Snow Blind - Lori G. Armstrong [64]
This wasn’t the type of info you tracked for fun. No, this was the preliminary documentation needed to justify a potential lawsuit.
Jesus. He really had been thinking with his dick. 224
Kevin mentioned the suing thing in passing, not even hinting he’d already begun the legwork. I scrolled to the last listing and watched it load as I lit a cigarette. I hated flash sites for businesses, particularly when accompanied by crappy instrumental music (Iron Butterfly’s In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida? Please shoot me now). The job of a Web site was to provide consumer information. Period. If I needed entertainment I’d visit YouTube.
The site, LPL, exploded with flashing graphics, but no information on what the hell LPL stood for. An intentional distraction? A brief moment of panic followed. What if Kev had been surfing for porn?
What if LPL stood for lesbians—eww, I so didn’t want to contemplate possibilities.
I found the site map. Three categories were listed: People—Places—Opportunities. I clicked on People. A standard Web site e-mail contact form addressed to webmaster@LPL.com. No help.
Next I dragged the cursor to Opportunities. A listing with a phone number and a P.O. box for an employment firm in Spearfish specializing in placing healthcare professionals—from janitors to administrators. Must be getting warmer. The last tab was Places. Ooh, pay dirt. A list of LPL-owned businesses. Meade County Haven. Bennett County Rest Home. Deadwood Retirement Village. And Prairie Gardens. No links to those sites. At the very bottom of the page in teeny tiny letters: 225
For more information call LPL, followed by the number. With a South Dakota area code.
I dialed and took a quick drag from my smoke.
“Good afternoon. LPL. How may I help you?”
Should’ve thought of how to play it before I called.
“Hello?”
I coughed; not an act, because I choked as I exhaled. “Hi. Sorry. Something in my throat.” I coughed again.
“You all right?”
“Yes. Thanks. This might sound weird, but I just stumbled across your Web site and I’ve gotta say, wow, it is really something.”
“Thank you.”
“I didn’t see a Web site designer listed anywhere. I’m looking to update my own site and I wondered if you’d be able to tell me which company created LLP’s.”
“LPL,” she corrected, as I expected.
“Right, LPL. What does LPL stand for anyway?”
“Linderman Property Limited.”
I froze, but my brain started spinning, backtracking so fast my forehead heated up.
“If you’ll hang on, I’ll connect you with someone who can answer your question about the Web site designer.”
I hung up, staring into space and finishing my cigarette.
226
Figure the odds. Bud Linderman. Entrepreneur. Asshole. I’d forgotten, or maybe a better phrase was blocked out my past association with him. Last time we’d crossed paths, Martinez threatened to chop Bud into pieces, after Bud made the mistake of manhandling me. In front of Tony. Without apology. Yikes. Not a smart move and Tony and I hadn’t even been officially together back then.
It hadn’t occurred to me when Kevin took Amery’s case that Linderman might own Prairie Gardens. Why hadn’t Kevin mentioned the Linderman
connection? He knew Linderman and I butted heads on the Chloe Black Dog case—didn’t he? Damn. Maybe Kevin didn’t remember. That fucked-up case happened right around the time his girlfriend died and he’d been MIA from the business. I’d dealt with the details and the fallout from the case alone. Linderman’s good ol’ boy/pseudocowboy persona surfaced in my mind. He was the only person I’d met besides Martinez who employed full-time bodyguards. Linderman’s hands were in a variety of pots: Deadwood gaming, car dealerships, athletic