“I’m already a dead man. Only thing outing me’ll do is hurt Julia. After all she did for you after your mama died, I’da thought you’d be a bit more charitable.”
“You’re the one who’s been cheating on her, you piece of shit.”
Monster lunged at her over the table, but the booze had slowed his reflexes. He landed with a thud on the tabletop.
“You’re a real fuck-up, Monster,” Shea said as Monster fell back into his chair. “Tell the Thunder to leave the Athena Sisterhood alone or we will put more Thundermen in the ground.”
“You do what you gotta do,” grumbled Monster. “I just don’t care anymore.”
Shea glowered at him. Until he sobered up there was no more use talking to him. She took a final pull directly from the bottle of JD. “If you care about Julia and want her to see Annie when you’re gone, you best find a way to make this truce happen.” She stormed out.
As she pulled on her helmet, a gunshot shattered the quiet night. “What the fuck?”
It sounded like it had come from inside the house. Shea rushed back in and found Monster slumped in his chair, a gaping hole in the side of his head. Blood spatter covered the wall. His Beretta lay on the floor below his still hand.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Monster! What did you do?” A tidal wave of sadness hit her, making it hard to focus. “Goddamn, why would you do that?”
Her mind raced. I should call Julia. Or maybe someone else in the Thunder. No, not them. Savage. No, don’t get her involved. Rios? Hell no, definitely not Rios. Aw, fuck, I don’t know. I don’t know.
The ding of a cellphone pulled her out of her head. A text message from Julia appeared on Monster’s phone, saying what a great time she and her friends were having in Vegas. A photo of her grinning and holding a bottle of champagne followed.
Somewhere in the night, a police siren wailed and grew closer. “Shit, shit, shit!”
In a surge of adrenaline, she wiped down the glass she drank out of and put it upside down on the drying rack and grabbed Monster’s phone, before dashing back out to her motorcycle and driving away.
She resisted the urge to drive like a bat out of hell. Just be cool, she told herself as two police cars whizzed past toward Monster’s house. But the whiskey was kicking in strong, muddling her mind and messing with her sense of balance.
Skidding brakes and an angry car horn sent a jolt through her as she blew through a red light. She flipped off the driver, who was stopped in the middle of the intersection behind her. Fucking asshole!
Just gotta get home. Just get home. Everything’ll be all right. But she couldn’t get the image of Monster out of her head, which morphed into the face of her sister with half her face shot off, and then into her mother, dark blood pouring out of her neck through Shea’s slender fingers.
As she sped through a tight left turn, she felt the bike drift off the road and slip sideways out from under her. The ground slammed her left side.
The next thing she remembered was looking up at the Milky Way cutting a swath of stardust across the night sky. Her left shoulder throbbed to the rhythm of her chattering teeth. Despair and sorrow wrapped around her like a boa constrictor and squeezed.
She sobbed uncontrollably for what seemed like hours, her consciousness dissolving into the emotion. Self-loathing spread throughout her body and settled in her stomach. She barely managed to lift her helmet visor before she puked repeatedly on the ground beside her. When the dry heaves subsided, she was left feeling empty, a dry husk of what she could have been if she hadn’t been such a fuck-up.
Her back ached and she realized she’d been lying on her Glock. She peeled off her gloves and pulled the gun from its holster. It felt icy in her hand, and yet comforting. How easy would it be to put it to her head and pull the trigger. Everyone would finally be rid of me. Annie could grow up with someone that didn’t ignore her. Jess could find someone that treated her with the respect she deserved. Terrance could close the shop and get a job making a lot more money somewhere else.
She pulled off her helmet with her free hand and rested the gun against the side of her face. It felt so solid, the weight reassuring. Her index finger slipped inside the Glock’s trigger guard. I can do this. I deserve this. Sweet fucking oblivion.
The muffled sounds of Melissa Etheridge’s “I Want You” interrupted her train of thought. Jessica’s special ringtone. “Oh, Jess. I’m so sorry for being such a disappointment.”
Is this how you want Jess to find you? said a voice in her head. Are you really such a chickenshit loser that you would hurt her like this?
“Fuck!” She dropped the gun and unzipped her jacket, fishing out her phone. “Hello?” she choked out.
“Shea, are you okay? I called and left several messages. I got worried.”
“Sorry.” Shea wiped her face. “Sisterhood meeting ran long. Heading home now.”
“Why does your voice sound so funny?”
Shea sniffled. “Cold air making my nose run. I miss you.”
“I miss you, too. When can Annie and I come home?”
“Soon, babe. I promise.”
“Okay, well, I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Shea put the phone away and struggled to her feet. Her body trembled, as if she’d been rung like a bell. Her head slowly cleared. She stuffed the Glock back in its holster and wandered over to Sweet Betsy.
Grabbing hold of the handlebar and rear of the bike she heaved it up onto two wheels. Aside from some scratches and a loosened mirror, it seemed to be in one piece. Moments later, she was back on the road.
Chapter 41
Rios yawned and rubbed her eyes as she took a seat in Goodman’s office.
“What’s the word on this dead biker, Detective?”
“Name’s Vernon Mueller, goes by Monster. Member of the Confederate Thunder. Single gunshot to the head. Appears to be a suicide. But…”
“But what?” Goodman cocked his head.
“Neighbors say they heard a motorcycle drive away shortly after the gunshot. It may be nothing though.”
“Or it could be the Athena Sisterhood.”
“Maybe. No sign of forced entry. Haven’t been able to reach the wife, Julia Mueller, but have left a couple messages. Could be a domestic dispute turned deadly.”
“Keep me updated. Where are we with the strychnine cases?”
“We’ve got four confirmed deaths, so far. My CI gave me a name: Bonefish. Supposedly bought a large amount of hex from the Confederate Thunder last August and is one of the owners of the Tenth Inning sports bar. I checked the database. No one using that alias.”
“What about the Tenth Inning?”
“Neither of the owners have a criminal record. No liquor license violations. No felons on the payroll. Not even a bad rating from the health depart—”
“I need some arrests, Detective,” interjected Goodman. “Redouble your efforts on the Athena Sisterhood. You’ve got a witness who says she saw one of them dealing at a club.”
“There you are!” Morris popped her head in the door with a case file in her hand.
“You need something, Detective?” asked Goodman.
Morris pointed to Rios. “Sorry, Lieutenant. Just a quick question for Toni. Weren’t you at the Desert Vistas condominiums complex the other week doing a notification?”
Rios nodded. “One of the strychnine victims lived there. Why?”
“We got a homicide victim in the same complex.”
“What’s the unit number?”
Morris opened the case file in her hand. “Victim, Richard Hayden, lived in building D, unit 210. Found his body just outside unit 209.”
“That’s where my strychnine victim lived.” Rios picked up the Abrams file that was sitting on Goodman’s desk and thumbed through it. “Yeah, unit 209. Vic’s name was Genette Abrams; roommate is a Sarah Cohen. We interviewed her, but didn’t come up with anything. Art student with no priors.”
“Cohen’s down in
interview room one if you want to take another crack at her. I got a feeling she’s hiding something.”
Rios turned to Goodman. “We done here?”
He shooed her away with his hand. “Go! See if you can’t close these damn cases. There’s too much red on that board out there,” he said referring to the unsolved cases.
She followed Morris down to the interview rooms and stepped inside the monitoring room. Sarah Cohen appeared on the screen marked INTERVIEW 1, her head buried in her arms, obscuring her face.
“Just to bring you up to speed, the victim’s throat was slashed in his own apartment, then the body dumped on Ms. Cohen’s doorstep. He still had his wallet with fifty-seven dollars in cash, so robbery doesn’t appear to be a motive.”
“Sounds personal, like someone sending a message,” said Rios.
“I agree. Perhaps one of her ex-boyfriends with a grudge,” explained Morris. “We’ve asked her about any exes. She claims she broke up with her previous boyfriend more than a year ago and it was amicable.”
“Who called 911?”
“She did. This morning. Six hours after time of death.”
“Interesting. Let’s go see what we can find out.”
Rios and Morris walked down the hall and entered the interview room.
“Sarah Cohen?” said Rios as they took their seats. “You remember me? I’m Detective Rios.”
Sarah sat up. Her left eye was blackened, and her lower lip split. Her swollen face and shirt were speckled with blood. A hand-shaped bruise marked her right arm. “I remember.”
Rios studied the woman. Somehow this was all connected—the poisoned roommate, the murdered neighbor, and what appeared to be an assault on Sarah herself. But Rios wasn’t sure yet how it all fit together. “Been a rough couple of weeks, huh?”
Sarah shrugged and stared absently at the table.
“Tell me what happened.”
Emotion spread across Sarah’s face. Tears rimmed her eyes. “I opened my front door to…to take out some trash and…I found him.” She gasped for air between heaving sobs. “Blood…blood everywhere. I…I called 911, but…” Her eyes shut tight as if warding off the memories. “He was dead.”
Rios pulled a pack of tissues from her pocket and handed it to Sarah. “Tell me, Sarah, did Richard beat you up?”
Sarah shook her head vigorously.
“Then who?”
“No one,” she said through gritted teeth. “I…I fell off my motorcycle.”
Rios raised an eyebrow. “You ride a motorcycle?”
Sarah nodded.
“How’d you fall off?”
“Not paying attention.”
Rios had seen her share of motorcycle accident victims. These injuries didn’t fit the pattern. Particularly the red handprint on Sarah’s arm. “You a member of the Athena Sisterhood, by chance?”
“Why?” Sarah met Rios’ gaze, fear evident in her eyes. “What’s that got to do with Richard getting killed?”
“That’s a really good question. What does it have to do with who killed Richard?”
“Nothing.”
“So who killed Richard?”
“Beats me.” Sarah covered her mouth with her hand.
“You want to help us catch who did, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You two dating?”
Sarah looked away and blew her nose. “I didn’t really know him. Just saw him around the complex, you know?”
“Was Richard dating your roommate, Genette?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“You don’t know who your roommate was dating?”
“We traveled in different circles.”
“Makes sense. She was a sorority girl. You’re an artist and a biker. What’s your road name, by the way?”
“Why? It doesn’t have anything to do with anything.”
“You never know. Devil’s in the details, they say.”
This brought a glare from Sarah. “It’s Orphan, if you must know.”
Rios saw an in. “Interesting name. I’m an orphan, too.”
“Yeah right,” Sarah scoffed.
“It’s true. My parents were killed in Guatemala when I was sixteen. How about you?”
“Plane crash. I was eleven.”
“You grow up in the system?”
Sarah shook her head. “My aunt and uncle took me in.”
“Good to have family,” said Rios. “So, why would someone kill Richard and dump his body on your doorstep?”
“I got no idea.” Sarah wrapped her arms around her, staring intently at the table.
“Sarah, I know you want to help us find who killed Richard, so I need you to be honest with me. Were you two intimate?”
Sarah blushed. “Yeah.” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. “Why is all this happening to me?”
“What is happening to you? What aren’t you telling us, Sarah?” asked Morris in a stern voice.
“Nothing, I swear.”
“Did Richard hurt you?” asked Rios.
“No, he’d never do that.” Sarah sat up and wiped her face. “He was always sweet to me.”
Rios met her eyes. “So who beat you up?”
Sarah gasped and covered the bruise on her arm. “No one. I told you, I dropped my bike.”
“That handprint on your arm didn’t come from a motorcycle accident.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Someone outside knocked on the door, then opened it. Rebecca Li stood there in a tan business suit. “Morning, detectives. Is my client under arrest?”
Rios grimaced. “No.”
“Excellent. Then this interview is over.”
“Counselor,” said Morris, standing, “we are investigating the murder of your client’s boyfriend. I would think that you and your client would want to help us find the killer.”
“Maybe if you spent less time harassing members of the Athena Sisterhood and more time investigating the Confederate Thunder for their numerous criminal activities, you’d find the suspects you’re looking for.”
“Are you suggesting the Thunder is responsible for this murder?” Rios looked at Sarah. “Is that what happened, Orphan?”
Sarah shrugged. “The Thunder’s been going after us any chance they get. They attacked us at Gertie’s and then again at Iron Goddess. Ran a couple of us off the road a few nights ago. But y’all don’t do anything. So what’s it matter what I say? Y’all never arrest them.”
Rios felt a pang of guilt over the lack of response by the sheriff’s office. “I’m sorry if we’ve dropped the ball.” Rios shot a glance at Morris. She and Bello were responsible for a lot of these cases. “But I will personally look into these matters.”
“I think we’re done here,” said Li. “Come on, Sarah. Let’s go.”
Chapter 42
“Why aren’t you working on the Stansbury bike?” Terrance walked into the office. “We’re behind schedule as it is.”
Shea lifted her aching head from her arms nested on the desk. “Geez, T, you gotta yell like that?”
“I’m not yelling. But if we miss our deadline…”
“Relax! We’re almost done with fabrication. Should be ready to send it out for paint in another day or so.”
“So why’s Kyle the only one working on the bike?”
“I’ll be out there soon as the ibuprofen kicks in. Kyle knows what he’s doing.” Shea rubbed her temples and emptied her coffee cup. “We’re only a few days behind schedule. I’ll make it up when the parts come back.”
Terrance sat across from her, gave her coffee cup a sniff, and glowered. “We should discuss your drinking problem.”
“I ain’t got no drinking problem.”
“Really?” Terrance yanked open her desk drawer and pulled out the bottle of Bushmills. “Then why’s your coffee cup smell like an Irish pub?”
Shea gave him a bleary-eyed stare, but said nothing.
“Shea, I’m a recovering ad
dict. I’m not judging you. I’ve been where you are.”
Shea shook her head and was rewarded with a fresh wave of pain. “You ain’t never been where I am. I’m dealing with a lotta shit right now.”
“Like what?”
“Like Monster.”
“He still pressuring you to—”
“He’s dead, T. Killed himself last night.” She could still smell the metallic tang of Monster’s blood in the air and it made her want to hurl.
Terrance knitted his brow. “Suicide? Why? Because of that photo you took?”
“No. At least, I don’t think so. I don’t know.” Tendrils of guilt tightened around her battered psyche. “He was dying. Ass cancer, he said. Terminal.”
“Were you there? Did you try to stop him?”
Shea bore holes into Terrance. “I didn’t know he was going to do it. He was just drunk and depressed. I walked outta his house and was about to drive away when I heard the shot.”
“You call the cops?”
Shea chuckled darkly. “Yeah, right.”
“No, I suppose not.” Terrance put a hand on Shea’s arm. “I’m sorry, sister girl. I know he was family, sort of.”
“Annie’s gonna be devastated.”
“All the more reason for you to get your shit together. She’s going to need you to lean on. Maybe you should look into AA.”
“Maybe you should mind your own fucking business.” Shea stood up and brushed past him. “Don’t need another of your lectures.” In the hallway, she almost stumbled over Kyle.
“Dude,” said Kyle, trying to keep her upright. “One of your biker club friends is out back asking for you.”
“We’ll continue this discussion later,” called Terrance.
“Let’s not,” she mumbled, and shuffled into the garage.
Just outside the open garage door, Orphan stood next to her Harley Sportster 883.
“Damn, Orphan. What happened to your face?” Shea hugged her gingerly.
“I, uh, dropped my bike. Hoping you could knock out some dents. I think the back fender may be scraping. I can pay cash.”
Shea walked around the bike, inspecting the damage. Softball-size dents covered the tank, fenders, and exhaust. The headlight was cracked. Gauges dangled from their mountings. Both side mirrors were gone. “How’d this happen?”
Athena Sisterhood Page 24