Love is Murder (41 page)

“Phin!” she screeched, from halfway across the square and her mamma laughed, letting her go hug the blind vet. “You’re here!”

“I am, indeed,” he answered, and she guided his hand so he could pat her on the head. “And you remember my wife, Sadie.”

Marjorie waved and smiled at the way Phin squeezed Sadie’s hand as she painted children right beside him.

“We went to Austin last summer—not nearly as fun. And they don’t have vigilantics!”

“Vigilantes?” he asked, as a man dropped a piece of paper in Phin’s hat and Marjorie could have sworn—almost could have sworn—that blind Phin saw it and nodded at the man. But that wasn’t possible.

“Yeah, vigilantes. I’m hoping we see them. They’re in all the papers. Mama said they’re cleaning out the riffraff but good!”

Phin laughed. “Well, there was a lot of riffraff here to clean up, I suspect. If you see them, tell ’em I said good luck!”

“I will! Can I come back tomorrow and you’ll play me a special song?”

“Sure,” Phin said, and smiled when Marjorie hugged him.

She ran off, and when she looked back, she could have sworn he was watching her go, grinning.

* * * * *

HOLDING MERCY

Lori Armstrong

You gotta love a heroine who wears black patent cowgirl boots. And that’s the least daring thing she does. ~SB

The bad thing about wearing a tight, sexy little black dress?

No place to put my gun.

Granted, I was supposed to be on a date, and probably didn’t need a firearm, or handcuffs, but being armed was a habit ingrained during my twenty-year stint in the army and now as a newly minted G-woman. Legally, I could carry everywhere and I took advantage of that perk without apology. But my belt and holster looked clunky strapped over the clingy black dress. Stowing my weapon in my compact beaded purse didn’t feel right, neither did slipping the small handgun in the pocket of my leather trench coat, so I compromised and shoved my Kahr Arms P380 inside my right cowgirl boot. Then I placed my handcuffs between the “Mercy Gunderson, Special Agent, FBI” badge in my purse and my cell phone. All set for my date.

Still seemed ridiculous that Dawson referred to our dinner out as a “date” because we were living together. But I’d recently returned from a four-and-a-half-month training stint at Quantico, so we were trying to carve out couple time between his duties as Eagle River County Sheriff and my new job with the FBI. Plus, he’d been stuck working the night shift, and I worked the day shift, so he was rolling into bed as I was rolling out, which left us little time to roll around in the sheets together.

Our last attempt at an official date ended before it began due to me being covered in blood and vomit after a routine questioning had turned ugly. The woman had raced out the back door of her house after I showed her my badge. When I caught her, she accidentally smacked her face into her knee and blood poured from her nose. Seeing blood turned her hysterical and she hurled all over me. By the time I’d showered and changed clothes at home, neither Dawson nor I had been in the mood to go out.

I hoped tonight would play out differently. Not being much of a girlie-girl, a fact my man Dawson was well aware of, I’d decided to shock him by taking extra time with my appearance for our romantic rendezvous. Hence the sexy dress, the waves in my normally straight hair, the curled eyelashes, the berry-colored stain on my lips. However, I refused to wear high heels—couldn’t run in them—and opted for a dressier pair of black patent leather cowgirl boots. I hadn’t taken my fashion inspiration of pairing fancy shit-kickers with a dress from ingenue Taylor Swift, but the grand dame of the West, Dale Evans. She’d worn boots with everything. If it was good enough for Roy Rogers, it was good enough for Dawson.

Day morphed into night as I drove from my ranch to the edge of the Eagle River Indian Reservation. The period between autumn and full-out winter on the high plains of Western South Dakota was the most visually depressing time of the year. The rolling hills, previously lush, boasting a dozen different shades of green, were stuck in monochromatic bleakness. Dead grass, naked trees, dry creek beds, lackluster sky. Even the soil, ranging from brick red to cocoa brown, reflected in dull tones. I secretly wished for snow. At least a blanket of white would hide the ugliness until spring arrived.

As I stood at the front entrance to the Eagle River Casino, I revisited my plan to circumvent a security check so I could keep my gun hidden. The reservation was one place where normal—in my case federal—rules don’t apply.

But I noticed right away my carefully crafted plan was unnecessary, because security was decidedly lax. No metal detector. One unarmed guard who gave me a bored once-over before refocusing her attention on her cell phone. When her walkie-talkie beeped, she turned the volume down. I shoved aside the niggling sense of unease, betting the bulk of the security was done in the back via a bank of computer monitors connected to security cameras.

Air from the vents blasted down on me as if I’d stepped into a wind tunnel when I entered the main part of the casino. First time I’d been in the facility. It’d been constructed in the past five years while I’d been toiling in the world’s sandboxes. The decor wasn’t Vegas glitzy, or bingo parlor cheesy, but somewhere in between, with Indian themes threaded throughout. The hand-painted murals depicting past Indian life on the Great Plains were amazing. Vibrant. Haunting. Glorious.

A decent-size crowd milled about for a Thursday night. Mostly senior citizens. I’d noticed two tour buses in the parking lot. Had they come to gorge themselves on cheap crab legs like Dawson and I intended? He’d called me en route to a traffic accident to relay the unhappy fact he might be as much as an hour late.

So how was I supposed to entertain myself?

Federal law prohibited alcohol to be served or consumed on reservations so I couldn’t cool my heels at the casino bar nursing a beer or knocking back shots.

I wasn’t much of a gambler. Slot machines bored me. Indian casinos weren’t big on craps or roulette. I’d joined in poker tournaments with fellow soldiers, but it’d been more about camaraderie or blocking out the sounds of incoming mortar rounds, than winning the pot.

Between the stifling air and the crowd, I was overheating. I eased off my coat, draping it over my arm. I wandered through the red-topped gaming tables, which were separated from the slot machines, which were separated from the video lottery machines. Surprised me to see those machines in here. Most tribes didn’t want to give a percentage of their intake to the state. Hopefully the monies received from this casino were being used for the benefit of the entire tribe, and not just lining the pockets of a few.

I decided to scope out the perimeter. You can take the girl out of the army, but a little bit of that paranoid patrolling soldier remains.

Both windows in the cash-out station had lines of people, a mix of young, old, Indian, white, affluent and not, anxious to grab their payout. Or waiting to write a check or obtain a credit card cash advance to feed their addiction while their kids starved.

Yeah, I’ve never been a big fan of gambling.

As I followed the curve of the circular room, I passed one direct exit outside. No guard manned the door. My gaze zoomed to the ceiling expecting to see a camera. But as my focus traversed the entire ceiling, I counted five surveillance cameras. Total.

That was it? The Eagle River Casino was off the beaten path, but lack of visual security feeds from all corners of the facility seemed a bad judgment call, especially since I’d only seen one security guard.

Not your concern, Mercy.

But it would be my concern if the place got robbed, since the tribal police called the FBI on any big case. Then again, I could boast insider knowledge of security problems if it came to that.

My stomach rumbled and I meandered to the restaurant. As I checked out the menu posted on the wall, the young, good-looking Indian kid manning the host stand said, “I can seat you right away.”

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.”