Killing Custer (9 page)

10

BLUE-
UNIFORMED OFFICERS MILLED
about the office. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzzed and blinked. Angela sat at her desk listening to the pounding in her head. No, she had told the officers, she did not need an ambulance. She had managed to pick herself off the floor to the noise of boots retreating in the corridor, the door still open. She had found her bag sprawled under the desk, dragged out her cell, and called 911. Then sirens had blared in the distance and intruded upon the quiet.

“This is still a crime scene.” The detective in blue jeans, leather vest, and white shirt, walked out of Skip's office. He had introduced himself as Detective Madden. “Why were you here? Again?” He had asked the same question at least three times.

“I told you,” Angela said. “I saw a light in the windows. I thought Skip was back.”

“You were just driving by and you saw a light.” He shrugged. “Did you get a look at the man who hit you?”

“He wore a black ski mask.” Angela shook her head. “It happened so fast. He must have yanked the door open, because I stumbled inside and he hit me. I blacked out. When I came to, I was on the floor. I heard him running away.”

“What made you think Skip was here?” Detective Madden ignored the two uniforms on their haunches, peering at the piles of papers around them.

“I hoped it was Skip. I thought maybe they let him go . . .”

Madden lifted one hand, as if that might make sense. “Could be the same guy here this morning. Trashed the place. Didn't find what he wanted on the computers, so he came back.”

“He took Skip!” She realized she was shouting. “All that blood, Skip could be dead by now. Why aren't you out looking for him?”

“What do you suppose the intruder was looking for?” Madden said, ignoring the outburst. He moved his big head side to side, taking in the papers cluttering the floor and trailing from Skip's office. More papers and file folders than littered the floor this morning. The intruder had emptied more drawers.

“How should I know?” Her heart had turned into a drum.

“You're Skip's secretary. You handle mail, letters, e-mails, files. Correct? Type the office business into the computer?”

Angela waited a beat, willing the pounding in her temples to stop. “I type what he tells me to type. I'm not a lawyer. Most of it doesn't make any sense to me.” She tilted her head toward the computer. “Some things he handles himself, what he calls confidential lawyer-client stuff. I do routine stuff: documents he files with the courts, thank-you-for-your-business letters, a bunch of reports. I answer the phone, make appointments, and try to keep Skip on schedule. Visitors are always dropping in.” She could feel the balloon of tears expanding behind her eyes, and she swiveled toward the window and tried to focus on the dim haze of the streetlight in the blackness. Skip was out there somewhere, in the blackness.

When she turned back, Detective Madden had pulled a chair over closer. He sat hunched over, big red fists clasped on her desk. “What else did you do for Skip Burrows?”

Angela felt her breath stop in her throat. The pounding in her head speeded up. She stared at the bulky, big-chested man taking up most of the space in front of her, the curve of his shoulders, the office blurring at the edges. They had been so careful. Parking down the street, taking trips out of town. Except that people did know, she realized. That busybody landlady probably knew. Colin. Everybody on the moccasin telegraph. It was a joke, when she thought about it. All that sneaking around, and for what? People in town were talking anyway. She closed her eyes and stared at the image of Skip, hurt, bleeding, forced out the window, landing in the prickly bush below, thrown into the BMW.

Madden pushed on, saying something about an intimate relationship that might throw light on Skip's disappearance.

“I don't understand,” she heard herself say. “I don't know anything about his disappearance.”

“You were in an intimate relationship?”

She waited a long moment before she nodded.

“The landlady says you left Friday night and didn't return until last night. Where did you spend the weekend?”

“Jackson,” she said. “Skip had business there.”

“Did he tell you what it was?”

Angela dipped her face into her hands a minute, then made herself look up at the detective. “It wasn't my business. I did what he told me. Why are you asking me these questions? Why aren't you looking for him?”

“According to the landlady, your boyfriend left sooner than usual last night. Makes me think you might have had an argument. Maybe he broke things off. Is that what happened?” Madden hurried on. “Told you he didn't need you anymore? Didn't want you anymore? That would be harsh, break a girl's heart.”

“Shut up!” Angela jumped up and kicked the chair back. “It's not true!”

“Maybe you called Colin Morningside, your old boyfriend.” He shrugged. “What would make me think that? Because you had a habit of calling him from time to time. I have the record of calls on your mobile. Maybe you talked him into teaching your lover a lesson.”

“You're crazy.” The other officers strolled out of Skip's office and stood like statues behind Madden.

The detective got to his feet and moved to the edge of the desk, blocking her path to the door. “You know what I think? I think your Arapaho boyfriend believes he's Crazy Horse. I think he knows what happened to Garrett at the parade yesterday. I think he planned the whole thing. And I'm having a hard time swallowing your story. Like trying to swallow a fat robin that keeps flapping its wings. You don't know anything. Skip Burrows's secretary and lover completely in the dark, marching to orders.” He leaned toward her. The sour, coffee-soaked odor of his breath hit her in the face. “I think you know what happened to the money.”

Angela held herself perfectly still. Her breath lodged in her throat.

“Skip cleaned out his bank account Friday. Four hundred thousand, a nice haul. Arranged ahead of time to get cash. What did he intend to do with all that cash? I think that, after he broke up with you, you called Colin and told him about the money. Maybe you saw it. Maybe Skip told you about it.” He shrugged. “I don't know, but I'm going to find out. Problem is, there wasn't any money in this office. Officers were here most the day looking through drawers and files. You and Colin planning to divide the money?”

Angela could feel the hot flush in her cheeks. Four hundred thousand dollars! She had caught a glimpse of money—piles and piles of money—when he had opened the briefcase in the trunk. As if he wanted to make sure the money was still there. But four hundred thousand! She couldn't imagine that kind of money. She remembered Skip going out Friday afternoon. So like him, go for a cup of coffee and return hours later full of gossip. When he came back, he was carrying the briefcase. She could see Skip strolling across her office, calling out, “Anybody looking for me?” She had followed him into his office. Two clients had called for appointments. The crazy Custer guy, Garrett, had called and wanted to know when Skip would be back, but she had evaded the question. One thing she had learned working for Skip was how to evade questions.

She made herself look straight at the detective. The man's eyes were lit with accusations. Somebody knew Skip had that kind of money on him and had come looking for him. And Detective Madden thought she was involved. “I don't have to answer your questions.” She spoke slowly, pounding in each word. Another thing she had learned from Skip: Nobody had to talk to the cops. Tell them so and make them understand. “I'm leaving now,” she said. “You can talk to my lawyer.”

For the briefest moment, she thought he wasn't going to move, then he hoisted himself to one side and she brushed past him toward the two uniforms stationed like guards on either side of her path across the carpet. She made no effort to avoid the papers that crunched under her feet. Skip, how upset he would be to see his organized files littering the floor. She yanked open the door and flung herself into the corridor. The tears had started spilling down her cheeks, blurring her vision. This was worse than she had feared. She hadn't known Skip had withdrawn money from the bank. A man walking around with four hundred thousand dollars, like a neon sign flashing: take me, take me. She wiped at her eyes, let herself out the main door, and hurried toward the hatchback, tripping on the lip of the sidewalk, wiping at her eyes to see where she was going. Skip. Skip. Where are you? What were you doing?

She slid into the car, turned on the ignition, and shot backward out of the parking space. Then she drove onto the street, tires squealing around her like a wild, hurt animal. Scattered papers flashed in front of her. The office trashed this morning, and trashed again this evening. What was the guy looking for? Everything was on the computers, and he had taken the computers when he took Skip. He had what he wanted. Except . . .

Angela gripped the steering wheel to keep from veering into one of the cars parked at the curb. It was so obvious. She should have realized this morning that whoever took Skip hadn't gotten all of it. He hadn't gotten the back-up flash drive that dangled from her keychain and clanked against the dashboard. A remnant from her job at the Wind River school district when her computer had crashed and everything was lost. And her boss—she could still see the fat woman with the red rash that looked like a magic marker had been slashed across her cheeks advancing on her desk, sputtering and gasping for air, angry because the computer had crashed. Angela had feared the woman would fall over, and all she could think of was, how would she ever be able to lift her off the floor? That evening she had gone out and bought a flash drive. Every day, the same routine—back up with the flash drive before she left the office.

Totally unnecessary. Skip had laughed at her. There was a backup attached to his computer, and their two computers were linked. But the computers were gone, and so was the backup.

Now the man in the black mask wanted her flash drive. In an instant, she understood. The slim, pocketknife-size flash drive that pinged and jangled with her keys was the ransom she would use to save Skip. The man would figure out that she had the flash drive and call her. When he did, she would tell him what he had to do. She felt herself begin to relax. She was in control.

* * *

ANGELA DROVE THROUGH
the dark shadows of bungalows sheltering among pine trees, in and out of globes of yellow light from the streetlamps. A light-colored car had materialized in the rearview mirror. She turned right onto another residential street and laughed into the muffled buzz of the tires. In control? In control of nothing. Skip could be dead. Detective Madden could talk to her lawyer? She didn't have a lawyer. At the corner was an all-night Laundromat. She pulled into the parking lot, fished her cell from the bottom of her bag, and punched in the number for information. The car had stopped at the corner. The driver—dark face; God, he was wearing a ski mask—was staring at her hatchback.

She rammed the gear into reverse and spun backward across the lot. Forward, turning onto the street, gas pedal pressed hard, odometer needle swinging. Right at the next corner; the car in the mirror making a U-turn. Left into an alley, plunging toward the end, then another left onto the street. Racing, turning, until the side-view mirror was clear. She pulled into a driveway and parked next to a brick house. No lights in the windows, darkness falling around her.

She realized the call had ended, and she punched the number for information again, half-turned in the front seat, watching the street. It took a moment before she had the number and heard Annie's voice on the other end.

* * *

VICKY STOOD AT
the stove running the spoon around chunks of beef and vegetables that sizzled and popped in the hot oil. The softness of evening settled in the apartment, the comfort of ordinary things. Behind her, she could hear Adam setting plates on the table, laying out knives, forks, and spoons.

Then he was behind her. The weight of his hands moving around her waist. He leaned in close and kissed her neck. “You smell good,” he said.

“I smell like onions and garlic.” She tried to ignore the little shivers running through her. Thinking this was as it should be. They could move forward, and she would not look back and she would not think of what could never be. She hadn't seen John O'Malley in months, but she'd heard of him. Helping somebody on the rez. Moving the Black Horse family into the guesthouse at the mission after their house burned down. Getting a scholarship for the Redman kid to Creighton University. Her people, all of them. Sometimes it seemed he did more for her people than she did.

“I like onions and garlic.” Adam started to move her around, and she had to set the spoon on the counter.

He was kissing her then, and the ringing noise sounded far away, in some other apartment perhaps, except that part of her knew the ringing came from her cell on the counter. “Leave it,” he said, and kissed her again, but she felt herself backing away, pushing against the strength of his arms. A ringing phone always made her uneasy. Someone might need help.

She held up a hand and tried to ignore the mixture of hurt and acceptance that crossed his face. “It'll just take a minute,” she said, swinging toward the phone.

Annie's voice at the other end. Racing on about Skip Burrows's secretary and a lot of money missing and a man in a black mask.

“Hold on,” Vicky said. “Who are you talking about?”

“Angela Running Bear. She's scared to death. She was attacked tonight at Skip's office, and the detective thinks she's involved in his disappearance. Will you see her?”

“Tell her to come in tomorrow.”

“I mean now, Vicky. She's hysterical. She thinks the cops will arrest her. She's afraid to go home. I told her to go to the rez, but she says the cops there are working with the Lander cops. They're all working together. They'll find her wherever she goes.”