock-out new look is your handiwork?”

Kim preened and all but buffed her knuckles above her cleavage. “Took me a month to convince her to tame that mop of hair, but Lord, she still won’t let me do a blessed thing about the sorry state of her nails.”

“And you won’t.” I shoved the receipt in a file, automatically curling my fingers into my palms.

God forbid the day came that I’d even
consider
a French manicure.

“So, Mr. Martinez,” Kim said, then switched the conversation to Spanish, smirking at me.

He answered in kind.

How sweet.

I tuned them out until I heard, “—you ladies into having a drink with me?”

Behind his back, I vehemently shook my head. Unfortunately, Kim’s good eye was firmly anchored on Martinez, leaving the glass one staring back at me in that sightless, creepy manner I’d never get accustomed to.

“You buying, sugar?” Kim cooed.

“Absolutely.”

“Sorry,” I said with forced sweetness, just to compete with the gooey tone Kim had affected.

“But Kim and I have plans. You know, girl stuff.”

Hah. Let him think we were giving each other facials. Not his business that our night out would likely consist of slurping margaritas, cheating at pool, and trying like hell not to drink on our own dime. Face down in salt and lime
was
my ideal facial treatment.

He shrugged. “Another time then.” To me he said, “You’ll be in touch?”

The reminder of my task tomorrow dimmed some of my enjoyment. “As soon as possible.”

He left as swiftly as he’d arrived.

Kim sighed and sprawled into the seat he’d just vacated. “That man is proof that God exists, and She wants every woman to experience the pleasures of a virile Latin male.” She squirmed.

“Mmm. Mmm. Mmm. I believe I can still feel his body heat.”

“Spare me your overheated imagination. Kevin said no sex in that chair, and I think that includes solo acts.”

Her fake eyelashes swept up as she rolled her good eye. “Girl, one of these days you are going to share whatever little trick that makes all these hunky men kowtow to you.”

Only a southern belle like Kim could get away with using the word
kowtow
in casual conversation. “What men?”

“Hmm. Let’s see. Your partner, Kevin. Boy-toy, Kell. GI Joe stud Jimmer, although he scares the bejesus out of me.”

“Jimmer isn’t nearly as scary to me as Martinez.”

“Scary how?”

“On more levels than I can explain.”

“Interesting. Didn’t think any man made ‘Julie the Invincible’ shake in her Doc Martens.”

“Shut up.”

“Well, anyway, you could have your own ...” She frowned. “What’s the female equivalent of a harem?”

“There isn’t one. Women aren’t supposed to enjoy the carnal pleasures of the flesh with more than one man at a time, remember?”

Kim sniffed. “Stupid decree made by men, I’ll bet.”

“Yep. The old double standard is alive and well,” I said.

“That sucks.” She sailed to her feet, nimble as a cat. “What do you say we try to break that rule tonight?”

Words to live by. No wonder Kim and I had become such fast friends.

I grinned. “You’re on.”

HANGOVERS WERE NEVER FUN.

The next morning, after a scalding shower, a pot of high-octane coffee, and four Excedrin, I barely felt human.

I watched as Kell slept in total oblivion to the throbbing in my head.

How he’d managed to avoid becoming a raging alcoholic after performing in bars every night was beyond me.

How I’d hooked up with him was equally baffling.

One thing for sure, Kell was mighty easy on the eyes. Long golden hair, a tight ass, a toothy grin.

With a guitar slung around his neck, the man fulfilled every one of my hair band/Kip Winger fantasies from the 1980’s.

Plus, he was truly a gentle soul; tolerant, non-confrontational, everything I’m not. Maybe opposites did attract, although, Kevin claimed the only reason I’d hooked up with Kell was because his spine was made of tofu.

Perched on the mattress beside him, I brushed sun-streaked tangles from his cheekbone, and then nudged his ribs hard with my elbow. Sadistic? Yes. A personality defect I blamed on too many tequila shooters.

He stretched, squinting at the clock. “What time is it?”

“Nine.”

He groaned.

“I wanted to say good-bye.”

“Man. I am so wiped.”

“You should be. It was a great set last night.”

“Thanks. Glad someone thought so.” His disapproving gaze skimmed my periwinkle Josephine Chaus pantsuit. “Off to work?”

“Yeah, then follow-up on a new case. You know, the usual,” I lied. Nothing usual about tracking down a man who’d abducted his own kid, especially when my part in locating the missing girl fell outside normal legal channels for the first time.

Kell frowned. “I’ve got rehearsal this afternoon and tonight. Don’t know if I’ll be back today.”

“Whatever,” I said, which pretty much defined our relationship.

Yawning in my face, he rolled over, burrowed under the star quilt and was out like a light.

As I sped toward Rapid City, I smoked and formulated a plan for tracking down Donovan Black Dog. Just because Martinez had suggested I start my search in Pine Ridge didn’t mean I would.

Yeah, yeah, Kevin had attempted to ingrain in me the “customer is always right” philosophy he followed, but I thought it a complete line of bullshit. Weren’t
we
supposed to be the experts? In my book, depositing a check didn’t give the client the right to call the shots. With Kevin rarely in the office, I called all the shots.

I zoomed into my designated spot in the sunny lot behind the office building. Kevin’s spot remained empty.

No surprise. A pang of disappointment squeezed my throat. In the last few months he hadn’t spilled his guts to me about the personal shit he was dealing with, a set of circumstances that had to be sheer hell.

Kevin had been in the trenches for most of my major life crises. Was it so wrong I wanted to return the support he’d given me? Granted, I’d never liked Lilly. Didn’t mean I wanted her dead.

It meant I geared my sympathy toward Kevin, not her.

My biggest fear was that Lilly’s terminal cancer had nothing to do with the gulf separating Kevin from me. Had the rapid change from friends to business partners shoved that wedge between us?

Or did he regret the steamy—albeit drunken—kiss we’d shared a few months back, a kiss that we’d yet to address?

If this were a typical situation with him, I’d nag, yell, whine, and bitch. Piss him off. Force a confrontation to get any kind of reaction. It appeared my
Jerry Springer
approach to therapy would have to wait another day.

Our suite of offices was dark and cool. I retrieved voice mail messages and booted up Kevin’s computer. Three new file folders were stacked in the center of his desk. A day-glow blue sticky note read:

“Jules, please finish these today. I’ll be in touch. K.”

Hmm. Apparently Kevin
had
been in the office. When?

I checked the security log. He’d come in at midnight and clocked out at eight this morning, the time I usually rolled in.

Was he avoiding me? Or was the middle of the night the only time he could escape Lilly’s clutches? Not a particularly nice thought. The truth rarely was.

My gaze swept the dim room. Not only were the couch cushions rumpled, the dove-gray fleece blanket I’d given him for his birthday dangled drunkenly between the arm and the side table.

Kevin had been sleeping at the office. Why?

Curious, I examined the security log for the whole week. He’d been here for the last five nights.

Again, why?

I reached for the phone, but my paranoia stopped the motion mid-air. Even if I got lucky and tracked him down, he’d hedge his reasons and avoid any explanation.

I channeled my frustration into work. Took me four hours to finish Kevin’s assignment. Either he’d underestimated my PI skills, or those skills were improving.

Heels kicked off, caffeine within reach, and cigarettes at hand. Time to concentrate on finding Donovan Black Dog.

During my last disastrous relationship—with a psycho passing himself off as a carpenter—I’d learned a few things about the construction business. A hierarchy exists in blue-collar jobs. At the top is the general contractor. Since most general contractors run multiple projects, one person is designated to handle it all: The foreman.

A foreman is God on site. He oversees structural stages, plumbing, electrical, drywall subcontractors, roofers, bricklayers; he is the “go to” guy for everything. Hence, he could never be too far out of touch.

So how had Donovan Black Dog eluded Martinez and company?

Within minutes of tapping into the local county database listing building permits, I’d discovered a list of Brush Creek Construction’s current projects, all from the comfort of my cushy office chair.

I skimmed the records. Why hadn’t a shrewd man like Martinez staked out Donovan’s various jobsites? The housing developments in Rosebud and Pine Ridge would’ve been tricky, especially if those jobs were federally funded, with stipulations about exactly who could be on site. But Brush Creek had several operations close to Rapid City.

Interesting. Brush Creek had landed the contract on the highly controversial new Indian casino under construction on the reservation land owned by the Sihasapa tribe. Land loosely linked to Bear Butte.

Only one mile from where my brother’s body had been found.

Shit. I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. I did not want to make this another case about Ben.

In recent months, I’d made great strides in not letting Ben’s murder continue to consume my life.

Not a natural or easy progression. Part of me felt a traitor for not pursuing justice. Part of me needed a break from the black vortex of pain and misery that engulfs me whenever I think of what I’d lost.

I rubbed grit from my eyes and refocused.

Contrary to what Martinez claimed, it isn’t contacts that lead to information on a case, but a methodical strategy. Find a thread, jerk it and see how strong it is. Sometimes it unravels; sometimes it leads to a bigger knot with more dangling threads.

My list started with the basics. To erect a building a variety of materials are needed. Concrete.

Steel. Lumber.

Common sense said Brush Creek would use local resources. For lumber, that meant the mill outside of Whitewood. The yellow pages for Sturgis listed two building supply companies.

Utilizing my tenth grade acting skills, I called the first store, pretending to inquire about a lost invoice for Brush Creek Construction. They had no record of a current account.

I hit pay dirt with the second call. Not only did they connect me directly to Luanne, supervisor at the contractor sales desk, but she informed me that a custom window order was waiting for a delivery confirmation time from the foreman.

Armed with that information, I phoned the main office of Brush Creek Construction.

“Hi. This is Luanne with contractor sales at Dakota Warehouse. We got in those custom windows Mr. Black Dog has been waiting for on the Bear Butte job. He wanted to know when they came in and I’ve tried calling him on his cell,” I rattled off the number Martinez had scribbled, “and his pager, but he’s not answering.”

Talk about suspicious. The secretary immediately challenged me. “Yeah? Exactly what number
do
you have for his pager?”

I recited the second line scrawled on the paper.

“Those are the right ones,” she admitted. “He hasn’t been in the office for days. With the crappy cell service between Rosebud and Pine Ridge, we don’t talk to him much.”

“I can imagine. Look. Is he planning to check in at the Bear Butte jobsite any time soon so I can get these windows off my loading dock?” Ooh. Didn’t I sound efficient?

“Hang on.”

Papers rustled in the background. Deep voices murmured.

Maybe my cockiness had been premature.

She returned to the line. “He checked in an hour ago and said he’d be onsite after five today.

Give me your number and I’ll have him call you for a delivery time.”

“That’d be great, thanks.” Despite my sense of elation at the topnotch detective work, it’d almost been too easy.

The afternoon dragged. I finished the Cromwell report and tidied the offices. Called Kevin.

When his voice mail kicked in, I withstood the temptation to leave yet another message.

At 4:00 I drove home, changed clothes, and switched vehicles.

Clouds of red dirt swirled behind my beat up Ford truck as I trekked down the gravel road leading to the new casino. A parking lot had mushroomed kitty-corner to where the building stood. Staggered lines of pickups, SUVs, and heavy equipment trailers provided perfect cover.

I parked diagonally to keep an eye on incoming traffic as well as the clusters of men milling around outside blowing off steam.

Equal rights and all that jazz aside, a construction site was a boys’ club. Men worked hard, sweated, shouted, swore and talked dirty without worrying about offending some woman’s delicate sensibilities. The few times I’d visited Ray I’d noticed women were a scarce commodity.

My presence could raise a few red flags, so I’d dressed in Wranglers, a white tank top, faded flannel shirt, tucked my hair beneath an old ball cap, and hid in the truck.

Binoculars in hand, I settled in. A grimy layer of dust coated the inside of the dashboard and stuck to the sweat dampening my face and neck. Doing a stakeout with the windows up when it’s 90 degrees wasn’t an option. I suffered the additional dust blowing through the open window in silence.

Workers laughed and joked, gathered stained coolers and dented lunchboxes, stowed mystery tools in scarred toolboxes. The day starts early in the summer when mornings are cool. Might seem like bankers’ hours, knocking off at 5:00. But after putting in eleven or twelve hours of physical labor, these guys deserved every second of happy hour.