I had bigger fish to fry anyway.
****
Detective Jones released me and as soon as I was enclosed in the privacy of my car, I made a call.
“Hot Tips, this is Mandy. How can I help y’all?”
“Mandy. It’s Julie Collins. I met with Cindy Jo the other day?”
“Oh, you. The one with the slashed up hands. What can I do for you?”
“Cindy Jo and I got to talking and I never did get my manicure. Does she have any openings today?”
“’Fraid not, hon. It’s her regular day off.”
“Oh. Shoot. She works so hard and I know she’s so stressed out about JC being missing that I hope she’s doing something fun.” Come on Mandy, take the bait.
“I don’t know how much fun it is for her, but she said she was headed down to Angostura to clean out JC’s boat. I think it makes her feel closer to him or something, because she’s been doin’ that a lot since he went missing.”
“The poor thing.” It hurt to choke those words out. “I imagine she took her babies with her?”
“Not this time. She dropped them off here at the salon about an hour ago.”
Mental high five. “That’s awfully thoughtful of you, Mandy, taking care of her doggies for her.”
“It’s no trouble. They’re part of the family. Would you like me to schedule you for an appointment tomorrow?”
“That’d be great,” I lied. “The earlier the better.”
“Gotcha down at ten a.m.”
“Thanks. Bye now.” I hung up.
On autopilot, I zipped down Highway 79 toward Angostura. With the images of Rich Barber’s dead and bloated body on a flash and repeat circuit in my thoughts, all I could focus on was wondering if my cavalier attitude—not taking his warning about Cindy Jo seriously—had gotten a man murdered.
Before I knew it, I’d reached the north side boat ramp. With Rich’s boat key in one hand and my cell phone tucked in the back pocket of my capris, I boarded Rich’s boat. Sheer luck or not, the motor sputtered to life on the first try.
Angostura has a reputation for frequent, unexpected gusts of wind. Today was no exception; the gentle breeze turned harsh, whipping the water into a frothy mass of whitecaps. Cold spray stung my face as I pushed the gutless boat to its limit. I hadn’t seen another soul since I’d left the dock.
Then I saw JC’s red boat bobbing in the water like a lone cherry in a punchbowl.
A small figure stood on the prow.
Somehow seeing Cindy Jo in the flesh jarred the logic center of my brain. What the hell had I been thinking coming down here half-cocked? I realized not only was I alone, I was unarmed, and no one knew I was here. I’d broken the most basic PI rules.
Call Kevin, call Jimmer, call Martinez. Call the damn cops.
I grabbed my cell phone, but it read “no service.”
Adrenaline crashed through my system. That, coupled with fear, stirred up an extreme case of nausea.
No time to get seasick, Julie, get your head in the game.
I slowed the boat and hastily rigged up the bow fishing system, praying I’d attached the various lines in the right way. I slid the bow down beside the platform and made my approach.
Cindy Jo actually waved.
Maybe this would be all right.
But as I got closer, I realized she was waving a gun. I didn’t care what caliber, type or style of gun she held. It was a gun; a big, shiny gun, and she had it pointed directly at my head.
“Cut the engine and get your hands up where I can see ’em, Julie Collins,” she shouted cheerily. “Or I’ll blow a hole in you.”
I spread my arms wide, every muscle in my body pulled tight as a fisherman’s knot.
“I have a bone to pick with you.” Her cigarette bobbled in the corner of her mouth as she spoke. “Found out you don’t work for the insurance company.”
“I never claimed I did,” I yelled back, wishing we weren’t having this conversation at 100 decibels.
Might as well wish the Ranger would swing by this forgotten cove in his patrol boat and save your dumb butt.
As quickly as the wind blew in, it blew back out, leaving quiet, calm air beneath the gray gloom of the clouds. The lake’s surface became as smooth as glass.
Maybe the universe was on my side for a change.
“That’s better,” Cindy Jo said. “What are you doin’ out here, Miss PI? Lookin’ for clues?”
“Looking for you.”
“Why?”
“To find out if you know that Rich Barber is dead.”
She grunted and flicked her cigarette butt over the boat rail. It hissed as it hit the water. “So?”
“So. The clues lead to you.”
“You got nothin’ on me.”
“Don’t be so sure,” I cautioned. “You planted the knife in Rich’s bathroom after you killed him.”
She gave me her smug attitude. “What makes you think it was me?”
“I didn’t at first. I considered the idea that you’d tipped off the mysterious drug guys you kept mentioning—the ones JC might’ve been working for. Possibly informing them that Rich knew more about what JC had been up to than he’d been letting on, including the bit about Rich hiring me to poke around. I’m pretty sure that’d make guys trying to keep their illegal business on the down low sit up and take notice. But that would bring you to their attention. Then I remembered you’d told me you’d had enough of drug dealers with your first husband. Which leads me…back to you. You killed JC. Rich suspected you did it, so you had to kill him, too.”
The look on Cindy Jo’s face—a mixture of annoyance and admiration—quickly turned arrogant . “Bad choice, Rich bragging to me that he’d hired you. He called me drunk as a skunk, saying you’d figured out that I’d killed JC.” Cindy Jo snorted. “Boy was Rich surprised to see me.”
Poor, sweet, stupid Rich. He’d been right to call Cindy Jo a psycho, but wrong to bait her like that. Cindy Jo’s confident smirk gave me a new direction. “Trying to make his death look like a suicide was clever.”
“I thought so.” She smiled prettily.
“Except for one thing.” I flashed my teeth at her in a non-smile. “All the wounds are on the left side of Rich’s body—those vicious slash marks on his left arm and the nick in his carotid on the left side of his neck.”
“So?” she said again.
“Rich Barber is left handed. The marks on his body should’ve been on the right side, not the left. Once the cops figure that out they’ll know it was murder, not suicide.”
She stared at me dumbfounded and then she snapped, “This whole thing has turned into a goddamned mess.”
The boat caught a gentle swell and I slipped toward the loaded bow, still several feet away. “What whole thing?”
Cindy Jo didn’t answer immediately. “After you left my office I realized I hadn’t checked with our insurance company about the policy on this boat—I didn’t want to seem too eager. I already knew since my name wasn’t on the title, there was no way I could sell the damn thing. But I also knew Rich’s name wasn’t on the title yet either. I figured I could sink the stupid boat and claim it was an accident, so I’d collect some cash for all my trouble, right?” Her chilling laugh echoed across the water. “Wrong. JC never took out a policy. On a fifty-thousand dollar boat. What a moron.”
“Where is JC now?”
She angled her chin over her shoulder toward a blue cooler, roughly the size of a portable meat locker, at the back of the boat. “The last of him is in there”—she grinned manically—“in pieces.”
My jaw dropped even as my stomach lodged in my throat. “You killed him? Over a fishing boat?”
“Don’t be stupid,” she sneered. “It was never about the damn boat. I killed him because he skinned and tortured my dog.”
“What?”
“JC killed my poodle, Moe. I told him to get rid of the boat or I’d call the cops and turn him in for drug dealing. Believe me, I did it be
fore with my first husband. You bet your ass JC changed his tune PDQ—at least on the outside. He acted all sweet and sorry, cookin’ meals, cleanin’ house, takin’ care of me, especially when Moe went missing. But on the inside he was scheming like a son-of-a-bitch.”
I pretended to lose my footing on a rough wave and slid closer to my weapon. Luckily, Cindy Jo didn’t appear to notice.
“Moe hadn’t gone missing. He killed her.” Her eyes turned a flat, lifeless brown. “Truth was, that sick bastard carved up my dog, my beloved baby, and literally fed her to me on a silver platter. I didn’t know it wasn’t grilled chicken until he gave me that mean little laugh, the one he saved for when he’d pulled something over on me.” A sob left her throat, the hand holding the gun wavered. “Then he informed me, in that cocky tone, he was done taking orders. The time had come to fish or cut bait.”
My confusion was apparent because she clarified, “It’s some stupid fisherman’s saying. He was leaving me. I didn’t care about that, but he wasn’t getting away with killing my dog. So I acted fast and decided he’d become one with the damn fish he loved so much. As bait.”
“How did you...?” I’d become so grossed out by the idea of JC’s body parts in the cooler, not to mention grilled poodle steaks, that I couldn’t even finish my thought, let alone form a coherent sentence.
“Chop him into bits?” Cindy Jo asked. “My daddy was a rancher. Taught me once you take the head off something, it’s just meat from the neck on down.” She frowned briefly at the cuts on her palm. “I was pretty rusty. Been a long time since I’d done any butchering. Ended up slicing myself.”
My stomach roiled but I snapped back to attention. No way did I want to become another one of Cindy Jo’s fillets. “Weren’t you afraid you’d get caught dumping his body?”
She looked at me as if I had air bubbles in my head. “I’ve been bringing JC out here a few pieces at a time. Minus the heart and liver. Those I fed to the dogs. Appropriate, don’t you think? Since he proved himself to be a heartless, lily-livered bastard?”
Keep her talking. There has to be another boat around here.
I managed to hook my foot under the bow without tangling the line. The second Cindy Jo got tired of straight-arming that gun at me I’d have her.
“Where is his truck?” I asked.
“I dumped it on the rez. Probably being lived in by a family of five by now.” She stared at me thoughtfully. “Nothin’ personal, but I have to shoot you. In self-defense, of course.”
“They’ll never believe you.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. I did some checking on you, Miz Collins. Seems you aren’t choosy about which men slip between your sheets. No one will question my claim to the cops that JC was running drugs, after you came out here to threaten me to keep my mouth shut because you’re doing the Hombres’ dirty work. You do know who Tony Martinez is, and what he does, don’t you?”
That catty remark about Tony didn’t irritate me nearly as much as her comment about the rez. Cindy Jo’s attitude was typical of the locals that considered the Indian reservations nothing more than a dumping ground for things—and people—they no longer needed. “I don’t deserve to die and neither did Rich.”
“Probably not, but JC did use Rich’s knife to hack up my baby. I’d planned on putting the rest of JC’s pieces in Rich’s garage freezer as punishment. See, I figured Rich inheriting the boat was the perfect motive for him to kill JC. The guilt over dicing up his buddy caused him to off himself. He’d be dead, blamed and I’d be scot-free.” A baffled laugh bubbled out. “But I couldn’t find the padlock key in Rich’s pigsty of a house. So here I am, dropping my chum, JC, across the lake he loved so much.”
“No one is going to buy your lame-assed story, Cindy Jo.”
“Sure they will. You shot at me, but missed and hit the boat, sinking it.” Her eyes gleamed as she built her demented tale. “Fearing for my life, I jumped into the water. I used every ounce of strength to climb into Rich’s boat, where we wrestled for the gun. You were caught in the crossfire. It’ll be quick, I promise, because I like you. You’ve got bigger balls than most men.” She grinned, leaning closer to the edge. “Still think I’m clever?”
“No.”
A wave hit her boat. The gun wobbled and so did she. Before Cindy Jo tried to reclaim her footing, I reached down and scooped up the fishing bow.
Instinctively I settled it at my shoulder, aimed for her chest, pulled back and let the arrow fly. But I hadn’t compensated for the drag ratio of the heavier fishing line and the shot veered low, hitting her in the sternum.
The wind masked the sound of metal tearing through flesh, but her shriek of pain echoed loud and clear.
Her arm jerked and the gun dropped overboard with a small splash. She staggered back against the steering column.
I gave one, quick tug on the line and the barbs opened.
Cindy Jo screamed so loud I knew they’d heard it at the docks.
“I wouldn’t move if I were you.” I pulled on the line eliciting another scream from her. “I can keep doing this until the paramedics get here.”
The barbs held. No matter how much she squirmed or flopped around, she wasn’t going to be my fish tale—the one that got away.
While keeping a firm grip on the bow, I hunkered down, grabbed my water-logged cell phone. Yes! A clear signal. I dialed 911.
****
The rest of the afternoon was a blur of fear, anger and shock.
The Ranger patrol boat arrived first with three Rangers onboard. I handed over the bow attached to Cindy Jo to Ranger #1. Ranger #2 took control of JC’s boat and raced to the docks to meet the paramedics. Ranger #3 was stuck with me.
It didn’t escape my notice that he was armed. I told him to make note of our location because Cindy Jo’s gun was at the bottom of the lake. He said nothing besides telling me to return to the docks. It took a while with the gutless wonder that was Rich’s boat.
The ambulance was still there when I pulled into Rich’s slip at the dock. Uniforms had swarmed JC’s boat. I had a welcoming party waiting for me too: four deputies from the Fall River County Sheriff’s Office. After asking my name, they confiscated my phone and my keys. Then they handcuffed me. Out of a sheer case of nerves I made a crack about the cuffs not being the velvet-lined variety I was used to.
No one laughed. They just shoved me in the back of the nearest patrol vehicle.
Shoot one little arrow into a person in self-defense and you’re automatically treated like a criminal. How fair was that?
The back of the cop car didn’t smell like ass. Probably because the crime rate was so low in this sparsely populated county that the backseat rarely got used. I closed my eyes, but the gruesome images of the day just looped over and over again in my brain, replaying every horrible second. In vivid detail. I allowed myself the tiny bit of comfort knowing that I hadn’t been forced to look inside the blue cooler.
The deputy driving me didn’t say a word. I didn’t ask what would happen to me once we got to the station because I knew. They’d toss me in jail first; ask questions later.
I barely remembered the walk of shame from the cop car to the courthouse, which shared space with the Fall River County jail.
An older woman with an iron grip processed me. I only had to remove my shoes. No hideous prison orange for me.
Still in handcuffs, I shuffled in front of my jailer wearing the disposable slippers they’d issued. I shuddered at hearing the heavy clang of the cell door closing behind me.
On the outside I looked calm, even bored. My response would’ve shocked the people who knew me. They would’ve expected me to go in kicking and screaming.
But on the inside? Inside I was curled up in a little ball in the corner, rocking back and forth, scared out of my fucking mind.
Do not shed a single fucking tear.
Do not cause a fucking scene.
Do not threaten to call your fucking lawyer.
Wait i
t the fuck out.
Since I had the cell to myself, I had all the time in the world to think about what an idiotic thing I’d done—leaving a murder scene to confront a murderer. I’d been so focused on my need for justice that I’d nearly gotten myself killed. To what end? It was only a matter of time before the Rapid City cops would’ve picked up Cindy Jo.
But she’d almost pitched the last bit of evidence overboard. I stopped her. Who knows if the cops would’ve gotten to her in time?
Cold comfort as I sat in a jail cell, berating myself over what could’ve been a much uglier, deadlier situation.
No doubt about it; I’d fucked up.
Hours, days, years seemed to drag on as I waited. After working in the Bear Butte County Sheriff’s Office for over three years, I knew the drill. Once they let me out of the containing cell, they’d squirrel me away in an interview room and grill me.
Two hours passed.
Idly, I wondered if they were keeping me this long because they were waiting to see if Cindy Jo died. If that happened this mess would get a whole lot messier.
Finally Sheriff Jim Erickson meandered toward me with a ring of keys. No newfangled keycards for this jail. They were old school all the way.
“Looks like you’ve had a hell of an interesting day, Julie Collins. You’re a long way from Bear Butte County.”
I stood. “You remember me?”
“Of course. Sheriff Richards kept hoping you’d apply for a deputy’s position up there.”
“And here I am, a nosy PI, behind bars.”
“Not for long.” He inserted the key and the door creaked open. “You ready to answer some questions?”
“I guess.” We walked side by side down the hallway. “I take it you’ve spoken to Detective Jones at the Rapid City PD?”
“Yep.” Sheriff Erickson opened the door to a conference room. Two plainclothes cops sat at the table. He unlocked my cuffs and said, “Have a seat.” Then he handed me a bottle of water.
“Thanks.”
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