by Tessa Bailey
Me? I was starved.
“If there’s no story, there’s no story,” I said. “The only thing I’m out is my time, right?”
“I’m going on the record as your father and your partner: I don’t like it. They might not be a gang anymore, but those guys have an edge. I don’t want you crossing them.”
“Understood. I’ll ask my questions and stay away.” Or away-ish.
“Bryce,” he warned.
I held up my hands, feigning innocence. “What?”
“Be. Careful.”
“I’m careful. Always.” Okay, sometimes. Dad’s definition of careful was a little different than mine.
I stood on my toes to kiss his cheek, then I waved and hurried out of the pressroom before he assigned me something that would keep me trapped at my desk all day.
The police station was on the opposite end of town from the newspaper. It sat on the banks of the Missouri River along a busy street crowded with restaurants and offices. The river was running fast and high from the melting mountain snow. The June sun reflected off the water’s rippled surface in golden flickers. The Montana air was clean and fresh, a close second to my beloved newspaper scent.
It was another smell from my youth, one I’d missed in Seattle.
I parked my car and went inside the station, making small talk with the officer up front. Then I thanked my lucky stars when she waved me through without any hassle. The first three times I’d come here to visit the chief, I’d been put through the paces. Fingerprints. Background check. A photo.
Maybe it was protocol.
Or maybe they didn’t like reporters.
The station was quiet this morning. A few officers sat at their desks, heads bent over keyboards and ballpoint pens as they did paperwork while the others on shift were patrolling the streets. The chief’s office was along the rear wall of the building. The window behind his desk had a beautiful view of the river.
“Knock, knock.” I rapped on the open door and stepped inside. “Morning, Chief.”
“Morning, Bryce.” He set down the document he’d been reading.
“You know, I never can tell if that’s a happy smile or an irritated smile when I come here.”
“That depends.” His eyes narrowed on my purse, his bushy gray eyebrows coming together.
I reached inside the handbag and retrieved a pack of licorice. “How’d I do?”
He shrugged, staring at the Twizzlers as I set them on his desk and took one of the guest chairs. In my previous visits, I’d brought along Twix, Snickers and M&M’s. He’d been lukewarm toward my treats at best. So today, I’d gone out on a limb at the Town Pump and picked up something fruity.
“It looks like a happy smile, but with the mustache, it’s hard to tell.”
He chuckled and ripped the package open while I did an inner fist pump. “I knew you’d figure it out eventually.”
“You could have just told me.”
“What’s the fun in that?” Chief Wagner stuck the candy in his mouth and chomped a huge bite.
“Are you going to make me work this hard for all my information?”
“Nope,” he said. “We put out a weekly press sheet. All you have to do is download it. Easy peasy.”
“Ah, yes. The weekly press sheet. As truly riveting as those reports are, I was talking about information a bit more . . . in-depth.”
The chief steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “I don’t have anything for you. Just like I didn’t have anything for you two weeks ago. Or the week before that. Or the week before that.”
“Nothing? Not even a tiny morsel you may have forgotten to put in the press sheet?”
“I’ve got nothing. Clifton Forge is a fairly boring place these days. Sorry.”
I frowned. “No, you’re not.”
He chuckled and took another piece of licorice. “You’re right. I’m not sorry. I’m too busy enjoying the peace.”
Chief Wagner was overjoyed that his press sheets only included infrequent 911 calls, random Saturday night drunk and disorderlies and the occasional petty theft from a misguided teenager. This town had seen more than its share of murder and mayhem over the years—thanks to the Tin Gypsies. The motorcycle club was likely responsible for the streaks of gray in Marcus’s hair.
Yet from what I’d been able to dig up in the news archives, the former Tin Gypsy members had spent little to no time in jail cells. Either the chief had overlooked their crimes or the Gypsies were damn good at covering their tracks.
In their glory days, the Tin Gypsies had been led by Draven Slater. I’d seen him around town, and he carried himself with the same air of ruthless confidence he’d passed down to his son, Dash. And neither man struck me as a fool.
My theory was that Police Chief Marcus Wagner was a damn good cop. But Draven, Dash and their Gypsies were always one step ahead.
If I was going to get a story, I’d have to be at the top of my game. Draven had taken a backseat at the garage, which meant I’d be up against Dash. I’d seen the man—I’d been watching.
Dash rode his black motorcycle along Central Avenue like he owned Clifton Forge, flashing a straight, white smile that was blinding. He was the quintessential bad boy. His sexy smirk, chiseled jaw and day-old stubble made all the ladies swoon.
Every lady except me.
The other women in town could have fun with his amazing body. What I wanted from Dash were his secrets.
And I’d need the chief’s help to get them.
In my previous visits here, I hadn’t uttered a word about the Gypsies. I’d only come in to meet the chief and build a rapport. But if I was going to start my investigation, then it was time to go for broke.
“Do you know why the Tin Gypsies closed down so suddenly?”
His jaw stopped midchew and he narrowed his gaze. “No.”
Wrong move. He was going to clam up.
“Okay.” I held up my hands. “I was just curious.”
“Why?”
“The truth? My gut says they are a story.”
The chief swallowed and leaned his elbows on the desk. “Listen, Bryce. I like you. I like your dad. It’s nice to have decent reporters running the paper for once. But you’re new here, so let me give you a history lesson.”
I scooted to the edge of my seat. “Okay.”
“Our town has had more trouble over the last twenty-something years than most have in a hundred. The Gypsies brought a lot of shit here. They know it and they’re trying to make up for it. They’ve been nothing but law-abiding men for over a year. They follow the law to the letter and the town’s changing. I’ve got citizens who feel safe walking down the streets at night. They leave their car doors unlocked when they run into the grocery store. This is a good town.”
“I’m not trying to impede progress.”
“Great. Then leave the Gypsies alone. I’ve gone head-to-head with them more times than I can count. What I could punish them for, I have. And I’m watching. If they do anything illegal, I’ll be the first one there to make them pay. Trust me on that.”
The chief didn’t sound like a fan of the former club. Good to know. But if he thought his warning was going to scare me away, he was mistaken. Now I was more curious than ever what had caused the Gypsies to shut their clubhouse doors.
If they were even closed. Maybe this was all a ruse.
“Uh, Chief?” A uniformed officer poked his head inside the door. “We’ve got an issue that needs your attention.”
Chief Wagner took another licorice stick and stood. “Thanks for the candy.”
“You’re welcome.” I stood too. “Starbursts or Skittles next time?”
“You keep bringing me licorice, and we’ll get along just fine.” He escorted me to the door. “Take care. And remember what I said. Some things and some people are better left alone.”
“Gotcha.” Probably best not to mention that my next stop was for an oil change at Dash Slater’s garage.
I waved goodbye to the ch
ief and the other officer, then headed down the hallway. The sign for the ladies’ room lured me inside after too much coffee. I used the bathroom and washed my hands, my anticipation growing for my first interaction with the Tin Gypsies, but as I went to open the door, a word from two men standing in the hallway outside caught my attention.
Murder.
I froze and hovered, listening through the crack. The men were close, their voices no more than a whisper.
“Riley took the call. Said he’s never seen blood like that before. The chief is debriefing him right now. Then we’ll all need to be ready to roll out.”
“Do you think he did it?”
“Draven? Hell yeah. Maybe we’ll finally have something to pin on that slick bastard.”
Oh. My. God. If my ears weren’t betraying me, I’d just overheard two cops talking about a murder and Draven Slater was the key suspect. I needed to get out of this bathroom. Now.
I eased the door closed and took three quiet steps backward. Then I coughed, loud, and let my heels click on the tile floor. I whipped open the door in a fury and pretended to be shocked at the men right outside.
“Oh, hell.” I threw a hand over my heart. “You guys scared me. I didn’t think anyone was out here.”
They shared a look with one another, then stepped apart.
“Sorry about that, ma’am.”
“No problem.” I smiled and walked by, doing my best to keep the urgency out of my footsteps.
I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, using the gesture to sneak a glance over my shoulder at the bullpen. Three male officers were standing at the far corner desk; none had noticed me walking toward the exit. Two of the men were practically buzzing. Mouths moved fast as one talked over the other. Hand gestures flew. The third officer stood with his arms wrapped around his chest, his face pale as he shifted from foot to foot.
My heart raced as I found the nearest exit door and pushed outside. When the sunshine hit my face, I flew into motion, running for my car.
“Shit.” My fingers fumbled to hit the ignition button and put the car in reverse. “I knew it!”
My hands shook as I gunned the engine for the street, checking my rearview mirror to make sure the cops weren’t behind me.
“Think, Bryce. What’s the plan?” I had no idea where the murder had happened so I couldn’t show up at the scene of the crime. I could wait around and follow the cops, but they’d shut me out before I saw a thing. So what else was there?
Be an eyewitness to Draven’s arrest. Bingo.
It was a risk, going to the garage and not waiting around to follow the cops to the murder scene. Hell, Draven might not even be at the garage. But if I was going to gamble, it was my best chance at a scoop. I could learn more about the murder itself from those blessed press sheets.
Yes, if my luck held, I’d be standing front and center when Draven got hauled off to jail. Hopefully Dash would be there too. Maybe he’d be caught by surprise just enough that I’d get a glimpse at him during a moment of weakness. I’d learn something that would help me uncover the secrets hidden behind his ridiculously handsome face.
I smiled over the steering wheel.
Time for that oil change.
Chapter Two
Bryce
My heart was pounding as the Clifton Forge Garage came into view. My fingers were shaking. This thrill—this one-of-a-kind exhilaration that only came with the hunt—was why I’d become a reporter. Not to sit in front of a camera and read someone else’s story.
Regret was the driving force behind this Tin Gypsy story. Remorse was the reason it was so, so important.
I’d chosen a television career with such promise. I’d changed direction, moving away from the newspaper job I’d always planned to take. The job everyone had expected me to take. But after college, I hadn’t wanted to follow in Dad’s footsteps, at least not right away. A fresh-faced woman in her early twenties, I’d been inspired to forge a path of my own. So I’d moved to Seattle from Montana and taken up TV.
Along the way, I’d made choices. None of them had seemed wrong in the moment. Until one day, a decade later, I’d woken up in my Seattle apartment and realized the collection of those good choices had accumulated into a bad life.
My job was unfulfilling. I slept alone most nights. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a woman in her early thirties who wasn’t happy.
The TV station owned my life. Every action was done to their bidding. Because my hours were so odd, I didn’t even bother trying to date. What man wanted to have dinner at four and be in bed by seven? It wasn’t a big deal when I was in my twenties. I’d always figured the right guy would come around eventually. Things would fall into place when it was time. I’d get married. Have a family.
Well, things hadn’t fallen into place. And if I stayed in Seattle, they never would.
Clifton Forge was my fresh start. I’d rechecked my expectations for the future. The chances I’d meet a man and have kids while I was bodily able to were dwindling. So if becoming an old maid was my path, then at least I’d enjoy my damn job.
My career in Seattle had turned out to be a dud. Network executives had made me promise after promise that eventually I’d have more freedom. They’d assured me I’d get the opportunity to tell my own stories instead of interviewing other journalists and reading from approved cue cards.
Either they’d lied, or they hadn’t thought I had the talent.
Regardless, I moved home feeling like a failure. Was I?
Maybe. Or maybe when I wasn’t on camera, when people needed me for my brain and not my face, I’d finally stand out. I’d prove to myself I was good enough.
I’d dedicated my life to journalism. To finding hidden truths and exposing buried lies. It was more than a job, it was my passion. If there was an epic story lurking under the surface of this quaint small town, I was telling it.
A murder investigation involving Draven Slater? Sign me up.
My foot hovered over the gas pedal as I idled at the intersection across the street from the garage, checking my rearview again for red and blue lights. If the chief was coming this way to arrest Draven, I didn’t have much of a lead.
That was, if I was even heading in the right direction.
There was the chance Draven wasn’t at the garage but at home and the cops were headed there. I stayed the course. Whether I managed to track down Draven or not, I was heading to the garage.
Today was the day I was meeting Dash Slater. Today I’d get to size up my opponent.
I used my knee to steer as I whipped off the sweater I’d pulled on this morning. Luckily, my black tank top underneath had a plunging neckline and was free of deodorant streaks. I drove one handed, grabbing the small can of emergency-situation dry shampoo from my purse to spray and fluff my hair. Then I swiped on a coat of my dark-rose lipstick seconds before pulling into the parking lot.
The garage itself was huge. I’d driven by a few times but had never actually stopped. It was more intimidating now, being parked in front of the four open bay doors that towered above my Audi.
At the end of the long asphalt parking lot, a building was tucked next to a small grove of trees. The windows were dark and there was a thick chain looped around the front door’s handle. The attached padlock glinted in the sunlight.
That had to be the Tin Gypsies’ former headquarters. A clubhouse—that’s what these gangs called them, right? There were no cars or motorcycles parked by the clubhouse. The grass around it was overgrown.
At a glance, the building seemed closed down. Abandoned. But how many men had a key to that padlock? How many men went inside after the sun went down? How many men entered through a hidden back door?
I refused to take that building at face value. Sure, it looked derelict from the outside. Was it thriving behind those closed doors?
In my mirrors, there was a row of motorcycles parked against the tall chain-link fence that bordered the property of the garage. Down the fence, there were car
s, some covered in tarps as they waited to be repaired or restored. All four of the garage bays in front of me were full of vehicles—three trucks and a red classic car.
The steel siding on the garage was bright in the morning sun. The office was closest to the street, the sign above its door not really a sign. The large words Clifton Forge Garage had been airbrushed onto the steel building with pristine strokes of red, black, green and yellow paint.
Past the vehicles in the garage, the place was immaculate. Not the greasy, dingy place I’d expected. The florescent lights illuminated what looked like a mostly spotless concrete floor. The red tool benches along the walls were clean and new. This place screamed money. More money than a small-town garage could make doing routine oil changes and tire rotations.
I checked my hair and lipstick in the rearview mirror one last time, then stepped outside. The moment my door slammed closed, two mechanics appeared from underneath the truck hoods where they’d been working.
“Morning.” One of them waved before giving me a full-body appraisal. A grin tugged at his mouth. He liked what he saw.
Score one for the tank top.
“Good morning.” I waved as both men strode my way.
Each wore denim-blue coveralls and thick-soled boots. The leaner of the two had his hair cut short, revealing a black tattoo that trailed down his neck only to disappear beneath the collar of his coveralls. The bulkier man had his dark hair tied back and his coveralls unzipped, tied around his waist. His chest was covered with a white tank, his two beefy arms bare except for the mass of colorful tattoos.
Maybe this was why the garage was raking in the cash. Single women from half the state would drive here to have their oil changed by these hot mechanics. Though neither of these handsome men was the one I was after.
Where was Draven? I hoped he was in the office drinking coffee.
“What can we do for you, ma’am?” the short-haired man asked as he cleaned his black-stained hands on a red rag.