White Ghost Ridge Read online

  “She’s pleasant,” Locklear remarked.

  Kayawi laughed. “And you got her on a good day!”

  “And the other kid?” Locklear asked.

  “The Grateful Dead T-shirt and the fact that he was with Tommy Rosenberg can only mean one kid. He’s a second-year law student here.”

  “Name?”

  “I know his first name is Jim. He’s a nice kid. Always willing to help out with anything. Hard to see what they have in common. Let me look up the 2nd year law enrolments.”

  Locklear followed her back to her desk where she typed on her keyboard and waited.

  “I don’t think Tommy had any other friends on campus. My son is a student here and he says Rosenberg is really spoiled and obnoxious. The other students didn’t really take to him.”

  The computer beeped.

  “Hunter. That’s his last name. Jim Hunter. Bright kid. An A student. He won a scholarship to come here.”

  “Address? Cell-phone number?”

  Kayawi typed in some more and looked puzzled as she looked at the screen that opened on her computer.

  “Seems like he enrolled using a Vermillion address. It’s a street a few blocks from here but it’s not current. Could be he just rented there until the semester started in his first year. He dorms here now. I guess any correspondence the university has for him is posted to the dorm.”

  “Do you have any idea how I can contact him?”

  “He wouldn’t have left the university for summer break yet. His class still have one exam to complete which is on later today. Plus he’s got a couple of casual jobs on campus to earn some extra money. His dorm is at Coyote Village, North of Campus. You might find him there. But I remember talking to him here last summer. He was helping out moving furniture and that sort of thing and I’m fairly sure he said he came from Pine Ridge – so if you don’t find him here, you could try the reservation.”

  Locklear leaned over the counter and looked at the university ID of the young man who had been on the dig with Carter. Jim Hunter was only twenty years old and already looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. One big question raced in Locklear’s mind: why a Native American kid would help Rosenberg on an illegal dig in his own community.

  “You said neither of them are archaeology students. Why would they have been on a dig?” Locklear asked.

  Kayawi shrugged. “I don’t know. Archaeology students are normally queuing up to work with Professor Rosenberg. His work is internationally renowned. He usually has three, maybe four, grad students doing research with him at any given time. So that makes no sense. He had an assistant who used to look after PhD applicants. I’m sure Dr. Walter Braff would have been able to explain that, but he left a while ago.”

  Locklear’s jaw dropped. Braff was the name of the man who had served with Lewis, Torres and Whitefeather in Iraq and was also the man Lewis said was selling stolen Iraqi artefacts. And he had been working here, with Rosenberg, in the archaeology department of a major university with access to national treasures.

  “Did you say Braff?”

  Kayawi nodded but the crease in her brow and the tight line of her lips told Locklear she knew she had probably said too much. He watched a deep blush rise up her neck and face.

  “I take it you weren’t too keen on Braff either?”

  Kayawi did not answer immediately but the expression on her face told Locklear everything he needed to know.

  “Walter Braff never said much,” she said. “He was very aloof. None of us even knew what his qualifications were. Professor Rosenberg hired him. We used to joke here that his PhD was gained from research in how to alienate yourself from your colleagues.”

  “You doubted that he was qualified?”

  “Well, let’s just say that when any of the other archaeology lecturers tried to engage him in topics, he never joined in the conversation, even when he was directly asked for his opinion on things. One lecturer asked him where he’d completed his studies but he just walked away. Never answered. No-one, except maybe Professor Rosenberg, liked Braff.”

  “And Rosenberg?”

  “Professor Rosenberg is different. Very genial, pleasant. Good manners and that, but you don’t want to be alone with him in his office. Likes young, good-looking female staff. I’ve worked here a long time so, believe me, I know. He’s interviewing today for a new secretary. Barbara got a promotion so she’ll be moving to a new office on campus soon. The pay is good but I wouldn’t go back to work in his office no matter what they were paying.”

  Locklear nodded.

  “You better get to Professor Rosenberg’s office before Barbara gets back. She looks like a pretty little thing but she bites.”

  Locklear thanked her and left the office quickly.

  When he got outside Mendoza was standing at the car, having drunk both their coffees. The cinnamon dust on her shirt told Locklear she had also eaten the donuts, his as well as her own.

  “You said five minutes!”

  Locklear jumped into the car and, as the engine started, checked the clock. It was twelve forty-five. He had approximately fifteen minutes to get inside Rosenberg’s office before his guard dog got back. He looked at Mendoza, reached out and dusted the cinnamon dust from her chest.

  “Sarge!” she said, slapping his hand away from her bosom. “I may have invited you to sleep with me last night but I didn’t mean ...”

  “Relax,” Locklear said. “I’m not coming onto you. I need you to look like sugar, not be covered in it.”

  “Huh?”

  Locklear turned out of the parking lot in the direction of Rosenberg’s office. He drove slowly past the beautiful Old Main Building and weaved in and out of the small streets of the pretty university campus. He eventually turned onto East Clark and drove by the Native American Center and Faber house. He took the turn off for Willow Street and explained his plan to his less than enthusiastic trooper. He then took an abrupt left onto a small roadway which led to East Hall and to what was probably the most impressive and oldest building on the campus.

  “Wow,” said Mendoza. “Look at that fairy-tale turret and the pink stone!”

  “It’s Sioux pink quartzite.”

  “Sioux?”

  “Yeah. That’s what they call it.”

  He pulled in and parked roughly in a space at the back of the lot.

  “What a beautiful building!” Mendoza said.

  “Yeah, well, now I need you to look beautiful. You got lipstick or something?”

  “What? Look, sarge, only hours ago you told me off for getting Torres drunk so she’d give me the information we needed. Now you want me to suck up to Rosenberg so I can get info from him? Don’t you think that’s a bit rich?”

  Locklear looked the cop up and down. He locked his eyes on her shirt which was buttoned almost up to her neck.

  “Open a few of those buttons,” he said.

  “Why don’t you show your own chest off to Rosenberg? I didn’t join the force to be a pretty plaything for anyone.”

  Locklear grinned. “And I never for one moment looked on you as one,” he said as he pulled Mendoza’s purse from the floor of the car and started rummaging in it.

  Mendoza pulled it from him. “Hey!”

  “Look, Mendoza, we’re running out of time to get inside unnoticed. I’d be happy to show Rosenberg what’s under my shirt if I thought it would get me inside his office but somehow I don’t think I’m his type. Now, I just need you to get me inside the office and then you can go back to being Trooper Mendoza.”

  Mendoza blew out. “Fine, but if he tries anything on –”

  “Then feel free to do him some damage.”

  “You think I wouldn’t?”

  Mendoza pulled a small cream purse from her bag. She took out an eyeliner and deftly drew thick black lines on her lids which accentuated her deep brown eyes. She then took a lipstick from the purse and applied a heavy layer to her lips. She smacked her lips together and turned to her bos
s.

  “Well?”

  “You’ll do,” he replied.

  Inside, they found the reception desk still unmanned.

  Locklear leant over the desk and lifted a clipboard listing the names and interview times of applicants for Rosenberg’s new secretary. He scanned down the list and locked onto the name of the 1.00pm interviewee. Rita Vasquez.

  “You’re in luck, Mendoza. You’re Rita Vasquez and you’re early for your interview.” He used the pen attached to the clipboard to tick the woman off the list as having arrived.

  Locklear knocked on the heavy wooden door with Rosenberg’s name on it and pushed Mendoza inside when a voice called out for her to come in.

  Locklear waited outside to give Mendoza enough time to lure Rosenberg into thinking she was his new plaything. By the sounds of her light-hearted laughter, his trooper was doing a good job. Then he opened a tall filing cabinet placed in an alcove between the reception desk and Rosenberg’s door and rummaged through it to see if he could find anything of interest. He stopped when he heard the click-clacking of Rosenberg’s secretary’s shoes as she returned to her desk. He quietly moved the drawer back into place and as silently as possible turned the handle of Rosenberg’s office door and walked inside.

  The smile plastered over Rosenberg’s face quickly disappeared as he locked on to the presence of the Native American standing in his office. The professor turned to Mendoza who dropped the cheesy smile from her face.

  “What’s this?” Rosenberg asked as he glanced from Mendoza to Locklear.

  Locklear walked over to the huge desk and took a seat beside Mendoza, removing his Stetson and placing it on his knee.

  “Who are you?” Rosenberg snarled.

  When Locklear made no reply, Rosenberg put his hand on his phone.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Locklear began. “Not unless you want my colleague and I leaking a story to the local press that you and your business partners are selling stolen international artefacts and that you’ve been doing so for years.”

  Rosenberg straightened up like a cobra ready to strike. He lifted a pen from his desk and tapped its nib off the hard wood.

  “Those are pretty serious allegations, Mr …?”

  “Locklear. Detective Sergeant Locklear.”

  “I believe I know all of the senior cops around here and I don’t recall ever hearing your name. Are you a tribal cop?”

  Locklear did not answer.

  “No, you don’t have the look of a reservation cop. Your, em, pretty colleague doesn’t either. Shame you barged in when you did. I was just about to give her a typing exam ... see how quickly she can work those long fingers of hers.”

  Mendoza squirmed but knew Rosenberg’s remark was intended to make her uncomfortable and that the Dean possibly hoped the remark would upset Locklear too. It was designed to throw them off guard and deflect them from the information they needed to know. Mendoza looked at her boss and saw that he was mildly irritated by Rosenberg’s creepiness but not enough to divert his attention from the business at hand.

  “You didn’t answer the question,” Locklear said.

  “Because you didn’t ask me one. You made an accusation. One which I have no intention of dignifying with an answer. Perhaps your department would take their enquiry up with my lawyer?” Rosenberg’s eyes moved coolly between them. Then he began to laugh. “Oh, I see. Now I remember! You can’t do that because you have no jurisdiction here. Come on, you think I wasn’t expecting you to call? You think Dean Sartre didn’t tell me about a troublemaking Native cop who thinks he’s figured things out? Your pretty sidekick here did get me though, I’ll admit. I didn’t know about her. I was actually really taken in by her, em, performance.”

  “She took lessons,” Locklear retorted. “You know, acting classes, like your grandson Tommy took here at USD until he flunked out. The same grandson you brought with you on a dig. A young man I dare say could be identified in a line-up by someone who saw him there.”

  Rosenberg’s smile did not fade. Locklear’s threat did not have the impact he had hoped it would.

  “Sergeant Locklear, I imagine you’re a bright enough man but, believe me, you are looking in the wrong place. I’ve spent my life protecting and preserving artefacts from around the world. My reputation is quite renowned. May I suggest you try looking for the thief among your own people, eh? Shall we say, among the less, em, regulated organisations purporting to protect Native American artefacts?”

  Mendoza shot a look at Locklear and swallowed.

  “What about Walter Braff?” Locklear said. “I know he worked here and that he was stationed in Iraq with four soldiers who realised what he was up to.”

  Locklear saw an expression of alarm flicker across Rosenberg’s face before he quickly replaced it with an expression of smug superiority.

  “Dr. Braff has moved on to another position.”

  “Oh? And where would that be?” Mendoza asked.

  Rosenberg waved his hand. “Oh, he did tell me but ... well, it seems to have slipped my mind.”

  “You didn’t have a permit to undertake the dig with Professor Holton,” Locklear said.

  “Yes, that’s true. It’s a pity your young friend didn’t have the wisdom to stay away from Holton’s lab that morning. Indeed, to stay away from Holton on the unfortunate night someone took his life. Come on, Detective, you think I don’t know that Albert Whitefeather had been to Holton’s apartment and threatened him? Whitefeather was a thorn in my side for years. The man was crazy and everyone knew it. He finally cracked and killed an innocent man and seems to have rather unfortunately taken your friend down with him. I was at that site to ensure we had left nothing behind that might get into the wrong hands.”

  “Like the Native American fertility figure that you found but never made its way to the university? You think I’m falling for this bullshit?”

  “It went missing. I acknowledge that. It wasn’t my fault.”

  “Then whose fault was it?” Mendoza asked.

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, officer,” Rosenberg smirked. “And not because I don’t want to, but because I really don’t know.”

  “Lee Carter described a man who came to the dig site shortly before you arrived,” Locklear said. “He said the man was very tall and unnaturally pale. He said Holton appeared nervous of him.”

  Rosenberg’s lips tightened. He blinked twice.

  Locklear knew the Dean was about to lie.

  “Doesn’t ring a bell,” he replied.

  “I take it you won’t mind bringing your grandson in to give a statement to the local police?” Locklear asked, knowing full well there was little chance of him convincing the local force, whom he’d hadn’t even had the good manners to inform he was in town, of bringing anyone in for questioning on a case his idiot colleagues Diaz and Hill had most likely closed.

  “It seems that my grandson is all you have to go on, that Tommy is essentially your only lead.”

  Locklear and Mendoza remained silent. Rosenberg laughed.

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” he said quietly. He grinned at Mendoza and then fixed his sneer on Locklear. “You see, my grandson is in Paris with his parents.”

  “That doesn’t stop him from giving a statement. There’s an extradition agreement between France and the U.S. We can force your grandson to provide a statement.”

  Rosenberg stood and walked to his door. He opened it and stood to one side.

  “Oh, I should have added that my son is Josef Rosenberg. A diplomat, high level of course, which of course means ... that he and his family have diplomatic immunity.”

  Mendoza, unable to look at Rosenberg’s face anymore, stood and made her way out the door.

  “You couldn’t interview my grandson about a parking ticket, missing artefacts or ... even a murder,” Rosenberg finished.

  Locklear walked to the door and stood, making eye contact with Rosenberg. He tried to think of a clever retort
but failed. Rosenberg had boxed him in, and he’d have to find a way to get the information he needed elsewhere.

  “This isn’t over, Rosenberg. I won’t see my friend go to jail for something he didn’t do.”

  He stepped outside.

  “Wish I could help,” Rosenberg said as he closed the door gently behind him.

  In the reception area, Barbara looked perplexed as Mendoza passed the real Rita Vasquez waiting patiently to be interviewed.

  When they left the building, Locklear stood on its stone steps beside Mendoza who was unusually silent.

  “You OK?” he asked as he donned his Stetson.

  Mendoza sighed. “Just pissed off that that creep got the better of us,” she said through clenched teeth.

  As they walked back to the car, Locklear glanced around the campus streets and noted how few students were around at this time of year. Across the road, a coffee house was almost empty save for one or two university staff sitting inside, out of the heat. Outside on the pavement, three young women were struggling to lift heavy suitcases onto the roof of an old, beaten-up sedan. Locklear looked at the building beside the coffee house and found it was equally deserted. Three young guys were outside. Two were sitting on the steps, with their noses firmly in books, cramming he assumed for their last exams before heading off to whatever state they called home. The third young guy was standing and looking in the direction of the girls. He called out, offering help to the girls as they struggled to lift the heaviest trunk onto the roof of their car. Locklear watched as the young man made his way towards the girls and smiled to himself to think that chivalry, as outdated as it seemed to some, was not entirely dead.

  Locklear watched as the kid approached the girls, his long black hair swaying confidently as he swaggered across the road. It was the Grateful Dead T-shirt that alerted him. Locklear tipped Mendoza’s elbow and gave a slight nod in the young man’s direction. Mendoza raised a hand up to shield her eyes from the sun, to get a better look at the figure that had caught Locklear’s interest. Something about the movement caught the young guy’s attention, perhaps the glint of her ring in the strong sunlight. He looked across the wide street and locked not onto Mendoza’s ring but onto Locklear’s face.