He hasn’t given me a choice, instead he’s issued an instruction. Losing my chance to look around at the new Harleys, I swing my leg over the saddle of Adam’s bike. This time I’m riding, I don’t bother taking in any of the scenery, as in the middle of a bunch of Wretched Soulz, I’m escorted back to their chapter’s house.
Fuck. I may be getting my wish granted after all.
Taken inside, I find myself in a typical biker clubhouse. Bar, scantily dressed girls. It reminds me of home, and for a second I feel homesick for what I left back in Tucson. Then with a pang of regret realise it’s lost its appeal as Crystal’s not there, once again acknowledging I can never go back.
I’m morose as I follow the bikers through their clubroom, ready to accept any fate they decide. I can’t say they don’t make me welcome. A beer, a chair. Then the enforcer who’d insisted on me coming along with them leaves me with some of his brothers. We talk in our own language about bikes and the road, me at first reluctantly, then as I’m drawn into discussions that have nothing to do with my dead wife, a little more enthusiastically. Another beer, a couple of smokes, and then the enforcer appears once again.
He pulls up a chair and sits astride it, takes a pack out of his cut, and offers me one. Okay, so maybe things are different here and not all men holding that position are tight-fisted assholes. I offer a half-smile as he flicks his lighter then lights us both up. After taking a drag and exhaling, he starts, “Talked to your prez.”
Trying not to let my unease show, I act nonchalant. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His pointed look seems to suggest he expects me to say something, but I don’t know how much Drum has spilled, so keep my mouth shut.
“Heard about your wife. Sorry.”
He seems sincere, so I accept his condolences with a nod.
A prospect comes up and replaces the empty beers on the table. My companion makes a sign and the bikers around us disappear. He leans forward. “You got a death wish?” he asks without preamble as he lights another smoke.
Shocked, not knowing how to reply, I keep my mouth closed.
Leaning back on his chair so it balances on the back legs, he brings his bottle to his lips. “Lost my wife to cancer some time ago. It was hard to keep going. Reckon I know just how you’re feeling. Probably worse, at least I had some time to prepare when my ol’ lady went.”
I go to express sympathy of my own, but he hasn’t finished talking.
“Reckon you’re not up to doing a Jax Teller, seeing as you’ve lasted this long.”
Now I frown, not quite understanding.
“Putting yourself in the path of a truck. Suicide’s another word for it.”
No, something’s stopping me from doing just that.
He nods. “From what your prez said, I half expected to come out and find you being held down by my boys.”
My face burns as I wonder just how much Drum had told him.
He nods. “Hot temper, he told me. Been through that myself. Times when your just itching for a fuckin’ fight, not caring where it gets you.”
If it’s possible, my cheeks flare even redder.
“If someone takes you out, they’ll be doing ya a favour. So we don’t intend to give you what your looking for.”
Now I open my mouth, but he holds up his hand.
He inhales again, then lets the smoke out. “What are your plans?”
“Finish up in San Francisco, then I’m heading off down the Pacific Coast Highway.”
Putting his elbow on the arm on his chair, his fingers rub his forehead. “We ain’t got no beef with the Devils. Drummer’s always been straight. Given us support where we needed it.”
That’s good to know. The Wretched Soulz are the dom club in California, and Arizona as well. Clubs like ours give them respect, and they allow us to get on with what we’re doing unless we step on their toes. It’s a way of keeping all the smaller clubs in line, as long as no one upsets the dominant club.
“Figure you need some time to get your head right. Wretched Soulz won’t be bothering you on your trip. We’ll put the word out to watch out for you. Far as we’re concerned, you’re a biker in need.”
My eyes go to his. If my desire is to keep living, that’s all I can ask for. Clear passage on my journey.
“Reckon you’ve already come some way since you’ve left your home.” Another gulp of beer and he continues, “Your pain will come and go until things get easier. But,” he leans forward and the front legs of the chair smash down again, “Soulz ain’t gonna help kill ya.”
Chapter Six
Marc…
I’ve avoided speaking to Heart for a couple of weeks now. I can’t understand what made me offer up the nickname my brother had given me before I even was in my teens, and which had caught on with the rest of my family. The name I’ve not heard for eight years. I’d put down the phone, my cheeks burning.
I don’t want to become his friend. I owe this man Heart nothing more than to get to the truth, the honest facts that I believe he needs to know. Justice. The reason I took up the career that I have. To put the bad people in jail so the good can walk free and unmolested. High ideals, and I’m just a very small cog in a huge organisation that at times seems to fail as often as it succeeds.
How many times has a guilty man been freed by a judge and jury? More times than I like to think on. Or worse, an innocent man committed.
Archer wasn’t innocent, of that I’m convinced. But how to move on and prove it? Sergeant Reynolds has rewritten my report, almost all my words gone and replaced with his own, his story so fictional it would make me laugh if it wasn’t so serious. He’s even recommending a posthumous commendation for the man I’m certain is responsible for murder.
Apart from my embarrassment, I’ve another reason not to contact the biker. Even my own investigation has stalled. I’ve failed to get a meeting with Leonardo Herrera. Well, to be honest, it’s been impossible. Garza has his eyes on me the whole time, and if I’m right and he’s in with the crime family, any mention of me visiting their business headquarters might get back to him. Until I know more, I don’t want to step onto what might be very shaky ground.
I hate my new partner, really detest him. I’d thought the worst was that he was lazy, but it goes further than that. He’s slimy. Every chance he gets, he’s touching me. A hand over mine as I’m driving the car, or his touch on my knee. He hasn’t yet crossed over that invisible boundary, but it’s coming soon. I know there’s a reason Reynolds partnered him with me, and it wasn’t just expediency as Garza’s partner is out of action. No, it’s an outright attempt to intimidate me.
But Reynolds and Garza don’t know who they’re dealing with. I’m just waiting for that mistake which will inevitably come. Playing it, for now, as a dumb blond, lulling Garza into a false sense of security, hoping he’ll let something drop accidentally.
If they’re watching me, it means there’s something to be found. Some knowledge or information that’s within my reach to discover. I just have to be patient and watch until what it is becomes clear.
Another day passes, and I get back home, running a shower while wishing I had a tub I could soak in, using far too much water to wash the stench of the day, and my partner, away. Eating my dinner, then checking the television to find nothing I want to watch is on, my hand inches toward the phone. I pull it back, not understanding the strange compulsion I have to make the call only to say that I’ve got no news.
Pouring another glass of wine, I settle back on the couch, putting my feet up on the recliner. Oh damn it! I pick up the phone again.
“Yo.”
“Heart?” There’s loud music in the background, and a lot of men’s voices.
“Hi, Marc. Give me a sec and I’ll take this outside.”
“I can call back.”
“Nah, you’re alright.” I hear a door opening and slamming shut, then the music is muffled. “What can I do for ya, darlin’?”
Darling? That’s different.
I smile to myself. Heart seems lighter than he was the last time we spoke. “Just wanting to catch up. How are you doing?”
“Not bad,” he admits. “Got myself some company tonight.”
“You’ve been drinking.” I don’t mean it to come out as an accusation. In fact, he sounds more relaxed than I’ve heard before.
“Yeah. You gonna come arrest me?” He laughs. His tone far more relaxed than I’ve heard before.
“Hmm. I don’t think so. Where are you?”
“San Francisco. With the Wretched Soulz.”
What? “You alright?” My cop sense makes me concerned.
“Yeah. Good bunch of brothers here, I tell ya.” He pauses before continuing, “Just what I needed, you know?”
“You shouldn’t be alone.”
“Sort of goes with the territory, darlin’. Ronin, remember?”
“You going to be in town long?”
“Hard to say. Still got places to go. Tell you the truth, darlin’, trying to keep off the road for the moment. Fuckin’ trees and lights going up everywhere.”
“You don’t like Christmas?”
There’s a pause, then, “Crystal loved it.”
I bang the heel of my hand against my head. I didn’t mean to bring his memories to the fore. “I’m sorry, Heart,” I whisper.
“Ain’t got nothing to be sorry for, darlin’.”
But I have. Perhaps if I’d seen who my ex-partner was, I could have prevented him going after the biker and his wife. There. I’ve admitted my guilt, and probably the real reason why I want to put this case to bed.
“Tell ya, darlin’. Think I’ll ride on and find me a place to keep out the way until the festivities are over.”
A new voice can be heard, female and probably drunk. “Heart, you coming back in, babe? Thought you and me could get together.”
“Not now, pet.” He waits for a moment. “Club whore,” he explains. “But I ain’t gonna go there.”
I breathe in sharply. Heart can fuck who he wants. “You don’t have to explain to me. Look, I’m sorry, I just rang to tell you I haven’t gotten any further.” It sounds lame, even to me.
“Good. I told you to leave it alone. I don’t want you putting yourself in danger.”
It’s what I do. “Don’t worry about me, it’s my job.”
“No, it’s not,” he speaks forcefully. “You don’t know what you’ll be going up against if it’s the Herreras—”
“I’m a police officer. My job is to catch the bad guys.”
I can hear him breathe in, then his breath huffs out. “Not this time, darlin’. Don’t want another death on my conscience.”
They wouldn’t harm a cop, surely? No, it’s my job here in Tucson that’s at risk, not my life. I don’t want to lose that. Putting criminals away is what I’ve always wanted to do. As far as I’m concerned, my sergeant and partner, at the very least, have some explaining to do, but I don’t tell Heart that.
I settle for, “Well, I’m sorry I don’t have more to report. I’ll let you get back to your party. Give me a call sometime when you’re free.” Why the hell did I say that? This isn’t some friend I’m casually chatting to. This is a victim of a crime, and I should be professional.
When he ends the call without adding more, I shake my head in disgust with myself, asking not for the first time why I can’t let this go. What is my fascination with this man whose wife was so cruelly taken from him? My guilt that I hadn’t seen how dirty Archer was? Or something to do with the man himself? Something that drives me to find justice for Heart.
Whatever, I’m compelled to keep looking. Pulling the laptop toward me, I tap a pen against my mouth. I’ve gone over everything a hundred times before, but there must be something I’m missing. I’ve no doubt that Archer was responsible for Heart’s crash, though I’ve nothing really more than intuition to go on. The explosion at the house where he was killed was not accidental, and the incendiary device was made by an expert. No clues as to the maker, as the intensity of the fire destroyed almost everything, and anything the investigators managed to piece together meant there was nothing to point to who could have planted the bomb.
There was nothing to suggest whether the house’s occupants were dead or alive before the explosion. It burned so hot as to destroy all flesh. But reports of gun shots from neighbours suggest there was a shooting before the fire.
Now I look at the files on the other deaths that night, some of the most violent crimes that have been seen in Tucson. Five houses were targeted, and members of the Herrera family taken out. Each by a different method. Nothing to link all the murders together except for the timing. My pen taps more vigorously. Could it have been the Satan’s Devils? Or was it someone else? If the Satan’s Devils had somehow discovered that Archer and the Herreras were behind Crystals death… But then, why target the other houses? Yet again, I’ve reached a dead end.
I call up the information we have on the Satan’s Devils members. There’s one name that jumps out, a Jeffrey Andrews, who has the road name Slick. He was in munitions in the Army, and looking at his service record, building a bomb would be child’s play to him.
The house Archer was killed in had been named as a place for child prostitution. A young victim had come forward after the event. Given Archer was trying to help Clyde get her hands on her grandchild, was it, as Sergeant Reynolds suggested, too much of a stretch to think he was involved in the child grooming ring? Or am I correct that the fact my sergeant doesn’t even want to consider the possibility suggests a cover-up to protect the dead police officer?
I look over the reports again. Only very rudimentary investigations followed the murders that night. Cases closed on the little evidence that we had. But what’s odd, there seems to have been no retaliation. If five members of the major crime family were killed all on one night, surely the Herreras would have jumped into action? I shake my head, unable to understand it.
If the Satan’s Devils had taken revenge on the death of an old lady by killing the Herreras, surely Tucson would have become a blood bath? It doesn’t make sense.
Why didn’t the investigations go further? Why aren’t our streets running red?
I call up the information on the Herreras. Their list of crimes is long. Extortion, drug distribution, gun running… But nothing to do with the sex trade. Could the Herreras have disposed of their own unsavoury element, and it was nothing to do with the Satan’s Devils at all? My mind quickly runs through the options. As far as I know, none of the police in Tucson are in the motorcycle club’s pocket—their members certainly don’t get preferential treatment when they’re arrested, and indeed, eager fingers are pointed in their direction when they’ve nothing to do with the crime. The Herreras though? Well, I can’t remember a time we’ve brought any of them in.
If Reynolds and Garza are being paid, my gut feel is it’s more likely to be the crime family. Hence, they don’t want my report to surface as it links to Archer, who is a member of that family through his maternal line.
Could Archer simply have been caught up visiting family that night? There were other bodies discovered, but they were all men. No girls at all. Perhaps I’m wrong and it was innocent…
But he rented the fucking truck! Everything brings me back to that and my suspicions he was behind Heart being run off the road, even if he hadn’t been driving it himself.
I’m still being kept away from certain files, which confirms my thoughts that something’s being kept hidden from me. But what is it? Reynolds and Garza’s past misdemeanours? Are they afraid I’d find some sort of thread? Something to link them to whoever’s paying them? All I know is, I haven’t an ounce of trust for either of them.
When Archer blocked the investigation into Heart’s crash, did Reynolds support him? Did he know, or encourage him? And if it is rot I’m smelling, just how deep does it go, and how far does it extend?
Or am I seeing monsters where there are none at all?
Is it simply they don’
t want me to discover just who’s paying them? Or am I on the trail of something more sinister? Did I tell the truth to Heart when I told him Amy was safe? What if the grooming ring is still active?
With a sinking feeling of dread, I go back over the notes I made when I visited Susie Clyde. I’m certain from her reaction that her debt to the Herreras has either been paid or written off. But by whom?
Quickly, I start going through all the reports to the police stations in and around Tucson. Although children being groomed are usually controlled by threats to keep them quiet, there’s just the possibility that some eagle-eyed parent might have seen something was wrong. My eyes skim through the pages, not really knowing what I’m looking for, just wanting something to leap out at me and say, ‘here’s a clue’.
Then I go back up through the last few names read. Jayden Greenway. A fourteen-year-old listed as a missing person a few months ago. Why does that name ring a bell? Where have I seen it? I’m sure it was somewhere tonight. Hastily I review the documentation I’ve gone through so far, and then I see it. Jeffrey Andrews, Slick in the MC world, married an Ella Greenway in Vegas in September. It’s enough of a coincidence to make me view the details of the report once again.
Having done so, I lean back on the couch, wine in my hand, and let out a deep breath. Jayden wasn’t reported as missing by her mother, but by Archer. I’ve read the report twice, there’s no follow-up interview with the mother. No interview at all with Ella or anyone else. So why had Archer noted it down? What significance does it have? Could this, at last, be a clue that will help me unravel the tangled web? It’s still active. The police are still supposed to be looking for Jayden. Is she really missing? Or does someone want her to be found?
Stifling a yawn, I glance at my phone, shocked to see it’s two in the morning. I didn’t realise I’d been researching so long. Time for bed. I cross the living room, switch out the light and have my hand on the bedroom door as I hear a car coming up the street fast. Speeding. Oh well, the traffic cops can deal with him, I’m off to get some sleep.
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