“Quit being such a baby. You’ve had worse. Hold still.”
Great. The adrenaline buzz started to wear off and now I was whining. So much for my superhero status. Definitely time to climb in the Batmobile and return to the cave.
“Come on, Kev. Take me home.”
“No. I’m taking you home.” Martinez materialized from the shadows. A yelp escaped me. “Have you been here spying on me the whole time?”
Arms crossed over his chest, he stayed mute.
“See? That I-don’t-have-to-tell-you-anything bullshit attitude is why you piss me off, Martinez. That’s why I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Wrong. Give me your keys.”
Wisely, Kevin and Big Mike retreated from the line of fire.
Another pause. Neither of us budged.
“Losing my patience with you, blondie.”
I stomped toward him. “So fucking what? I don’t even know why the fuck you’re here. I told Big Mike I didn’t want to talk to you.”
“No, you told him I could kiss your ass.”
“You’re a bright guy; I figured you could read 216
between the lines.”
He laughed softly. “You mean read between the cracks?”
“That wasn’t supposed to be funny!” Yelling at him made my head throb. Made me feel like an ass, too. I said to Kevin, “Take me home.”
Big Mike and Kevin exchanged a look.
Fine. Let Martinez dictate to them—he didn’t dictate to me. I’d made it about ten steps when Martinez stopped me.
“Go away. I’m not talking to you.”
His gaze flicked to the cut on my temple. “You’re bleeding.”
“Like you care.”
Martinez stared at me. Through me. If I hoped he’d dispute my statement, lovingly assure me I was in error, that he cared about me deeply, then I was bound to be disappointed.
He leaned close enough to whisper, “Don’t. Go. There.”
Yikes. But he wasn’t done.
“I’m so fucking mad at you right now that if you don’t hand over your keys I will take them by force, tie you up with your purse straps, and dump your smartass in the back of your truck bed to see if a ride in the cold night air will cool off your goddamn hothead.”
That was almost a soliloquy coming from Martinez. It was also scary as hell because he wasn’t joking.
“Fine.” I drew back, unzipped my purse, and 217
slapped my keys in his palm. “Happy now?”
“Ecstatic.”
He sauntered over to Kevin and Big Mike. Said something to them I couldn’t hear. They both nodded. Kevin broke from their little he-man group and trotted back to me. “You okay with Martinez taking you home?”
“Like I have a choice.”
“You do. Say the word and I’ll call Jimmer. Or Kim. Or a cab.”
I glanced at Tony studying me like a mountain lion eyes a lame fawn. “Maybe drunk and pissed off isn’t the best way for me to deal with him.”
Kevin pecked me on the forehead. “My money’s on you.”
Big Mike and Kevin climbed into a silver Cadillac Escalade and disappeared down the dusty road. It was pitch-black in the far back corner of Dusty’s parking lot. As I passed by empty vehicles, I wondered if Martinez’s other bodyguards were out here watching us. Felt like someone was. I hated that feeling. Made me shiver.
I lost my footing on the running board on the passenger side of my truck. Martinez caught me. “You okay?”
“No. My head hurts.”
“I’ll bet. Let me see.” His gaze never made it past my mouth. He said, “Fuck it,” pushing me against the truck to kiss the shit out of me.
218
I let him.
His lips broke from mine after about a year.
“I’m still mad at you,” I said, fighting to catch my breath as he used his teeth on my throat.
“Same goes.” He dove in for another openmouthed kiss that left my brain muddled, and the rest of my body hot and tingly.
In about two seconds my jeans would be around my knees and my bare ass would be pressing cold metal as he pressed inside me. I pushed him back.
“Stop. I’m not talking to you.”
“We haven’t been talking.”
I mimed zipping my lip.
He sighed. “You drive me absolutely crazy.”
“Me? What did I do?”
“Hung up on me for starters.”
“So? Your phone manners suck every goddamn
day.”
“You refused to talk to me when I drove out
here.”
“I don’t like being summoned, Martinez.”
“I know. Why do you think I do it?” He used the back of his rough-skinned hand to trace my jawline. A quiver rippled down the center of my body. Talk about easy. “Why am I letting you paw me when I’m mad at you?”
“Too much tequila. I’m a total bastard who has no problem taking advantage of the situation.”
“Are we fighting again for the hot makeup sex?”
219
“Not entirely. I’m trying to distract you so you’ll tell me what happened to you today.”
Damn. The booze had worked for a little while and made me forget about my dad. I averted my gaze. He tipped my chin up. “Fine. We’ll deal with that later. Tell me how you ended up in another bar fight.”
“I don’t know. First she shoved me inside, then she was talking trash. I was content to let it go. She wasn’t.” I studied him. “How much did you see?”
Martinez grinned. “All of it.”
“I won.”
“I noticed.”
Then I noticed his attentions had become obvious. I bumped my hips into his. “Jesus. Are you hard?”
“As a rock.”
“Why?”
“Evidently seeing you drunk and kicking ass turns my crank.”
“Eww. It’s not a girl-on-girl thing, is it?”
“No.” He swept my hair over my shoulder, letting it spill over his fingers like a waterfall. “Must just be a you thing, blondie.”
Here was my chance to change this shit day into something meaningful. Something important. Something good. “Tony, do you love me?”
His eyes never moved from mine. “What do you think?”
“I think I’d like to hear you say the actual words.”
220
“Same goes.” His focus shifted to my cut. “I’ll take you home and patch you up.”
“I thought you were mad at me.”
“I am.”
“Then why are you going all Dr. Quinn?”
No answer.
“Is this where you tell me you’ll kiss it and make it all better?”
“If you’re lucky.” His lips brushed mine.
My belly jumped. “That mean you’re staying
over?”
He opened the passenger door for me. “Do you want me to?”
“No,” I lied.
“Good. Then I guess I am staying.”
“Bastard.”
Martinez laughed, placed his hands on my ass, and shoved me in the truck.
He’d barely slapped on the Big Bird Band-Aid when he had me naked, hot, and squirming under him in my bed. Then he had me naked, hot, and wet pinned against the wall in the shower. In the chair. On the floor. Then back in bed.
Exhausted and dazed, I murmured, “You are nice 221
when you’re mad at me.”
“Mmm.” He’d situated us so half my body stretched across his; one hand clamped on my ass, the fingers of his other hand threaded through mine. His jaw rested on the top of my head.
This was the side of him no one knew. This was what I’d craved, the part of him that was mine alone.
“I missed you.”
“I know.”
With his heat and scent and contentment surrounding me, my consciousness was floating away. “I feel it for you every day, Martinez, I’m just not so good at saying it.”
/>
“Try.”
“I am.”
“Try harder.”
222
The next morning Kevin was on funeral duty
with Amery so I had the office to myself. I brewed a pot of coffee; caffeine would dull the edges of my full body hangover, too much booze, too much sex—not that I was complaining about the latter.
The office manager for our newest corporate client, Tomahawk Ammo, e-mailed me a list of potential secondary suppliers she needed checked out right away. At least it gave me something to do.
I wrapped up the project and typed up the invoice. While I was dropping a copy on Kevin’s desk, I noticed Post-it Notes stuck to his computer monitor, all relating to Prairie Gardens.
Last night he’d mentioned Amery ranting about suing the facility. Much as I hated to admit it, she had a good case. But a case I wanted no part of. 223
Our firm specialized in piddly-ass cases the larger investigative companies waved off as small potatoes. We refused to work with ambulance-chasing lawyers—where the big bucks were in the PI biz. We’d built up a list of repeat clients, secured contracts with enough places that small cases added up to a tidy sum. Neither Kevin nor I were looking to get rich. We liked what we did, we were damn good at it, and our client list was diverse enough we were rarely bored. Kevin and I were equal partners with an equal amount of power when it came to making decisions. So far, we’d had few disagreements. But we’d have a big problem if he thought Wells/Collins Investigations would support Amery in her legal battle against Prairie Gardens.
I turned on Kevin’s computer and backtracked his online surfing since we’d taken Amery’s case. Routine stuff, tracing Vernon Sloane’s social security number, DOB, previous addresses. But Kevin spent time tracking building permits. State regulations on nursing homes. Complaints from the Elderly Housing Authority, the arm of the state government that oversaw retirement homes and assisted living facilities. I couldn’t tell from Kevin’s scant information whether more than one entity dealt with violations.
This wasn’t the type of info you tracked for fun. No, this was the preliminary documentation needed to justify a potential lawsuit.
Jesus. He really had been thinking with his dick. 224
Kevin mentioned the suing thing in passing, not even hinting he’d already begun the legwork. I scrolled to the last listing and watched it load as I lit a cigarette. I hated flash sites for businesses, particularly when accompanied by crappy instrumental music (Iron Butterfly’s In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida? Please shoot me now). The job of a Web site was to provide consumer information. Period. If I needed entertainment I’d visit YouTube.
The site, LPL, exploded with flashing graphics, but no information on what the hell LPL stood for. An intentional distraction? A brief moment of panic followed. What if Kev had been surfing for porn?
What if LPL stood for lesbians—eww, I so didn’t want to contemplate possibilities.
I found the site map. Three categories were listed: People—Places—Opportunities. I clicked on People. A standard Web site e-mail contact form addressed to [email protected]. No help.
Next I dragged the cursor to Opportunities. A listing with a phone number and a P.O. box for an employment firm in Spearfish specializing in placing healthcare professionals—from janitors to administrators. Must be getting warmer. The last tab was Places. Ooh, pay dirt. A list of LPL-owned businesses. Meade County Haven. Bennett County Rest Home. Deadwood Retirement Village. And Prairie Gardens. No links to those sites. At the very bottom of the page in teeny tiny letters: 225
For more information call LPL, followed by the number. With a South Dakota area code.
I dialed and took a quick drag from my smoke.
“Good afternoon. LPL. How may I help you?”
Should’ve thought of how to play it before I called.
“Hello?”
I coughed; not an act, because I choked as I exhaled. “Hi. Sorry. Something in my throat.” I coughed again.
“You all right?”
“Yes. Thanks. This might sound weird, but I just stumbled across your Web site and I’ve gotta say, wow, it is really something.”
“Thank you.”
“I didn’t see a Web site designer listed anywhere. I’m looking to update my own site and I wondered if you’d be able to tell me which company created LLP’s.”
“LPL,” she corrected, as I expected.
“Right, LPL. What does LPL stand for anyway?”
“Linderman Property Limited.”
I froze, but my brain started spinning, backtracking so fast my forehead heated up.
“If you’ll hang on, I’ll connect you with someone who can answer your question about the Web site designer.”
I hung up, staring into space and finishing my cigarette.
226
Figure the odds. Bud Linderman. Entrepreneur. Asshole. I’d forgotten, or maybe a better phrase was blocked out my past association with him. Last time we’d crossed paths, Martinez threatened to chop Bud into pieces, after Bud made the mistake of manhandling me. In front of Tony. Without apology. Yikes. Not a smart move and Tony and I hadn’t even been officially together back then.
It hadn’t occurred to me when Kevin took Amery’s case that Linderman might own Prairie Gardens. Why hadn’t Kevin mentioned the Linderman
connection? He knew Linderman and I butted heads on the Chloe Black Dog case—didn’t he? Damn. Maybe Kevin didn’t remember. That fucked-up case happened right around the time his girlfriend died and he’d been MIA from the business. I’d dealt with the details and the fallout from the case alone. Linderman’s good ol’ boy/pseudocowboy persona surfaced in my mind. He was the only person I’d met besides Martinez who employed full-time bodyguards. Linderman’s hands were in a variety of pots: Deadwood gaming, car dealerships, athletic sponsorships, bars, real estate, and retirement homes. What I didn’t know? If Linderman was as hands-on with his businesses as Martinez was with Fat Bob’s and Bare Assets.
Normally this type of situation piqued my curiosity and I’d snoop around for information. Not this time. We weren’t working for Amery. If I hadn’t been 227
adamant about that fact before, I would be now. Bud Linderman played dirty. And if he played dirty with me, Martinez would kill him. The easiest way to prevent the deadly outcome was avoidance, pure and simple. I twirled the office chair around. I bumped the mouse and the previous “past history” screen filled the left corner of the monitor. My gaze landed on the Bad Doggie site.
As investigators, we had access to information sites private citizens didn’t. Nothing like searching classified CIA files. Government sites were helpful, but usually as boring as government pamphlets. The local police department had to provide a voucher to the Web site owner/server, stating the primary function of our investigative business before they’d grant us access to the sites. And we paid a ton for the privilege of using the vast pool of information. Didn’t matter we were the smallest fish in the pond.
Tip sites listed rewards, sightings, recent scams, and were primarily used by bigger investigative companies who also employed extraction and security specialists.
I clicked on the link. Bad Doggie was a snitch site modeled after anonymous tip lines in big cities. Each state had a page. Rewards were offered in some cases, but the site was not affiliated with any law enforcement agencies. The site debunked two myths: A—that criminals were computer/Internet illiterate, B—that lawbreakers 228
would turn on each other, but not turn to law enforcement. South Dakota posts dealt with poachers, illegal fossil hunting, and child support issues. The posts were infrequent and out of the realm of our normal investigative business. It surprised me Kevin bookmarked the site last week. Huh. What’d he been looking for? I imagined him checking my history files. Couples resorts in the Caribbean and the Pro Bull Riders Tour stats page. I shut down the computer and realized I’d lost two hours. Dammit. That was why I hated the Internet; it was a time suck.
My
cell phone rang and I groaned. Nothing but bad news on that damn thing lately. Publisher’s Clearing House Sweepstakes folks didn’t have the number; this wasn’t the million-dollar phone call. Honestly, I couldn’t look at the caller ID; I just answered it.
“Hello?”
“Julie? It’s Missy.”
Missy? Not another Pampered Chef party invite.
“Hey, Miss, how’s it going?”
“All right. Look. I’m not supposed to do this, and if you tell Deputy John I called you, I’ll deny it, but you’d better get to the sheriff ’s office right away.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“Your dad is in jail.”
“What? When—”
“Here he comes, gotta go.”
Click.
229
Why the hell hadn’t my pushy-ass family called me? Since they’d bugged me about every other minor fucking thing in the last week? Now Dad’s in jail and my former co-worker had to break the news?
I bundled up and locked the office. The drive to the Bear Butte County Sheriff ’s Office was a complete blur, and, for once, not because of the weather. I didn’t go in the building through the administrative offices; I used the door around back in the half basement that led to booking. In the tiny entryway, I shoved everything— my purse, my shoes, my coat, my belt, even the necklace Martinez gave me— in the plastic bin for personal belongings and pushed it through the Plexiglas partition. After my stuff was checked and catalogued, the security guard buzzed me in and I passed through the metal detector. My blood pressure was near brain aneurysm range when I finally reached the booking desk. Twee manned the area. She looked like someone’s grandma. A stout, sweet-faced German descendant with salt-and-pepper hair, styled in a bouffant from the 1960s. An unassuming woman who wouldn’t hurt a fly.
Wrong. I’d seen her fly over the counter and body 230
slam a two-hundred-pound biker who’d mistakenly made the same assumption. No one dared ask how she’d gotten her name, nor was anyone stupid enough to jokingly call her Tweedledee or Tweedledum. Twee was tough as shit, and luckily she’d always liked me. She grunted. “Thought I might see you today.”
“What’s he in for?”
“Disturbing the peace.”
“How long ago they bring him in?”
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