by Domino Finn
"Tell you what," continued the president. "You get us these photographs, that's an automatic in. I won't make you kill anybody to prove you're loyal. No blood in. The Seventh Sons get brushed aside without violence."
Diego nodded. "How will I contact you?"
Sergio snapped his fingers at one of his boys. "Cabron?" The kid pulled out a burner phone and tossed it to Diego. "I'm on speed dial."
"Okay."
Sergio motioned with his head for him to leave. Diego extended his hand to retrieve his shotgun.
"No," said Hector, intercepting the weapon. He hefted the silver Benelli in his hands. "You get this when you come back."
"I want an update tonight," said Sergio, walking back into the building.
Diego nodded again. As he walked away, he remembered what Gaston had said about the Pistolas. They pretended to play nice, then shot people in the back. Diego made sure to step away with an eye on the others. Once he was back in the creek and on his way to his Scrambler, he took a deep breath. He preferred close calls with rattlesnakes.
Chapter 40
Kayda noticed Agent Garcia keeping his eyes on the rearview mirror. The Seventh Sons had stopped tailing the rented Explorer a while back, but it didn't hurt to be sure. Kayda figured the FBI agent was keeping tabs on her brother in the back seat as well.
Now that they were safe, Kelan was grumpy about being escorted by the police. He had planned on being picked up by Hotah but something fell through. Kelan had been left without a ride. A bit ungracious, she thought. Kayda turned around and saw her brother staring at her. His expression was accusatory. It was clear he didn't want her around either.
She averted her eyes to the rear windshield and the Sanctuary police officer driving behind them in the follow car. Chances were, their transfer to tribal police would be uneventful.
The young girl faced forward again. She didn't want to acknowledge her brother anymore. He'd sold her out. The tribal police—Chuck Winston—had left her for dead. Was this another hard lesson that her betters were teaching her? Kayda felt pain in her mouth and realized her grinding teeth had bitten her tongue. The warm taste of salty blood filled her mouth.
Raymond Garcia casually held the wheel with one hand. He smiled at her. "You know," he said, "you both are very lucky to be getting this escort. That motorcycle club back there is dangerous."
No one said anything for a few seconds, but Kayda appreciated the attempt at conversation. Anything to fill the void.
"What's the FBI doing in town?"
"Your brother's murder might have been racially motivated. It's my job to make sure your family is protected. I'm here to help you."
"How can you help us?" she asked.
Kelan grumbled again in the back seat. "Kayda, we don't talk to cops."
She spun around on a dime. "If you really want to wash your hands of me, you should stop bossing me around."
Her brother didn't respond. He just focused on the distance, on something else. As Kayda resumed facing the road, she noticed the hint of a smile on Raymond's lips.
"It's okay," he said. "I understand how your tribe might not like the federal government too much. I'm not trying to change your mind about them, but you should consider me a man who wants to get to the bottom of your brother's death."
The car was silent again. If the FBI agent thought he could appeal to Kelan's emotions, he was dead wrong. Kayda knew he would never give in, never betray his renegade code. Even if there was a way to help their brother's memory, Kelan would refuse to take part if it involved police assistance.
Death affected everybody differently. Seeing her older brother hanging from the statue like that had been horrifying. Her immediate response was shock. Pain. But the next morning she had just wanted answers. There was no doubt that Carlos being killed had elicited an entirely different response from Kelan.
"The best thing we can do," said Raymond, another attempt at his plea, "is talk to the police on your reservation. Hook up with your friends. Make sure everybody is safe and accounted for."
Kelan scoffed. "Yeah, so you can lock them up."
"Mr. Doka, if anyone was involved with that shooting at Sycamore Lodge last night, then yes, I'll lock them up. But my primary concern is keeping anything like this from happening again. I can protect you if you know anything that might help."
Kayda's brother simply laughed at the offer. She wondered if Raymond had a point. Did she need protection too? She had just an ancillary involvement in this. But what about her family? What about her pahmi?
"You don't think anyone will come to the reservation, do you?"
"They already did," said Raymond. "To string your brother up for all to see. If they did it once, they could do it again. Who knows what they have planned next?" Kayda thought it over. The FBI agent noticed her opening up and pressed on. "Are either of you two aware of the Seventh Sons riding into Prescott or the reservation recently?"
Kayda shook her head. She'd already mentioned that she had just arrived in town. Her absence meant that she didn't know anything about the activities of the motorcycle club or her brother. She wondered if all the troubles of the recent years could have been avoided if she'd stayed. Carlos being involved with the Paradise Killings, dirty deals with the Seventh Sons, his murder and Kelan's juvenile instincts for revenge—it was all just boys killing each other. It was bad for both their families.
"Fine," said the FBI agent. "You don't know anything. Right? You don't like the police. I wonder if there's a reason for that."
"There's always a reason," said Kelan.
Raymond nodded. "Let me ask you this, Mr. Doka. Are you aware of any side dealings, perhaps not above board, in regards to the Sanctuary Marshal's Office? Maybe with Detective Dwyer, specifically?"
Kayda turned to the man and studied his features. It was strange for the FBI to be asking about the local police. Wasn't it? What was he asking Kelan about?
"You mean that he killed Skah?" answered her brother. "He's a murderer."
"I'm aware of that, but I was hoping you knew of something that didn't occur in the line of duty. Something extracurricular."
Kayda turned back to her brother. He was tense but leaning back, just waiting out the ride. He surprised Kayda by answering.
"Everybody knows the Seventh Sons pay off the cops. We'd be blind to hope for justice through the police."
Kayda recalled Maxim's familiarity with Diego. He was at ease in Sycamore Lodge, the MC's bar. If he was in their pocket, then she had been a fool to think going to him could have helped her family. Diego, too, darkened her thoughts. The biker's involvement with the club was undeniable.
"Dirty cops... Do you have proof of that?" asked the FBI agent.
Kelan just shrugged. "Proof's a burden for the police. I don't need it to act."
Kayda narrowed her eyes. Her brother had come awfully close to confessing involvement in an attempt to show up a federal agent. That was always his way, appearances first.
"Sometimes you can be right and wrong at the same time, Keekee."
"Stop calling me that."
Raymond Garcia turned to Kayda with a puzzled expression. "What do you mean by that?" He glanced into the mirror to gauge Kelan's reaction, but her brother just laughed.
"You wanna be a leader?" Kayda asked. "You wanna be a man? Playing to people's fears only works in the short term."
Kelan laughed some more before responding. When he did, his voice was curt. "The police can't protect us. Like it or not, little sister, I'm all you've got."
She scowled. Raymond shot them both puzzled looks. Kayda decided that she would ride the rest of the way in silence.
Chapter 41
Maxim leaned back in his parked TT so he could stretch his legs. The engine hummed as the air conditioner created a private oasis from the heat. The workday was nearing an end but the summer sun was still high in the sky, a lone torch in a plain of blue. It was strange for the detective. He wasn't used to the flat terrain of Phoen
ix. It made everything more expansive. The massive sky encircled the world, making everything feel a bit smaller by comparison.
The Federal Bureau of Investigation's Phoenix Division was a brand new building that didn't help the feeling. Sharp lines cut across the sky forming giant blocks. The windows protruded from the walls and looked more like rows of mirrors hanging on a wall. The alternating glass colors of blue and white reminded Maxim of the ocean and the clouds, but it reflected the sun harshly. It wasn't a beautiful building but it was instilled with a sense of design, a far cry from the utilitarian monstrosities of the eighties.
Maxim had made the drive to the Phoenix headquarters because he needed to see Lawrence Hendricks in person. The workday—for office workers—was coming to an end. Already Maxim could see the dripping faucet of employees exiting the building. It was only a matter of time before Law was one of them.
As he waited, he privately worried that this was an awful waste of time. Two hours each way. But with Garcia pushing him away from the Yavapai and the Pistolas, Maxim didn't have anything else to do. The truth was he didn't have much to go on.
A thin, black man in a tailored suit passed in front of Maxim's view. The detective chuckled. Lawrence Hendricks was a young man who didn't look like an FBI employee. Of course, he wasn't a special agent, only an analyst, but he still looked way off the mark. He had very short black hair, perfectly trimmed. His sideburns, mustache, and goatee were all barely there, just enough to hint at the style while still remaining clean-cut. In contrast to this, he had large, pointed eyebrows that enhanced the expressiveness of his face. His fashion sense didn't stop at personal grooming, either. His suit was slim-cut, hugging his waist; his button-up shirt was smartly striped; and his tie and gray jacket had a shiny metallic sheen to them.
He kind of looked like a movie star version of a hip Wall Street up-and-comer.
The TT shifted into gear and followed the man down an aisle of cars. As he reached his luxury SUV, he noticed the slow car tagging along and turned. Maxim rolled down his passenger window.
"How's it going, Law?"
The man narrowed his eyes and turned back to the building as if he were having second thoughts. "Pull out to the street. Let me pass and get behind me."
Maxim nodded and drove out of the parking lot, making sure that Hendricks didn't attempt to leave another way. He did what he said he would, and when the black SUV drove past the detective into the street, Maxim followed.
The Sanctuary detective wasn't too familiar with Phoenix. He'd driven through it several times but that was about it. What always impressed him was the modern, clean downtown. It wasn't as aged as New York or Los Angeles. Even Downtown Flagstaff had an antique quality about it. But Phoenix was all crisp metal and glass. Maxim wondered if the city had an old town where it was otherwise.
After several minutes, Hendricks pulled into a small diner that was still in the lull between lunch and dinner. The man hurried inside without waiting for his friend. Maxim parked, tapped his jacket pocket, and followed him inside. Hendricks sat at a table in the back, away from the only other occupants at the bar.
"This is some real spy shit," said Law when he neared.
Maxim shrugged and slid into the booth. "It's just coffee," he replied. As he said that, the aging waitress approached. Maxim ordered a coffee with lots of sugar and Hendricks got a latte.
"So how's the FBI been treating you, Law?"
Maxim figured it was best to start with small talk. Hendricks looked a little nervous and the two hadn't seen each other in a while. Plus, getting the analyst worked up about his employer wouldn't hurt.
"Sheeit," said the man, stretching out the word so it was almost a sigh. "We're just administrators to those suits. They need us for intelligence but steal all the credit. If I was smart I'd go private."
"There a big commercial market in bio-terrorism?"
Law shrugged off the joke. "Nah, man. That's just one of my specialties. But I feel like my education is going to waste, you know? Pushing papers isn't what I signed up for. I feel like I'm getting stupider every month."
Maxim nodded. He wasn't sure what to say.
"Hey, you got a degree?" asked Hendricks.
"Yeah. Criminology. What else?"
Hendricks chuckled. "I bet you always wanted to be a cop?"
"I guess I watched too much TV as a kid."
"Shit, we all did."
"What about you?" asked Maxim. "Why don't you apply to be a special agent?"
Law raised a single eyebrow and smirked. "Carry a gun? Why? So I could get shot at? Besides, it would mess up my suit." Maxim glanced at his gun belt. It wreaked havoc on his jacket lining.
The waitress returned and placed their mugs on the table. Maxim tasted his coffee. It was a little too hot but old and bitter. He supposed he had to put the sugar in himself. Only one packet was at their table so he leaned across to the other booth and grabbed all the sugar there. After he finished with it, he slid the caddy over to Hendricks.
"So look, Law. I got this Special Agent breathing down my neck for looking into a California gang. He's making it hard for me to do my job, you know? All I want is to solve these homicides."
"Garcia take over your case?"
Maxim sipped his coffee instead of admitting the embarrassing fact. But here, talking about it worked for him. "Something like that."
Hendricks nodded. This was something he understood. Being marginalized. "I get it, but I could lose my job for this."
The detective glanced around the diner and confirmed that no one was paying them any attention. Then he pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and slid it to the other side of the table. Maxim knew that Law was in debt. Student loans, snazzy clothes, an expensive car—it didn't get paid by FBI wages. On their last phone call, there had been a sort of implicit agreement that Hendricks would only take the risk if he could benefit from it. While neither of them had outright said the word money, Maxim had a feeling it would do the job. Still, as the analyst peeked inside the envelope, Maxim felt anxious. What did Hendricks think of him?
What did Maxim think of himself?
"I don't even wanna know where you got that," said Law, slipping the money into his pocket.
"Just a slush fund. Nothing like you think."
Hendricks nodded and put his coffee cup to his lips. He was delaying the inevitable. Maxim tried to be patient but the wait became excruciating. Besides, Law had already accepted the money. Just as Maxim was about to tell him to speed it up, Hendricks spoke.
"You were right about the hate crime stuff being bullshit. That's just a pretense."
"So what does he have working with the Mexicans?"
"I told you. He doesn't do the undercover work anymore. He got transferred to another division. And it's not Civil Rights. Garcia's been moved to Public Corruption."
Maxim furrowed his brow. "What is that? Politics?"
"A lot of it, yeah. But any city or state officials."
"You're saying he can put the screw to high-ranking government leaders?"
"If that's what you call arresting them."
Maxim grumbled. "But blackmail, coercion. Is there any evidence of that stuff?"
Hendricks narrowed his eyes. Either he was being purposely obtuse or Maxim was missing something. "What are you talking about?"
"Straight up. I'm investigating links between Agent Garcia and the Mexican Mafia. He did a lot of undercover work around them in Texas. A lot of border work. Maybe at some point he was turned. Now that he's in Public Corruption, is there anything to indicate that he's working the political angle for the Mexicans?"
"No, man. What I'm saying is that Raymond Garcia's been busting city officials for working with the gangs. Mexican, American, Salvadoran—it don't matter. His history of working on the street gives him amazing insight into the life. Now he's taking them down from the top. Chopping off heads. He's been a thorn in all their sides."
Maxim almost choked on his last sip of coffee.
"Wait, what? I thought I was gonna find out he was corrupt. That there was some sort of internal investigation on him."
"Nope," said Hendricks. "He's squeaky clean. He'd be all over us if he saw this little meeting."
The detective finished his coffee, letting the sludge of sugar at the bottom of his mug slide down his throat. It still tasted bitter. This whole situation was as bad as the coffee.
"We were just talking," said Maxim, sliding out of the booth.
"Yeah. About a high-ranking investigation. With an envelope of cash."
Maxim checked the windows. The streets beyond the blinds were clear. The diner was still mostly empty, and the few patrons inside were definitely not FBI.
"What's the matter?" asked Hendricks. "Relax." Maxim backed away from the table. "I could get in trouble for this too, you know."
"Thanks, Law."
Maxim rushed out of the diner, completely aware that he was acting erratically. Still, he wasn't worried about appearances. Amped by the shitty coffee, the detective didn't feel better until he was in his air-conditioned car and speeding north along the highway.
When he calmed down, he realized Lawrence Hendricks wasn't setting him up. It was just intel. A straight trade. Otherwise, why would he bother telling Maxim that Garcia was in Public Corruption? Thinking back, Maxim felt a little silly for his behavior.
What he couldn't get past was the anger. He was sick of being called dirty, whether or not he bent the rules once in a while. He pulled out his cell phone and paused, staring at it.
Was it tapped?
He didn't care. If they were listening then he wanted them to hear. He wanted them to know that he knew. He sent the call.
"Sanctuary Marshal's Office. This is Marshal Boyd."
Maxim didn't even introduce himself. "Marshal. Agent Garcia's not who he says he is. He's not here with Civil Rights. He's in Public Corruption." The detective flicked his blinker on and passed a car one-handed.
"What are you talking about, Detective?"
"He's here to shut the Seventh Sons down—and the Sanctuary Marshal's Office with them."