Snow Blind-J Collins 4 (31 page)

I reached the corner, I poked my head around. Nyla was at the front desk of the motel office. The night clerk handed her cash, a receipt, and an old-fashioned key fob. She didn’t bother with another paranoid perusal when she exited the office. She headed straight for room 112, unlocked the door, and scooted inside.

I didn’t budge from my spot in the shadows for at least ten minutes. Too damn cold to stay outside.

I raced back to my truck and parallel parked on the street behind the motel, which offered me a clear view of Nyla’s room.

Surveillance is boring as shit and the only time I allow my mind to blank completely. I think about nothing except what is in front of me. Or, in this case, how I’d restrain Nyla once Big Mike gave the all clear to bring her in. I’d brought a couple of Tuff-Tie restraints, in addition to my Sig. Times like these I really missed my stun gun. I made a mental note to have Jimmer order a new one. A whack to the head with a shovel didn’t seem as glamorous as the high-tech device for knocking someone unconscious.

Hours passed. The sun rose and traffic around me picked up. I stretched and called Big Mike.

“It’s almost eight. No one has come or gone. You ready for me to grab her? The maids started cleaning rooms on the upper level. Be a good excuse to get her to open the door.”

“Gut feeling. Think Jackal’s in there with her?”

“No. This place seems a random choice. If she’d 322

already been registered, she would’ve gone directly to her room rather than going to the motel office first.”

“You armed?”

“Do ya think?”

“Be careful. Call me the second you have her.”

I clicked the phone off and moved my truck to the open parking spot in front of her room. With the ties on my wrist, the bolt cutters in my right hand, and firepower in my pocket, I felt as bad-ass as “Dog” the Bounty Hunter. But with better hair.

Quick survey of the surrounding area revealed no one paying attention to me. I held my thumb over the peephole and knocked.

No answer.

I banged harder. Longer. “Housekeeping.”

Finally, I heard, “Go ’way.”

Heh heh. Another minute passed. I began the knocking process all over. “Housekeeping.”

The second I heard the locks disengage I was ready. My adrenaline kicked in. The door opened as far as the safety chain allowed.

“Do you fuckin’
mind
? Some people are—”

I slid the bolt cutters around the chain, applied pressure, and snapped it in half. I had my gun in hand before the cutters hit the ground. I shoved the door open.

Nyla wasn’t armed. She wasn’t smart either; she turned and ran. Where the hell did she think she was gonna go?

I stopped her with a full flying body tackle that 323

would’ve made Howie Long proud. Some body part of hers cracked loudly when we hit.

She screamed and I smashed her face into the bright blue carpet to quiet her.

I rammed the barrel into the base of her skull.

“Pipe down. Put your hands behind your back and I’ll let you walk out. If you fight me, I will knock you unconscious and drag your skinny ass outside. Understood?”

“Uh huh.”

“Good. Move ’em. Slowly. Palms up.” I switched the gun to my left hand and slid the Tuff-Tie off my wrist.

Nyla was compliant. Once I had her bound, I dropped the gun in my pocket and yanked her to her feet. Her bare feet. Damn. I’d have to put her shoes on . . . unless tiptoeing through the snow would be an incentive for her not to run. At least she was dressed.

“Is anyone else here?”

“No.”

I propelled her forward. The messenger bag, her coat, and snow boots were the only items in the room.

“Put them on.”

She slipped her feet in the boots. I marched her to the wall. “On your knees. I wanna see you kissing that ugly fucking wallpaper.” She whimpered, but she did it.

I rifled through the messenger bag. First I found little packages of glossy magazine pages folded in squares and put in individual plastic baggies. I didn’t 324

have to open one to know it was a gram of crank, meth, tweakers, whatever the hell they called it; she had a thousand bucks worth of the illegal stuff, easy.

Cell phone. Empty prescription bottles. Pipe cleaners. Condoms. Wallet with four hundred bucks and a South Dakota driver’s license. Mace. Car keys.

Another ring of keys. And a little flowered notebook that looked like a diary/address book. I slipped it in my pocket.

Rule #2 in the PI biz. Never let them have it all.

Give the client enough to keep them on the hook.

Especially true now that I had trust issues with Big Mike. If I found information related to Martinez’s shooting in the book, I’d turn it over to Big Mike. If I found other information? I’d turn it over to Martinez.

I draped the strap across my chest so the bag rested on my ass. After bringing Nyla back to her feet, I set the coat on her shoulders and zipped it up so it worked like a straightjacket.

“Do I need to gag you?”

“No.”

I popped my head outside the room. Coast was clear. I picked up the bolt cutters and dropped them in the passenger’s side of the truck bed in the snow next to the shovel before I helped her in and buckled her up.

Glad I didn’t have to use the shovel on her. Once we were out of the motel parking lot she spoke.

“Don’t matter you’re Martinez’s old lady. You’re gonna fuckin’ fry for this. Kidnapping is illegal.”

325

“Yeah? Last time I checked so was a bagful of meth. How do you know I’m not making a citizen’s arrest and taking you to the cop shop?”

Nyla’s head whipped around and I got my first good look at her. What a fucking mess. Greasy, matted hair. Glazed, bloodshot eyes. Snot dripped from her reddened nose. Her thin lips were chapped, cracked, and bleeding in places.

“Don’t take me to the cops. I’d rather be dead than in jail. They don’t understand how much I need—”

“Drugs? How long you been doing meth? Because the way I see it? You’re gonna be dead in two years.” I dug out the cell phone. “Your teeth falling out yet?”

Her tongue snuck under her lip, as if to check, giving me my answer.

“Well, you’re lucky. I’m not taking you to jail.

I’m taking you someplace where you can answer some questions.”

Panic flared in her eyes. “I don’t know nuthin’

about it.”

“About what? Gonna have to be more specific, Nyla, because there’s questions about a whole buncha things.”

“Where you takin’ me?” Nyla licked her lips and didn’t seem to notice the snot and blood on her tongue.

“Look. Can’t we cut a deal? I’ll do anything you want.

Sex, drugs, name it.”

Yeah, sex with her was some incentive all right. I 326

hit
dial
. The phone rang once before he picked up. I kept my gaze on Nyla’s as I said, “Big Mike? Where’s the drop point? Good. Ten minutes.”

My cold heart didn’t melt at all when she began to sob.

Using a fireman’s hold, Bucket carried a kicking and screaming Nyla into the back door of the Hombres clubhouse. Evidently Big Mike had found help with our nefarious little scheme.

A tiny bit of guilt surfaced. “You’re not going to kill her, right?”

“Not on purpose.”

I sucked down the last drag and crushed my cigarette beneath my boot heel. “I fucking hate this shit. I want that fucker Jackal dead, but I don’t want to know how you get the information, all right?”

“You still can’t tell Martinez about this, Julie. Might be a couple of days until we get her to talk. Maybe it’d be best if you didn’t see him during that time.”

I studied Big Mike. He’d said that too quickly, too eagerly. “I guarantee if you suggest he and I take a break, Martinez will know something’s up.”

“You’re probably right.” He sighed. “You’re sure you didn’t see anything else in her room?”

327

“Positive. Why?”

“Just makin’ sure she didn’t leave behind nuthin’

that can be traced. Was the van still where she’d parked it?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t drive past it.”

“We’ll check it out.”

“So my part in this is done?”

Big Mike nodded.

“I’m keeping the cell. You keep in touch with me and let me know what’s going on or I blow the fucking whistle, got it?”

“Jesus. You’re a hard-ass.”

“Like that’s a big surprise.”

Been a long time since I’d pulled an all-nighter.

I needed a shower but had no desire to go home, so I headed for the office.

The message from Kevin said he’d be in Pierre through the weekend. Because Martinez’s shooting happened on a Thursday night, Kevin hadn’t missed me or my invaluable contribution to Wells/Collins Investigations. Even if he was here I couldn’t tell him I’d spent the weekend holed up at Bare Assets caring for my injured lover.

At 10:00 I opened for business and took my big 328

mug of steaming coffee into my office. No clue what I’d do since we didn’t have any pressing cases.

Twenty minutes later the outer door opened.

Bud Linderman loped into my office. Alone. No cowboy posse. I couldn’t believe I was actually disappointed. I couldn’t believe I was actually nervous.

“Mr. Linderman.”

He removed his coat and hat and made his way to the chairs across from my desk. “Miz Collins. You look as good as I remembered.”

Couldn’t say the same for him. Bud had aged ten years since I’d last seen him. He’d dropped a good fifty pounds. His silver hair turned to cotton-white fluff and it needed a trim, as did his droopy mustache.

His Western duds weren’t pressed to perfection. He looked like a sad, lost man.

Don’t feel sorry for him. Piece of shit threatened you.

He threatened an innocent little girl. If he’s fallen on hard
times, it’s no more than he deserves.

“Is there something I can do for you?”

Linderman nodded. “I know you don’t think too much of me; cain’t say as I blame you. In retrospect my behavior toward you was appallin’. I’d like to apologize for that.”

I shrugged.

“You prolly don’t care, but since we last crossed paths, I ain’t the same person. My life changed.”

If he confessed he’d accepted Jesus Christ as his personal Lord and Savior, I’d kick him to the fucking 329

curb, old man or not.

“My wife, Mary, died suddenly. We’d been married forty-seven years. High school sweethearts.”

“Look, Linderman, I’m sorry for your loss. But if I’m on your list of rights you have to wrong to ease your conscience, you’re barking up the wrong tree. The person you need to make amends to is Chloe Black Dog, not me.”

“I have. I started a scholarship fund for that little gal in her mother’s name. I ain’t gonna brag and tell you how much money I put in there, but it’s a pile. She won’t hafta worry ’bout how’s she’s gonna pay for her college education.”

That floored me. “Donovan knows?”

“Yep. And I apologized to him, too.” Linderman glanced up from twisting his gnarled hands in his lap.

“So, will you at least listen to me?”

Say no.
“I guess.” I lit up, leaned back, and put my feet on the desk to keep my Skechers from getting dirty wading through Linderman’s piles of bullshit.

“I know you found Vernon Sloane’s body.”

My stomach clenched, which allowed me to blow a really nice smoke ring.

“And I’m pretty sure after that you figured out I own Prairie Gardens. Made me sick to think of that old guy dyin’ alone out in the snow. Made me even sicker to think the people workin’ for me could’ve prevented it.”

“How?”

330

“By doin’ their jobs. I bought that place about a year ago. We’d started makin’ the changes when . . .”

He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’d planned on runnin’ it myself, but after Mary passed on, I couldn’t.”

“So you hired a worthless piece of shit like Bradley Boner to run it?”

“Not me. But you’re right on about his character.

See, Bradley is Mary’s nephew. He showed up at her funeral, got to talkin’ with my boys, and the next thing I knew, they’d named him executive director and put him in charge.