White Ghost Ridge Read online

  “Hi, Mendoza.”

  “Em ... just calling in with an update.”

  “I’m driving around Pine Ridge. I’ve pulled in, so shoot.”

  Mendoza updated Locklear on what she had found out and stated that she would not be joining him in South Dakota the following day but would fly to Richmond and check out the hidden garbage hatch in Holton’s apartment and would also try to meet with Holton’s lawyer. Her boss remained quiet throughout the call.

  “So, that’s everything,” Mendoza said nervously.

  “OK. Good work,” Locklear said and updated his trooper on his own plans.

  She waited nervously until he finished.

  “Is there anything else we need to discuss, sarge?” she asked, anxious now to get everything said so they could get back to their semi-fractious yet mutually respectful relationship.

  “Nothing that I can think of right now,” he replied.

  “OK. Well, then, see you soon.”

  Locklear ended his call with Mendoza, signalled back onto the road and drove his car around the block, hoping to see the faces of people leaving Han Paul’s house having attended the Native American movement meeting and hoping that Jim Hunter’s face would be among them. He had deliberately not asked the craft-store owner about Hunter in case the old man warned the USD student and the kid skipped town before Locklear had a chance to ask him about the day he went to the dig site with Tommy Rosenberg and Carter.

  Locklear’s visit to the elementary school had not resulted in any leads. He was disappointed to find that the contact Eddie Grass had given him was out of town and would not be back to work until the new school term. He did manage to talk the new teacher into checking the register for a past pupil named Jim Hunter but the search had come up with nothing. No-one by that name had ever attended the school.

  His short, cursory meeting with local cops was also unremarkable. The station’s head, Adam Clark, was white and an Alaskan who had come to the town the previous winter. His deputy was a young Native named Biyan Goulden, who remained silent throughout the short meeting. Neither seemed perturbed by his presence or his unauthorised investigation and vaguely offered to assist him if needed.

  As Locklear passed Maggie’s craft store and gas station, he saw the woman pumping gas into a rundown truck. She looked up as he drove by the lot. For reasons unknown to him Locklear slowed the car and stared at the woman who returned his gaze with intensity. He wondered if the woman was the proprietor whose name appeared over the door and if her long braids and old-fashioned clothing was, like her granddaughter, a gimmick to draw in tourists searching for the Native American experience. He smiled at her but her expression, which Locklear could not read, did not alter.

  Locklear turned left off Route 18 onto Eastridge. As he neared the corner of Old Poolside Road, he noticed a gang of youths standing on the corner, kicking a football and roughhousing. Two of them were drinking from paper bags. Locklear cringed and wondered about the town’s alcohol ban. Bootlegging, he assumed, was a thriving business wherever prohibition was in place. A motorbike was parked in the middle of the group. He recognised Olowa, the short-haired girl from the craft store and a tall gangly youth wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt who stood awkwardly in the group. Locklear jammed on the brakes and pulled in to the curb. He got out, locked the car and began to walk over to the group. As he neared, the short-haired girl said something which made Jim Hunter run across the road in between moving traffic. Locklear gave chase through the intersection of East Ridge Loop Road, turning right at its junction where Hunter continued to run at a pace Locklear could not match. The road looped back onto Route 18. He stopped as he reached the crossroad and tried to catch his breath and then ran on. He could still see the figure of Jim Hunter running in the distance. The kid took a left onto Old Sundance Road and crossed Wolf Creek where he disappeared into the dense scrub. Locklear waited for a moment to see if he would emerge from the wilderness but there was no sign of him.

  He turned and walked back to his car. The short-haired girl from the gift store stared angrily at him on the corner. Most of the other youths had gone, no doubt had run away because Olowa had told them that Locklear was a cop.

  Locklear sighed and turned his car to face the twenty-mile journey to his motel. Darkness was falling and he had learnt little today that would further the investigation. He could only hope that tomorrow would be a better day.

  Chapter 22

  As dawn broke, Locklear was already in Pine Ridge, driving around the streets, looking for Jim Hunter in the hope that the youth had a part-time job and might be seen making his way through the town on foot. The previous evening’s call from Mendoza had proved interesting as she had learnt of the blackmailing of Holton which Mendoza was at pains to remind him, could not, as yet, be proven. He was surprised by his mild disappointment that she would not be joining him that day and tried to shake off the feeling that he was missing her.

  He parked off the main street and walked along to a coffee house with a good view of the main street. He took his Stetson off and looked out of the window as he drank two strong coffees and ate more donuts than was good for him. He tapped his empty paper coffee cup on the table and reasoned that the time might have been better spent lying on his bed, thinking out what he knew so far and what direction the information Mendoza had gleaned from Holton’s ex-partner would take them.

  The only other lead he had was the old guy Han Pauls warned him against visiting alone. He exhaled as he tried to decide if it would be smart to take Han’s advice and wait for his trooper to return or if a visit to the guy alone was worth it to move the investigation forward.

  He decided that it was worth the risk. He stood, threw his paper coffee cup into the bin, put his hat on his head and left.

  He turned the car towards Route 18 where Han had said Daccota Looks-Twice lived alone in a rundown clapboard on an isolated prairie ten miles outside of Pine Ridge. He passed Maggie’s gas station and craft store again but the woman was not standing outside.

  He took the turn-off at the Shell station and followed the steep incline up the dirt road. He already knew that he was at a disadvantage. He was unarmed and if Looks-Twice was home, he would most likely already be able to see him as his car wound up the hilly road. He stopped the car a short distance before the house and got out slowly. Locklear listened for the dogs Han said he would be able to hear but there was no sound except the breeze whistling through the long grass on the prairie. He walked closer and looked at the wooden house from the distance but there was no sign of anyone. He glanced to the side and noticed a huge barn to the left of the dilapidated home. He wondered why anyone would bother building such a large, modern-looking barn when they lived in a house that obviously needed rebuilding. Locklear moved forward slowly.

  When he reached the house he tilted his hat back and crept towards the front door. He listened at the door for signs of movement but again he heard nothing. He placed his hand on the handle of the fly screen and pulled it towards him. But the hinges of the door were unscrewed and, as he pulled it forward, it fell. As he grappled with the metal mesh, the solid inner door opened and before Locklear could react, a big Native man lunged towards him with a rifle in his hand.

  Locklear threw the screen door off him and leapt to his feet, putting his hands up in the hope that he would at least get to explain his presence to the man he could see was Daccota Looks-Twice because of the long arrow-shaped scar across his forehead.

  Before he got a chance to utter one word, Looks-Twice brought the butt of the rifle up into his jaw. He fell back and tried to regain his balance as the sound of ringing shrilled in his ears.

  Looks-Twice laughed.

  “I’m a cop.” Locklear said when he could manage to speak. “My name is Detective Sergeant Locklear. I’m from Richmond PD.”

  “Half-breed!” the man spat as he slammed his rifle into Locklear’s face again. The sky spun above him and Locklear fell to his knees.

  “Wait!
” he pleaded but Looks-Twice landed one final blow to Locklear’s head. He fell back onto the dry earth and as his eyes slowly closed he could see an eagle above him, soaring in the clear blue sky.

  Chapter 23

  Mendoza’s 6.10 am flight from DC to Richmond took three hours and seven minutes and got her into her home town at 9.17am. She hailed a cab and directed the driver to take her to the office of Ethan Blank on Elwood Street.

  The cab continued on through the downtown boulevard and then took a left onto the upmarket, pretty tree-lined street which was not a part of the city she was familiar with. She got out of the cab and demanded a receipt from the driver. She had, as requested by Locklear, made a rough record of their outlay during the investigation but knew that emailing this to Benson now was not wise. Her sergeant’s view that they should delay their claim until Kowalski, who might be less irate with them, returned, or until the case had been solved, was a far better idea. Unless their money ran out first, or rather Locklear’s money as she had begun using his credit card knowing her own would most likely burst into flames if she tried to swipe it at any more airports or hotels.

  As she sat in the waiting area, she entertained herself reading glossy magazines until the door opened and Ethan Blank stepped into the reception area to greet her. Mendoza stood and stretched out her hand which Blank shook warmly. He motioned for her to come inside and sit on one of the huge comfortable armchairs. Mendoza suddenly felt like she was not entering an office of business but a shrink’s den. It was an experience she’d had on only one occasion when forced to speak to the force’s psychiatrist after the shooting of two colleagues while she was on a call-out with them. Both survived but neither of the two men recovered enough to return to work. Her thoughts moved to their wives and children and she wondered how they were doing now.

  “You seem distracted,” Blank began.

  Mendoza smiled. Blank was an ordinary-looking man. He had thinning brown hair and light grey eyes beneath his clear framed glasses. His skin was the washy white colour of an indoor worker. His suit was a dark navy and he wore shiny brown shoes which looked comfortable. His face was smooth save for long laughter lines at the side of his eyes and a few worry lines on his forehead.

  “It’s just that this room reminded me of a shrink’s office I had to go to once.”

  Blank looked surprised by the revelation and the easy smile slipped from his face.

  Mendoza raised her hands up and laughed.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not crazy! Two of my colleagues got shot in the line of duty and, you know, it’s procedure – you have to go talk with the force’s shrink to make sure you’re fit for duty.”

  “Did you pass?” Blank grinned.

  “Guess so. I’m sitting here!” Mendoza laughed.

  On Blank’s large and unbelievably tidy desk sat a photo of the lawyer with a woman, two teenage girls and a large dog.

  “You’ve got children?” Mendoza asked as she glanced at the photo.

  Blank looked over at his desk as if he had forgotten about the family that was waiting for him at home. He smiled warmly.

  “Yes. They’re fifteen and seventeen now. Each time they threaten to run away because they can’t have tickets to see whichever singer they’re obsessed with at the moment, my wife and I suggest that she and I will leave instead and they can stay and pay all the bills!”

  Mendoza laughed.

  “What about you?” he asked.

  “A son. He’s with my mom in Mexico at the moment.”

  “What can I do for you, officer?”

  “You prepared Alec Holton’s will, yes?”

  “Yes, about a month ago. It was a revised will. I heard about what happened. Terrible. Just terrible. He seemed such a nice man. Gentle. He came across as, well, naive for someone born into such wealth. Meara Henschel called me this morning and gave me strict instructions to tell you everything I know.”

  Mendoza smiled. “She’s a tough cookie.”

  “Miss Henschel seems to have woken up this morning with a sudden dislike of Mr Holton’s cousin Amelia Hirsch. She thinks she’s up to no good.”

  “And is she?”

  “Meara referred Mr Holton to this firm about eighteen months ago. She thought the firm could help him with some legal queries he had.”

  “What kind of queries?”

  “Holton’s mother’s will stated that if either Alec or his cousin predeceased each other, then the entire inheritance went to the surviving cousin. He wanted to know if that was watertight.”

  “And was it?”

  “Well, no. I think it was probably wishful thinking on behalf of Mrs Holton. It took us a while to familiarise ourselves with the UK’s Common Law and to get original manuscripts from London, but it seemed that Mr Holton’s mother was not in fact the owner of the assets. The inheritance had already been left to Alec and his cousin by their respective fathers and Alec’s mother was, well, a gatekeeper I suppose until she died and then the assets were to be divided between Alec and Ms Hirsch. Seventy per cent for Mr Holton and thirty per cent for Ms Hirsch.”

  “So, am I right in assuming that Alec could have left his share of the inheritance to whoever he pleased? That it didn’t automatically have to go to his cousin?”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  “I wonder if Amelia Hirsch knew this?”

  “She does now. She arrived here unannounced a couple of days ago demanding to see Mr Holton’s will. She said Mr Holton’s mother died on June 12th, just a few days after her son. She showed me the death certificate.”

  “Mrs Holton is dead?”

  “Yes, she was quite old. The death cert said she died of pneumonia. Ms Hirsch was with her when she passed away.”

  “How convenient,” Mendoza said sarcastically.

  “Anyway, Ms Hirsch said she had to delay the funeral as she had business in the States and thought she’d fly to Richmond and make some enquiries. She was flying back to London the following day. Mr Holton was hardly cold when she arrived. We thought it to be in very bad taste.”

  “How did she know Alec had changed his legal firm?”

  “Well, when Mr Holton first asked this firm to represent him, we wrote to his mother’s lawyer requesting various documents so they would have had all of our contact details. I imagine the company must have told Ms Hirsch that Alec had changed law firms.”

  “Do you know what the terms of Mr Holton’s previous will was?”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  “And did he give any reason why he wanted to write a new will?”

  “No. I had only met him once before but he did seem different during our second meeting. He was definitely on edge and wanted the will written as soon as possible.”

  Mendoza thought about this. It was clear that Alec Holton feared that his life was in danger.

  “So, what happened when Hirsch arrived?”

  “Well, I simply answered her questions and told her that she was not named as a major beneficiary in Alec’s will. In fact, all he left her was a painting from an unknown Native American painter named Albert Whitefeather. Alec left it here, with me. He insisted on my placing it in the safe which amused me at the time. I don’t know a lot about art, but it really isn’t very good. The scenery is pretty, I suppose. Would you like to see it?”

  “Hirsch didn’t take it?”

  “She wouldn’t even open it. She actually lifted it and threatened to smash it over my head! She’s tiny but seems to be unexpectedly strong for someone so small.”

  Blank stood, pressed a button on his phone and asked for the painting to be brought to his office. When his secretary brought it in, he gently peeled back the brown paper and held it up for Mendoza to see. The scenery was of beautiful prairie land in springtime. Long golden grass swayed in varying shades of yellow and gold. In the background, a small forest dotted the landscape and buffalo roamed freely. Teepees could be seen in a deep valley in the centre of the frame. It was a peaceful scene. Mendoza glanced at the
corner of the painting which was entitled ‘Before Betrayal’ and was signed by Albert Whitefeather Mills.

  She stood back and inhaled.

  “Can you make any sense of it?” Blank asked.

  Mendoza grinned and nodded.

  “Apart from threatening to knock you out with a painting, did Hirsch say anything else?”

  “She threatened to sue my firm but she’s wasting her time. The will is completely legal and Mr Holton was in a fit state to make his wishes known. She insisted on knowing who the beneficiaries were.”

  “And you told her?”

  “I had no reason not to. The will would have been formally read at some point anyway.”

  “Can I ask who the beneficiaries were?”

  “Well, $50,000 is to go to the janitor at Mr Holton’s building. The rest of the estate is to go to a former partner by the name of David Horowitz. He left a letter for Mr Horowitz, asking him to use some of the money to establish a trust to provide educational opportunities for Native Americans.”

  “What would happen if Horowitz was deceased when the will was read?”

  Blank stared at Mendoza as he tried to digest what she was saying.

  “Is he dead? I’ve found it impossible to get in contact with him.”

  “No. But what if he was?”

  “Em, well, Mr Moretti the janitor would receive his payment and then the estate would go to probate. I imagine Ms Hirsch would file a motion that the remainder of the estate should go to her as Mr Holton’s next of kin.”

  Mendoza thought about the danger Horowitz was in.

  “I may know where he is, but I think it’s safer if I get him to contact you.”

  Blank nodded. “I see.”

  “Thanks for talking to me, Mr Blank.”

  Mendoza made her way back onto Ellwood. She hailed a passing cab and asked the driver to take her to Holton’s apartment where she hoped to get the janitor to let her in to see the hatch Horowitz had told her about.