Hallowed Ground (Julie Collins Series #2)

by Lori G. Armstrong

  If they were locals I’d cut them some slack. If anyone deserved to make a few bucks from the doctors, lawyers, and stockbrokers who rolled into town posing as “bikers”, it was Sturgis residents who put up with two weeks of hell.

  These vendors were from California—according to the plates on their Haulmark trailer. They’d take their profits out of state.

  I followed 385 until I hit Boulder Canyon. Don’t know what I hoped to accomplish in Deadwood, but it beat sitting around twiddling my thumbs.

  Rock cliffs lined the twisting road. The DOT had broadened the goatpath into a real road a few years back. Some Black Hills residents had cried foul, arguing widening the road would make the historic drive lose its charm. Evidently those naysayers hadn’t followed a fifty-foot motor home driving 25 mph up the canyon, with no chance to pass, stretching what should’ve been a twenty-minute drive into forty.

  One thing the new improved road hadn’t done was decrease the amount of fatal accidents, especially during the Rally. Diamond shaped signs asking, “Why Die?” were staked along the embankments, marking where some motorist had crashed.

  A main draw to the Sturgis Rally was South Dakota does not have a motorcycle helmet law—great for feeling the wind on your face as you take in the breathtaking vistas of the Black Hills—bad when your bike skids out of control, throws you over the handlebars and head first into a rock the size of Mt. Rushmore.

  Mottled patches of sunlight filtered through the pine trees. I caught a glimpse of the creekbed running along the left side of the road. Dry as a bone. Even at this higher elevation we hadn’t had much snow in the last few years. Not only do the farmers and ranchers suffer during a drought, winter sports—skiing, and snowmobiling—do too.

  With the windows rolled down, and the cool darkness of the canyon soothing my mind, time zipped by and soon I was climbing the last, steep craggy hill into Deadwood.

  Deadwood. Notorious Old West town, home to Calamity Jane, Seth Bullock, Poker Alice, Potato Creek Johnny, and William Butler Hickock—otherwise known as Wild Bill.

  Thank God Deadwood doesn’t look anything like it did during its heyday in the late 1870s. No rickety-ass boardwalks leading to cheaply constructed saloons and whorehouses. The street, which in the goldrush days was ankle deep mud mixed with animal shit, had been repaved, cobblestone style, thanks to historic preservation funds.

  A few buildings, the brick ones lucky enough to survive the various fires over the last 130 years, are still standing. The Old Style Saloon #10 where Wild Bill played the infamous dead man’s hand. The Adams House, now a museum, and The Bullock and The Franklin hotels. The unique underground tunnels, dug by Chinese immigrants and used as opium dens, were closed to public tours because of the dangers of cave-ins.

  In the early 1980s Deadwood was practically … dead. The push for legalized gambling brought it back from the brink of extinction. Back then, Lead, Deadwood’s sister city, was the economic center. Then Homestake Mine pulled up stakes in 2001, abandoning the formerly lucrative gold mine and the hundreds of workers who’d been dependent on it.

  Although gambling had saved Deadwood, in some ways it’d destroyed it. The quaint corner drugstore, the family owned grocery market, the clothing boutique, and the barbershop all vanished. The only businesses you’ll find on Main Street Deadwood are gaming halls, a souvenir shop or two, restaurants and bars supporting gaming, and hotels—new and old—catering to bus tours and low stakes gamblers.

  I’m not a gambler. I work too damn hard for my money. So I wasn’t familiar with the location of the casinos unless they had a restaurant.

  I drove slowly to avoid hitting tourists who apparently didn’t realize Main Street was actually a through street.

  Bingo. The Golden Boot. I kept driving until I found Trader Pete’s. They were on opposite ends of town. I pulled into the parking garage halfway between.

  A nasty metal machine spit out a parking stub. Like most Midwesterners, I hated to pay to park.

  I emerged from the dungeon into the sunshine.

  As I waited at the intersection, I surveyed the jagged fire escapes bumping out of the bowed backs of the buildings, like ugly scars on old skin. Some were made of metal, some of wood. A wide alley, walled off from the street, ran parallel to the road. I debated on ducking in the back door of Trader Pete’s, but with various delivery trucks clogging the passage, I walked until I hit Main Street.

  Muzak blared from loudspeakers, so no matter where you went you were subjected to yet another crappy instrumental rendition of “The Girl from Ipanema.”

  Trader Pete’s didn’t impress me. Decorated in the standard bordello fare: heavy red velvet curtains, flocked wallpaper, gargantuan chandeliers, gold painted molding, fake tropical plants, vibrantly jewel-toned carpet. And the main focus: dozens of slot and video poker machines.

  I meandered up to the cashier’s cage. Didn’t have a lick of cash to my name so I wrote a check for a whopping twenty bucks. The gum-snapping granny gave me an odd look at the small amount, half pity/half curiosity.

  Tempting to ask if she was Rondelle’s friend Robin, or if she’d known Rondelle. But the cops would start canvassing soon and I didn’t want her remembering I’d been here nosing around before they’d released Rondelle’s name. The row of cameras sporadically blinked, the red light reminding me Big Brother was watching.

  I grinned and blew it a kiss.

  With my tube of quarters and five rolls of nickels, I hunkered down in the nickel slot area in the far corner away from the more lucrative Blackjack and Poker tables. One thing I did like about casinos; I could smoke and no one could bitch about it.

  I’d made a tidy profit of fifty-five cents, was enjoying my cup of warm Coors and my fifth cigarette when the chair beside me screeched. I didn’t glance up from the blue glow of the video screen, it’d just encourage the intruder to talk to me. I was feeling highly antisocial, because, hey, I was winning.

  A couple of bad hands sent me back to my starting point of two bucks. I cashed out, figuring I’d give another machine a chance at making me rich before trying to sneak upstairs.

  Don’t know what I expected to discover. With the amount of security cameras I’d probably get caught, but it was worth a shot. My situation with the Carluccis couldn’t get worse, could it?

  I heard Kevin groan in my head.

  Better to cross paths with them in a public place than to wait for them to come at me again when I didn’t have control of the situation. Since Martinez and Kevin were unavailable, like it or not, I was on my own.

  I scooped my nickels into a cardboard cup. I’d drained the last of the beer when a person behind me said, “If all our customers quit while they were ahead, we’d go out of business.”

  My stomach plunged. I lowered the beer cup to the ledge near the ashtray and spun in my chair toward the voice I’d immediately recognized.

  Reggie.

  I stood and jiggled the container of nickels. “Well, I don’t expect that my paltry donation to the Carlucci coffers will add much to your retirement account, Reg.”

  “You always such a wise ass?”

  “Yep.”

  “What’re you doin’ here?”

  “Gambling. Drinking. Admiring the décor.” I pointed to a sparkling chandelier, which would’ve made Liberace weep with jealousy. “Think that’s too formal for my dining room?”

  He towered over me. Damn, if it didn’t send my heart galloping like a Pony Express rider.

  “Cut the shit,” he said. “Who sent you?”

  I peered around him. “Where’s your buddy? Tommy, right? How come he’s not helping you harass me? Thought you goombahs were joined at the hip?”

  Reggie’s eyes burned fury. “Answer the question, Ms. Collins.”

  I couldn’t tell if he knew Tommy was dead. He sure as hell didn’t act like he was in mourning.

  “I’m up here because I was curious, okay? Rondelle told me about this place. I was in the neighborhood and wanted to c
heck it out for myself.”

  His shark grin chilled me to the bone.

  “You’re in luck then, because Big Joe wants to see you in the office. Right now.” He pressed his big beak to mine. “Maybe if your luck holds, he won’t give you a personally guided tour.”

  Oh double crap.

  “Come on.” He grabbed my right elbow.

  Big mistake.

  Intuitively I dropped my arm, brought it around the outside of his forearm and knocked it away.

  The change bucket went flying; nickels pinged against the metal machines and bounced on the carpet like silver raindrops.

  I shoved the swivel chair between us.

  “Don’t you ever fucking touch me again, Reggie. I’ll talk to Big Joe. But if you lay one fat finger on me I will hurt you bad.”

  Reggie adjusted the sleeve of his ugly silk suit, glaring like I’d somehow soiled it. “You gonna hurt me bad? Or you talking ’bout that fuckin’ slimeball spic Martinez?”

  “Me.”

  “Try it and I’ll show you the meaning of hurt. That little tap I gave you coupla days ago will feel like a love pat, compared to the pain I can cause you.”

  “Make you feel all macho, threatening me?”

  “We’ll see how tough you are when Big Joe gets through with you.” He frowned and shoved his hand in his jacket pocket, pulling out a slim cell phone. “Shame you’ll probably disappoint him.”

  Stall, stall, stall, my brain insisted. “What about my nickels?”

  “Forget them.” His pencil thin lips twisted; he allotted me an insulting once over and an Elvis-worthy sneer. “Unless you need them to make the monster truck payment this month?”

  “Oh ho. That was a real knee slapper, Reg. Maybe you oughta ask Mr. C. to put in a comedy club so he could buy you a sense of humor.”

  Since I’d tagged his punchline, he snarled, “Get movin’. He don’t like waiting.”

  I shouldered my purse. I’d half expected he’d breathe down my neck, poking my spine with the big gun bulging beneath his suit jacket. Again, he mustn’t have found me much of a threat, as he kept his back to me. Hadn’t he learned anything from what’d happened to Wild Bill?

  We marched single file around the cashier’s cage, past the empty card tables with the empty-eyed dealers, and up the narrow wooden staircase marked “Employees Only.”

  I sauntered past several closed doors, trying like hell not to think about what had happened to Rondelle up here.

  Reggie paused at the end of a long carpeted hallway and waited. Knocked on a door with knuckles deeply scarred from multiple rounds with a heavy bag.

  How had I missed that little detail?

  The door swung inward; a bony, bespectacled chap clutching a briefcase hustled out, then another beefy man resembling Reggie.

  Yikes.

  Except at second glance, this guy was about twenty years younger, two inches taller, and a hundred times better looking. The clincher? He had excellent taste in clothes.

  He stopped, did a double take. “Whoa. You here to see me, dollface?”

  And … he blew it. Men never failed to disillusion me.

  Reggie not so subtly maneuvered Mr. Charming away. “Go play in the sandbox, Junior. She’s here to see your pops.”

  My turn to do a double take. This was Little Joe Carlucci? Holy crap. Beads of sweat popped out on my forehead.

  Big Joe couldn’t possibly be bigger than this grape ape—could he?

  “Have fun,” Little Joe said to Reggie. “He’s in a lousy fuckin’ mood. Let you get your flabby ass chewed for a change.” He allowed me one last creepy leer. “I’ll be in the bar if you need me.”

  “Big fuckin’ surprise.” Reggie warned, “Stay outta Big Joe’s private stock.”

  “Or what?”

  Reggie’s glare could’ve peeled off the top layer of skin. I shuddered. Little Joe laughed.

  “Right. That’s what I thought you’d say.” Little Joe strutted off.

  “Douche bag,” Reggie muttered before he ushered me inside the space that smelled like boiled corn and old newspapers.

  Not an impressive office for a mob Don. Unlike the attempt at elegance downstairs, cramped was the decorating style up here. A window air conditioner dripped water on one of the five gray filing cabinets ringing the room. An oversized black chair behind the colossal desk faced the bank of windows covered with condensation.

  I slid into the wingback chair opposite the desk and waited for my first glimpse of Big Joe.

  Wheels scraped plastic as he revolved, giving me a second to brace myself.

  Again, my imagination—helped along with years of TV stereotypes—had led me astray. I’d expected Big Joe to look like … well, Brando in The Godfather. Or Gandolfini, from The Sopranos. Or Sinatra.

  Wrong on all accounts. This wisp of a man was a ringer for the guy who played Arvin Sloan on Alias, from the grayish-black stubble on his chin to the wire-rimmed glasses sliding down his patrician nose. He looked about as Italian as I did.

  He snapped his cuffs before he set his elbows on the desk. Smiled wanly. “Ah. Ms. Collins. So nice to finally meet you.”

  I noticed he didn’t offer his hand for me to shake. Chauvinistic? Or a germ phobic?

  “Likewise.” I managed not to make it a smart retort.

  “You’re a private investigator?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ve got a couple companies on my payroll back east. Very handy. Of course, I could always use a local company.”

  I wanted to say, I can recommend a couple, but I refrained, lest he cut my tongue out.

  “Naturally, you’d have to prove your investigative skills are adequate.”

  “Naturally.”

  “How is your latest case coming along? Any luck in locating Ms. Eagle Tail’s daughter?”

  At least he didn’t mince words.

  I offered a polite smile. “As I’m sure you’re aware, with your extensive experience with private investigators, Mr. Carlucci, that is privileged, confidential client information that I cannot share with you.”

  “True. But as I’m sure you’re aware, Ms. Collins, we’ve got a particular interest in this case. When was the last time you saw Ms. Eagle Tail?”

  “Why don’t you tell me? Since we both know you were having Rondelle followed.” Dammit. So much for keeping smart comments to myself.

  Big Joe studied me, probably devising new torture techniques.

  Reggie shifted in the chair next to mine, probably in anticipation of executing those techniques.

  Or was it from nerves?

  And then it hit me: Reggie hadn’t actually been following Rondelle, someone else had. And she’d given them the slip.

  That was a possible explanation on why Tommy had been in that cabin. He’d been following her and had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and wound up dead.

  If they didn’t know about Tommy’s murder, then they didn’t know about hers either. Which put me at a slight—albeit unwanted—advantage in this situation.

  “Answer the question,” Reggie said.

  “Last time I saw Rondelle was in Fat Bob’s parking lot.”

  Reggie snorted disbelief.

  “So, she hasn’t contacted you since?”

  “No.”

  “Have you contacted her?”

  I shook my head.

  Big Joe sighed, and reclined back in his chair, tapping his fingers on the armrest. “Then we’ve got a bit of a dilemma, Ms. Collins.”

  “I fail to see how your dilemma concerns me.”

  His benign smile sent shivers from my nape to my tailbone. “Surely, you don’t believe that.”

  I shrugged.

  “I can ensure your cooperation, but I’d much rather have it willingly. You choose.”

  Painful, talking around the sudden fear lumped in my throat. “I honestly don’t know how I can help.”

  “I do. When you find her daughter, you’ll call me.”

  Imagining Chlo
e Black Dog in this guy’s hands kicked my gag reflex. “And what are you going to do with her?”

  “Propose a trade. I’ll have something Rondelle wants; she has something I want.”

  “Which is?”

  Those squinty black eyes zeroed in on me again. I didn’t look away. However, I think my eyeballs were actually sweating from the effort it took.

  “Fine, Ms. Collins, we’ll play it your way. I want the hundred and fifty thousand dollars she stole from me.”

  CHAPTER 20

  ROGER RABBIT HAD NOTHING ON ME; MY EYES BULGED out of the sockets. “What?”

  “Rondelle managed to walk out of here with one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash.”

  “When?”

  “We’re guessing a week ago.”

  Bull. What kind of businessman didn’t know exactly when he’d been ripped off?

  Unless he hadn’t been ripped off at all.

  “Mmm,” he said over the rolling tap tap tap of his fingers on the plastic arm of his chair. “Appears you don’t believe it.”

  “It’s not that. I just don’t get why you’re telling me.”

  “Isn’t she your client?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” I angled my head toward Reggie. “Didn’t your goombah tell you Tony Martinez is footing the bill?”

  He didn’t spare Reggie a glance.

  Hah. Take that Reggie.

  Furrowing my brow in confusion added a nice dramatic touch. “So how did Rondelle get her hands on so much money? Especially when she claimed she didn’t have enough to hire me? Did she take it from the cage?”

  Big Joe watched me closely before he shook his head. “There’s another vault upstairs. Which was opened at the end of Rondelle’s shift.”

  “Who opened the vault?”

  “The bookkeeper.”

  “So ask her.”

  “We did.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “She wasn’t the only one involved. An upper level manager has to be present whenever the safe is unlocked and the money from downstairs is transferred.”

  “Who was supposed to be overseeing the money transfer that day?” I asked, even when I suspected the answer.

  “My son. Little Joe.”