Black Sheep

by CJ Lyons

  Jimmy led her through hallways lined with administrative offices to a private elevator. “I checked on that girl you asked about. She never stayed here.” As they rode up to the second floor, he said, “Your mom called. She’s pretty upset. About you getting mixed up in all this. After all, Eli Hale is the reason your dad is dead.”

  That was Jimmy. Straight shooter—at least he pretended to be. She remembered more than once as a kid being fooled by his constant smile. There was always a catch with Jimmy, whether it was the old “pull my finger” routine or mesmerizing her and her cousin with three-card monte.

  “Eli Hale is dead.” The words came out flat, no hint of apology.

  “So she said. Said you were caught up in some kind of prison riot.”

  “It wasn’t a riot. I wasn’t in any danger.”

  The elevator stopped. “Maybe you should try telling that to your mom. She worries, Caitlyn. When was the last time you visited her? I mean, I understand why you’ve never come home, here, too many memories, but a daughter should visit her mom every once in a while.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t make it to Aunt Lacey’s funeral.” Lacey had died of cancer while Caitlyn was at the FBI Academy.

  His footsteps slowed. He stopped outside a paneled door leading to an executive suite. Suddenly he looked old, wrung out. Not the always-laughing Uncle Jimmy she remembered.

  Then he brightened and laid a hand on the doorknob. “I have a surprise for you.”

  He opened the door before Caitlyn could protest that she was in no mood for surprises. His office had a wall of windows overlooking the casino floor, a large mahogany desk sitting on top of a luscious, thick Karastan rug. And her mother sitting in the leather Aeron chair behind the desk.

  “If Muhammad won’t go to the mountain,” Jimmy chuckled, “then, you know.” He stood watching, pleased by the shock on Caitlyn’s face.

  Not that she didn’t enjoy seeing her mom. But she was here to work and Mom was, well—high-maintenance was the best term to describe Jessalyn Tierney.

  Jessalyn stood up, her posture regal, and glided across the room to greet Caitlyn with a hug and kiss on the cheek. She wore a designer suit with modest diamond earrings that along with her perfectly styled signature French twist added just the right touch of elegance.

  “I knew I was right in coming up here. You sounded so distressed on the phone.” She laced her arm through Caitlyn’s as if they were best friends shopping for prom dresses. “Mama will cheer you up. I’ve already scheduled facials and massages and Jimmy reserved us front-row seats for the show tonight.”

  “Tyne Daly in Gypsy,” he gushed. “But first, let’s catch up over a nice dinner. My treat.”

  He took Caitlyn’s other arm and she suddenly felt like she was nine again, being towed into Sunday school against her will. But the smile on her mother’s face was too bright to resist—especially when mixed with the guilt Jimmy’s words had brought. She did avoid her mother; she could be a better daughter.

  The search for Lena could wait another hour or so, she told herself. Somehow that did little to soothe the feeling of foreboding that made her rest her hand on the butt of her Glock, reassuring herself it was still there.

  * * *

  Goose would’ve spotted Caitlyn Tierney even without the clerk’s heads-up or her bright red hair. The woman didn’t walk. Instead, she strode like an old-time gunslinger, weight balanced against the extra two pounds of weaponry she carried on her right hip, gaze constantly in motion, assessing risk, absorbing details, ready for anything. When she arrived at the registration desk, she swung her head as if she was used to having longer hair than the short cut that framed her face and made her look less like a cop and more like a fairy-tale elf.

  An elf with scars. One along the side of her head, peeking out from beneath her hairline. Another skimming up along her breastbone. He liked her for not trying to hide it beneath a turtleneck or buttoned-up blouse.

  She had a nice figure, obviously in good shape. Not too skinny or too fat, with narrow hips but a generous bust. No artificial enhancements. Not that she needed any, at least not to his taste. Goose was of the definite opinion that too much of a good thing didn’t necessarily make it better.

  Then she arched her neck as she swiveled her stare onto him. He gave it right back to her. No sense trying to hide, too late for that. Plus he wanted to see what she was made of. Poppy had said to find out everything he could about the fed. Goose might be better able to do that by getting in her face rather than by lurking in the shadows.

  The smile he gave her as she rose to the challenge and didn’t flinch from his gaze was genuine. Best job Poppy’d ever given him. Most fun, too. Maybe he’d misunderstood Poppy and Weasel. Caitlyn didn’t seem like she could be a threat to the Reapers.

  He watched her reunion with Jimmy McSwain, grinned as Jimmy called her Ging, then took the keycards the clerk Poppy had bribed gave him. One to Caitlyn’s room, one to each room adjacent to Caitlyn’s. He had bugging equipment ready to place, a keystroke recorder he’d plant on her laptop, as well as a GPS tracker for her car. Everything he needed to get the lowdown on why a federal agent was chasing after the same law student Poppy wanted to find.

  Goose had no idea what the law student had stumbled across or why it was so vital to bury it and her; that was between Poppy and whoever was pulling Poppy’s strings. But he figured it was in his best interests to find out as much as he could about both Lena Hale and Caitlyn Tierney. That way he could figure out how to protect both women from the Reapers while also keeping the Reapers happy. A win–win for everyone and no need for violence.

  Caitlyn gave him one more glance before following her uncle into the private administration offices. Goose winked at her, enjoying the view from behind as much as he had from in front. Then he hustled to catch up with the bellboy carrying her bag. It bulged like there might be a laptop inside. If so, he was itching to see what was on it. More he knew, the better he could do his job.

  Hopefully without anyone getting hurt.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The MC’s clubhouse was crazy busy, gearing up for the big poker run tomorrow. Reapers were arriving from all over the Atlantic seaboard, including a crew from the home charter in Florida. Bernie was the low man on the totem pole, prospect-wise, despite it being his home turf.

  As he ran beers to and fro, carried buckets of empties, restocked the bar, and dished out chicken wings and fries, Bernie couldn’t stop thinking of Lena and the poor leopard. It’d been a day and a half since he’d been able to break free long enough to go check on them, and worry was churning his guts into acid.

  All he’d wanted was to save some animals. And then he’d overheard Poppy talking to someone on the phone about a girl who was close to knowing too much—too much what, Bernie had no idea—and that she had to go. When Lena had stopped by the clubhouse and he’d seen her talking with Weasel, he knew she had to be the one, so he’d grabbed her before Weasel could.

  He hadn’t counted on her being so out of it for so long after he’d tranked her. Just like he’d had no idea how hard it would be to get a stupid leopard to eat.

  He’d read online that big cats didn’t need to eat every day, that in fact it was bad for them. He’d also read about a host of diseases they were prone to if not fed properly while in captivity. Everything from all their teeth falling out to blindness to liver disease.

  There was a break in the action as the guys moved outside to start in on the pig being roasted in an oil barrel. Bernie took advantage of the pig pickin’ to call the guy in Pigeon Forge, the one they’d taken the animals from in the first place. He needed to know what the leopard liked to eat and if it maybe needed any medicine.

  “Mr. Manson, please,” he said when a woman answered the phone.

  She sniffed hard as if she’d been crying or something. “Who’s calling?”

  “It’s an old business friend,” Bernie improvised, thinking hard about what to say. “I used to sell h
im—er—merchandise.” He grimaced, knew it sounded lame, but he didn’t know the exotic animal industry well enough to know what Manson would have actually bought from anyone. Dummy. Except animals, of course.

  Didn’t matter. The woman bought it. “You’ll need to take your business elsewhere, mister. Manson died.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” Bernie was about to hang up when he had a thought that grabbed at his throat, making it hard to swallow. Like Manson’s ghost himself wanted him to ask. “My condolences, ma’am. Can I ask what happened? I just saw him last week and he seemed fine.”

  “He got jumped coming out of a bar. Beat up. They took him to the hospital but then”—she sniffed again, her voice choking out the rest—“he didn’t make it.”

  “That’s terrible.” Bernie stumbled over the words, not sure what to say. His stomach began to flip-flop, churning out more acid. He reached for his Tums. “Do the police have any idea who did it?”

  “No, sir. Not sure they care too much. ’Round these parts, as long as it doesn’t involve anything that would drive tourists away, they don’t too much mind what happens. Especially not to folks like Manson.”

  The police might not know who killed Manson, but Bernie sure had a good idea. “Sorry for your loss, ma’am,” he said without thinking and hung up.

  Goose. Who else would Poppy send to see if Manson had double-crossed them and stolen his animals back from the club? Who else would Poppy ask to take care of club business except the new enforcer?

  No wonder Goose had come in so late last night. Looked so tired when Bernie saw him this morning.

  His throat tightened again, but this time it wasn’t a ghost clutching at him. It was his stomach ready to hurl at the thought that he’d almost confided in Goose. About the animals, about Lena, about everything.

  He grabbed his jacket and keys, ran out the back door before anyone spotted him. There was no way he could stay and face the Reapers as they partied. No way he could continue to hide the truth. But if they knew he knew, he’d be the next one lying on a slab in the morgue.

  * * *

  Uncle Jimmy insisted on dinner in the dining room reserved for high rollers. As they entered, Jessalyn on his arm, he pointed out various celebrities, smiling and nodding and waving to them. Caitlyn didn’t recognize any of their names, but names weren’t her strong suit.

  “How’s Bernie?” she asked once they were seated. If she was stuck in a family reunion, might as well get caught up. But apparently it was the wrong thing to ask.

  Jimmy scowled down at his silverware and beckoned the waiter to replace a tarnished salad fork. “Bernie is Bernie,” he said with a sigh. “The boy is hopeless.”

  Jimmy’s tone was exactly the same one her mother used when talking about Caitlyn. Poor Bernie. Her cousin had always been a dreamer, one of those kids with their noses buried in a book or sitting hypnotized, too close to the TV. Caitlyn doubted she’d heard him utter more than a dozen words.

  Her phone rang just as the salads arrived. “Sorry.” She glanced at the screen. Didn’t recognize the name. But not many people had her private cell number. “I should take this.”

  “Caitlyn, surely it can wait,” her mother said. “We’re having dinner.”

  “It’s work.”

  “It’s a family dinner. You haven’t seen your uncle in fifteen years.” For Jessalyn family always came first. The fact that Caitlyn’s dad’s job often made that an impossibility for him was a constant disappointment.

  And Caitlyn was just one more disappointment to her mom. Long ago, Caitlyn had given up trying to meet her mom’s high standards. But she could never give up a secret hope that maybe one day she’d do something to make her mother proud. Obviously that day wasn’t today. She left the table and answered the call.

  “Caitlyn?” The voice was female with a South Carolina accent. “Have you found Lena yet?”

  Caitlyn riffled through her mental associations of names and faces. She knew she should recognize the voice but couldn’t picture who it was. She answered the woman’s question to buy more time and see where this was going. “No.”

  “I’ve been calling and calling her cell but it goes right to voicemail,” the woman continued in a rush. “But then I thought of using our Find Me apps—”

  Suddenly it clicked. The roommate. Caitlyn couldn’t remember her name but it didn’t matter. “Find Me apps?”

  “You know. You load them on each other’s phone before you go to a party with a friend. That way if you get separated you can find each other—unless you hook up and don’t want to be found, then you just hang a DO NOT DISTURB sign on your cell and it goes to the friend’s as well.”

  No. Caitlyn didn’t know. Things sure had changed since she was in college. Suddenly she felt old. “So, did it work?”

  “Kinda. I’m not sure. It says Lena’s near Evergreen at a bar called the Pit Stop.” The girl’s voice upticked as if she was asking a question. “I Googled it and it looks like some kind of biker bar. Definitely not the kind of place Lena would go. So maybe someone stole her phone? Anyway, I thought it might help.”

  “Thanks. It does.” Caitlyn had a vague memory of a log cabin above the river, motorcycles crowded out front. “Does it say when she went there?” Probably too much to ask, but worth a try.

  “Oh sure. Let me look. It says she arrived there Wednesday at eight oh four PM. At least that’s when she turned the app on. Oh. I guess that means she didn’t have her phone stolen. Because why would a thief turn the Find Me app on?”

  “I’ll check it out. Is there any way I can access the history of where her phone’s been through the app?”

  “No. Sorry, it only reports when and where the app was turned on. Last time listed is a concert we both went to a few weeks ago.”

  “Thanks for trying.”

  “When y’all find her, tell Lena to call me, okay? I’m getting kinda worried.”

  “I will. Bye.” Caitlyn hung up. She remembered the Pit Stop—it was a dive when she was a kid, what her mom called an eyesore. No reason to think it’d be any better twenty-six years later. The bar was Reaper territory, a motorcycle club that verged on outlaw status. Her dad had ended up in the ER a few times getting stitches after encounters with the Reapers, trying to shut down bar fights and all-night parties.

  Why would Lena go there? Unless it had changed since Caitlyn was a kid.

  She returned to the table. “Jimmy, is the Pit Stop still run by the Reapers?”

  “They took it over, it’s their private club now. Good thing, too. I keep them out of the resort for the most part, but sometimes they have big rides that attract plenty of law-abiding motorcycle enthusiasts, like the poker run this weekend, so I try not to judge. Why?”

  She grabbed her coat. “Looks like I’m headed there.”

  Jessalyn jerked her chin. “What? No. You can’t, we’re in the middle of dinner.”

  Caitlyn gave her mom a peck on the cheek. “Sorry, gotta go.”

  “Caitlyn Matilda Tierney, you come back here this instant.” Several diners looked around. Caitlyn was certain they expected to see a wayward toddler running away. She was out the door before her mother could repeat her summons.

  There was going to be hell to pay when she got back, she knew. But a solid lead was a solid lead. Even if it did mean hanging out with a bunch of bikers.

  * * *

  Jimmy McSwain had given his niece a two-room suite on the Executive level. Nice digs if you could afford them, Goose thought as he surveyed the rooms to decide where best to place the bugs and pinhole cameras. Since he’d left Asheville, he slept in the trailer behind the clubhouse, a drafty single-wide with a plasma screen, all the porn you could watch, four bunk beds stuffed into two small bedrooms, and a dozen guys fighting over them on any weekend night. Weekdays it wasn’t so bad, usually just him and Bernie crashing there.

  After he’d lost his job and the Reapers invited him to go from being a hanger-on, partying with them on week
ends and making the occasional ride down to Daytona, to a prospect, Goose had sold everything that wouldn’t fit in the back of the cab of his pickup or in the saddlebags of his bike, loaded the bike onto the truck, and moved here to Evergreen.

  He sat down on the king-sized bed, taking care not to wrinkle the fancy coverlet folded at the end. It was kind of a relief, not having to worry about anything like insurance or condo fees or bullshit like that. But after fifteen months of living out of a duffel, he wouldn’t mind a night or two on a real bed like this.

  Caitlyn also packed light; her bag was even smaller than his. Inside it he found her laptop, an unloaded Baby Glock in an ankle holster, a pair of black cargo pants, blue jeans, silk long johns, assorted panties and sports bras—nothing from Victoria’s Secret, more’s the pity—two fleece pullovers, and two off-white button-down blouses. Combined with the suit she was wearing, apparel that could be used anywhere from a boardroom to a SWAT raid.

  Goose liked the way her mind worked. He’d Googled Caitlyn on his phone while waiting at registration for her to arrive and discovered she was something of a FBI celebrity, had made all the major news outlets six months back. Saved a town in upstate New York from a psychopath Russian mobster and had uncovered some government corruption while doing so. All while almost dying herself.

  With her red hair and freckles and tale of death-defying action, no wonder she was such a media darling. He’d bet the FBI brass hated that. Wondered if they even knew she was here. Chasing down a missing law student wasn’t exactly something the FBI would take on outside of the movies.

  He checked out her laptop. She had an encrypted password, but that was okay; the keystroke recorder he loaded onto it via the battery pack would take care of that. Anything she typed, he’d see on his own machine.

  After finishing with her laptop and zipping her bag shut again, he placed his bugs. Looked around the rooms once more: nothing out of place, nothing visibly disturbed. Not that she would know since she hadn’t even been up here yet, but double-checking details was what made him good at his job. A single digit out of place could bring down everything, so yeah, even while playing I-spy for the Reapers, he sweated the small stuff.