Athena Sisterhood

by Dharma Kelleher

  “Well, it’s about goddamn time.”

  Rios opened her notebook to an incident report. “I understand that two of your members were run off the road on Tuesday night. Is that correct?”

  Raymond’s jaw went slack. “How did…who told you that?”

  “So it did happen?”

  “I’m not sure. I may have heard about something like that.”

  “You’re not sure? I have a report that a Zia Pearson, who I believe goes by the nickname Indigo, was treated at a medical center in Bradshaw City the next morning for injuries sustained in that incident. I would think as president of the Athena Sisterhood, you would be aware of that.”

  “I may have heard something about that.”

  “Where were you that night?” asked Johnson.

  “I was in bed. I had a class to teach the next morning.”

  Johnson pulled a copy of the arson investigator’s report on the Bootlegger Bob’s fire from Rios’ notebook and laid it in front of Professor Raymond. “Are you familiar with Bootlegger Bob’s?”

  “Should I be?”

  “It’s a popular biker bar frequented by members of the Confederate Thunder. A witness saw a dark green convertible leaving the Bootlegger Bob’s parking lot shortly after it was firebombed on the same night your club members were run off the road. What kind of car do you drive?”

  Raymond looked from Johnson to Rios. “Do I need to call my lawyer?”

  Rios shook her head. “Not at all. We were just hoping you might have some information about who might have started a fire at Bootlegger Bob’s that killed five people.”

  “I drive a green Audi. But I don’t know anything about the fire. Like I said, I was in bed.”

  “You sure?” asked Johnson. “We’re running fingerprints and DNA on evidence found at the scene, so if there’s anything you want to tell us, now would be the time to do it.”

  Raymond fidgeted ever so slightly. “I wasn’t there so how would I know anything?”

  Rios shrugged. “Maybe someone in your club knows something. You won’t mind providing me with a list of names of all of your members, would you? Including prospects?”

  “Why should I?”

  Rios leaned over the desk and glowered at Raymond, all niceties cast aside. “Because there is a growing pile of bodies connected to your club. Four dead from taking hex laced with strychnine, which someone in the Athena Sisterhood is selling. One Thunderman named Gator dead from a shotgun blast to the belly. Witnesses put you there as well. And now five people affiliated with the Thunder burned to death immediately after two of yours got run off the road. And coincidentally enough, you drive a car matching one spotted leaving the scene.”

  Professor Raymond’s gaze flicked down for a second before once again meeting Rios’. “If you had any solid evidence that I committed any crimes, you would have arrested me by now instead of badgering me in my office.”

  Rios stared at her, unflinching, for what seemed like hours, letting the tension build once again. It didn’t bother Rios. This might be the professor’s office, but interrogating suspects was Rios’ game.

  Raymond smiled. “You know? I recognize you. You hang out at LezBeans Coffee and Books every Sunday, don’t you?”

  Rios’ face warmed. She preferred to keep her personal and professional lives separate. “You don’t want to provide me a list of names, fine. We’ll get them another way. But we will find who in the Athena Sisterhood is dealing hex. We will find the arsonist who burned down Bootlegger Bob’s. And everyone involved, directly or indirectly, will be charged with murder. Enjoy your freedom while you can, Professor.” Rios stormed out.

  Johnson caught up with her halfway down the hall. “You really go to that gay coffee house every week?”

  “LezBeans isn’t a bar,” said Rios as she hustled down the stairs. “It’s a coffeehouse and bookstore.”

  “Are you gay?”

  Rios wheeled around and glowered at Johnson. “Would you have a problem with it if I was, Detective?”

  “Um, no. I guess not. Just caught me by surprise is all.”

  Rios fixed her eyes on Johnson. “Let me make one thing clear. My personal life has nothing to do with this job. You got me?”

  Johnson stared at the floor. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “People are dying out there. It’s up to us to prevent more from dying. We’ve got ten homicides to close. And I intend to close them.”

  Chapter 37

  The first bullet made a nickel-size hole in the Kokopelli Café’s exterior wall a few feet in front of Shea. A fraction of a second later, the second bullet ripped through the paper bag she held containing two coffees that exploded. Time slowed to a crawl as she turned to face the shooter, catching a fleeting glimpse of a dark green convertible with top up. Labrys!

  Shea was drawing her Glock from her waistband when the third bullet slammed into her chest. Searing pain radiated throughout her body, driving her to the ground. Her jaw tensed.

  She willed herself up again, ignoring the screams of onlookers. Her free hand went to her chest as she winced. No blood. Kevlar. I’m okay.

  Down the street, the convertible ducked behind a semi and disappeared over the next rise heading north toward Ironwood. “Fuck me! You ain’t getting away that easy.” Her voice was hoarse and gravelly.

  She hopped on Sweet Betsy, reholstering her pistol in the process, and blazed out of the parking lot, sending pedestrians scrambling for safety.

  Her eyes teared up as the icy wind blasted her unprotected face. Every heartbeat amplified the pain in her chest. Shea didn’t care. The only thing that mattered at this point was giving Labrys what she deserved.

  After a few moments, Shea spotted the semi. The convertible had to be on the other side, but oncoming traffic prevented her from passing the truck.

  When the lane finally cleared, Shea pulled into the left lane, but Labrys’ car was nowhere to be seen. Where the hell is she? Did she pull off?

  Shea glanced all around, checked her mirrors. The adrenaline shooting through her system made it hard to focus. Her mind jumped around like a rabbit. What roads could she have pulled off on? There aren’t any. Did I really see her? Did she go after Jessica? No, Jess is at work. What about Iron Goddess? God I need a drink. Annie’s stealing my whiskey. Wait, where am I?

  She realized she was parked on the side of the road, shivering. Her face numb. Hands stiff. Stomach churning. A wave of nausea hit and she puked on the ground next to her, droplets of vomit sizzling as they hit the hot engine.

  Slow down, girl. You’re alive. She took a deep, painful breath, and let it out slowly. She kicked down her side stand, unlocked her helmet, shoved it on her head, then pulled back onto the highway.

  “I know where you work, bitch.”

  —

  Shea paid for parking in one of the guest lots on the Central Arizona University campus, then ran to Mofford Hall, where Labrys’ office was located. Though it had been years since Shea had been there, her feet still knew the way even if her head was still a bit muddled. Inside, she took the steps two at a time to the second floor, charged through a knot of students milling about the hallway, and pounded on Labrys’ office door.

  “Office hours aren’t until two,” said a muffled voice. “Come back then.”

  Shea pounded again. “Open the fucking door, Labrys, or I swear I’ll kick it in.”

  Shea could hear two distinct voices inside, followed by the sound of the door being unlocked. Shea raised her fist ready to strike. The door opened to reveal a twenty-something with short red hair. Her blouse was half tucked in and her hair mussed.

  The young redhead jumped back in fear. “What the hell?”

  Shea lowered her arm. “Where’s Deb Raymond?”

  Labrys appeared in the doorway, looking equally unkempt. “Go on, Parker. We can finish this later.”

  “What’s your damage, bitch?” The redhead walked out with a quick glare at Shea.

  Shea pushed her way into
the room and locked the door behind her.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, prospect?”

  Shea drew her Glock and pointed it at Labrys. “You think you can kill me?”

  Labrys took a step back, a mixture of fear and resolve in her eyes. “Put that gun away, Havoc, before someone gets hurt. What in hell’s going on?”

  “This is what’s going on, you fucking psycho!” From her jacket pocket, Shea pulled out the threatening note she’d received and shoved it in Labrys’ face. “You think I wouldn’t recognize your handwriting?”

  Labrys snatched it from Shea’s hand and examined it. “What is this?”

  “Like you don’t know.”

  “You think I’d threaten you? Have you lost your mind?”

  “Oh, so you didn’t just try to shoot me down in Sycamore Springs? Bullshit! I saw your green convertible as you drove by.”

  “That’s impossible. I was just with…” Labrys gestured to the door. “Well, you saw her. How could I be here and in Sycamore Springs at the same time?”

  Shea’s mind spun in twisted circles. Nothing was making sense. Was Labrys telling the truth? If it wasn’t her, then who? She holstered the pistol.

  “Here. Sit.” Labrys led Shea to a chair. “You want something to drink?”

  “Whiskey. Bushmills, if you got it.”

  “Well, you’ll have to settle for bottled water.” Labrys pulled a Dasani from the minifridge. The blue plastic top crackled as she opened it and handed it to Shea. “Now talk to me. Did someone really try to kill you?”

  “Little bit ago. In front of Kokopelli’s.” Shea stuck her finger in the hole in her jacket.

  “Holy shit, Havoc.” Labrys unzipped Shea’s jacket and touched the dimple in the Kevlar vest underneath. “Are you all right?”

  “Sore, but I’ll live.” Is she lying to me? Fucking with my head the way she always did?

  “It wasn’t me, I assure you. Nor did I write this note.”

  “Looks like your handwriting.”

  “It’s not. Sure, I was miffed at you for accusing me of dealing drugs. But you’re a prospect of the Sisterhood. Hell, we have a history together. I would never do anything to violate that.”

  Shea sipped the water. The pain in her chest had dulled. “The Thunder sold hex to someone named Bonefish at the Tenth Inning. I show up looking for Bonefish and find you walking in with a big envelope full of cash and walking out with a big bag. What was I supposed to think?”

  “Why are you so obsessed with this hex business? We’re not cops. Yes, it sucks that Pipes died, but she was an addict. She relapsed. It happens.”

  “It’s not just Pipes. Three other women are dead from taking the drug. Ain’t we supposed to be protecting women?”

  The two locked eyes for a moment. Shea could see the wheels turning in Labrys’ mind.

  “Havoc, are you working for the cops?”

  Shea caught her breath. “Why would you ask that?”

  “Two detectives were here earlier today, asking me about hex and about Bootlegger Bob’s burning down. Somehow they knew the Thunder ran Indigo and Savage off the road. Now how would they know that? Are you a snitch?”

  Shea folded her arms across her chest and stared at the floor. The jig was up. “I got jammed up last summer and got caught with a gun I’d taken off Mackey, a Thunderman. Turns out it was linked to a murder. This Detective Rios threatened to send me back to prison if I didn’t become a CI.”

  “Damn, never thought I’d see the day that Shea Stevens would be one of Buzzkill’s snitches. Gotta say I’m a little disappointed.”

  “I didn’t have no choice. Besides, I fucking hate drug dealers. I don’t want anyone else to die from taking drugs laced with rat poison. It’s gotta stop.” Shea sighed. “This mean I’m outta the club?”

  “Disloyalty is a big deal. I should kick you out.”

  “I did what I had to do. You do what you gotta do. But someone in the club’s dealing this shit. Who better than me to help you find her?”

  An awkward silence settled in the room. Shea replayed the shooting in her mind. A figure in a dark green convertible. Face just a blur, obscured by the fog of the bullet’s impact. Who the hell was it?

  “Someone really shot you?” Labrys’ finger hooked the bullet hole in Shea’s jacket.

  Shea wrapped her hand around Labrys’ and felt a surge of emotions she had once buried. Passion. Excitement. Need. “Yeah.”

  “You don’t go down easy, do you?”

  “No.” Shea met Labrys’ gaze.

  “You’re still a prospect. For now. But no more snitching. If someone in our club is dealing, we’ll handle it ourselves.”

  “Thanks.” Shea’s hand pulled away and rubbed the spot where the bullet had hit the vest. “Tell me the truth. You burn down Bootlegger Bob’s?”

  Labrys looked Shea straight in the eye. “No, I did not.”

  “Good to know.” Shea still wasn’t sure whether to believe Labrys or not. She drank the last of the water and tossed the bottle into a wastebasket.

  “You know about tonight’s emergency meeting?” asked Labrys.

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Good. Now get out of here. I’ve got a class to teach.”

  Steel-gray clouds threatened rain as Shea walked out of the building and across campus to the guest parking lot. She rubbed the aching impact point on her chest.

  If it wasn’t Labrys, then who the hell shot me? Was it the same green convertible seen leaving Bootlegger Bob’s?

  She closed her eyes and tried again to see the face of the shooter as he or she sped past in that dark green convertible.

  She nearly jumped when her phone rang. It was Terrance. “Yo, T? What’s up?”

  “What’s up? There was a drive-by next door at the café. Ms. Brooks said she saw you get shot.”

  “Drive-by, huh?” Shea forced a chuckle. It hurt to laugh. “Wasn’t me. I had an errand to run in Ironwood. I’ll be down at the shop soon.”

  “Ms. Brooks seemed awfully convinced it was you. Cops even stopped by asking for you.”

  “Which cops?”

  “I don’t know. A couple deputies I didn’t recognize. Why? What’s going on?”

  “Nothing, T.”

  “Nothing? Then how come your girlfriend and your niece are crashing at my place? Who’s after you, sister girl?”

  Shea sighed. “Honestly, I’m not sure. Probably has to do with the people who are dealing that jacked-up hex at clubs. I must’ve pissed off someone while looking for the dealer.”

  “Should I close the shop till this blows over?”

  “Shop should be fine. It’s me they’re after.”

  “Be honest with me, Shea. That shooting next door? Were you there?”

  “Let’s just say I’m thankful for Kevlar.”

  “Dammit, girl, why didn’t you just say that to start with?”

  “Didn’t want you to worry is all. Look, I’m okay. Whoever’s after me probably thinks they got me, so the shop’s in no danger. Besides, we can’t afford to stop work on the Stansbury bike, right?”

  Terrance grumbled into the phone. “You best be right. Now get your ass back here.”

  “Will do.”

  “Oh, and one more thing. Call Jessica. She’s worried about you.”

  “I’m on it, T.”

  Chapter 38

  Rios printed out three months’ worth of Professor Raymond’s bank statements, handed one month to Johnson, and kept the other two for herself.

  “What am I looking for?” asked Johnson.

  “Anything other than groceries, paying the light bill, the usual.”

  “All right.”

  Rios went line by line through the first statement. In addition to Raymond’s twice-monthly paycheck from the university, there were several cash deposits. The size of the deposits varied from a couple of hundred dollars to a few thousand. But nothing that would have triggered the bank to report the deposit to the government. Th
ere were also numerous large cash withdrawals, as well as payments to organizations like the Women’s Equality Fund and the Athena Sisterhood National Chapter. She highlighted the suspicious transactions.

  “Find anything interesting?” Rios glanced over at Johnson’s statement, several lines of which were highlighted in pink.

  “She moves around a lot of cash, both in and out. Also, there’s a purchase at Roy’s Toy and Hobby. She doesn’t have any kids,” said Johnson. “Could be where she bought a giant slingshot for launching Molotov cocktails.”

  Rios considered it. “You could be right. How long ago was the purchase at Roy’s Toy and Hobby?”

  “Two months.”

  “We can check to see if the shop has a record of what was purchased. I think we can get a search warrant of Raymond’s home based on bank statements, the matching car, the lighter.” She picked up her phone and called the DA.

  —

  Dressed in body armor and with a search warrant in hand, Rios and Johnson led the Special Tactics Unit up to Professor Raymond’s front door as the day’s shadows were getting long.

  The house was a well-kept if smallish bungalow in a historic Ironwood neighborhood. White flowers bordered a lawn of winter rye. A rainbow flag hung from a pole mounted on the side of the front porch.

  Rios pounded on the rustic mahogany door. “Open up. Police! Search warrant!” When there was no response after a minute, Rios tried again.

  “I didn’t see her Audi in the carport. Just a motorcycle,” said Johnson. “She’s probably not home.”

  Rios turned to the STU officer with the battering ram. “Okay, break it down.”

  With one swing, the doorjamb shattered, knocking the wooden door wide open. The members of the Special Tactics Unit rushed in armed with assault rifles. Rios wasn’t expecting any serious resistance, but she didn’t want any surprises. She and Johnson followed the STU through the door, sidearms at the ready.

  Inside, the house was filled with expensive hardwood furniture and antiques. Abstract paintings and shelves filled with hardcover books lined the wall. A sculpture of two entwined stylized women stood as the centerpiece of a coffee table. In the small kitchen, high-end cooking pans hung from a rack mounted to the ceiling.