by Quinn Avery
The old man’s features tightened with a frown. “A little what?”
For the first time since she’d met him, his white hair wasn’t its usual fluffy texture. It wasn’t only limp, but it appeared to be thinning. The way his clothes hung on his frame, it would seem he had recently lost weight too. Was it possible he’d aged that much in the short amount of time they’d known each other?
“You feeling alright, old-timer?” Bexley asked, clasping her hands together and setting her elbows on the desk. “I know you’ve been around since before electricity was invented, so it’s understandable if you’re a little worn down, but you look exceptionally exhausted.”
He tugged at the small silver hoop in his left ear. “I feel just fine, darlin', so you can wipe that worried look off your face.”
“Either you’re lying, or you’ve adopted a pet seal. I heard you when I came in.”
His head hung a little as he took the chair on the other side of the desk and set the cup of coffee within her reach. From the somber look on his face, Bexley already knew what he was about to say would be grim.
“I’ve been meanin’ to talk to you about something.” He settled back in the chair, arm slung over one side, gaze settling on the floor. “As the saying goes, I’m not getting any younger. Since I won’t be around forever, I need to get my affairs in order—including this place.” He paused, lifting his chin to hold her concerned stare. Bexley swore she saw moisture building in his grayish-blue eyes. “Bein’ that I don’t have any next of kin, I was thinkin’ I’d pass the business along to you.”
Tears stung behind her own eyes. The gesture meant more to her than he would ever know, but she didn’t like the direction of his thoughts. “What aren’t you telling me, J.J.?”
“Everything’s fine…no need to worry. I’m not checking out just yet.” He rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. “But the docs think I may have a moderate case of COPD—a lung disease. Makes it hard to breathe is all.”
“Is it,” she stopped to swallow the lump in her throat, “fatal?”
“Just means I gotta quit smokin’. Either way, I’m gettin’ kinda old to be chasin’ criminals around Papaya Springs.” He bent forward with a warm smile. “What d’ya say, darlin’? It’d give me peace of mind to know you’re up for taking over the business.”
“It’d be my honor,” she croaked out.
“You’re a good, smart woman with a bright future. Wouldn’t want anyone else operatin’ under my name.” With a wink, he leaned back in the chair. “What’re you doin’ here so early on a Monday mornin’ anyway? Shouldn’t you be recoverin’ from a hot date over the weekend?”
Wiping at her damp eyes, she openly laughed at his attempt to pry into her personal life. He was one of few who knew her and Grayson had called it quits, yet he had graciously never pressured her into a conversation about how it made her feel. Still, she wasn’t surprised he wanted to know if she had moved on. The man’s concern for her was far deeper than her own father’s.
“I agreed to take on a new client last night whose innocence is under question. I’d rather not get into the details until I know more.”
“Alright. What d’ya need from me?”
She eyed the pen from Cineste with “Be a quick-wit” embossed in gold. For whatever reason, the damn thing always inspired her in some way. “Do you know a way a person could search for death records in Mexico without leaving a digital footprint?”
J.J.’s eyes burned with disapproval. “This new client of yours involved with the Federales?”
“Not at this point.” At least she didn’t believe so.
“Sure you wanna take this one on? Murders that take place in Mexico never end well, whether or not a person’s guilty.”
“He’s a good friend of mine, J.J. I don’t believe he’s capable of killing anyone. At least not without good reason.”
Letting out a raspy sigh, he lifted his shoulders. “A buddy of mine has a granddaughter who’s a first-rate hacker…graduated from MIT with honors. I’ve used her a couple’a times. She’s a little green behind the years and a little quirky, but she knows her stuff. I’ll send you her contact info.”
“Thank you, J.J.” She wet her lips. “For everything.”
Bexley didn’t trust herself to say anything more without breaking down. She couldn't bear the thought of losing another person she loved.
3
J.J. hadn’t exaggerated when he mentioned the hacker was “quirky.” Ashton Casey was a petite redhead—the scarlet shade one gets from a bottle—with plush lips and a button nose, a dozen piercings between her ears, and a colorful Star Wars themed sleeve tattoo running up one arm. She wore torn blue jeans paired with a sleeveless t-shirt the same striking emerald tone as her eyes, bright red lipstick, thick crimson locks in a haphazard bun. Bexley decided on first sight the girl was cute in an in-your-face kind of way.
Just twenty minutes after their phone conversation, she breezed into Bexley’s office with a laptop tucked under her arm and a megawatt smile.
“What up, Buttercup?” Ashton sang, grabbing a chair meant for clients and dragging it around to Bexley’s side. The girl then proceeded to set her top-of the line computer on the desk, and open the screen.
“I’m gonna take a wild guess, and say that you’re Ashton.” Bexley quirked a brow. “Can I get you anything? Perhaps your name engraved on the door?”
“Call me Red. Everyone else does…for obvious reasons.” Ashton snapped her gum and rolled her eyes to the ceiling before her focus honed in on her laptop. “This could take a minute. I haven’t had time to clean the hard drive in awhile.”
The usually stuffy room became animated with the sounds of Red humming a whimsical tune as her computer whirled to life. Bexley was worried she’d choke on the air that was all at once thick with the girl’s overpowering lavender perfume and watermelon bubble gum.
Red glanced Bexley’s way. “You been doin’ this P.I. gig long?”
“I’m still a bit green behind the ears. What about you?”
“I started hacking before I learned to ride a bike, which really pissed my dad off, considering he’s a profiler for the FBI.” She snapped her gum while squinting at her computer screen. “Okay, I’m ready. What’s this super-secret thing you want me to search?”
Bexley hesitated. The girl could pass for a seventeen-year-old. “You understand you’re doing this as a sub-contractor to Stronghold Investigations, therefore bound by confidentiality?”
“Of course. You’re not my first client, sweets. Definitely not as high profile, either.” Gum snap. “Your secrets are safely sealed behind these cherry lips.” She puckered said lips and made a smacking sound. “My other gig—doing IT for introverts who only shop online—is as painful as watching a Stormtrooper try to hit a moving target. I’m desperate for intellectual stimulation. Lay it on me, boss-lady.”
“Let’s start with a list of all arrest warrants issued in the past forty-eight hours out of Currie County.”
Red’s stubby fingernails, painted a glittery silver, flew across the keyboard while her eyes stayed glued to the screen. “That’s an easy one. There were only two: one for a Richard Davis Boon, and one for a Pamela Lee Rattai. Oooh, Pam was a naughty girl. Indecent exposure and lewd acts. Sounds like a wild night.”
“That’s it? No other names came up?”
“Just our friends Dick and Pam.”
Bexley tapped her index finger against her lips. If the sheriff wasn’t officially searching for Brewer, why would they have raided his motel room? Could there have been a crime committed in his absence? “What about search warrants?”
Red resumed humming for several minutes as she typed. Then, “None issued in that time frame.”
That in itself was a red flag. If Sheriff Blair was conducting a search under the table, it meant someone powerful in the community was after Brewer. Fear rendered her numb with a sudden thought. She wasn’t going to lie to herself. Brewer had become someone of great
importance to her, and it may have been obvious to anyone with two eyes. Including her enemies. What if the Mayor and DA were having Bexley followed? What if they planned to get back at her by hurting those she cared about? What if they knew Brewer was at her apartment?
“What’s next, boss-lady?” Red asked, snapping her gum.
Shaking the paranoia away, Bexley cleared her throat. “Let’s do a search for death records within a hundred mile radius of Tijuana that would’ve occurred on or around Saturday night. I’m looking for a Hispanic male between sixteen and thirty-five.”
“Most women prefer their potential suitors to be living, but whatever floats your boat,” she sniggered. “I’m not here to judge.”
Despite her best efforts to remain professional, Bexley’s shoulders shook with a silent giggle. She already liked this kid. Although she tried to follow what Red was doing, there must’ve been a privacy filter over the screen since it appeared black. “You’re positive this search can’t be traced back to this location?”
“Please. I’d be locked in Club Fed, playing tennis with politicians for the rest of my life if Uncle Sam knew even a smidgen of my shenanigans. The FBI has been begging me to come work for them ever since I was accepted to MIT. I told my dad to have me committed if I ever agreed to such a thing. I saw firsthand what working for the government can do to a marriage. No thank you.” Red’s fingers stopped, and she let out a low whistle. “Seems Tijuana had a busy weekend. Do you know a cause of death?”
“Gunshot, although there could’ve been more involved.”
Red’s fingers danced some more. “We have an Alejandro García, born in 1998; a Martín López, born in 1991; and a Nicolás González, born in 1993. All from gunshot wounds, all within a hundred mile radius of Tijuana.”
Bexley tilted her head, wishing she could see the screen. “Do the records include pictures?”
“No, but with my Jedi tricks, I can get you some in a flash.”
As Red’s magic fingers resumed their work, Bexley’s cell phone rang with a call from an unknown number. Suspecting it to be the burner she’d given Brewer, she snatched it off her desk and stood. “I’d appreciate any information you can dig up regarding each of those three men. I’ll be back in a minute.” Then she slipped into the hallway, closing the door to her office before answering, “Bexley Squires.”
Brewer’s deep, groggy voice answered, “Before I opened my eyes this morning, I thought you coming to my rescue was only a dream. A really, really good dream.”
A flush spread across Bexley’s neck. “You haven’t been officially rescued yet, but I’m working on it. So far I have good news. By tonight, I should have pictures of men from that area of Mexico who died over the weekend. I realize it could be a long-shot, but maybe you’ll recognize one. And Currie County hasn’t a warrant of any kind for you within the past forty-eight hours. Neither to search your property, nor for your arrest.”
“Does that mean I can split? It’s pretty lonely here, and I’m itchin’ for a smoke.”
“It means you need to stay put and be aware of your surroundings at all times. The sheriff may not have gone through the proper channels to search your place for a number of reasons, none being in your favor.” Bexley turned in the direction of J.J.’s closed door and lowered her voice. She never knew when the old man was listening. “My Glock is in the nightstand drawer beside my bed…passcode eight-six-seven-five. Keep it close, just in case.”
“The cunning Bexley Squires chases after bad guys for a living, and leaves her weapon at home?”
Her lips pinched together. She wasn’t in the mood for a Grayson-style lecture, and she definitely wasn’t going to disclose the fact that guns made her uneasy.
Brewer surprised her with a chuckle. “Who would’ve thunk it? You’re even more badass than I thought, Squires.”
“You can smoke inside,” she grumbled, even though she’d likely lose her deposit. “Just do it by a cracked window. And keep the curtains drawn. You wouldn’t be lonely if they hauled you off to jail—especially once they throw me in along with you.”
“I’m sorry to put you through this,” he said, his deep voice becoming grave. “I promise to make it up to you, Bex. And I don’t just mean money-wise. I appreciate that you’re putting everything on the line to help me. I know you can’t afford to get caught harboring a criminal. Just say the word, and I’m outta here. I understand if it gets to be too much. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if anything were to happen to you.”
Bexley’s breath hitched. They were the most thoughtful words she’d heard him utter. She’d always suspected there was more to her old friend beneath the tough persona and constant jokes, and she was delighted to catch a glimpse. But was she reading too much into what he was saying?
“That’s the second time you’ve called yourself a criminal,” she scolded. “Is there something you aren’t telling me?”
“We’ll talk when you get home.”
Home. She found it odd that the sudden notion of sharing her apartment with Brewer on a more permanent basis didn’t scare her. In fact, she kind of liked it. But was it because she felt sorry for her old friend who lived out of a seedy motel, or was it because she enjoyed his company more than she wanted to admit?
She looked down at her phone to discover Brewer had ended the call. Jarred by the idea of inviting him to live with her, she’d overlooked the smooth way he had avoided her question. Was he hiding something?
Determined to uncover more pieces to the puzzle, she marched back into her office. Red presented her with a large stack of printer paper. “You should consider upgrading your office equipment. Your printer is slower than my grandma shuffling off to bingo.”
“Are you any good at finding personal cell phone numbers?”
“Are Luke and Leia twins despite that creepy kiss?” When Bexley merely stared back, confused, Red clicked her tongue. “That means without a doubt. Lay it on me, sister. Who you wanna call?”
“Colt Sawyer, the president of Inferno Glory Motorcycle Club.”
“You’ve got strange taste in men, lady, but I dig it. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll have your Prince Charming’s digits.”
Bexley felt a small rush of relief. With any luck, she’d have a chance to talk to the one person who may have an idea of how Brewer ended up in Mexico.
Bexley’s request to meet with Colt Sawyer was granted as soon as she’d mentioned it was regarding the fate of someone in his club. Once she followed his directions to a bar near L.A. named “Mikey’s,” she wasn’t surprised to find a row of Harley Davidsons parked in front of the small establishment—some of which were identical to Brewer’s model.
The first time she had met Colt, the sultry club president, she was undercover in search of a biker—one who turned out to be Brewer. Colt mentioned their club had made their share of enemies, and he’d been wary of her presence on their turf. She figured he wouldn’t come to their meeting alone, and almost asked J.J. to tag along. But instead she had left a note on her desk, telling J.J. where to come looking if he didn’t hear from her by the end of the day.
Inside the dive bar, the smell of cheap beer and sounds of a woman wailing a twangy tune overwhelmed Bexley’s senses. Despite all the motorcycles outside, the place was nearly empty. The only other patrons consisted of a middle-aged couple cuddling in a booth toward the back. Her first intuition made her believe the bikers had too much to drink the night before, and hitched a ride home. Her second guess, that they were waiting to make an ambush, left her feeling uneasy. Maybe Grayson was right. Maybe she had a death wish.
Bexley only made it a few steps when a handsome man behind the bar with a hooked nose sent her a blindingly crooked smile. “Hey there, beautiful,” he called out, blueish-green eyes sparkling with mischief. “What can I get you?”
Bexley’s eyes traveled to the name embroidered on his shirt. “Hey there, Mikey. I’m assuming this is your bar?”
He winked. “Sure is. What bring
s you here?”
“Colt Sawyer.”
Mikey nodded among a grin. “He’s been expecting you. He stepped out back for a smoke. I’ll let them know you’re here.”
Rattled by the idea of an entire gang coming out to meet her, she rushed up to a bar stool and called after the man right as he turned his back. “Can you get me a shot first? Something strong.”
The man chuckled. “Sure thing.” He set a shot glass between them, and made a show of pouring something dark. “This will put hair on your chest.” He nudged the glass in Bexley’s direction, eagerly watching her gulp it down.
Bexley had obviously never chugged gasoline, but she guessed the experience wouldn’t be much different. Warmth and courage seared her stomach as she fished a ten out of her handbag. “Thanks. I needed that.”
“I get the feeling you don’t have much experience with MC culture, so I’m gonna give you a little advice: you don’t have any reason to be nervous. Colt’s a good man. If you don’t mess with his family, there’s nothing to worry about.”
He disappeared for a few tension-wrought minutes, and reappeared with Colt Sawyer a step behind. The beautiful brunette Colt had been cozied up to the night Bexley visited their clubhouse was at his side, followed by a giant man sporting long hair and a full beard. Bexley faintly remembered seeing the attractive man glued to another female biker’s side that same night. The three of them were stunning as a trio, clad in variations of leather and denim, oozing sex appeal. Bexley caught herself reacting in a way that felt a lot like swooning.
Colt tucked a strand of wavy brown hair behind his ear, exposing his chiseled jaw. As the brunette watched on with a guard-dog style stare, Colt regarded Bexley with a tilted head. “Why do I get the feelin’ we’ve met before?”
“We have…at your clubhouse.” Bexley twisted her fingers together at her waist, hoping her cheeks weren’t as red as they felt. “Only I was undercover, hoping to find someone to lead me to the young woman I’d supposedly murdered.”