Rios studied Escobar’s face, then smiled. “That’s okay. I believe you. Did the victim say anything while she was still alive?”
“Naw, just made a lotta weird grunting noises, like she was trying to talk but forgot how.”
“Anyone else around?”
“Nope, just the junkie.”
“Tell me something. Why sleep in the alley? Why not in the Samaritan Shelter on Pinetop Street?”
“You ever stay at the Samaritan Shelter?” asked Escobar.
“Can’t say I have. Stayed in a group home for a while as a kid. Beat sleeping on the streets.”
“Trust me, the Samaritan Shelter ain’t no place for a decent person. Full of junkies, dealers, and hos. Last time I stayed there, some bitch tried to cut me for my shoes. And don’t get me started about them bedbugs. Ugh! I do not need that kind of aggravation.”
“Can’t say I blame you. Still, must be hard when it gets cold like this.”
“Afghanistan was a helluva lot colder than this.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Rios pulled a twenty out of her wallet and held it out for Escobar to see. “Anything else you can tell me about who this woman was or how she died?”
“Ain’t no more to tell.”
Rios handed the woman the twenty. “Thanks for your help, Sergeant.”
Escobar pocketed the money and wandered off pushing the cart.
Johnson caught up to Rios as she returned to the crime scene.
“Get anything from her?” asked Johnson.
Rios shook her head. “She only confirmed what Dr. Crawford’s telling us. The victim died from a seizure, most likely due to strychnine-laced hex. But we still don’t have an ID.”
“So what now?”
“Contact the media and give them a physical description of the victim. Maybe we can get a lead from someone who knows her.” Rios checked the time on her phone. “Trip Hop Lounge probably won’t open for a few hours yet. When they do, we can check their security feed. If she paid for drinks with a credit card, maybe we can locate the transaction and put a name with the face.”
Chapter 4
The moment Shea walked in the back door of Iron Goddess, her ears were assaulted with the sounds of a forties-style crooner singing so loud her vision blurred. With her hands over her ears, she rushed over to Lakota, who was installing a lowering kit on a BMW K1300. “What the hell is that?”
“What?” Lakota slipped off her ear protection.
“The fucking music.”
Lakota smirked and gestured toward Switch, working on the wiring of another bike ten feet away, her bushy hair looking more out-of-control than usual. “She’s taken a sudden liking to Perry Como.”
Shea buried her face in her palm. “My ears are bleeding.”
“She had a rough night last night,” Lakota explained. “I was at her place until three calming her down.”
A bad night for Switch was something Shea didn’t want to imagine. When Switch was a kid, the Department of Child Safety had found her naked and chained to a pipe in her sadistic parents’ laundry room. Shea had a soft spot in her heart for the young woman, but she also had a shop to run. “At least turn the volume down!”
Lakota hurried over to the sound system and dropped the volume to a more reasonable level.
“Thank you!” Shea cocked her jaw to equalize the pressure in her ears. “And if you can do it without triggering Switch, change it to something from this century. That crooner shit makes me want to strangle someone.”
Lakota nodded with a shrug. “You’re the boss.”
“Yes. Yes, I am.” Shea rubbed her temples, warding off a headache that was forming.
Kyle approached and cocked his head at an angle. “Dude, we gotta talk.”
“What’s up, Kyle?”
“Look, I know I’m new here. And I’m really grateful for this job. But, dude…” He frowned; an embarrassed look darkened his face. “I got to talk to you about Switch.”
“Come on back.” Shea led him down a short hallway to the shop’s office.
Terrance Douglas, her business partner and the shop’s operations manager, was sitting behind his desk talking on the phone. His trim, full beard and tidy afro gave the burly man a warm, fatherly look.
Shea took a seat behind her own desk and gestured for Kyle to grab one of the chairs in front. “So what’s up?”
He hopped onto the chair and flipped open a pocket-size notebook. “In the past week, Switch has called me midget, squirt, half-pint, hobbit, Keebler, and man-baby. I may be an ex-con, but I shouldn’t have to put up with that crap.”
Shea rubbed her throbbing temples. “Agreed.”
“People act like Switch can do whatever she wants.”
“Well, when she gets upset, things tend to get broken.”
“All due respect, boss, but that’s bullshit. I shouldn’t have to be insulted just because she’s batshit crazy.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks, dude. I appreciate it.” Kyle hopped down from the chair and ambled back to the workshop. Terrance hung up the phone.
“Trouble in the ranks?” Terrance asked.
“Switch being Switch. How was your date last night?”
Terrance broke into a goofy grin. “It was good. Jake’s coming over for dinner tomorrow night.”
“Wow, two nights in a row. Sounds serious.”
“I’m hoping.”
“He know you’re trans?”
“Yes, I told him before he first asked me out. It’s a nonissue.”
“Glad to hear it. ’Bout time you found someone. What’s your son think of him?”
“They only met briefly when Jake picked me up. But I think Elon likes him. I figure if he hated him, he would have let me know.” Terrance picked up a folder from the side of his desk. “I see the Wexler bike is finished. Nice job. How late were you here?”
“Too late.” Shea poured herself a cup of coffee and settled behind her own desk, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “But it was due this morning.”
“Oh. Ms. Wexler called yesterday and said she can’t pick it up for another week or so. I thought I told you.”
“Apparently not.”
Terrance gave an apologetic look. “Sorry.”
“Oh well, now we can show it off at the Women’s Bike Night event on Thursday.”
“Good idea. Kokopelli Café agreed to do the catering. One of the DJs from HausMusik will be providing the music.” Terrance handed Shea a piece of paper from his desk. “Oh, and before I forget, we may have another order for a custom bike.”
“Another one? I was hoping to build a show bike for the Tucson Bike Expo.” Shea’s expression darkened as she examined the quote sheet.
“The expo’s a gamble. This custom job is money in the bank. This bike should be our first priority.”
Shea rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” She looked at the name on the sheet. “So when is this Chlöe Stansbury supposed to be here?”
“Early afternoon.”
“Great.” Shea noticed a pink message note on her desk. “What’s this?”
“A woman came in asking for you. She was wearing an Athena Sisterhood cut,” he said, referring to the leather vest that members of biker clubs wore. “After I informed her we don’t allow gang colors here, she left her name and number. Didn’t say what it was about.”
The name on the note read “Debbie Raymond.” Shea didn’t need Terrance to tell her what her ex-girlfriend wanted. It was another invitation to join the Athena Sisterhood. But Shea had no desire to spend another minute with Debbie, much less become a prospect.
Shea tossed the message in the trash, and stood up. “Until Ms. Chlöe Stansbury gets here, I’m going to be welding together a fucking motorcycle frame.”
Chapter 5
Rios sat at her desk examining the overdose victim’s purse and phone. A single crack traversed the phone’s screen. It was also out of juice.
She opened her bottom des
k drawer and sorted through a tangle of cords until she found a charger that fit the phone and plugged it in. With a little luck, it would lead her to the victim’s identity and, more important, to whoever sold the drugs that killed her.
Detective Johnson, who shared a cubicle with Rios, walked into the Violent Crimes Division and set an evidence bag on Rios’ desk containing a black Louis Vuitton wallet. “Good news. We caught a woman using your Jane Doe’s credit card.”
“Who had it?”
“A woman named Tracy Phillips. A clerk at a convenience store asked for ID when she tried to buy a case of beer. Phillips panicked and tried to run with the beer. A uniformed deputy happened to be in there and nabbed her. She’s down in interview two.”
“Who’s our Jane Doe?”
“Genette Abrams.”
“How did Phillips get the wallet?”
“Claims she was walking down the street when she spotted Ms. Abrams’ body in the alley around two in the morning.”
“Walking down the street an hour after the bars closed? This Phillips woman have any priors?”
“A few. Solicitation, shoplifting, and possession—marijuana, less than an ounce. You want to interview her?”
“Yeah. Maybe she knows who’s dealing hex at the clubs.” As Rios stood up, a blue battery icon appeared on the cracked phone screen. “Thank goodness for small miracles.”
Rios entered the interview room carrying her case folder. At the far side of the table, a woman wearing a lot of makeup and a low-cut tank top leaned back in a chair with her arms crossed. Her flowery perfume hit Rios like a cloud of kerosene vapor.
A man in a chocolate-brown suit sat next to the woman. His hands rested on a black leather binder in front of him.
“Tracy Phillips?” Rios sat opposite the woman.
“Yeah.”
The brown-suited man extended his hand. “And I’m Richard Velasquez, Ms. Phillips’ attorney.” The droop of his right eyelid became more prominent as he spoke.
Rios shook his offered hand. “I’m Detective Rios with the Violent Crimes Division. I’m investigating the death of Genette Abrams.” She pulled out a photo of Abrams’ body and slid it over to Velasquez and his client. Ms. Phillips stared at the far wall without a glance at the photo.
“My client had nothing to do with this woman’s death.”
“The victim’s wallet was found in Ms. Phillips’ possession after she attempted to use Ms. Abrams’ credit cards to purchase beer.”
“That junkie bitch was dead when I found the wallet,” said Phillips. “Ain’t like she was gonna need it no more.”
Velasquez tried to hush her. “Detective Rios, based on what my client has told me, the victim died of some kind of poisoning. Is that correct?”
“We are still investigating cause of death. Why?”
“My client witnessed the deceased buying drugs that quite possibly killed her. What would that be worth to you?”
“If your client can ID the dealer, I can talk to the DA about a reduced sentence on the credit card fraud, theft, and shoplifting charges.”
Velasquez leaned over to consult with his client in whispers, then sat up again. “My client is willing to share what she knows in exchange for immunity from all charges.”
“Immunity? Your client has a record. Her information better be rock solid. Otherwise, she’s facing at least six months in jail, plus an additional year of probation.”
Velasquez nodded to Phillips.
“Fine,” said Phillips, rolling her eyes. “Last night I saw some chick at Trip Hop Lounge dealing something in the ladies’ room.”
Rios perked up. “Some chick dealing something? You’re going to have to do better than that. What’d this chick look like?”
“White and kinda skinny.”
“Could you be more specific? Any distinguishing features? Hair color? Age? Clothing?”
“Didn’t pay that much attention to her, to be quite honest. Brown hair, maybe. Or was it blond? I don’t know.” Phillips picked at a scab on her arm. “She wore a leather vest with some patches on it; that I do remember.”
“What did the patches look like?”
“The patches on top and bottom had pink lettering and curved around a big one in the middle that looked like an owl.”
Rios recalled seeing a patch like that, but couldn’t place it. “What did the ones with the lettering say?”
“The one on bottom just said Arizona. There was a little one in the middle that just had the letters MC. Top one said something Sisterhood.”
A lightbulb went on in Rios’ mind. “Athena Sisterhood?”
“Yeah, that sounds right.”
“What else?”
“I don’t know what else.” Phillips shrugged. “Like I said, I didn’t hardly notice her. I was just in there to pee.”
“And you saw this woman in the biker vest sell drugs to the deceased?”
“Yeah. It was the dead chick. I remember I liked her lacy green top.”
“And her designer wallet, apparently.” Rios looked at Velasquez and crossed her arms. “Hardly the rock-sold information I was looking for.”
“Come on, Detective. She told you what she knows.”
“What she knows will not get me a conviction.”
“No, but it’s a lead. You know it’s one of those biker chicks selling the dope. Now how about that deal?”
“I’ll leave that up to the folks in the Property Crimes Division.” Rios stood up with her case folder and left.
After giving the detective in Property Crimes an update, she returned to the Violent Crimes Division. Lieutenant Dennis Goodman, a man with thinning white hair, intercepted her on her way to her desk.
Permanent creases extended down from the corners of his frown, giving him the look of a ventriloquist doll. “Detective, I’d like to see you in my office.” He beckoned with his finger. Rios followed him into his office. Goodman closed the door.
Rios took a seat. Her pulse quickened. “What’s up, Lieutenant?”
“You missed roll call this morning. I want to know where you are with the two strychnine-poisoning cases. The media’s crawling up my ass claiming someone’s poisoning college coeds.”
“It’s three now.”
“Three? Jesus Christ on a cracker!”
“As of this morning. But I think we’ve caught a break,” explained Rios. “A witness claims she saw the latest victim buying drugs at the Trip Hop Lounge. Didn’t get a very detailed description, but the dealer was wearing an Athena Sisterhood biker vest.”
Goodman let out a harsh breath. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”
“Why’s that, sir?”
“These women are fanatics, attacking anyone perceived to be sexist. Property Crimes Division is liking them for a couple of fire bombings at sites where they’ve held protest rallies.”
“I heard about the one at that strip club a few weeks ago.”
“And before that it was Senator Braeburn’s office. He’s a family man, for God’s sake. And that church run by that Reverend What’s-His-Name.”
“Reverend Phillips.” Rios was all too familiar with the preacher and his “kill the gays” rants. She wasn’t sorry to see his church burned to the ground. “Has anyone in the Athena Sisterhood been charged with any of these arson cases?”
“Not yet. But now that they’re killing people with rat poison, it’s in my wheelhouse.” He leaned over the desk, his face dark and brooding. “I want them shut down, Detective.”
“I have an informant who can probably get inside.”
“Make that happen. You close these cases, you’ll be that much closer to making sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
Goodman leaned back. “Dismissed.”
“What was that about?” asked Johnson as Rios returned to her desk.
“Goodman wants this new women’s motorcycle club shut down, especially now that it looks like they’re connected to these strychnine deaths.” Rios retrieved the v
ictim’s wallet from the evidence bag. “According to her ID, latest victim’s name is Genette Abrams, twenty-two. Lives at 2416 North Shadow Hills Road, unit D-209.”
“That’s in the Desert Vistas condominium complex,” said Johnson. “Six-figure luxury lofts. I’m surprised they’d let a druggie live there.”
“Drugs don’t care who you are.” Rios flipped through some of the cards in the wallet. “Besides, she has a university ID. Insurance card for a 2015 Mercedes C320. I’m guessing her wealthy parents were bankrolling her.”
“So what’s our next move?”
“Check with the university’s Admissions Department. See if you can get the contact info for her family. I’ll get a search warrant for her condo. I’m also going to set up a meeting with one of my confidential informants. If we can get her inside the Athena Sisterhood, maybe we can locate our dealer.”
Chapter 6
Shea peered through her welding goggles at the join between the pieces of aluminum that were coming together to form the frame of a new custom motorcycle. Who cares if our last show bike didn’t sell well? We’re building a reputation here. It’s an investment. Why doesn’t Terrance see that?
She pulled the trigger on the TIG welder. The aroma of ozone and carbon filled the air. Sparks exploded from the welder tip with an angry sizzle as aluminum glowed and softened, two pieces of metal melding into one.
Shea flipped up the mask and inspected her work. Her finger drew a line across the warm surface, as she brainstormed ideas for creating an agile bike with a Gothic biomechanical style. Despite the nagging ache in her collarbone, she was pleased she could still do the work she was so passionate about.
Her phone’s old-fashioned ringtone interrupted her inspection of the work in progress.
“Iron Goddess Custom Cycles. This is Shea.”
“Miss Stevens, this is Detective Rios with the Cortes County Sheriff’s Office.”
Shea tensed. She was never fond of talking to cops, least of all Detective Rios, who had forced her to sign a confidential informant agreement months after she was shot. “What do you want?”
“How’s your recovery going?” The compassion in the detective’s voice almost sounded genuine.
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