White Ghost Ridge

by Carol Coffey

  It seemed to Mendoza that the two guys stood for an eternity looking at each other. She recorded every movement as though they occurred in slow motion. The shock as it registered on the student’s face, the minute movement of his feet as he rocked back and forth, deciding, she assumed, whether to run or stand his ground. The slow movements of his mouth as he mumbled and then, finally, the overwhelming look of confusion and fear that swept over his face.

  He turned and began to run.

  “Hey!” Locklear yelled as he gave chase.

  One of the two guys sitting on the steps decided to help his buddy. He stood and stepped onto the pavement as Mendoza approached at a run.

  “Police! Sit the fuck down!” she shouted.

  She raced after her boss through the maze of buildings and smaller streets in the enormous campus.

  Locklear gave chase for three blocks until the kid swung a left past the ID Weeks library. After two more blocks he swung a right and then left towards the Law School but at the last minute kept on straight until he reached Cherry Street where he disappeared into the traffic and narrow buildings on one of the campus’s busier streets.

  By the time Mendoza caught up with her boss, she found Locklear bent forwards, panting in the heat.

  “I take it that was the second kid from the dig?” she gasped.

  Locklear nodded. When he caught his breath the pair stood and looked into the distance. Jim Hunter was nowhere to be seen.

  “Well, sarge. It looks like your face just scared the life out of yet another Native.”

  Chapter 14

  “Why didn’t you mention this Hunter guy to Rosenberg?” Mendoza asked as she lay down on her bed in their shared hotel room on the other side of Vermillion.

  Locklear lay on the bed nearest the window, fully clothed, with his hands beneath his head. The afternoon heat which bore down on the hotel window was intense and they had probably three more hours to wait before the day began to cool.

  “Because it was the only card I had left. I didn’t want him to know I knew Jim Hunter’s identity. We don’t know this Rosenberg guy. Maybe it would put the kid in danger.”

  “Well, at least you got us a good place to stay, sarge. Makes a change from motels.”

  “I’d have preferred a motel, Mendoza. You can come and go with less people seeing you. No large reception areas to walk through. It’s safer. Only reason we’re here is this was the last room left in town.”

  Mendoza nodded. “Who knew that the Historical Preservation Commission meeting would be on today? Or that it was so popular that the town’s motels would be booked up? We should go. You never know, we might see people of interest there.”

  Locklear turned on his side to face Mendoza and nodded. “True.”

  “What’s the plan for talking to Hunter? Should we stake out the dorm after dark, wait for him to get home?”

  Locklear blew out and pushed himself into a sitting position. He swung his legs onto the floor to face Mendoza. He glanced briefly at her bare legs in the light cotton dress she had changed into then moved his eyes quickly to the wall on the opposite side of the room.

  “Coffee?” he asked.

  “Sure,” she said.

  Locklear moved to the coffee machine as Mendoza got up from her bed.

  She turned the air conditioner up to full blast but it coughed and spluttered and then came to a complete halt.

  “Well, no wonder this was the last room,” she said as she took a seat at the table.

  Locklear handed Mendoza a mug of steaming coffee. He took the remaining seat at the tiny table with his mug and faced into the stifling hot room.

  “I saw the photo of Hunter on the college’s system,” he said. “He’s a handsome kid but you could see in his face that he’s had it tough. I drove through Pine Ridge once looking for a suspect. It was a long time ago. It’s like nowhere else on earth you could imagine. There was something about the place that unnerved me. I can’t explain it. I just had this ... this feeling ...” His voice trailed off.

  “What feeling?”

  Locklear shrugged. “I dunno. I felt this kind of ... of anger. I don’t know where it came from. And when I drove through the streets looking for this guy my heart was beating so fast it was like I was afraid – but I wasn’t. The suspect was pretty harmless, mostly supplied to feed his own habit. We wanted him in connection with selling in Rapid City but we were hoping he could hook us up with people higher up in the drug chain. I couldn’t find him though. I said goodbye to the tribal police backing me, two good guys by the name of Grass. They were cousins. I remember that they were a lot older than me and were well respected in the community. Eddie was the younger of the two. Frank was the name of the older one. He was quieter. Never said much. When I got out of the car to say goodbye to them, I was shaking. I think they noticed but they said nothing. They lived together in a small clapboard a few miles out of town on a dirt road off the highway where they looked after their grandmother who raised them. I never met her but she must have been really old. Neither of them were married. I guess they’d be retired now.”

  “Could it have been just seeing the poverty Native Americans were living in?”

  Locklear sighed. “I’ve driven through plenty of dumps where all kinds of people lived – Native, White, Black, Hispanic. I never reacted that way before and it hasn’t happened since. I don’t think that was it.”

  “Hmm. That’s interesting. I take it from the expression on your face that we’re going there?”

  Locklear nodded. “This kid isn’t on terra firma here. He sees cops he’s going to think he’s in trouble. I have to speak to him on home ground. Somewhere he feels safe. We were going to have to check out that dig site anyway which is about ten miles from the reservation – so while we’re there we’ll ask around. See if we can find someone who knows him and will encourage him to speak to us.”

  “Sarge, can I put an idea to you?”

  “Shoot,” Locklear replied as he stood and poured himself another coffee.

  “You told me that Sartre suggested to you that it was Native Americans who stole the artefacts from Richmond University,” she said gently.

  “And?”

  “Well, Rosenberg said something very similar.”

  She waited for him to absorb what she was saying.

  “Your point?”

  “Would you give any consideration to the fact that the white guys aren’t the bad guys here? That maybe a Native American is stealing the artefacts and maybe Rosenberg is trying to protect the artefacts? It’s just one line of thinking ...”

  Locklear turned and frowned. He placed his coffee cup roughly onto the table and sat down.

  “Look, sarge, we have to at least give some thought to this. If Native Americans have been the ones stealing the artefacts, I understand. They feel that the property is theirs.”

  “It is theirs!” Locklear snapped.

  “Sarge, you taught me to be objective. To consider all possibilities. You might be wrong here. Why would someone like Rosenberg risk such a successful career for this? Please, just think about it.”

  “You think Rosenberg is innocent?” Locklear barked.

  Mendoza could see from his expression that her boss was not only surprised but shocked. “We have no evidence on the guy to the contrary, sarge.”

  “That guy was planning on groping you during a job interview. You think he’s a good guy?”

  “That makes him a creep, sarge, but not a thief.”

  “Well, in my eyes, Mendoza, it means the man has no boundaries. It means he’s willing to use his position to get what he wants. And what do we know he loves? Artefacts. Digs. Rare finds.”

  Mendoza sighed. “OK, well, let’s go through what we know.”

  Locklear nodded. “Whitefeather?”

  “Innocent. Well, kind of ...” Mendoza replied. “Sartre?”

  “Guilty,” Locklear replied. “Torres? Lewis? Torres’ husband – Hughes?”

  “Inn
ocent,” she replied.

  “Braff?”

  “If he’s not guilty of the theft of artefacts, then he’s guilty of trying to kill Torres and Lewis. He might also have been the one to order Hughes on that drive-out.”

  “I guess we’ll never know,” Mendoza said. “Hunter?”

  Locklear stood and pulled back the cheap venetian blind on the window and thought for a moment.

  “Innocent until I know more,” he replied.

  Mendoza nodded.

  “I guess I already know we differ on Rosenberg but how do you feel about Holton?” he asked.

  Mendoza blew out. “Guilty, sarge. He tried to frame Lee.”

  “Yes, but I have a feeling that Alec Holton is clean. Or at least he started out that way. One thing that does spark my interest is that Holton’s cousin, Amelia Hirsch, and Rosenberg’s son are both diplomats. It would give them the ability to fly in and out of countries unchecked. They could be carrying illegally purchased artefacts from anywhere in the world. We need something that connects them though.”

  “I could call O’Brien? Ask him to check the system and if nothing shows up do a general search.”

  “Good idea. Do it. And ask him to keep digging into what INTENT might mean. We still have no idea why Holton used that word.”

  “Why do you think Holton is clean, sarge? After what he did to Lee. Lying to the university about him. Dragging Lee on a search he had no permit for. His actions could cost Lee his career and if he’s found guilty, his freedom.”

  “Something happened to Holton. I think he is, or was, a good man but someone got to him.”

  “Your White Ghost?” Mendoza suggested.

  “Yes. Our White Ghost,” he replied as he drained his coffee mug. “Rosenberg lied about not knowing him. I’m positive he’s the man who arrived at Lee’s dig site and I suspect that he’s the same man who came to Cindy Geddis’s home and scared her. We know he was at Whitefeather’s motel and we know he killed Whitefeather in Richmond. We know all that and yet we don’t know who he is or where he’s from.”

  “Yeah, well, ghosts are hard to see, sarge.”

  Mendoza stood and walked to the bathroom at the far end of the room. She filled the sink with cold water and splashed it onto her face and neck. When she finished, she walked back and sat on Locklear’s bed.

  “OK, sarge. Rosenberg was our big lead and now that’s a dead end. At least for now. Most of the rest of our players have one thing in common. Iraq. Hughes, Whitefeather, Lewis and Torres were there. We know Braff was there and this Walsh, the one you know, she obviously knows something or else she wouldn’t have put pressure on the army to pay Lewis off. I think this kid Hunter is small potatoes. Could even be he was in the wrong place at the wrong time and that he has nothing to do with this case.”

  Locklear nodded. “Guess we need to pay Walsh a visit. We’ll need to use our cards as there’s no way we have enough cash to pay for flights to DC. So if someone is watching, we’ll be revealing our whereabouts and our plans.”

  “We’ll have to take the chance. I’d say we blew our low profile as soon as we walked into Rosenberg’s office.”

  “OK, Mendoza, let’s go see Walsh in DC. Then, we’re going to Pine Ridge and I’m not looking forward to either.”

  Chapter 15

  The meeting of the South Dakota branch of the Historical Preservation Commission, whose mission was to preserve and restore the area’s cultural and historic assets, was not attended by anyone Mendoza or Locklear were interested in. The pair separated and wandered around the room looking for Braff or Rosenberg, or better still, their White Ghost, but the meeting was attended by law-abiding people committed to preserving the area’s culture. By nine pm Locklear and Mendoza tired of pretending to be out-of-town culture addicts who wanted to know more about the local area and left for a quick bite in the hotel’s restaurant. Then they returned to their room.

  Locklear had noticed during their dinner that Mendoza ordered a soda and had refrained from drinking. How long her newfound sobriety would last, he did not know.

  “Be careful how much you tell O’Brien,” he said before he got in the shower.

  Mendoza sat on her bed and dialled O’Brien’s number. She spoke quietly to the half-Irish, half-Native American man who, despite the fact that he had only recently joined the station, was already responsible for tracking the many paedophiles and white-collar criminals working out of Richmond – but who always shied away from the station’s celebrations each time an offender was finally caught and locked up for child abuse or fraud.

  At the end of her call, she asked O’Brien to check the records for anyone referred to as the White Ghost, although she already suspected that this was a nickname used by people the strange man had intimidated and that, if he did have a record, it would be under his real name.

  Mendoza noticed how quiet O’Brien became when she gave a description of the man and wondered if her boss was right – if O’Brien was hiding something.

  Still on the phone, Mendoza raised her eyebrows at Locklear who had exited from the bathroom fully dressed save for his bare feet. She watched as he put on his shoes and socks in the stifling hot room while she took down O’Brien’s private cell number which he insisted she contact him on in future.

  “You’re going out?” she asked Locklear when she finished her call. “It’s late! We have to catch a 6am flight to Washington from Sioux City. That’s at least a forty-minute drive from here!”

  “I know,” Locklear replied quietly as he switched on the TV and lay on his bed with the remote control in his hand.

  “Why are you dressed?”

  Locklear didn’t reply as he channel-surfed.

  Mendoza stood and turned her back to Locklear. She raised her arms as she began to pull her cotton shift dress over her head to change for bed. She could sense Locklear tense.

  “Get undressed in the bathroom, Mendoza!” he barked.

  “Jeez, sarge, you’d think you’d never seen a woman in her underwear before,” she joked as she pulled her nightie out of her suitcase.

  Locklear did not reply. He found a news channel and raised the volume up as she went into the bathroom. Despite the noise emanating from the TV, he could hear her brush her teeth and turn the shower on. He tried not to imagine her naked under the cold shower but could not erase the image from his mind. He stood and opened the hotel-room door and wandered around the hotel’s maze of corridors until he was sure she must be tucked into her bed.

  When he finally returned she was turned on her side, facing away from him. He turned off the light and stripped down to his underwear, pulled back the cotton sheet and lowered himself into his bed.

  “Night, sarge,” she said.

  Locklear could hear the mirth in those two words. His trooper was enjoying the impact she had on him and the knowledge of this did not rest easy with him. He made no reply and lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

  When dawn broke, Locklear was already awake and was going over the case, worrying about the reception he’d get from Susan Walsh and listening to Mendoza’s quiet snores. He closed his eyes and pretended to sleep while Mendoza got up and walked to the bathroom and tried to dress in the tiny room.

  “Em, you can get dressed while I’m in here – we have a flight to catch,” she called out from inside the locked bathroom.

  Locklear stood, turned his back to the bathroom door and changed his underwear quickly. As he pulled his jeans on, the bathroom door opened and Mendoza whistled from the doorway.

  “Hmm ... not bad for an old guy,” she said.

  Locklear sighed and pulled a fresh shirt from his travel bag. Mendoza did not move from her position at the bathroom door and was smiling like the Cheshire Cat.

  “Do you mind?” he asked.

  “Not at all,” she replied as she sat down on her bed. “Listen, sarge, we have a bit of time. What say you and I get down to it. Sort out the sexual tension between us here and now.” She patted the bed.


  “Wha ...what?” Locklear spluttered.

  Mendoza laughed, lifted a pillow from her bed and threw it at Locklear.

  “Jesus, sarge, I’m just screwing with you. You know you’re not my type!”

  “Mendoza!” Locklear barked.

  “The look on your face, sarge! It was priceless. Really got you going there.”

  Locklear was still sulking as they packed up the car and headed towards the airport.

  He ate a donut and drank his coffee in silence as Mendoza drove south on Route 29, a road she was by now becoming familiar with.

  “You still sulking?” she asked.

  “No,” Locklear replied quietly.

  “Did you ever date a colleague, sir?”

  “I did. Too many times and it always ended badly,” he replied. “Never ever eat where you work.”

  “Or shit where you sleep.”

  “Whatever. You get my point.”

  “What’s the harm in a few casual dates with a fellow cop?”

  “Every harm, Mendoza. Nothing, and I mean nothing good comes of being in a relationship with someone you work with. It screws everything up. You should know. You married a cop. A guy from your own precinct, which I might add resulted in you having to move to another station.”

  The smile faded from Mendoza’s face. She nodded twice and gripped the steering wheel tighter. “You’re right,” she said quietly.

  Locklear could hear the sadness in her voice. Since their meeting with Torres, he had sensed that something was bothering his trooper and he did not think that it was simply her ex-husband’s shenanigans or her sick grandmother.

  “What’s going on with you?” he asked, although he really hoped she wouldn’t answer. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to deal with anyone else’s feelings when he couldn’t even deal with his own.

  “Nothing,” she replied quietly.

  “Is it about Manuel? Is that worrying you?”