A few reluctant nods at that.
“But the club does have enemies, and one of those enemies is trying to make us look really bad in this city. They’re using you to help push that agenda, and it’s going to get you guys hurt.” Killed, he amended in his head. “The Dogs are trying to find Allie and Nicole. We’re trying to catch the assholes who are dealing you this shit and telling you they work for us. They don’t, and they’re really fucking dangerous. Anything you can tell me that would point us in the right direction would be a big help.”
There was a moment’s loaded hesitation; lots of glances were traded among them.
Then Elijah said, “He came here to talk to us. Not to threaten anybody, not to sell you some shit. He wants to talk – he wants our help. So we can figure out who’s really hurting girls, and the Dogs can go after them. You think the cops can stop it? If they could, why did nobody find Allie? She’s still missing. If anyone can find her, the Dogs can. If you guys tell him what you know.”
Carter was floored. He glanced toward Elijah, and earned a nod, a solemn regard of solidarity.
He took a breath, let his shoulders relax, and said, “The night of Jimmy Connors party. Who saw what?”
Twenty minutes, and two mini notebook pages of info later, he thanked the students and headed back for the parking lot. To his surprise, Elijah fell into step beside him.
“Does that help?” he asked, and almost sounded worried. “I think they were all mostly telling the truth.”
“It does help, yeah. The more details we have about those guys, the easier they’ll be to find.”
“No sign of ‘em yet?”
“No.” He frowned at thought of Jimmy. Probably the parents had been notified by now. He wondered how ugly things were about to get for them. “We found an empty house they were dealing out of, and collected some stuff for prints and DNA, but no hits in the database yet.”
“Database? MC got a CSI division now?” he asked with a snort.
“Something like that. Lots of friends in town, anyway.”
Elijah nodded. “Guess so.” He walked facing forward, hands in his hoodie pockets, but Carter knew him well enough by now to detect the way self-consciousness crept into his voice and expression. “I don’t know if it’ll do any good, but I’m gonna try to get some minds changed around here. Work on ‘em a little bit.”
Carter knocked their shoulders together as they walked. “See? You’re gonna be a Dog fan after all.”
He snorted. “Nah. Just…trying to pick the side that’s doing the right thing. In every situation, you know?”
“I know. Smart man.”
They reached the parking lot, and Mercy, sitting on his bike, watching the surrounding area from behind the lenses of his shades.
Elijah, as expected, paused a moment, and murmured, “Whoa.”
Carter didn’t blame him. Even relaxed, his expression pleasantly bland, Mercy was a sight to behold. His height was evident, even sitting astride his bike, and he wore a tank top under his cut that flashed ink, and muscles big as Carter’s head. Some men got married, had kids, and started working on beer guts and receding hairlines. Mercy had managed to pack on more muscle, even more impressive than he’d been a few years ago when Carter first came home, and his hair was as thick and glossy as ever, down to the middle of his back now, shifting in the breeze.
Carter decided to go the polite route. “Hey, Merc, this is Elijah. Elijah, this is Mercy.”
Mercy turned toward them with an easy, automatic grin, and pushed his shades up so the warm brown of his eyes showed. With his other hand, he reached out for a shake. “Hey, Elijah, good to meet you.”
Elijah gathered himself visibly, stepped forward, and gripped Mercy’s hand, his own dwarfed inside it, like everyone else’s always was.
“You’re a QB, too, huh?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mercy laughed, low, and rich, and Cajun, and disarming. “I know this one misses it. Glad you can get him outta the house and back on the grass.”
“Oh, uh, yeah.” He’d never sounded so uncertain.
Carter didn’t blame him. “Eli, thanks for this,” he said, offering his own handshake, one Elijah gripped ready and strong. “Let me know if you need anything. Or see anything. Or just get freaked out. It’s brave, helping us.”
Elijah rolled his eyes – but smiled. “Yeah, yeah, sure.” He said goodbye, and headed off for his car.
When Carter slung his leg over his bike, fastened his helmet, and glanced to see if Mercy was ready, he found him grinning at him. “What?”
“Nothing,” Mercy said, buckling his own helmet. “It’s just my little pretty boy’s growing up.”
“Dude. Shut up.” But he couldn’t hold back a grin as he cranked the bike.
~*~
Leah checked the sidemirror of Ava’s truck and glimpsed their escort, riding close behind. It was a prospect she’d never met before, lanky and floppy-haired and fresh-faced: Evan, Ava had said.
“Not to doubt your dad’s security assignment or anything…”
“I know,” Ava said, sighing through her nose as she piloted the truck through the next intersection. Behind them, Evan nearly missed the light and accelerated to keep up. “Evan’s not exactly the Punisher or anything, but he’s not totally incompetent. I don’t think,” she added with a wince. “Mostly it’s just about having a presence. No one will try anything crazy if they see a cut tailing us. And if they did.” She patted her purse where it rested between them. “I’m packing.”
“I’m not,” Leah said, unnecessarily. It was a weak joke and she knew it, but she said, “You’ll have to do the shooting for both of us.”
Ava didn’t miss a beat. “We’ll have to get you your own piece. I can take you up to the cattle property and show you the ropes. Or.” She turned away from the road long enough to send her a shit-eating grin and an eyebrow waggle. “Or Carter could take you. Show you those ropes.”
Leah sighed. “Sometimes I miss the days when you thought romance was stupid.”
“I never said it was stupid.”
“No, you just didn’t care about anybody’s romantic life but your own.”
Ava made a scandalized sound, and Leah burst out laughing. “I’m not that big of an asshole – am I?”
“Not now, no.”
Ava sighed. “Well. I guess you change enough diapers and clean up enough vomit and you start liking to live vicariously.”
“Is this you wishing you’d married Carter instead of Mercy?”
“Uh…yeah right. No offense to your taste in men or anything.”
By the time they pulled up to Cook’s Coffee, they were both laughing so hard they had tears in their eyes and side stitches.
Evan’s face appeared on the other side of the window, scrunched up with concern. “Are you okay?” he called through the glass. “Are you crying?”
“We’re fine!” Ava called back, waving him off until he retreated up onto the sidewalk. “Reverting to sixteen-year-olds, but otherwise fine.”
They’d left the kids at the clubhouse under Maggie, Holly, and Kris’s watchful gazes, and so once they’d checked their mascara and collected themselves, they headed into the shop.
“Girls!” Marie called the second they were through the door. She’d been ecstatic since Ian had said he would buy the building; she looked at least five years younger. The lines of worry on her brow and around her mouth had smoothed; her skin seemed to glow. “What a nice surprise! Are y’all here for lunch? Out shopping? Ooh, Ava, you’re kid-free. Nothing like a good girls’ day.”
All of Leah’s good humor for the car fizzled as she was reminded why they’d come. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, Mrs. Cook.”
Marie picked up on their tones right away. Her face fell. “Oh no. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Leah said, and then made a face, because that wasn’t true at all.
Ava had more experience with this sort of thing. With ca
lm aplomb, she said, “Mrs. Cook, if it’s alright, we want to tell you a little bit about some of what’s been going on here in the shopping district, and prepare you for what to expect moving forward.”
“Oh, dear,” Marie said. “Well, that doesn’t sound good.”
~*~
Ghost got all the way to ten ‘til one before he had to deal with Dave Connors. He was standing behind Ratchet’s chair, watching him click through screens at wild speed – he’d hacked into yet more traffic cams, and with new info from the high school kids via Carter, they were trying to pin down a black Chevy Malibu on the night of Allie’s disappearance – when his cellphone went off. It was Boomer up at the gate, his tone cringing. “He says he’s Jimmy’s father, and he is – pissed ain’t the word. He’s outta his goddamn mind.”
“Let him in,” Ghost said. “Tell him where to find me. I’ll be ready.”
“Okay,” Boomer said, doubtful.
Ghost slipped his phone away and turned to Michael, who gave him a tight nod of understanding and drew his gun; held it down low along his thigh. To Briscoe and Dublin, he said, “Meet him at the door. Pat him down.”
“Right.” They headed that way.
Ghost rolled his head side to side, popping the vertebrae in his neck. “Mags?”
She was already on her feet, Ash on her hip. Kris had hold of Millie. “Come on, babies,” she said, and Cal and Remy followed her. Holly took her daughter Lucy’s hand and Mina herded the older kids along. They all trooped down the back hallway, and Ghost could breathe a little easier. Could crack his knuckles and brace himself.
He heard the scuffle at the front door. “Let go – fuck you – get off me!”
Dave Connors was not a brave, blustering sort of man, but he burst into the room like a charging bull: red-faced, veins standing out in his temples and throat, hands curled somewhere between fists and claws. His gaze was wild, glazed; he looked drunk. And in a way he was: drunk on grief.
His gaze landed on Ghost, and his snarl deepened. “You.”
Dublin came in after him, huffing for breath. “He’s not armed, but he’s out of his goddamn mind, boss.”
Ghost nodded. “I’ll handle it.”
If he’d heard their exchange, Connors didn’t acknowledge it. “You. You,” he repeated, chest heaving. “You killed my boy!” He charged.
From the corner of his eye, Ghost was aware of Michael readying himself, but Ghost was ready, too, and Dave Connors didn’t scare him. When Connors reached him – breathing ragged and open-mouthed, growling like a wounded animal – Ghost caught him by the wrists, braced his feet, and held him back.
Connors roared. His hands curled and flexed; tried to get loose; tried to claw at Ghost’s throat. He wasn’t the strongest man Ghost had ever faced, but this kind of sudden, shocking grief lent an adrenaline boost.
“I didn’t kill him,” Ghost said, his tone low and soothing, for all the good it did. “Dave, listen, I didn’t – we didn’t. Why would we? But I’m trying to find out who did.”
“You killed him! You killed my boy!” Tears ran down a face going purple. Spit flecked Ghost’s face on the man’s next exhale. He couldn’t be reasoned with you. “Fuck you, I’ll kill you!”
“Ghost,” Michael said, warningly.
“I know.” Ghost shoved Connors backward; he caught him off guard, and managed to torque his own body, twist Connors around so that he could slam him up against the edge of the table. Connors’ eyes widened in shock as he lost his balance, and then it didn’t take much to slam him back across the table. He yelled.
Ghost pinned his wrists, and leaned all his weight into it. Connors kicked and thrashed, but his feet weren’t on the ground, and he had no leverage, and not enough athleticism to twist loose some other way.
Michael, Dublin, and Briscoe moved in around the table, close enough to lend a hand if need be, but not crowding.
Ghost shoved his face into the other man’s, and roared, “Shut up!”
Someone dropped a dish in the kitchen, and he heard Jazz’s low “damn!” of startlement.
Connors gasped a moment, his eyes wide and still leaking tears.
“I didn’t kill your son,” Ghost said, enunciating with extra emphasis. “My club didn’t kill your son. Jimmy got involved with some really bad guys who’re trying to take the club down and using kids to do it. It’s sick, and it’s awful, and we’re going to stop them, but what you’re doing isn’t helping. Get hold of yourself.”
Connors dragged in a ragged breath. “He was in your bar.” Another protest, but all the force had drained out of his voice. His body went limp beneath Ghost. “He was…”
“Do you honestly believe I would kill your son and put his body on display in my own bar?”
“…On…display…?”
Shit, he shouldn’t have said it that way.
Ghost gave him a little shake. “I’ve got every one of my guys working on this. We’ll catch the bastards – if you get out of the way and stop trying to start fights you can’t finish.”
The front door must have been left open, because Ghost heard the squeal of tires, the slam of a door, the slap of feet. “Kenny,” Fielding’s breathless voice said, and then: “oh, shit.”
“Dave,” Ghost said. “Let’s work together. Help me find the guys, and we’ll get justice for your son.”
Connors stared at him a moment, searching his face with a blind, withdrawn gaze. Then his eyes closed, and his face screwed up, and the ugly, broken sobs came.
Ghost released him and stepped back. Turned to face Vince. He put a hand on his shoulder and spun him around, marched him back down the hall and out the front door, despite Vince’s affronted protests. Try me, he thought. I’ll put you over a table, too.
“That man is the victim’s family,” he blustered, “you can’t–”
“What I can do,” Ghost said, spinning him around, shoving a finger in his face. “Is clean up your damn messes, lieutenant. He came storming in here, talking about how his son was on display. How’d he know that little tidbit? Did you show him fucking pictures?”
Vince spluttered, as pale in the face as Connors was red. “He – he asked questions. The family has a right to know–”
“The family doesn’t have a right to go off half-cocked on some vigilante justice mission, dipshit.”
Vince’s expression hardened. “Oh, and what you do isn’t vigilante justice?”
“I own this city,” Ghost snapped. “Knoxville belongs to me, and so do you.” He gave him a light shove in the sternum. “Do your fucking job.”
Vince staggered back, more steps than necessary, a wry, disgusted smile breaking sideways across his face. “Don’t act like you care about this kid. You’re worried about your reputation. You’re just a goddamn gangster.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m the one holding your leash. Now, I’m going back inside to question Dave Connors. You can participate, or you can leave. What’ll it be.”
Vince glanced off across the parking lot, visibly collecting himself. He muttered something too low to hear, took a huge breath, and then nodded. He headed back for the door, and Ghost followed.
~*~
“I don’t understand why we continue to meet at this place,” Ian said. He plucked his fork delicately off his napkin, held it up to the light, and frowned at it.
“I thought you liked it,” Mercy said around a mouthful of country ham and eggs. “Thought it made you feel like one of the regular people.”
“Yes, well.” Ian produced a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and polished the fork with a grimace. Then he looked down at his plate of waffles and bacon and made yet another polite face of disgust. “Many aspects of it leave something to be desired.”
“Eat your waffles,” Mercy said. “They’re good for you.”
“Hm. Hardly.”
They were at Waffle House, in a booth by the window, and, at first, Carter had been too shocked and gratified that Ian had actually taken his call that he had
n’t been bold enough to broach the subject at hand yet. Ian wasn’t the sort of person you could just come right out and say stuff to. He liked to play word games and trade the sort of banter Carter didn’t feel sharp enough to employ.
But he was starting to get impatient.
He cleared his throat, and Ian and Mercy both looked to him immediately. Mercy with a smile plucking at one corner of his mouth like he knew how awkward Carter felt. Ian with a single arched brow of inquiry, the rest of his face impassive.
He had to clear his throat again, and take a sip of water for good measure.
“Poor boy,” Ian said, “I feel like I must ask you why you wanted to meet with me because you’ll never get it out yourself.”
Carter frowned, and felt his face heat.
“Go on, then. Lay your – what looks to be very serious – proposition before me.”
“He’s being an asshole,” Mercy said in a stage whisper. “He can’t help it. Just go on and tell him.”
“Felix, I’m wounded.”
Carter said, “I wanted to ask you about protecting the Cooks.”
“The Cooks whose building I’m in the process of acquiring?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s that going, by the way?” Mercy asked.
Ian waved away all thought of concern. “The old man is being a stubborn fool, but he’s beginning to crack, and he wants it off his hands. We’ll sign paperwork this week.”
“Their daughter, Leah…” Carter said.
“Ah, yes, the lovely Miss Cook. I’ve employed her. It seems I’ve done quite a lot for the Cooks lately.”
Shit. “She and I are…”
“Something of an item?” Ian guessed, brow arching again.
“I–”
“Aw, come on,” Mercy said. “Don’t be like this.”
“Like what?” Ian asked, all innocence.
“Quit acting like you’re gonna tell us no.”
“What am I supposedly saying no to?”
Carter caught Mercy’s elbow in his ribs, and blurted out, “We’re trying to keep an eye on all the old ladies and kids. Everyone attached to the club is gonna need protection right now, until we find who’s terrorizing us. Leah’s worried about her parents, and we’re already spread thin. I don’t know if we can keep a regular watch on them.”
Homecoming (Dartmoor Book 8) Page 35