White Ghost Ridge

by Carol Coffey

  Sartre hardly raised his thin, brown eyebrows. “No.”

  Locklear weighed up the man and knew it was going to be one of those interviews where he had to drag information from the person. He could never understand how those who resorted to this tactic didn’t realise that it made them look guilty, that talking was more likely to make them look innocent than staring stone-faced while waiting for a cop to ask the next question.

  He needed to knock the man off his smug perch.

  “I know about the investigation into the theft of Native American artefacts at the university.”

  Sartre stared back at Locklear. “What’s that got to do with Professor Holton?”

  “The items were stolen from his lab, weren’t they? And the police have made no arrests yet. Whoever stole those items is still out there. Maybe Holton knew who they were? Maybe they were blackmailing him? Maybe he was going to tell the police everything he knew and the thieves killed him?”

  “That’s a lot of maybes, Sergeant Locklear. And you’re wrong. One of our employees stole those items. The police are working on the investigation. I’ve even heard that Mr Carter is locked up downtown as a suspect in Professor Holton’s murder. So, it’s a closed case, as the police would say. A fait-accompli, sergeant.”

  Locklear leant forward. He could feel the anger rising in his throat.

  “It’s Detective Sergeant, Mr Sartre –”

  “Professor,” Sartre corrected him.

  “Professor Sartre. I worked with Lee Carter and consider myself to know the man well. There’s no way he stole those items and there’s definitely no way he killed Holton or anyone else for that matter. Somebody is setting him up and I intend to find out who that person is.”

  A sly sneer washed over Sartre’s face. “Well, your colleagues Detectives Hill and Diaz believe they have enough to convict your, em, friend … of the theft of priceless Native American artefacts.”

  “There’s no evidence of that,” Locklear retorted.

  “No? The security footage shows that the only one who entered the lab that morning was Carter. I interviewed Professor Holton myself and everything was accounted for before he went on leave. It was Carter who seemed wary of giving information. He hardly spoke when I questioned him. He just kept insisting that he didn’t take anything. The man was shaking like a leaf. You’re telling me that he had nothing to hide?”

  “He was covering for Holton. He saw Holton take things from the dig site. He didn’t say anything out of respect for Holton.”

  “Well, I guess there’s no way he can prove that now, is there? Not with Professor Holton being dead.”

  “How convenient. Can I ask why you don’t suspect Holton of any wrongdoing?”

  “Professor Holton worked at this university for thirty years. He had an exemplary record. Carter did his undergraduate and graduate work here but he’s only been employed here for a couple of years. Do the math,” Sartre replied smugly.

  Locklear leant far back into his chair until the leather buttons dug into his head. He shifted again.

  “I know about the other missing artefacts – the ones that went missing in South Dakota. I also know that the day a Native American arrived at Holton’s apartment, Holton called someone looking for help and that that someone was you.”

  The smile slowly faded from Sartre’s face.

  “I also know that neither you nor the USD Dean reported those particular items missing. I checked. So don’t bother lying. You didn’t think I wouldn’t look into things before I sat down here, did you?”

  “Holton called me because there had been some difficulties with local tribes, I’ll admit. Seems they’ve been threatening our teams on dig sites. We have our permits and we stick to the law. Perhaps those people stole the items themselves? Did you consider that?”

  “Those people? You can’t steal things you already own,” Locklear retorted.

  Sartre scanned Locklear’s features and laughed openly.

  “Now, now, sergeant. Don’t make this personal. If you can’t be … objective, then perhaps you shouldn’t be on this case? Your … em … ethnicity … and the fact that you’re a friend of the suspect ... well, I think they’re grounds for you to be taken off the case. Don’t you think? I might even call Captain Benson myself. As a concerned citizen only, you understand.”

  Locklear stood and backed off a few steps.

  “I see right through you, Sartre, and you’re hiding something dirty. I don’t know what it is but, believe me, I will find out and when I do I’ll be back.”

  Sartre grinned.

  Locklear flung open the wood-panelled door until it slammed into the expensively decorated wall of Sartre’s office.

  As he walked to his car, he phoned Mendoza.

  “Sarge?” she answered.

  “Where are you?”

  “At the station. I’ve been to Holton’s apartment block and got the tapes you wanted. The janitor, Matteo Moretti, was only too happy to help me. Seems Miss Henschel has been looking down her nose at him since he started working there and he had an axe to grind. I’m going to look through the tapes now and then I’ll look for the record on the Native American’s murder.”

  “Leave the tapes for now. Our time’s up. Go to O’Brien and take whatever he’s got off Holton’s computer. Then look for the sheet on the Native American’s murder. Hide what you can on your person.”

  “What’s going on, sarge?”

  “Just do it,” Locklear growled.

  He snapped the phone shut and drove at speed to the station, hoping all the way that Benson would not see him until he had a chance to see Carter again. He parked roughly at the back of the station and rapped on the metal back door where he hoped Al Gervaso would be on duty. The long-serving officer would let Locklear into the cells through the back corridor and wouldn’t ask any questions about him using an entry into the building which was reserved for taking prisoners securely to court or to prison.

  He knocked loudly on the door again and Gervaso pulled the hatch back.

  “Sergeant?” Gervaso asked.

  “Let me in, Gervaso.”

  Gervaso scanned the area to the right and left of the detective sergeant to make sure no-one was forcing him to gain entry through the secure door to try to break out any of the five prisoners he now had in his charge. He knew he didn’t need to be worried. Locklear was the type of cop that criminals would have to kill first, but he still had to be careful.

  Assured that Locklear was alone, he entered the code and the door sprang open.

  “Jesus, sarge, you’ll get me fired for this. You know no-one’s allowed in this way.”

  Locklear pushed past Gervaso and walked down to the cell that Carter was being held in. He found his friend lying on a bed in his underwear. The heat in his cell was turned up to ensure he didn’t freeze. If it were possible, Carter seemed to have lost even more weight than when he’d seen him less than twenty-four hours earlier. His face looked like it was sinking in around his cheekbones and his eyelids were dark and swollen. He stood shakily and approached the bars.

  “I’m going to get you out of here, Lee. You need to believe that.”

  Carter nodded.

  “But it’s going to take some time and, until then, you need to keep your head. You need to eat. You need to do it for Virginia and the kids. If you do all that, they’ll move you to a cell with another person. You’ll be safer that way.”

  “Safer from what, sarge?”

  “I think your Dean is somehow involved and now he knows I know you.” Locklear shook his head, reflecting on his stupidity in telling Sartre about their former relationship. “That puts you in danger, Lee, so … I’m going to try to get you bailed or at the very least moved out of this station. I’ll call in a favour. But if I fail, if you’re kept here, then for God sake get yourself off suicide watch and into a shared cell.”

  Carter nodded. “I told Virginia everything. She’s upset. I don’t know if she completely believes me.
She can’t understand how I can be arrested for something I didn’t do.”

  “She’ll come around.”

  Carter looked as though he was about to cry.

  Locklear fixed his eyes on the filthy cell wall and tapped his foot on the cold tiled floor.

  “You’ll be fine,” he finally said.

  Carter did not respond.

  “Do you trust me, Lee?”

  “Yes,” he replied weakly.

  “Then hang in there. I’ll prove you didn’t do this. You have my word.”

  Locklear heard a small whimper rise up from Carter’s dry throat.

  He glanced down the corridor. “Gervaso?”

  “Yes, sarge.”

  “This man’s feeling better now. Give him his clothes, get him some food and drink. Then move him to a shared cell.”

  “Sarge, the captain said –”

  “That’s an order, Gervaso. He’s just playing games, that’s all. We’ve got a silver-spoon guy here. Seems he’s used to getting his own way. Doesn’t like sharing.”

  “Anyone in particular you want me to put him in with?”

  “Someone who won’t look for trouble but can handle themselves.”

  Gervaso looked over the long, thin, weak-looking man and nodded.

  “OK, sarge, you’re the boss.”

  Locklear walked to the end of the corridor and waited while Gervaso buzzed him into the main station building.

  He walked towards Mendoza’s desk and immediately sensed that Benson was around.

  She nodded at him, a nod which said she had done as he asked.

  He walked past her and glanced sideways at Diaz and Hill who were both seated at their desks. Diaz had his feet up on his and was slurping a store-bought coffee while Hill played solitaire on his computer. Both men grinned as he pulled out his chair to sit at his desk on the far side of the room from where he could see Benson’s serious head bob furiously on the phone in his glass-panelled office.

  “Someone’s in trouble, Locklear – can you guess who it is?” Diaz sneered. “And hey, if you think that your friend will get bail on account of his lilywhite face and clean sheet, think again. We’ve enough on him to make sure he doesn’t see daylight for years.”

  “Fuck you,” Mendoza spat from her desk.

  Locklear did not bite. He didn’t have time right now to joke with Ernie and Bert, as Mendoza had nicknamed them. He two-finger-typed Sartre’s name into the record system but no matches came up. He glanced briefly towards Benson and Benson’s eyes locked onto him. He tried to enter Sartre’s name into the general search which Mendoza referred to as ‘Google’ but there were too many hits for him to focus on anything useful before Benson’s door opened abruptly.

  “Locklear. In here – now!”

  Locklear cleared his search and took anything he needed from his desk drawer. He knew what was coming. He had known it since he sat down with Carter on the night his friend was arrested.

  He walked into the glass-panelled office and did not bother to sit. Suspensions didn’t take long. He had witnessed many of them. Granted, it had never happened to him. Kowalski had come close to it a few times but had always found ways of getting Locklear out of his sight for a week or two until things blew over as they usually did. But Benson was different. Benson was a climber, a crowd-pleaser and a would-be politician, who had obviously reacted to a call from Sartre.

  The whole station came to a dead stop while all eyes focused on the two men behind the glass screen. The desk sergeant’s phone went unanswered as cops waited with bated breath to see what Locklear would do.

  Benson seemed suddenly nervous of the attention that was on him. He was aware that there wasn’t a person in the station who wasn’t missing Kowalski and that the good impression he had thought he’d make by running the station with an iron fist had backfired on him and that, if asked, there wasn’t a person in the room who liked him. Nobody except Diaz and Hill that is, who he had already figured out were two bootlickers and were the two laziest cops he had ever had the misfortune to know.

  “Badge, keys, gun,” he said quietly.

  Locklear threw all three items onto the desk and waited.

  “You’re suspended,” Benson said as quietly as he could.

  “I know,” Locklear replied loudly.

  Benson’s shoulders rose upwards, as though he was expecting a row.

  Locklear remained quiet.

  “You aren’t going to ask why?” Benson asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Guess not,” Benson replied as he gathered up Locklear’s things and placed them in Kowalski’s safe behind the desk.

  “How long?” Locklear asked.

  “Until Kowalski gets back and decides what to do with you. I spoke to him. He’s mad as hell.”

  Locklear looked at the year-in-view calendar on Kowalski’s wall where his captain had marked his return. June 21st, 2018.

  “So, about ten days?”

  Benson nodded.

  “That should be all I need,” Locklear replied.

  “Need for what?” Benson barked, his voice now rising.

  Locklear ignored the question. He swung open the glass door in much the same way as he had done leaving Sartre’s office and walked out.

  He made his way to the parking lot and waited for Mendoza to come out as he knew she would.

  It took longer than he expected. Benson must be in full flow.

  Twenty minutes later, she opened the passenger door of his car and slid onto the worn, dirty seat.

  She held up a computer stick and grinned.

  “O’Brien gave me this. I’ll tell you what else he said later.”

  “Well, what’s your punishment?” he asked her.

  “Desk duty,” she said. “Two weeks.”

  “You got off lightly. After all, you knew Carter as well as I did.”

  “Ah, but you’re my boss. I told Benson I was only following orders.”

  Locklear grinned as he looked at the row of cars parked in front of the building and noticed two royal-blue Ford trucks parked side by side.

  “I see Ernie and Bert have identical new wheels. Wonder how they can afford those cars on their salary?” he mused as he leaned his head out of the window and made a note of their plates.

  “What I wonder about is what’s with the ‘parking side by side’ thing. It’s like a pissing contest between those two weirdos.”

  “You got any vacation due? I could use your help on this case,” Locklear asked.

  Mendoza laughed. “Lots. Think I’ll take them from today. At least I don’t need to arrange for someone to look after Santiago.”

  Her seven-year-old son was in Mexico with her mother. Mendoza’s grandmother was very ill so they would be at least a few weeks there. Her grandmother had moved from her village to live in Mexico City with Mendoza’s aunt some years back but her aunt died and her grandmother lived alone there now. She’d had to take Santiago out of school a few weeks early as she didn’t have anyone else to look after him. Her mother would make sure he kept up with his schoolwork there.

  Locklear watched as the cop’s eyes clouded over.

  “You missing him?”

  “Yeah, but it’s not that. He’s having a great time. It’s just that …”

  Locklear waited.

  “Manuel is living in Mexico now. He left the force about a year ago. I only heard that recently from a buddy working in my last precinct. Seems he’s joined some church-run charity helping victims of domestic violence in Mexico City – mostly women and their kids.” She grimaced. “Seems he’s found God there.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it? After what he did to you, maybe he’s trying to make amends?” Locklear offered.

  Mendoza shook her head. “Santiago put a post on Facebook saying that he’s in Mexico for the summer and Manuel made contact with him. I was against it but it seemed like Santy was happy to hear from him. My mom said maybe he has changed, that maybe it would be good for S
anty to have a father figure but …” Mendoza trailed off.

  “But you don’t believe he’s changed?”

  “I don’t think people can change. Not like that. I don’t want him being in contact with Santy.”

  “Then refuse it. He hasn’t seen the kid in years. He has no right to ask to be part of his life now.”

  “I thought about that, but Santy seems to really want to see him so I’ve said yes. He’s so aware that other kids dads live with them and he doesn’t have that. My brother lives in New York. I rarely see him so it’s not like Santy has a male role model. I have to do what’s right by him. I’ll allow it once and see how it goes.”

  “He has me,” Locklear replied.

  Mendoza smiled. It had taken her sullen boss almost two years to learn how to speak to her son and their interaction mostly involved Locklear throwing a baseball back and forth to Santy in her backyard while the boy nattered on about a range of topics Locklear had no understanding of or interest in.

  “So,” Mendoza began, “where do we begin?”

  “Ever been to South Dakota?”

  Chapter 7

  It took until the following afternoon for Locklear and Mendoza to get a flight to Rapid City which was as close as Locklear could get to the place he felt held the key to what happened to Holton in Richmond. The pair had spent the morning together in Locklear’s dusty apartment, discussing what they knew so far and, more importantly, what they didn’t.

  Mendoza had listened in as Locklear phoned Kowalski and asked as a favour to get Carter bailed. The captain berated Locklear for his handling of the case so far – namely for neglecting to inform his replacement that Carter was in fact a friend of his. Mendoza could tell that Locklear was losing the argument and it was only when he became emotional and resorted to yelling at his boss to get Carter out of jail that Kowalski relented.

  Kowalski was the only person, she knew, apart from herself, who showed any kindness or understanding towards their mutual friend and colleague. She knew Kowalski and Locklear went back a long way and wondered how much their captain knew about Locklear’s past and if this caused him to give way to Locklear more than he did to any of his other staff.