Love is Murder (53 page)

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.”

Definitely cuffing this smart-ass.

I reached inside my purse, hooking a finger around the metal chain and eased my body back slightly so I could cuff him quickly. But both my knees slipped and I lost my balance. Immediately the kid bucked, knocking me on my ass before he raced off.

Sonuvabitch.

My gun was in my hand before I leaped to my feet to give chase. The lack of light screwed with my depth perception. It’d be just my luck to catch the toe of my boot in a gopher hole and end up sprawled in the dirt with my dress bunched around my hips and my ass hanging out. But I didn’t slow down. I yelled, “Stop! FBI. I’m armed. I will shoot you if you don’t stop.”

He kept running until he tripped. His body slid across the gravel parking lot as if he was diving for home plate from third base.

After he skidded to a stop, I loomed over him, putting my gun in his direct line of sight. “Hands where I can see them. Now!”

Once again he was howling, gaping with horror at his palms. I let my gaze drop for a second and my stomach turned over. Holy shit. His hands were hamburger. A crisscross of scrapes that’d already begun to bleed. The dirt and gravel imbedded beneath his skin looked like Rice Krispies about to pop out of his flesh.

“Help me. Oh, God, I’m bleeding!” He rolled to his knees.

“Don’t fucking move or I will shoot you.”

He looked at me.

“Repeat it back to me so there’s no confusion.” When he hesitated, I barked, “Now!”

“Don’tfuckingmoveoryouwillshootme.”

The side of his face had fared worse than his hands. His cheek had deep gouges, like he’d taken a header across broken glass.

I heard murmurs behind me. Evidently this incident had already drawn a crowd. Too soon for the tribal cops to be here, so I had a pretty good idea of who was closing in on me.

“Never a dull moment with you, is there, Sergeant Major?” he drawled.

I stepped aside so I could look at Dawson and keep an eye on shit-for-brains moaning on the ground. “Chasing down a pickpocket was not part of my evening plans, Sheriff. Besides. You’re late.”

“Sorry. Deputy Moore dropped me off as soon as we were done. I assume you called this in?”

“Yes. Tribal police are en route.”

Dawson crossed his arms over his chest, holding court on the guy’s other side. “I’ll stick around until they get here, if you don’t mind.”

I appreciated he didn’t assume I needed help, but asked. “That’d be great since I need to request an ambulance.” I called 911 again.

A portly man barreled up, the security guard on his heels. “What is going on here?”

“I’m stopping bad guys. Who are you?”

“Welchell Whitetail. I’m the manager. Who are you?”

“Mercy Gunderson, FBI.”

Whitetail glared at Dawson. Although Dawson wasn’t in uniform, he didn’t have to be. Everything about him broadcast
law enforcement
. “And who are you?”

“Eagle River County Sheriff.”

“Neither of you has jurisdiction here. So I’d like to know why you’re holding one of my customers at gunpoint.”

“This customer was picking pockets. When he exited the premises with the stolen goods, I followed him. He jumped me with a knife. I take offense to getting jumped with a knife.”

“Do you have proof of his alleged crimes?”

“The knife is on the ground by the Dumpster. Check his pockets. He has five wallets that don’t belong to him.”

Whitetail puffed up like a prairie grouse. “We could’ve avoided this if you’d contacted my security team after you witnessed the first incident.”

“Your security
team
consists of one guard who was far too busy poking buttons on her cell phone to do her job. So I did mine.”

“You have no jurisdiction here,” Whitetail snapped again. “Let him go and we will handle it in house.”

“Sorry. The tribal police are on their way and I will gladly hand this problem over to them. This might not be my jurisdiction, but it is theirs.”

Whitetail fumed. His face turned a mottled purple. He seemed too infuriated to speak, which seemed an over-the-top reaction and set off my warning bells. “You had no need to call them. No right. I don’t need the tribal cops in my business.”

“Well, Mr. Whitetail, that’s where you’re wrong. This isn’t solely your business—it’s the tribe’s business. The casino and the police are both under the tribe’s purview, but it’s your job to watch out for guys like this and report them to the tribal cops, so they can do their job and make an arrest.”

Skinny dude yelled, “I’m not goin’ to jail, especially not on the goddamned rez!”

“You got caught red-handed,” I pointed out.

“You promised you’d handle stuff like this,” skinny dude said to Whitetail.

Confused, my gaze winged between them. “What stuff does he handle?”

“I have no idea what he’s talking about,” Whitetail retorted.

“Bullshit! That’s why you get a bigger cut.”

Whitetail gave me a greasy smile. “Honestly, I’m relieved to have the tribal police deal with him. We don’t need anyone to believe we’re ignoring the seriousness of this crime.”