"Hey Boss, it's quarter to four. I need to get on the floor so nobody thinks there's anything going on except a lecture. How about we go over to the house in the morning? What time will your man be leaving?"
"What do you mean by that?"
"Did I mention that this is the South?"
I flipped her the bird. In response, she did an exaggerated sashay walk to the door, and before she opened it, I said, "Make it lunch time. I can invent an appointment to be away from the bar. By the way, the motorcycle club will be in at ten tonight. I'm assigning you to their station. Be careful, the president will likely be here, and rumor has it that he's bad news. Keep your eyes and ears open and let me know if you hear anything interesting. Consider it a quid pro quo."
"Oh, lawyer talk." She clicked down the hall on her high heels.
Something about drugs.
I sensed the first tug of a developing vortex with me and my bar at the center of it. I needed to talk to Ethan.
CHAPTER 19
At a few minutes after ten, I realized how much things had changed. The group had always swaggered, but there'd been a relaxed insolence to it, a hint of humor. Not tonight. The club entered in formation with the younger members in the vulnerable forefront. Ethan was on one flank, surveying the room, and protecting the man who had to be the Colonel.
I'd seen the look before and didn't like it. The tall gaunt figure in the black leather vest and top hat wasn't a hipster or a freak. He was the type that'd order a beating because he was bored. After a few words, the bouncer looked my way and scowled at my nod. For a second, I wasn't sure he'd let the hostess seat them. A hard look from me and he backed down. As the crew took their seats, I realized that I agreed with my security. The problem is that I was already in this too deep to stop now. I put a bottle of Jack on the tray along with a row of shot glasses and headed to the second tier. It was time to get this farce on the road.
"Hey, y'all, you've been missed. Welcome back."
My first mistake. Typically, there would be crude banter and a greeting. Not tonight. Even Ethan only grunted in my direction.
Okay, I can play this game.
Years ago, I represented a gangster who ran a string of bars that riffed on the Playboy Clubs. Hanging out at his home base, I'd become friends with one of the retired bunnies he'd brought in to train the staff. She'd taught me the basics of table service, stressing that the appearance of subservience was actually power in disguise.
I arranged the glasses in a wedge that mocked the bikers' entrance and filled the one at the point. Pivoting into profile, I arched my back, bent at the knees, and leaned across the table willing the tray I had balanced on my fingertips not to tip over. The pose accentuated my arm muscles and threw my breasts and backside into relief. The only thing missing was a puffy tail and stiletto heels.
"The president drinks first."
The ploy worked. After regarding me for a second, the Colonel reached for the glass, drained it, and returned it to the tray upside down. I pulled my now aching arm back and poured the rest of the shots. The tension broken, I passed out the whiskey by rank and received applause and jibes in return.
The Colonel leaned back and folded his hands behind his neck. "Price, that's a sweet ass senorita you got there. Looks like you've been breaking this mamacita in right. I bet she's muy caliente in the sack."
The drawl had a practiced affectation, like someone trying to sound higher class. The slur drilled through me. My Mexican heritage is part of who I am. My history. My mother and her family could buy and sell this piece of cracker-ass white trash a thousand times before breakfast, but that knowledge didn't stop the anger from flooding through me. A momentary urge to smash the whiskey bottle across his smirking face was interrupted by Ethan's hand on my hip and a single word.
"Muy."
The rage cleared and my senses returned. This was intra-gang politics that had nothing to do with my DNA. Ethan had taken something the Colonel wanted—me. Since club rules forbid any poaching, I had to be dismissed and objectified in order for him to regain power. Without breaking character and by the tone of a single word, Ethan had established that I was off-limits and worth defending. It didn't change the fact that I wished Joaquin and Los Gatos Negroes were close enough to beat them all into the ground. Since I couldn't conjure them up like leather-clad genies, I'd settle for the next best thing. I'd do everything in my power to help Ethan and Max put them all behind bars.
Mamacita, my ass.
I refilled the glasses and was about to ask what they'd like for dinner when the Colonel said, "Tell your little split tail to toddle along like a good girl. We've got business to discuss, and she's blocking the view."
The hand on my hip tightened, telling me to comply. Before I left, I leaned in and brushed my breasts across Ethan's cheek while I package-checked him with my right hand. A laugh erupted somewhere at the table and died away under the Colonel's glare.
Back at the bar, I told Keith to send up a round of drafts and caught Maddie at the waitress station.
"Be careful," was all I said.
I was in my office grabbing dinner when the text came in.
2
As much as I wanted to see Ethan, my mood was black enough to wish he'd not been able to get away. I didn't return to the table, trusting the bouncers to keep the peace. Playtime was over.
The MC's presence put a pall over the entire club, and the tables emptied early. Even the sheriff's private party upstairs broke up without me having to goose them along. After two city councilmen, the mayor of one of the smaller towns, and the pastor of a local church slithered away, Sheriff Sheldon stopped to see me.
"You okay? I heard there was some more trouble down here." The question was stripped of his usual bluster. If I didn't know better, I'd believe he was really concerned.
"Nothing the boys couldn't handle," and then, to stir the water I added, "I wish I knew what was keeping the MC glued to this place."
His hesitation caught me by surprise.
"I don't know. I'll keep an eye on them for you. You want me to put a deputy at the door?"
"Thanks, Harry, but that'd be bad for business. I've got it covered."
He left without another word. I had one more suspicion to throw on the growing pile. Sheriff Harry Sheldon knew more than he was letting on.
It was closer to three when the buzzer on the side door announced Ethan's arrival. Even with the quiet night, a group of the maintenance drinkers had stayed on until the stubborn end, and the closing shift work hadn't gone well. The funk had carried over and, everyone was squabbling and slow. I had coffee and a bottle of Irish cream in front of me.
"Sorry, I'm late. I waited until all the cars cleared out."
"Probably for the best. This is the South, you know."
His expression said that the joke didn't compute, but he stayed quiet. Relief from my gloom came from an unexpected quarter. Hearing Ethan set Simon to yipping and pawing at my office door. I let him out and he immediately worked his charm on both of us. Ethan's hard harried façade cracked and the sound of his laugh pulled a smile from me.
I held up my cup. "Can I get you some?"
"Yes, but do you have anything stronger to go with it?"
"I'm sure there's something on the top shelf that'll do the trick. You guys are drinking me out of house and home. How's a girl supposed to make a dishonest dollar?"
I grabbed a bottle of Wild Turkey Decades and put on fresh coffee. Neither of us spoke as the warm rich smells wrapped around us, pushed back the shadows, and mellowed out the mood.
"Baby, I'm sorry."
I refilled his cup.
"It was nothing on you. I knew what I was getting into. I'm not going to lie. It hurt."
"I did what I could, but it got tense. It's a good thing I'm not at the farm tonight."
"Are you going to be okay?"
"Yeah, it's all good. It's a love-hate thing with the Colonel. He knows he can trust me because I'm clean and sobe
r. He also hates that he can't use drugs to control me."
I poured another dollop of the velvet smooth bourbon. "Well, not totally sober."
"True that." He held the glass up and examined the amber glow of the whiskey.
"What?"
"I was remembering the night we met. That beer was nearly my undoing."
"It was mine. I still wish I'd handled that better. Can I ask you something? How do you avoid using? The BOC is a pretty close to the ground crew. Prissy morals aren't going to get you very far."
He put his hand over his glass when I motioned to the bottle. "Sometimes the simple stories work the best. Mine is that I kicked in prison and, fuck you very much; I'm not going through withdrawals again for anybody. My cover jacket has a nickel for burglary, most of it in ad seg because I was such a troublemaker."
"I can certainly vouch for that last part. Ethan, we need to talk."
An eyebrow went up, and the soft nostalgia fell from his face.
"What's up?"
"Have you heard of something called Shine?"
The tightness around his mouth was my answer. I put the Wild Turkey away and made another pot of coffee.
CHAPTER 20
I yawned as I pulled out a barstool. These conversations that lasted past dawn were killing me.
Joey patted the bar, "Coffee?"
"Make it tea. I'm coffeed out. And what are you doing here? I thought I gave you two days off."
"I'd like to trade the second one for an undisclosed draft pick to be named later. Mason is home sleeping after an all-nighter at the plant. Instead of tiptoeing around the house, I might as well be here."
I drank deep and tried to clear the cobwebs. Ethan freaked out when I told him about the bathroom incident. He was glad I'd reached out to Max but angry that he couldn't be here with me. Otherwise, he confirmed a few of my guesses. The club was here to work out a deal to transport Shine to cities along the route to Chicago. He still hadn't found the key fact, the source. We'd agreed to meet in two days unless the Colonel decided he wanted to come to the club.
"What's wrong?" Joey put a plate of toast and a fresh mug of tea in front of me.
"Why do you ask?"
"You didn't make a joke or bust my balls. You also look like you haven't slept a wink, but you don't look like you had a good time. And I heard about last night. All of it."
"Fuck the South."
That got me a look, but no comment.
"Trust me. There's nothing wrong. Last night sucked. I'm okay. Can we leave it at that?"
A bowl of fresh fruit was my answer.
After a hot shower, I headed out to find Maddie. We'd agreed to leave her vintage road rocket in the parking garage of one of the big casinos and take my car. When I'd put my camper in storage, I'd bought a ten-year-old generic hatchback. Since I kept it in the shed behind the club and rarely went anywhere, it was nicely anonymous. I didn't know exactly why, but I was in the mood for discretion. Other than Maddie giving directions, we didn't say much until we parked in front of a cottage at the end of a small neighborhood that had seen better days. The post-Katrina redevelopment hadn't made it this far. At least a quarter of the houses had faded tilting FOR SALE signs in the yards.
I've been to a lot of crime scenes, and few were creepier than this one. The stone path through the overgrown lawn led to a small front porch that still bore faint shreds of crime scene tape and seals. The key was where Maddie promised, underneath a large resin frog sitting next to a gnome on a mushroom.
The smell hit me first. It was a combination of dust, mold, neglect, and the stale metallic funk of old blood. I breathed through my mouth and wished I could open the windows.
"Close the front door. We don't need any help from the neighbors."
Maddie complied and threw the deadbolt. "How about we open the back door? It has a screen door we can latch. The breeze will help."
It was a standard shotgun floor plan with rooms opening off a long hallway stretching from the front to the back door. According to the police reports, the fight started in the living room. Lamps, end tables, and bric-a-brac littered the space. The generic brown rug was a mess of mud and footprints, probably cops and EMTs.
I skipped the bedroom and checked out the bathroom and kitchen. The dainty feminine presence in the tiny house tore at my heart. Even through the dust and cobwebs, the fluffy pink curtains held back with bows and polka dot chair cushions told of a home that was comfortable and loved.
"A cop and a stripper."
"What did you say?"
I turned to her and said, "I'm sorry. I read some of the online articles about the murder. All the reporters could talk about was the stripper beaten to death by her cop husband. It was nothing but one sordid innuendo-laden story after another. That's not what this house is about. Sure, it's low rent, but this was a happy place."
The kitchen was in the same disarray with overturned chairs and broken dishes on the floor. Blood spatter was visible on the linoleum and flower pattern wallpaper. Doubts were brewing in the back of my mind. I couldn't put my finger on it. Something was off-kilter. I pulled the crime scene photos out of my bag and laid them on the kitchen counter.
"You're right. Nothing has been moved."
"It's a damn time capsule. This place gives me the willies."
"I take it that you've never been to a murder scene before?"
Maddie twisted a lock of hair that had escaped her ponytail. "I have to confess, most of my practice is drunk driving and drug possession. We don't do a lot of violent crimes."
"Consider yourself lucky. I've been to way too many. From sidewalks to crack dens and I've never seen one quite like this."
"What do you mean?"
"It's wrong. I can't explain it. Let's check out where they found the body."
The room was larger than I expected. It looked like they'd ripped out a wall and combined two bedrooms into one. The once shiny hardwood floors were thick with dust. Muddy footprints led from the oversized four-poster bed to the hall. The same hurricane had flown through here. Drawers were pulled out, and furniture overturned. A rust-colored stain, about a foot in diameter, was stark in the center of the queen-size mattress.
That's where she died.
"They took the sheets."
I jumped at the sound of Maddie's voice. I'd let the scene get into my head.
"How tall was Sarah Jean?"
"Not as tall as you, maybe five-foot-five. Is that important?"
"I don't know yet."
I found a sheet in the closet and spread it over the mattress. To get on the bed, I had to use the bed rail like a stair step. Feeling around until I located the stiff stain, I turned on my side and sprawled in an approximation of how the body was found.
"Is this about right?"
"Juliana, you're weirding me out."
While her reticence amused me, I still needed her to get moving. "Come on, help me here. Do I have it right?"
"Give me a second to grab the photos."
"Hurry, okay?"
I knew there was no clock in the house, but still sensed a ticking in my head. It was my own pulse in the silence.
"Um, spread your feet farther apart and throw your arm over your head. Point your toes."
The soft pillowy mattress crinkled as I rearranged myself. "Better?"
"Yes. That's it."
"Take the same pictures that the crime scene techs did."
It took longer than it should have, but I gave her a break.
"I'm done. I don't see what this is about."
"Neither do I, exactly." I sat up and as expected; my shoes didn't touch the ground. "Take another photo of my feet and then email them to me."
"You mind explaining this?"
I wadded up the sheet and looked at the blood stain, willing it to tell me its secrets. "Not yet. I have to put a few things together. Let's get out of here."
Back at the club, it took me an hour and wood scraps from the garage to raise my bed until my fee
t were the same distance from the floor as in the photo. After adding a ketchup-smeared towel, I had a close approximation of the crime scene.
I also had a theory.
The scene was staged.
CHAPTER 21
After a second review of the crime scene photos and Billy Ray's detailed confession, I needed help to test out my theory. Through a series of cryptic texts and phone calls, including the phrase I need you to trust me, uttered more than once, I was assembling all the players in this drama. Max was picking up Maddie and Ethan was making what the MC thought was his regular booty call.
I was preoccupied and jumpy all evening and glad to see neither the club nor the sheriff. I alternated between the floor and my office, rereading sections of the reports until I could almost recite them. I got the old rush like I was stepping into the courtroom to sell my version of the crime. This time, the defendant didn't even know I was working for him.
The autopsy report bothered me. Actually, it was the cursory nature of it. It consisted of an external exam and documentation of her injuries with graphic photos. Then the coroner did a quick review of her organs and the conclusion that she died from internal bleeding resulting from blunt force trauma. There were no swabs for DNA, no fingernail scrapings, no rape kit, despite the visual signs of fluids, and no tox screens. The file was a short report saying she'd died as a result of a vicious beating. This was inadequate for a manslaughter case and completely unethical for a death penalty prosecution.
The signature at the bottom of the report was what interested me the most. Dr. Irving Ferguson M.D. was one of the maintenance drinkers who shadowed my bar at least twice a week and tonight was two-dollar drafts until ten.
I laid the bait by talking with Joey about the execution party. It was hard to keep an upbeat tone like I was looking forward to seeing a killer get his due. I talked and talked until the slight gray-haired man tilted his head toward the conversation. When I noticed he hadn't turned a page in his thick hardbound book for several minutes, I moved in to bring him a fresh beer.
Ride the Lightning Page 7