by Sandra Brown
I smiled at him. “I’m waiting for someone. But thank you.”
He moved to stand in front of me. “At least let me take your coat and hang it up while you’re waiting.”
“That’s not—”
“We have a coat check.” Slipping the coat from my arm, he walked to a closet behind the podium. He handed me a claim ticket. “See? Now your hands are free to play the slots, eh?”
Rather than snap at him for his presumptive behavior, I realized the poor kid had just been doing his job. I let it go and wandered off, making another full perimeter sweep, in case Dawson had sneaked in and was trying to earn extra cash to buy our dinner.
Bored, I dug out a dollar and plugged it into the nickel video poker machine. I’d always found it more interesting studying the people around me than watching the cards flashing on the screen. Which is why the skinny white dude caught my eye.
During a perimeter sweep, I’d noticed him talking to the security guard—the only sign of life I’d seen from her. He seemed out of place for a number of reasons, the biggest one being his heavy, bulky army surplus jacket. Although the calendar said November, the air temp outside was a balmy fifty degrees and the thermostat in here was definitely set on roast. Or maybe since I’d involuntarily relinquished my jacket I was more attuned to those patrons who still had theirs.
Something about the guy rubbed me wrong so I watched him. He meandered down the walkway between the rows of machines, stopping to plug a nickel into a slot. But he paid no heed to whether he’d won. His attention stayed on the inattentive folks around him, those who pulled on the one-armed bandit as soon as the reels quit spinning, eyes rapt on the crisscrossed bars, finger ready at the bet button to try their luck again.
An older woman wearing a lavender cardigan that matched her thinning cloud of hair had hung her faux crocodile purse on the back of her chair. As skinny dude strolled past, he reached in, snagged her billfold and smoothly shoved it in his outer jacket pocket. If I hadn’t been watching him so closely, I would’ve missed his sleight of hand.
That greasy little shit was a pickpocket. In rural South Dakota? I’d bet my pension they were as rarely seen around here as mimes.
The guy dropped a coin in here and there, pausing to feign interest in the spinning reels while searching for his next mark. Even I could see the easy pickin’s. Purses were left unattended. In most cases those purses were wide-open. Trusting lot, these retirees.
But that didn’t give this bastard the right to steal from them.
Finishing the fifth pick, he zipped up his coat and made tracks for the exit.
Dammit. I was supposed to be on a date. I was wearing a freakin’ dress and a lacy thong. Following him was the last thing I wanted to do. Being in a round room screwed with my sense of direction.
After I exited outside via the side door, I took a second to get my bearings. No lights, no sidewalk indicated I was on the back side of the building. A chain-link fence stretched to the left about fifty yards, with “high voltage” warnings attached to the posts. Doubtful Mr. Snatch-and-Go had gone that direction. Straight ahead was a forested area. Highly unlikely he’d hoofed it into the pine trees to count his loot. To the right, above the roof, an orange glow denoted the parking lot.
Bingo.
Not ideal, trying to fade into stealth mode wearing boots that made a crunching, grinding sound with each step. I hadn’t taken out my gun, which caused a bigger sense of imbalance than the continual shifting shadows in my eye, caused by the retinal detachment injury that permanently obscured my vision.
I picked my way along the outside of the building, skirting a Dumpster that sat cockeyed a few feet from the building. As soon as I cleared the short end of it, I realized my mistake. The hair on the back of my neck prickled.
Before I crouched into a defensive position, my scalp burned as I was jerked back by my hair. A knife appeared inches from my nose. My mouth dried. Blood pumped hot and fast with fear. My thoughts flashed to the last time I’d been held at knifepoint by a psycho who’d sliced me, skewered me and choked me until I blacked out.
“Don’t move,” skinny dude warned.
I stayed still.
He didn’t place the knife against my throat. Just kept slowly waving it in front of my face like a reverse pendulum. “Why did you follow me?” he demanded, yanking my hair so hard tears sprang into my eyes.
“I—I wanted to get out of there, back to the parking lot. I saw you leave and thought you might know a shortcut.”
“Bullshit.”
“Please. Just let me go.” He hadn’t restricted my hands or my legs, which screamed amateur.
“You saw, didn’t you?” he demanded.
“Saw what?”
“You’re an even worse liar than you are a snoop. I know you were watching me.”
Dammit. I’d been in the midst of the freakin’ Taliban and hadn’t gotten caught, but this snot-nosed punk busted me? Unreal. “Let me go.”
“Who do you think you are, anyway?” the skinny dude sneered. “Nancy Drew?”
“More like Sydney Bristow,” I retorted, kicking sideways with the heel of my boot until it connected with his knee. When his stance bobbled, I spun, sweeping his feet out from under him. Rolling him over face-first in the dirt, I wrenched his left arm up his back, pressing my knee into his right wrist until he dropped the knife.
He shrieked, “What the hell are you doing? You’re hurting me. Help! Help!”
Oh, for Christsake, really? A screamer? “You pulled a knife on me, asshole.”
But he kept yelling. Surprisingly someone not only heard him, but also came to investigate, which was rare in Indian country.
The man, a cook I assumed from his white garb, cautiously wandered closer. “What’s goin’ on?”
“She followed me out here and attacked me! I didn’t do nothin’ to her. She’s a psycho bitch! Get her offa me!” When he thrashed, trying to break my hold, I pushed his arm just a little farther up his back.
That set him to wailing again.
“Uh, ma’am?” the cook said. “Maybe you should—”
“Maybe you should fetch your manager.” Instead of reaching for my gun, I rooted around in my purse for my badge and flipped it open. “FBI. So maybe in addition to your manager, you oughta get the head of security.” I sincerely hoped it wasn’t the slug guard from the front entrance.
The cook nodded and left much faster than he’d arrived. Still keeping one hand immobilizing the thief, I fished out my cell phone. I had a bad feeling about this situation, especially since I’d seen this punk ass chatting with the lone security guard. Maybe they were in on this scam together.
Grasping at straws, Mercy. You look for conspiracy in everything these days.
Hazard of working for the FBI.
I dialed 911.
“Emergency services, what’s your emergency?”
“Special Agent Mercy Gunderson, FBI, requesting assistance from the tribal police. I’m at the Eagle River Casino and have detained a pickpocket.”
Pause. “Roger that, Special Agent Gunderson. I’ve dispatched an officer.”
“Thank you.” I dropped the phone back in my purse and debated slapping on the cuffs now or leaving that to the tribal cops.
The punk’s head snapped to the left and he glared at me. “You’re a fucking fed? I shoulda known since you look like a dyke.”
Definitely cuffing this smart-ass.
I reached inside my purse, hooking a finger around the metal chain and eased my body back slightly so I could cuff him quickly. But both my knees slipped and I lost my balance. Immediately the kid bucked, knocking me on my ass before he raced off.
Sonuvabitch.
My gun was in my hand before I leaped to my feet to give chase. The lack of light screwed with my depth perception. It’d be just my luck to catch the toe of my boot in a gopher hole and end up sprawled in the dirt with my dress bunched around my hips and my ass hanging out. But I didn’t slow down. I
yelled, “Stop! FBI. I’m armed. I will shoot you if you don’t stop.”
He kept running until he tripped. His body slid across the gravel parking lot as if he was diving for home plate from third base.
After he skidded to a stop, I loomed over him, putting my gun in his direct line of sight. “Hands where I can see them. Now!”
Once again he was howling, gaping with horror at his palms. I let my gaze drop for a second and my stomach turned over. Holy shit. His hands were hamburger. A crisscross of scrapes that’d already begun to bleed. The dirt and gravel imbedded beneath his skin looked like Rice Krispies about to pop out of his flesh.
“Help me. Oh, God, I’m bleeding!” He rolled to his knees.
“Don’t fucking move or I will shoot you.”
He looked at me.
“Repeat it back to me so there’s no confusion.” When he hesitated, I barked, “Now!”
“Don’tfuckingmoveoryouwillshootme.”
The side of his face had fared worse than his hands. His cheek had deep gouges, like he’d taken a header across broken glass.
I heard murmurs behind me. Evidently this incident had already drawn a crowd. Too soon for the tribal cops to be here, so I had a pretty good idea of who was closing in on me.
“Never a dull moment with you, is there, Sergeant Major?” he drawled.
I stepped aside so I could look at Dawson and keep an eye on shit-for-brains moaning on the ground. “Chasing down a pickpocket was not part of my evening plans, Sheriff. Besides. You’re late.”
“Sorry. Deputy Moore dropped me off as soon as we were done. I assume you called this in?”
“Yes. Tribal police are en route.”
Dawson crossed his arms over his chest, holding court on the guy’s other side. “I’ll stick around until they get here, if you don’t mind.”
I appreciated he didn’t assume I needed help, but asked. “That’d be great since I need to request an ambulance.” I called 911 again.
A portly man barreled up, the security guard on his heels. “What is going on here?”
“I’m stopping bad guys. Who are you?”
“Welchell Whitetail. I’m the manager. Who are you?”
“Mercy Gunderson, FBI.”
Whitetail glared at Dawson. Although Dawson wasn’t in uniform, he didn’t have to be. Everything about him broadcast law enforcement. “And who are you?”
“Eagle River County Sheriff.”
“Neither of you has jurisdiction here. So I’d like to know why you’re holding one of my customers at gunpoint.”
“This customer was picking pockets. When he exited the premises with the stolen goods, I followed him. He jumped me with a knife. I take offense to getting jumped with a knife.”
“Do you have proof of his alleged crimes?”
“The knife is on the ground by the Dumpster. Check his pockets. He has five wallets that don’t belong to him.”
Whitetail puffed up like a prairie grouse. “We could’ve avoided this if you’d contacted my security team after you witnessed the first incident.”
“Your security team consists of one guard who was far too busy poking buttons on her cell phone to do her job. So I did mine.”
“You have no jurisdiction here,” Whitetail snapped again. “Let him go and we will handle it in house.”
“Sorry. The tribal police are on their way and I will gladly hand this problem over to them. This might not be my jurisdiction, but it is theirs.”
Whitetail fumed. His face turned a mottled purple. He seemed too infuriated to speak, which seemed an over-the-top reaction and set off my warning bells. “You had no need to call them. No right. I don’t need the tribal cops in my business.”
“Well, Mr. Whitetail, that’s where you’re wrong. This isn’t solely your business—it’s the tribe’s business. The casino and the police are both under the tribe’s purview, but it’s your job to watch out for guys like this and report them to the tribal cops, so they can do their job and make an arrest.”
Skinny dude yelled, “I’m not goin’ to jail, especially not on the goddamned rez!”
“You got caught red-handed,” I pointed out.
“You promised you’d handle stuff like this,” skinny dude said to Whitetail.
Confused, my gaze winged between them. “What stuff does he handle?”
“I have no idea what he’s talking about,” Whitetail retorted.
“Bullshit! That’s why you get a bigger cut.”
Whitetail gave me a greasy smile. “Honestly, I’m relieved to have the tribal police deal with him. We don’t need anyone to believe we’re ignoring the seriousness of this crime.”
“Crime?” skinny dude repeated. “It was your plan.”
So my inside job theory had been partially right. Good to know paying attention in FBI school rather than doodling in my notebook had paid off. I faced Whitetail. “Ripping off your customers was your idea?”
“You believe him?” Whitetail sneered. “It’s obvious he’ll say anything to get out of jail time.”
Skinny dude fired off, “Last year he told me how easy it’d be to rip off senior groups and foreign tourists. When a tour bus pulls in, I’m the first one he calls. Check my phone records. He called me tonight. I’m telling the truth! He’s lying.” He pointed at the security guard. “She knows. She’s paid to look the other way.”
Greedy damn people. Preying on the elderly. My gaze caught Dawson’s. “Have you heard grumbling from locals about missing money or wallets after they visited here?”
Dawson shrugged. “First I’ve heard of it.”
“Me, too,” came from behind me. A craggy-faced Indian wearing the tribal police uniform stepped forward. I recognized him from a case we’d worked last week. Officer Spotted Bear’s gaze whipped between the security guard, the manager and his thief for hire. “Guess we’ll have to take all three of you in to figure out what’s what, eh?”
Whitetail threw his hands in the air. “I have a casino to run! I can’t just leave.”
“That ain’t a request,” the other cop, Officer Begly, responded.
“I’m pretty sure you don’t wanna be around when the tribal president gets here anyway.”
The young man who took my coat stepped forward and held up his phone. “I taped everything and sent it to my uncle, who just happens to be the tribal president.” He grinned at the cops. “He’s speeding here so I hope he don’t get arrested, hey.”
I wasn’t surprised by the tribal president’s immediate attention to this situation. The casino employed lots of people on the reservation. In recent months scandal had broken out at two other Indian casinos in South Dakota, resulting in loss of jobs and revenue because of managerial mismanagement, so keeping this place open was key.
Whitetail shouted obscenities and lunged at the kid. Talk about satisfying—shoving Whitetail’s smug face in the dirt while Officer Spotted Bear cuffed him.
An ambulance arrived along with a whole crush of people. Dawson and I got separated. By the time he tracked me down my adrenaline rush had faded. I shivered in the chilly air as I answered Officer Begly’s questions and the EMTs patched up the pickpocket.
“Thanks for your help on this, Gunderson.”
“No problem. Make sure those bus tour people get their wallets back.”
“Will do.” He gave me a critical once-over. “No offense, but you look like hell. Go home.”
“Oh, and—”
“And…we’re leaving.” Dawson’s big palm was warm against my lower back as he herded me away. “Do I need to have the EMTs look at you?”
I scowled. “Not unless you think they’ll sew up the rip in my dress.”
“Speaking of dresses…with the way you had your knee on the punk’s wrist and the other knee by his shoulder, he had the perfect opportunity to look up your skirt.”
“Which is why I never wear dresses,” I shot back.
“More’s the pity, Sergeant Major.”
I
couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic. “You saw him knock me on my ass?”
“Uh-huh. But you showed off them super FBI agent recovery skills, so I didn’t get a chance to tackle him and grind him into dust. Pity about that, too.”
That explained his lousy mood. Dawson wasn’t happy about seeing me in danger and being too late to help me out. I tried to make light of it. “The real pity is I lost my appetite.”
“So we’re just gonna go home?”
I hated he sounded so disappointed. Again. “Yeah.” After I climbed in the passenger side of my truck and ditched my gun, I remembered my coat. I hopped out and dug in my purse for the claim ticket.
“Whoa. Where you going?”
“I left my coat. I’ll be right back.”
Dawson snatched the ticket, snarling, “Would it be too much goddamn trouble to let me do one thing for you tonight after you’ve been beat to shit?”
I shivered violently, from the cold, the adrenaline crash and his harsh tone.
“Get in the truck and stay there.”
I didn’t argue.
When Dawson returned, he draped my coat over me. We didn’t talk on the drive home, which wasn’t necessarily odd, but the mood was definitely altered and not the slightest bit romantic.
And whose fault is that?
Mine. Again.
As soon as Dawson parked at the ranch, my boots hit the dirt and I hustled up the porch steps wanting to put this disastrous night behind me.
But Dawson spun me around and crowded me against the wall. He cradled my face in his hands, forcing me to look at him. “What’s wrong now?”
I inhaled and let out a long, slow breath. “I can’t even have a simple date with you without somehow royally screwing it up. Now you’re pissed off, hungry—”
“Mercy—”
“Look at me. I’ve got mud on my dress, dirt on my knees and grass in my hair. I’m a mess. I wanted…I tried to be… Just forget it.”
“If you haven’t noticed, I am looking at you. Christ, woman, I can’t look away from you.” Dawson covered my mouth with his. Not in a sweet kiss, but a frustrated one. “Yes, you looked sexy tonight in this hot little black number, but I gotta admit, the sexiest part of you isn’t ever what you wear, Mercy, it’s sexy seeing you in action.”