As Luka headed toward the exit, Alex shot him a quizzical look and glanced over toward the break room in an unspoken question.
“We could stay here, I guess,” Luka said in his accented English, “but I wouldn’t want to kill you on your first day in San Francisco.”
Luka sped through the roller-coaster city streets. Winding their way through the Tenderloin district, Alex briefed Luka on the case. The car came to an abrupt halt outside a little bakery on Russian Hill. Alex could hear the bells from Saints Peter and Paul Church tolling the hour, its twin towers reaching up into the blue sky. Several tables lined the sidewalk in front of the large plate-glass windows. Coffee-drinking patrons huddled around their steaming cups, cigarette smoke swirling into the brisk morning air.
An old man occupied the seat closest to the door, squinting against the stream of acrid smoke. He traded nods with Luka. The detective clapped him on the shoulder as he walked past. “Hey, Pops.”
Just as Luka opened the door, a pretty woman, dressed in business attire, strode past. Alex caught the look that passed between the two. Mutual admiration. He couldn’t help but notice that the San Francisco detective turned his share of female heads with his Slavic good looks and movie-star smile.
“So what will you have?” Luka asked as they reached the counter.
“Coffee, nothing fancy,” Alex said, and he glanced around the bakery. The smell of bread and pastries filled the air, and his stomach rumbled in response. A woman emerged from the back. She called out in Russian over her shoulder and finished tying the apron around her narrow waist. Her thick auburn hair was pulled back into a loose bun. Dark, almond-shaped eyes dominated her face. The smile on her lips froze as she shifted her gaze from Alex to Luka. Her expression hardened, and she placed her hands on her hips.
“Good morning, Sasha,” Luka said with a lopsided smile. “Two coffees and two chocolate-almond croissants, and some Liru compote.”
The woman stood staring at him for a long moment, as if she hadn’t quite heard what he had said. Her eyes bore into the detective before she gave a quick nod. Without a word she deposited the coffee mugs and the pastries on the counter. Elegant fingers poked the cash-register keys as she rang up the sale.
Luka handed a coffee to Alex and gestured toward a small table in the corner. He fished a wad of cash out of his pocket, flattened out a couple of rumpled bills, and gave them to the cashier. “Thank you.”
Balancing the plates of pastries and the coffee mug in his large hands, Luka took the stool across from Alex.
“Best pastries in San Francisco,” Luka said as he pushed a plate across the table.
“She likes you.” Alex nodded toward the counter. The cashier still stood glaring at Luka’s broad shoulders.
“We have some history,” the San Francisco detective shrugged.
“You don’t say?” Alex took a sip of his coffee and glanced back at the woman.
“She’s my ex-wife.”
Alex tried not to spit the hot coffee out of his mouth. Luka’s full lips twitched at the corners, and he glanced past Alex and out the window. Alex cleared his throat as he set the cup down in its saucer. “You’re right about the coffee. It’s great.”
“This is my father’s bakery.”
“And your ex-wife works here?”
“They still consider her family.” Luka’s shrug was slow.
Alex dipped a corner of the pastry in the compote as he watched Sasha stalk into the kitchen. The door swung closed behind her.
Wadding the croissant into his mouth, Alex closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, appreciating the contrast between the light buttery texture of the pastry and the rich, bright berry compliment.
“What’s the jam? I’ve never heard of Liru compote. Is it a Russian native dish?”
“It’s just a mix of regular berries. ‘Liru’ is the name of the person who invented the recipe,” Luka explained.
“A Russian pastry chef?”
“An ex-girlfriend,” Luka said with a smirk. “Pop liked the recipe.”
Alex laughed. Clearly this guy had a girl story for everything and was quick on his feet.
“You got a wife?” Luka asked.
“Her name’s Jill.”
“What’s she like?” Luka asked as he sat back in his chair, blue eyes curious.
Alex inclined his head and considered the question. “We met in college. Gorgeous, brainy, top of her class.”
“How did she end up with a loser like you?”
“Just her good fortune, I guess.”
Luka smiled across the table, and Alex continued. “Jill was used to being the smartest person in her class, always getting the answers right, always getting top marks. She wasn’t ready to take second place, particularly to a career detective with no formal computer training.”
“How’d she take it?”
“Not too well, actually. We had a class project where you had to secure your network, and the other students tried to hack in. Most of the networks were easy to crack, but I have to admit that Jill didn’t make it easy. She’d constructed a pretty elaborate defense system. It took me a while to get in.”
“I sent her a pop-up message during class that asked her out for coffee. Looking back, it was a pretty cocky way to let her know I’d circumvented her security.” Alex smiled as he sipped his coffee.
“Did she accept?”
“Hell no. She shot me an icy look over her shoulder and sent a message in response, a text graphic of an extended middle finger. It took a while, but I eventually wore her down.”
“Ah, persistence pays off.”
“She was dating a jock at the time, and he helped matters along.”
“Really? How thoughtful of him.”
“Not exactly.” Alex chuckled. “They were out drinking one night. The guy she was with got a little physical. She came to class with a shiner, so I paid the asshole a little visit. Jill had already dumped him, but the follow-up visit made an impression and helped soften her shell. I wasn’t exactly her type, but she came around. Eventually.”
“Assholes like that deserve to have their bells rung.” Luka took a bite of his croissant. Powdered sugar clung to his lips, and he wiped it off with the back of his hand.
“He deserved a little more than he got, but after that he stayed away from Jill.” Alex paused, sitting back in his seat, and glanced out the window. “You been divorced long?”
“Five years. Cops don’t always make the best husbands.”
“Jill is just as absorbed by her career as I am by mine. Ever think of trying again?”
Luka flashed Alex a quick, enigmatic smile.
“I don’t think I’m the marrying kind. Ask Sasha. She makes good pastry, though.” Luka’s gaze settled on the kitchen door for a moment. Alex laughed as Luka slurped his coffee.
“So your guy, Honeywell, he’s been hanging out with the Bay Area chapter of the Gunns. They’re a nasty offshoot of a Southern California motorcycle gang. Apparently his cousin is the Gunns’ chief badass. The cousin’s been questioned in several homicides, but nothing’s stuck so far.”
“Is Honeywell there now?”
“I’ve got some buddies in vice who suggested we talk to the ATF. They have the clubhouse under constant surveillance. Drugs. Guns. I figured we’d take a drive down there to see if your boy’s still around.”
“I appreciate your help.”
“Any friend of Jackson’s is a friend of mine.” He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “We worked together back in the day. Good guy. How is he?”
“He’s a foul-mouthed hardass.”
Luka’s smile broadened. “So, the same? Good to know that some things don’t change.”
They finished the pastries and coffee and left the bakery. Alex brushed the powdered sugar off his jacket and climbed into the car.
“Ever do surveillance on a motorcycle gang?” Luka asked.
“Never had the pleasure.”
“You’re in
for a treat.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Luka flashed his badge as they walked through the door to a nondescript three-story office building at the edge of the San Jose business district, just off of San Carlos Street. The noise from the cars passing by on the Guadalupe Parkway was muted by the closing of the thick glass doors.
“Good morning,” Luka said, smiling at the receptionist. “Luka Petrovich, SFPD. We’re here to see Agent Russell Stone.”
“I’ll tell him you’re here,” the receptionist said. It was hard to tell if Luka’s good looks garnered any favor with her as she pointed to a row of chairs lining the back wall. She didn’t smile. Alex took a seat in the narrow chairs. The place had all of the charm of a DOL office. Luka sat next to him and spoke quietly so that only Alex could hear.
“Stone’s the head of the San Jose investigation. You wouldn’t want to sneeze on a Gunns gang member without letting him know first.”
“Sounds big.” Alex glanced at the receptionist, who murmured into her headset as she eyed them through her heavy horn-rimmed glasses.
“It is. The investigation spans three states. The main focus is down in So Cal, outside of LA, but there’s a fair bit going on in the Bay Area, too.”
“Detective Petrovich?”
Russell Stone was a thin man in his late forties. His face had a delicate, birdlike quality, with sharp eyes and pinched features. Behind a set of rimless glasses, his gaze shifted from Alex to Luka, then back again. After a brusque greeting, he led them down a hall to a small corner office.
Stone motioned for them to take a seat as he settled into the plush leather chair behind a glass and chrome desk. The ultramodern office furniture seemed at violent odds with the early 1970s industrial décor.
Dressed in an immaculate navy-blue pinstriped suit, the ATF agent carried the bureaucratic air of a ladder climber, someone who played by the book and was eager to get his share of the spotlight. The photographs on his desk featured the smiling faces of a plump wife flanked by two teenage girls posing in front of the stone structure of a church. Agent Stone was a God-fearing family man.
“So what’s your interest in the Gunns?” Stone got right to the point.
“We’re actually interested in a man we think is hanging out with them. Jerry Honeywell.” Alex said as he handed Stone the case file. “His cousin is a member of the gang. We’re hoping to flush him out so we can extradite him to Washington for the murder of a sixteen-year-old girl, Natalie Watson.”
Pushing back in his chair, Stone flipped through the case file. His eyes skimmed the pages. After the obligatory amount of time, he handed it back. Alex discerned no hint of expression on his narrow face.
“So he crossed state lines? Isn’t this case now a matter for the Bureau?” Stone’s sharp gaze bore into Alex.
“No kidnapping charge since the victim is dead, and as far as I’m aware, Honeywell hasn’t committed any crimes here in California,” Alex was quick to state his counterargument.
“Would you really want the Bureau sniffing around the Gunns?” Luka asked matter-of-factly. Alex watched Stone’s expression harden as he considered the possibilities. After a fraction of a second, he stared back at Alex.
“No. I don’t want anyone involved who could potentially screw up our case. That includes the two of you. No offense, Detective Shannon, but your guy is small potatoes considering the case we’re building against the club. This is a huge operation—murder, gang rape, drugs, and firearms. Your one murder, albeit tragic, is a drop in the bucket.”
Alex let the statement hang between them, waiting for Stone to continue. His first impression of the agent—that he was an ambitious guy who liked to be in control—proved true.
“Trust me—you have no idea what you’re stumbling into. And if you don’t want to take my word for it, you can hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.” He held up a finger with one hand, and with the other he pressed the button on his speakerphone.
“Send in Agent Wilde.” He sat back in his chair, pressing steepled fingers to his pointed chin. “Jacob Wilde has been working on the Gunns’ surveillance detail for over a year now.”
Without the precursor of a knock, the door swung open, and in strutted Jacob Wilde. With his shaggy hair and intense gray eyes, he had the look of a hard-core geek, right down to the “Think Different” T-shirt.
“Agent Wilde, meet Detectives Alex Shannon and Luka Petrovich.” Russell made the introduction, looking like a proud papa introducing his son, the Yale graduate.
Wilde acknowledged them with a wide smile, and he shook both detectives’ hands with a strong grip. Leaning back in his chair, Wilde propped his Converse sneakers on top of Stone’s desk. Flecks of dirt flaked off onto the pristine glass surface. Alex saw Stone’s jaw tighten a fraction. The look that passed between the two had Wilde lowering his feet to the ground. Alex saw the ghost of a smile cross the agent’s lips.
“So what can I do for you?” Wilde’s eyes were bright with curiosity.
“Detective Shannon is from the Seattle PD. He’s looking for a murder suspect named Jerry Honeywell, who may be holing up with the Gunns.”
Wilde nodded and shifted his keen gaze to Alex, who wasted no time getting to the point.
“He killed a sixteen-year-old girl.”
“I was telling Shannon his case is a drop in the bucket compared to the one we’re building against the Gunns.” Stone leaned forward, and Alex saw his gaze focus on the flecks of dirt on his desk before shifting to Wilde’s face.
“They’re into some pretty fucked-up shit, that’s for sure.” Wilde nodded. Alex saw Stone flinch at Wilde’s colorful characterization. His lips flattened into a tight line, and he shot the agent a sour look. Wilde ignored him.
“Have you seen Honeywell?” Alex pulled a photograph from the case file and handed it to Wilde. The agent took a second to process it.
“He’s there all right. The prick’s cousin, Henry Dugan—a.k.a. Duke—is part of the club’s muscle. Honeywell is one fucked-up dude. Quiet. He’s working under the table, fixing the gang’s shit. Mostly bikes. Nothing relating to the case,” he said, catching Stone’s eye. “The girls seem to steer clear of him, though. I hear he likes it rough.”
That last comment earned Wilde another dark look from his superior before Stone turned, jabbing his outstretched finger toward Alex.
“Whether he’s there or not, I want you to stay away from him and the other members of the gang. All I need is for the two of you to go in guns blazing and blow this thing wide open. You are way out of your jurisdiction, Detective Shannon. He’s off-limits. Got it?”
Before Alex could respond, Stone’s cell phone rang. Irritation flared as he checked the call display.
“I’ve got to take this,” he said and rose to leave the office. Stone wedged his way past Wilde’s loose-limbed frame. The door snapped shut with an audible click.
With Stone out of the way, Wilde leaned forward, his high voice almost conspiratorial.
“Look, Duke’s heading to a bar outside of town called Axel’s to do a little business tonight. Rough place, but if you want to ID the guy yourself, that’s where he’ll be. The two of them stick pretty close to each other. Watch out for his cousin. You don’t want Duke to catch sight of you. He won’t care if you’re cops. He’ll happily toss your ass in the middle of a landfill without thinking twice.”
Wilde paused to let his warning sink in.
“We’ve got a guy in with them. Undercover. Tough son of a bitch. He’ll be tagging along with Duke tonight. He can’t save you if you step in it without blowing his cover. But hey, Axel’s is a public place. There’s nothing to stop you from having a look yourself,” Wilde said, shrugging his shoulders. Muscles rippled beneath the tight T-shirt. Luka grinned first at Alex, then at Wilde.
“Your boss wouldn’t like that.”
Wilde’s smile broadened in response, showing a line of crooked teeth.
“Probably not, but let’s be clea
r.” The smile faded and the expression on his lean face turned serious. “You’d be on your own, with no back up. And if Stone catches you sniffing around his case, there’ll be hell to pay.”
“Thanks.”
Wilde eased back in his chair and swung his feet back up onto the desk, and Stone entered. The bureaucrat’s piercing gaze settled on each of them in turn before he spoke.
“Gentlemen, I have a meeting to prepare for. Unless you have anything else …”
“Thanks for your time,” Alex said and extended his hand toward Stone. The Agent’s grip was buttery soft, and he eyed the trio with a sharp look.
“Stay away from the Gunns,” Stone warned.
“Yes sir,” Alex said as he passed by Wilde. Shielded from Stone’s view, Wilde’s left eye twitched in the quickest of winks.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Music flooded through the open door of the bar, and Allen Collins wailed out another triumphant rendition of “Free Bird” from the jukebox. Alex and Luka brushed past the row of motorcycles that lined the front of the rundown clapboard building. The neon signs crowding the window were the only light source capable of penetrating the thick layers of cigarette smoke coating the glass surface.
Casting a dubious glance over his shoulder, Alex hoped Stone and his battery of ATF agents weren’t watching as the door swung closed behind them. Disobeying a direct order when you were way out of your jurisdiction was risky business. Besides, they were just here to identify Honeywell, not haul him in. Luka and the SFPD would take charge of the arrest and extradition when the logistics were set. Tonight, he just wanted to get a long look at Jerry Honeywell with his own eyes.
Alex followed Luka inside. The bar teemed with activity: blue-collar workers blowing off steam at the end of a hard day over beer and a game of pool. They took the two empty stools at the end of the bar. From this vantage point they could see everything from the restroom to the pool tables.
“What can I get ya?” the bartender asked as he eyed the two men suspiciously.
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