“Murder.” One word, but he finally got Blade’s attention.
Blade rubbed the bump on his forehead that already had a purple cast. It looked as though it hurt like hell, too. “Shoot, man, you’re screwed in the head.”
“What I am is uptight—real uptight. I suggest we start this over and you placate me. Answer my questions, and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“I could turn you in for police brutality. That’s what I could do. Know what I mean?”
Bob gazed about the sparsely-populated room. “Anybody see anything here?” he called. “Anybody see anything going on but me buying my good buddy, Blade, a drink?”
The tattooed lady turned her eyes to the floor; the guy she had wrapped herself so thoroughly around ignored the question altogether. The bartender sneered but still said nothing as he wiped glasses clean with his cloth. The few remaining patrons turned their backs.
Bob shrugged, retaking his seat. “Gee, Blade, looks like your buddies are reluctant to get involved.”
Blade grumbled an unintelligible response, then took a swig from the new draft the bartender had given him—on the house.
“Not that I’m not enjoying this wonderful conversation, but I’m a busy man. Let’s get down to the reason I came all the way across town just to look you up.”
“The whole mile? What the hell did you do, walk?”
Bob shrugged again, took a swig from his OJ. Ignoring his sarcasm, he said, “As I recall, this was the brand of juice Miranda Holliday likes.”
Blade looked at Bob as though he had completely flipped his lid. His gaze narrowed to two beefy slits; his bushy eyebrows met in the center. “Who?”
“Miranda Holliday—you know, Doc Holliday’s wife.”
“The one that got herself killed?”
“That’s the one. As I recall, there was a bottle just like this in the refrigerator, half-finished, the night she was found.” Bob glanced at Blade. “You wouldn’t know anything about that night, would you?”
Sweat beaded his bruised brow and his upper lip. “Shoot, man, I just read about it in last week’s paper. She done got herself killed a week ago Saturday.”
“That she did. Do you know what you were doing last Saturday?”
“That was the day they arrested Snake.”
“That’s the one.”
“I stayed home, I guess.”
“You guess… No alibi?”
Heat rose in a red path up Blade’s neck and centered in his cheeks. “What the hell do I need one of them for, unless you’re accusing me of something. You accusing?”
“Nope,” Bob said, then finished off his orange juice. He carefully placed the bottle back on the bar. “Not yet, anyway.” He glanced at Blade. “You might want to think about that alibi thing, though. Maybe even the night Jillian died—April nineteenth. Remember that date?”
“Sure do.”
“Got an alibi?”
“Like I said, you accusing me of something?”
Bob sighed, then shook his head. “Nope. Not yet. But, you might want to give it some serious thought—the alibi thing. You never know what we might discover in our investigation.”
Bob stood and laid a couple extra dollars on the counter, winking at the bartender. “That’s for the good service.”
He pulled his sunglasses from his shirt pocket and placed them on his face before turning back to Blade. Bob’s gaze dropped to the dirty red bandanna hanging from his back pocket. “Oh, by the way. You ever work on you own bike or truck? Put in oil pumps, water pumps, that kind of thing?”
“Yeah,” Blade snorted, with a chuckle. “Why?”
Bob adjusted his shades, shrugged, then headed for the opened door. “Just wondering,” he said, and stepped into the sunlight.
Chapter 15
The man truly did not look like a biker. He had an average build with softly graying hair, cut short and combed to the side. Very clean cut. Kip Lewis looked like a business man, but, by his reputation, could get down in the dirt with the best of them, which LeAnne planned to take the grapevine’s word on.
“Mr. Lewis,” she greeted, as she approached the counter and shook his hand.
“Detective McVeigh. What brings you to my neck of the woods?”
Kip asked. He took a seat on a stool behind the counter.
The shop was free of other people, aside from the workers who went about their respective jobs. Not surprisingly, though, LeAnne did not see Kip’s wife, Debra. She probably kept her presence at a minimum these days.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Lewis, I wish I could say it’s a social call.”
He smiled, his small, thin lips turning up warmly. His soft brown eyes appeared ardent but shadowed. LeAnne could not help wondering if the dark recesses hadn’t been caused by his wife’s infidelity and Snake’s betrayal. More than likely. LeAnne couldn’t imagine what it felt like to put your complete faith and trust in someone, then find out he’s sleeping with your spouse.
“If it wasn’t for official business, Detective, I highly doubt you’d be here at all.”
“True.” LeAnne smiled. “I can’t say I’ve ridden on the back of too many motorcycles.”
Warmth rose to her cheeks at the small reminder of her brief ride with Marcus and hoped it wasn’t visible. Her heated response to the mere thought of the man baffled her. What was it about Snake Gallego that had her acting like a schoolgirl with a secret crush?
“You don’t know what you’re missing out on.” Kip’s words caused her gaze to snap up. She almost thought the man had an uncanny way of reading minds, until he continued. “I can put you on a Sportster within six months. Anything bigger might take as long as two years.”
She laughed uneasily at the absurd notion. “I don’t know what I’d do with it.”
“Ride it—my wife has her own Harley. Bought her one, some ten years back, laid it on the ground and told her, ‘You pick it up and it’s yours.’”
“I take it she picked it up.”
“Damn right she did.” His face beamed with pride. LeAnne could tell Kip Lewis loved his wife. Sad, how life’s events suddenly altered lives irrevocably. He would be lucky if he ever trusted her again, especially in the company of Snake Gallego. “The hell of it is, I can’t get her on the back of mine now.”
“You have matching motorcycles?”
“No way. My wife couldn’t handle the size. I don’t mess around with the smaller bikes. I like my ride smooth.”
Hearing the door’s bell, Kip looked over LeAnne’s shoulder. A customer stepped into the shop and walked to the parts section. Lindsey Buckner poked her head from the parts room, blew a bubble in her chewing gum, popped it, then stepped into the showroom to help the customer.
“Hi, Detective,” she said, all smiles as she walked by with an added spring to her step.
“Lindsey.” LeAnne nodded in acknowledgment. She met the energetic girl the last time she came to the shop with questions. LeAnne wasn’t quite sure she had ever met another person with as much zeal.
“So, Detective,” Kip said, retrieving her attention. “What can I do for you today?”
“I have a few questions to ask you. May I record this?”
He nodded.
LeAnne pulled out her recorder and depressed the play and record buttons, before leafing through her notepad several pages. “Keep in mind, Mr. Lewis, you’re not a suspect.”
“God, I hope not, but please, call me Kip. I haven’t been called ‘mister’ in years. Never did like the term; makes me feel like I’m getting old.” He grinned and winked at LeAnne, telling her he knew he already was—but nowhere near over the hill.
“All right, Kip.” LeAnne found the page she was looking for, then asked, “Do you use a product called Hylomar?”
“Sure we do. It’s a gasket adhesive.”
“Can you tell me who at this shop would come in contact with it?” Kip shrugged. “Mostly the mechanics, I guess. Don’t know why
Lindsey might come in conta
ct with it, or my wife, for that matter, but it would be possible, I suppose. Why?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of an ongoing investigation, but we have reason to believe the person we are looking for might possibly be a mechanic.”
“I assume this all has to do with Hylomar, or you wouldn’t be asking. Hell, honey, I hate to bust your bubble, but Hylomar isn’t exclusive to Harley’s, or motorcycles, for that matter. Any mechanic could come in contact with it. So why come to me? Could it be Snake has something to do with this? If so, then I won’t have much to say on the subject.”
“I know there is bad blood between the two of you right now,” LeAnne said. Laying down her pad, she placed her palms on the counter and stared with compassion at Kip. “But my questions need answers. Your alibi the night of Jillian’s death checks out—but someone’s doesn’t. And the sooner I find this person, the better off this county is.”
“You’re saying this person will kill again? Rumor has it the same person killed Frank Holliday’s wife. This true?”
News traveled fast in a small town, quicker than the wheels of a locomotive on passing rails. Nonetheless, her duty was to keep as many details about their case closed from the rumor-mill, as well as the media.
“Again, I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of an ongoing investigation,” she said before continuing. “Snake was, at the time of Jillian’s death, your best friend.” Kip grunted an acknowledgment. “What I need to know is who would want to see his wife dead? Who hated her enough to kill her?”
Kip shrugged. His eyes were hooded. LeAnne would bet, even if one of his mechanics had something against Gallego’s wife, Kip was not about to give out that information. It would be like prying open a safe with a crowbar. Besides, this angle may or may not be the right one. Whomever the killer might be, could have very well taken the contaminated bandanna from the Gallego house and used it to tie up Miranda Holliday.
“Every one of us had a beef with the way Jillian dicked around on Snake. But I’d stake my reputation on the fact, none of us would have touched her.”
“Do you mind if I ask around myself?”
“Suit yourself, Detective. Just remember, they’re all bikers in their own right. I doubt any of them would tell you more than I already have.”
“Are you telling me, Kip, that you aren’t being totally honest?”
He placed his palms on the counter. “We protect our own. I doubt anyone among us took Jillian’s life. She belonged to Snake—everyone knew that. And no matter what we might have thought of the woman, none of us would have touched her. If she was cheating on Snake, then that was his problem. You ask me? I think she hooked up with the wrong guy. Try checking around the strip joint. I bet you’ll hit closer to home than you do here.”
“We have our men checking that angle.”
“Then by all means, help yourself.” His arm indicated her access to the back rooms. “There’s a couple of mechanics in the service area now; ask away.”
A few minutes later, she emerged from the back of the shop with no more answers than she had gone in with. Either no one was willing to talk, or they simply had no answers to provide.
“Thanks, Kip,” LeAnne said, as she noticed and recognized the lone customer in the showroom. Tony Hargrove was engaged in a lively conversation with Lindsey Buckner, both laughing and chiding each other.
LeAnne had no idea that Tony rode motorcycles. As she approached, she noticed his state of dress: a black tee torn around the collar with the sleeves ripped off, faded denims sporting holes in each knee, and a bandanna tied about his head like Aunt Jemima, hiding his dark brown hair from view. Stars and stripes saluted the sky. Probably the reason she hadn’t recognized him the minute he had entered.
In an overly friendly gesture, Tony placed a hand on Lindsey’s shoulder and chuckled at something she had said. His face sobered, however, when he saw LeAnne approaching. He dropped his hand all too quickly.
“Detective McVeigh,” he said, turning his back on Lindsey, who scurried away like a mouse caught at play when the cat returns.
“Mr. Hargrove,” she said, eliciting another deep chuckle from him.
He towered a good half a foot above her five-eight frame. LeAnne glanced up to look into his dark brown eyes. Somehow, she didn’t recall Tony being so tall.
“I’ve been called a lot of things before”—his lush lips turned up mischievously—“and ‘mister’ isn’t one of them.”
“What would you like me to call you?” LeAnne asked, raising a brow.
“When is more like it.”
She saw a whole new side to Anthony Hargrove, one he obviously hid when in the company of his father, the judge, or his fiancée. This side she wasn’t so sure she liked. LeAnne shuffled her stance, turning her gaze to the gray carpeting at her feet.
“I see I’ve embarrassed you.” His warm teasing tone brought her eyes back to his. “Don’t be. It was meant as a compliment.”
Not only had her face flushed, but her ears as well. Her hair, in a tight knot at the back of her head, would do little in the way of concealing her reaction. Her best bet would be taking the conversation off herself and placing it elsewhere.
“How do you know Lindsey?” she asked.
His eyes briefly flitted to the blonde as she blew and popped bubbles behind the counter, her attention now on the computer screen before her. Kip had disappeared altogether.
He shrugged. “I went to high school with her. But then again, I’m sure you already knew that.”
“I did,” she replied matter-of-factly. “But I couldn’t help noticing how cozy the two of you seemed. More like lovers than old classmates.”
His smile grew; light sparkled in his eyes. “Look who’s making assumptions. Aren’t you suppose to go by the facts, Detective? Besides, Lindsey’s married.”
“Which I also know,” LeAnne said, “but I couldn’t help wondering what Mr. Buckner might say should he walk out of the service area and find your hand placed tenderly on his wife’s shoulder.”
“Fred?” Tony chuckled. “Shit. That old boy may be built like a brick shithouse, but everyone knows he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Even if that fly turns out to be a spider—one that’s out to nail his wife? You better be careful, Tony, or you might find yourself squashed.”
“Why would you care?”
“You’re coming to work for Chad in a few months. Am I right?”
“So?”
“Your actions might not speak well in the county prosecutor’s office.”
He took a step closer, his heated stare consuming her. Tony Hargrove was no longer the boy she remembered. He had turned into a full-fledged man—one with a dark side, one she had never seen before.
“What wouldn’t look good in the county prosecutor’s office,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “is the protégé banging the prosecutor’s wife.”
A shiver passed down her spine. Tony Hargrove, engaged or not, was a threat to the secure little life she led, with or without the chaotic addition of Snake Gallego.
She stepped back a pace and straightened her shoulders. “We both know that will never happen.”
He arched a brow in challenge. “Do we?”
LeAnne cleared her throat. “Of course. You’re the hometown boy everyone has on a pedestal. The one his class voted most likely to succeed. We certainly wouldn’t want that pedestal knocked out from beneath you.”
“We wouldn’t. But then again, no one has to know.”
“Sure they would, Tony, because we live in a small town. The county prosecutor’s wife sleeping with his protégé would be big news,” LeAnne said, retreating toward the door. But before she got there, she stopped. “How long have you been riding motorcycles?”
“A few years.”
She glanced at the holes in his pants. A red stain dotted the right knee, fixing her where she stood. LeAnne thought of Jillian’s marker. Her eyes flitted back to his. “Ever work on your o
wn motorcycle?”
“No,” he replied. “Though I helped Lindsey’s old man fix my water pump once when I got stranded out at their place. I was just damn lucky he had a few spare parts.”
“What were you doing at the Buckners?”
Tony grinned amorally. “Banging his wife. Thank God I was outside trying to jump start my old truck, and not his wife, when the engine tied up about the time he came home.”
“Yeah,” LeAnne scoffed. “Thank God.”
“What’s the matter?” he asked, his gaze inquisitive. “You look like something’s got you bugged.”
“It’s nothing really,” she said, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Where did you get the red paint on your right knee?”
Tony looked down at his old faded jeans and scratched at the spot with his fingernail as though it might flake off. No such luck. The spot remained stubborn. “I suppose I was out painting something.”
“It isn’t every day you paint something of that color. Not like you’d paint a building red unless it was an old barn.”
“Or the color of my Harley,” he said, his eyes turning impish. “I could always take you for a ride if you’d like to see it up close and personal.”
LeAnne opened the door. “I’ll have to take your word for it this time, Tony.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“That very well may be.” She stepped outside. But before letting go of the door, she called back, “Give Julie my regards, will you?” then walked to her detective’s sedan. LeAnne had one more person to question for the day, and she certainly hoped her interrogation of Wymer went more smoothly than her talk with Tony Hargrove, whom she just added to her list of suspects. In a big way.
* * *
Allen Wymer, his wife having kicked him out, now lived in a small, two-bedroom apartment just off the Maumee River. LeAnne knocked on the second-story door as she looked down the hallway. A musty odor filled the area.
Two kids ran down the steps, playing tag. LeAnne guessed them to be no more than four years old. She wondered where the mother was and why the children ran unsupervised at such a tender age. The reason police departments kept busy these days, and the prison systems were so full that they allowed criminals back on the street in record time, was partly due to the lack of attention children received.
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