White Ghost Ridge Read online

  “As well as I expected it would,” he replied flatly.

  Mendoza did not ask any further questions and wondered if her boss would ever tell her what had taken place in Walsh’s office. By the look on his face, she didn’t really need to know. He had obviously made some sort of peace, however small, with Kate Walsh’s sister.

  At the airport terminal a few minutes later, Mendoza pulled on Locklear’s arm to slow his entrance into the departure lounge.

  “Look, I couldn’t say anything in the cab in front of the driver but I had two missed calls from O’Brien last night. I spoke to him this morning. It seems Carter was back in jail.”

  “What?” Locklear snapped.

  “It’s OK. When O’Brien couldn’t reach us, he took the initiative to phone Kowalski. O’Brien told him everything and Kowalski got Lee bailed again.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Yesterday. Seems Diaz and Hill got a tip-off about the handle of the knife that was used to kill Holton being in Carter’s home. An anonymous caller told Diaz exactly where to find it.”

  “Anonymous, my ass. It’s Rosenberg. He’s screwing with us. He’s just giving us the finger to let us know he’s calling the shots.”

  “Maybe, sarge. But the handle had Carter’s prints all over it. It doesn’t look good.”

  “Of course his prints were on it. He was studying it in the lab. It was one of the items that went missing. Someone’s been holding onto this to use it because we are getting close to the truth.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, sarge, but that doesn’t explain how it was in his house. It makes him look guilty of both stealing the artefact and then using the blade from it to kill Holton. The handle it seems is still worth a lot without the blade. It’s carved and in good condition. O’Brien said it would fetch around $30,000.”

  “How does O’Brien know about this stuff?”

  Mendoza shrugged. “Because he’s a weird clever guy who uses all his downtime sitting in his apartment scanning the internet?”

  “Does O’Brien know where Carter went?” Locklear asked.

  “No – he said when Lee was leaving the station he wouldn’t tell him where he was going.”

  “Carter’s finally cottoning on.”

  “You don’t suspect O’Brien, sarge? I mean, if he didn’t call us with this information, we wouldn’t know what was going on.”

  Locklear thought for a moment. “Did he mention the photo you sent? The one of the protest at the dig site? You’ll recall that I noticed someone familiar in the photo.”

  Mendoza half smiled. “He did.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He said the photo doesn’t show his best side!”

  Locklear smirked and shook his head.

  “I don’t know how you recognised him, sarge. He looks completely different.”

  “By keeping my eyes open and by expecting the unexpected.”

  “So, you do trust him?”

  “Jury is out but I guess he has a right to his political views. And to protest. He should have told Benson though about his connection to the case, however small it was. What else did he say?”

  “He still doesn’t know anything about INTENT. He said he’s tried everything.”

  Locklear exhaled. “OK. What else?”

  “Well, this part will perk you up. It seems Amelia Hirsh and Josef Rosenberg do indeed know each other.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “O’Brien did some digging and checked passenger lists for the past few years.”

  “You can do that without a warrant?”

  “Seems O’Brien knows how. They’ve been in a lot of the same cities at the same time. Occasionally on commercial flights but mostly on private flights for diplomatic use. In the last four years they’ve travelled together on a total of seventeen flights.”

  “Where to?”

  “Egypt, Greece, China, Iraq and Turkey. All supposedly for diplomatic purposes. If they were there to traffic valuables in and out of these countries, they covered their tracks well.”

  “All of those countries have vast amounts of valuable antiques,” Locklear replied.

  “Yes. There’s more. It seems young Tommy Rosenberg is getting in on the family business. Before he enrolled in USD last year he travelled back and forth from Paris to Iran six times. Since he left the USA a few weeks ago, he’s flown to Paris and twice more between Iran and Paris. Each time for only a couple of days.”

  “What else?”

  “O’Brien had the smarts to check Tommy’s future flight plans and it seems he’s due to fly into JFK from Cairo just after 1am on the morning of June 19th. His next flight is a five-hour UA flight to South Dakota which leaves two hours later and, allowing for the time difference, should get him into Rapid City a little after 9am. He’ll be travelling with a partner. It’s Braff. Seems he did move jobs as Rosenberg said but it was to take a low-level position at the American consulate. Seems Tommy’s got himself a similar position.”

  “Interesting. We may just try to meet young Tommy and Braff off the plane. See if we can scare them a little.”

  “But I kept the best for last!” Mendoza beamed.

  ‘Yeah?’

  “Amelia Hirsch is married to ...”

  “Come on, Mendoza, we’ll miss the flight.”

  “To one Gerard Sartre.”

  “What?” Locklear frowned. “Sartre said his wife studied politics in Richmond before getting a post in London. That was years ago. They’ve had a long-distance marriage ever since.”

  “Doesn’t sound like much of a marriage. Unless it’s not really a marriage but more of ... an arrangement?”

  “Possibly. It gives her an excuse for flying in and out of the US carrying God knows what. I wonder why Sartre didn’t mention that he was related to Holton by marriage? Surely he knew I’d find out sooner or later?”

  “I’m sure he did,” she said. “But if he told you when you were in his office we’d be a lot further along in the investigation than we are now. By not telling you, he slowed us down.”

  Locklear thought about what their next move might be.

  Mendoza beat him to it. “Henschel said Holton’s ex-partner David Horowitz moved to DC. Maybe we should speak with him while we’re here? See if he knows anything about Hirsch’s relationship with Holton? I think she said he was working with the Washington Post.”

  “Good idea. Listen, I’ll take the flight to Sioux City and I’ll hire a car and drive to Pine Ridge. See if I can find this Jim Hunter kid. You stay here and talk to this Horowitz guy.”

  Mendoza nodded. Some time spent apart from each other would, she felt, be good. For both of them.

  “Good work, Mendoza. O’Brien too. Least now I know why he’s helping us ... and risking his career into the bargain. Guess O’Brien’s Native American blood is strong enough for him to want to put a stop to the sale of sacred Native American artefacts.”

  “And is yours, sarge?”

  Locklear looked into the departure hall and squinted at the screen to check that his 1pm flight was still due to take off on time.

  “I just want to put the bad guy away, Mendoza, no matter who he is.”

  Mendoza stood in the departure hall as Locklear waved goodbye to her. She waved back and exited. Hailing a cab, she directed the driver back to the hotel they had been staying at. She was in no humour to sleep somewhere new again tonight. On route, she called the telephone directory for the phone number of the Washington Post and then dialled the office and asked to speak with Horowitz. When she was put through to another person, the male employee told her that Horowitz had resigned from his post at the newspaper. She asked for a cell-phone number but the man refused to provide this. She then told the man that she was only looking for Horowitz to ask about an ex-partner of his who had died. Her comment was met with silence until the man agreed to take her number and get Horowitz to phone her. Mendoza thought about the danger of giving the stranger her burner-phone number
but she needed to speak with Horowitz so she reluctantly called out the number.

  She hung up and looked out at the traffic as the cab weaved its way in and out of the impressive city streets. She sighed and knew that she was already missing her boss and the vulnerability those feelings aroused in her did not sit well with how she saw herself now. She had been dependant on Manuel when she was very young and had put the reliance she’d had on him down to youth and inexperience. Now those feelings were back. It was a long time since she’d cared about a man in that way. Mendoza did a second search and looked for gay bars in the city. She found two close to her hotel and made a decision to have some fun that night. She tried to phone her mother’s cell phone but found it was engaged. She left a brief message telling her that she loved her and to get Santy to phone her before he went to bed that night.

  When she arrived back at the hotel, Mendoza checked into a more expensive room than her last one and ran herself a bath. She soaked for about an hour and when she got out she dried her hair roughly and ordered room service. When her meal finally arrived, she ate ravenously in her bathrobe. With nothing else she could do, she sat on the bed and turned on the TV but turned it off again when she found the only entertainment on offer was reality TV shows where people were expected to eat bugs and a cringe-inducing amateur dancing competition where people who couldn’t dance strutted their stuff in front of a live TV audience.

  She checked her phone three times but there was still no word from Horowitz. Then she lay down and fell into a deep, satisfying sleep. She woke briefly and looked at the time on her cell phone. It was 6pm. She had been asleep for about four hours. She checked her phone but there were still no messages. She closed her eyes again and slowly drifted back to sleep.

  When she finally woke, it was to the sound of a loud bang against the outer wall of her room. Mendoza looked at her phone again and found that two more hours had passed. She got out of bed and tiptoed to the door. She opened it and saw that the hotel maid’s cart had crashed into the corridor wall.

  The Hispanic maid blushed and pulled the cart away.

  “Lo siento,” she said.

  “No te preocupes,” Mendoza replied.

  The shy smile from the maid reminded Mendoza of her mother who had arrived in America to work in a hotel in Richmond without a word of English and knowing nobody in the large city. She wondered again why her mom had not returned her call.

  She closed the door and texted her mother to check that everything was OK. An hour later she received two texts at the same time. She read the first which was from her mother saying Mendoza’s grandmother’s condition had worsened and she had returned with her to hospital by ambulance. She said she had Santy with her and not to worry but that she was not allowed to have the phone on in the intensive-care section. She finished by saying that Grandma was awake and wanted her to tell her daughter to make sure she got the most out of life and to enjoy it. The second was from Locklear and consisted of four words.

  “Arrived OK. Be careful.”

  She texted “OK” to Locklear and sent her mother a more detailed text saying she would pray for her grandma and to please let her know how things were going. Mendoza thought about her ninety-year-old grandmother’s words and decided she would put her advice into action as there was no point in moping around the hotel room, waiting. Mendoza checked the address for the bar she had looked for earlier. She put on the sexiest outfit she could find and applied a heavy layer of make-up. Outside the hotel, she hailed a cab and directed the driver to deliver her to Cobalt on R Street NW and 17th.

  When she arrived at the club, the exterior did not look as she had expected it to. The five-storey building on the corner of R Street and 17th had an old colonial feel to it and was similar to many of the surrounding buildings in the old part of the city. Outside, wooden tables were occupied mostly by gay men in leather outfits. Two large motorbikes were parked beside one of the tables. She stopped to take a look at them. The door opened and loud dance music poured onto the street. She got to the door before it closed and stepped inside. Neon lights flashed across the entrance and the music was deafeningly loud. A drag queen passed her followed by another in a similarly outrageous outfit. She watched as they set up their stage for the night in the main bar. Mendoza couldn’t have imagined talking Locklear into coming here with her. Not that her boss was homophobic. It was something that she admired about him. Locklear did not see colour or religion or sexual orientation. The man did not judge others about anything except their behaviour and that, she figured, was OK, because applying the law and knowing right from wrong was his job and was something he had devoted his life to. Mendoza shook her head and tried to exorcise Locklear from her mind. She was looking for a good time and was determined to find it.

  She climbed the stairs and wandered through three more bars. One looked like any other bar in Richmond. It was full of men all staring at a football match on a large TV screen. Most of the men were holding beers and no-one seemed to be talking to anyone. She wandered down another corridor where loud music boomed. The crowd was smaller and there was a mix of men and women inside, some of whom were dancing on a small neon-lit floor in the centre of the room. She walked to the cocktail bar at the far end of the room and ordered herself a White Russian. The bartender put the cool drink in front of her and she swivelled her chair around to watch the dancers. There were six women on the dance floor. Two of the women were dancing close together and looked like a couple. Two other women looked as though they were hoping to get to know each other better. One of the women who danced alone suddenly drew up her hand and slapped a man beside her for reasons Mendoza had not observed. The woman stormed off and left a dazed and surprised man standing alone on the floor. The sixth woman smiled over at Mendoza and left the floor. She walked to the bar and ordered herself a whiskey. Mendoza swung around and looked at the woman in the mirror behind the bar. She was taller than Mendoza and wore a bright red jumpsuit and high-heeled red shoes. She had thick wavy light-brown hair and wore large dangling earrings. Her lips were painted the same shade of red as her clothes and the smell of her perfume wafted over to Mendoza.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi,” Mendoza replied.

  “I haven’t seen you here before.”

  Mendoza grinned. “That’s some line.”

  The woman laughed and turned to look at the slapped man on the dance floor who had started to dance by himself.

  “I’m Ann. I’m here with my brother. Him.”

  “Oh,” Mendoza replied, now unsure if Ann was accompanying her gay brother to a bar. “Is he OK?” She glanced again at the man who did not seem to mind dancing alone.

  “Yeah. He’s a bit of an ass but I don’t like coming to these places alone. He usually tries to chat a gay woman up and gets nowhere. That’s the second time this month he’s got a slap.”

  Mendoza laughed. “I’m Jo,” she said.

  Ann shook her hand warmly. “Drink?”

  Sure.”

  Chapter 19

  More than twelve hundred miles away, Locklear was four hours into his six-hour drive along Route 20 from the airport at Sioux City to the outskirts of Pine Ridge reservation where he hoped to start by talking with one of the Grass cousins, if, indeed, either of the retired tribal cops were still alive. He relaxed as he drove through the adjoining state of Nebraska, taking in the flat green plains of Breslau, then Orchard, through Inman and O’Neill – towns whose names recorded the plantation of European settlers onto Native lands, a people that were at first welcomed and taught how to live among the Badlands and survive the harsh winters, how to hunt, eat, and thrive in the remote and often barren lands. It was a relationship that was to turn sour with the mass influx of more settlers, with Government-forced evictions and the slaughter of great herds of buffalo to starve out the indigenous people and force them onto tiny parcels of land which became known as reservations. Locklear tried not to think about the sad history of the proud people who once li
ved with the land, and focused on the beauty around him as his car snaked in a northerly direction through the town of Valentine then westwards through the small Nebraskan towns of Kilgore, Nenzel and then Cody.

  Night had fallen and the darkening blue sky lit up with red and pink hues as he turned right at the town of Merriman and onto Route 73 towards Martin. Locklear joined Route 18 which would take him on the last leg of his journey. He slowed as he searched for Big Foot Trail which would take him by Wounded Knee where, if he remembered rightly, the elderly cousins lived in a small house off a dirt road turn-off. He drove through Denby which was little more than two or three houses dotted along the road. With little light to guide him, Locklear slowed to less than ten miles per hour as he squinted into the distance until he saw a lighted window in a single-storey house on the opposite side of the rocky road. He signalled to show his intention to pull over and grinned to himself at his rigid adherence to road safety. He had not seen another vehicle on Route 18 for over an hour and there was even less chance of him meeting another traveller on the tiny dirt road in the middle of the South Dakota plains.

  Locklear turned off the engine and stood wearily out of the car. He stretched and yawned. It had been his intention to stop for coffee en route but the light was fading and he was anxious to find the house he had driven to only once during his career as a Rapid City police officer. From where he stood, he could just about make out a lone figure sitting on the porch. He pulled back the creaking gate and stepped onto the property.

  “I wouldn’t come any further if I were you,” a voice said from the porch. “I have a rifle pointed right at your chest.”

  Locklear put his hands up and approached slowly.

  “Is that you, Grass?”

  The man stood and put on a porch light.

  Locklear climbed the three wooden steps and stepped slowly onto the porch, his arms still raised above his head.

  The porch man narrowed his small brown eyes at his unexpected visitor. “I know you,” he said.

  “Locklear. Detective Sergeant. I used to work out of Rapid City.” Locklear lowered his hands.