Shelter (Red Rebels MC Book 5)

by C. D. Breadner

  “Yeah. This carpet’s so matted there’s nothing to really see. And I doubt it’s been vacuumed in years.” Martin’s answer was soft. “And it’s not like there will be any shell casings or bullets to find.”

  “Fair enough,” she replied. “Defensive wounds on the left forearm, posterior. He was awake. He likely struggled.”

  No reply, but she could imagine Martin writing down what she said as she went down on one knee and raised the camera to snap a few close-ups. “My guess is the attacker got control of his arms, pushed them to the side and pinned them there. Maybe with a knee.”

  She straightened and braced her feet wide, leaning over without having to lean on the bed to get a closer look at the torso. With the blood she could see pooling around his shoulders, she was guessing his throat had been cut. “Bingo,” she whispered, bringing the camera up. “Throat is slashed. Deep, too. Cause of death could be exsanguination,” she leaned in closer. “Have to open him up to rule out asphyxia. Curious that he didn’t move after they cut him, unless they held him this way until he stopped struggling.” She pushed her hair behind her ear. “The cut is clean, the weapon was good and sharp.”

  She checked the wall beyond the bed, and braced a gloved hand on a bloodless section to lean over and get a look at the man’s back and shoulders, what was showing at least. “No wounds to the back.” She straightened up again with a groan. “Throat slash definitely killed him, then. I’ll know better back in the lab what kind of weapon was likely used, once I see the angle and what actually got severed. But it’s deep enough that there must be damage to the throat. Just not sure which parts.”

  She looked up at the wall again. “Blood splatter is minimal. I’d say that happened as the throat was cut. Weapon came up after the cut, made that streak.” And that’s what it was; a rough line of deep crimson, curved around at the end like the force of the liquid fell off as the angle of the swing moved further from the wall. The mark was only about twenty inches in length.

  “There’s a lot more blood in the other room,” Martin said, and she turned to study him.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m thinking that’s the guy they were really after.”

  “Is Chase done in there?”

  “Almost. There’s a lot to photograph. But I’m guessing the cause of death will be similar to this one.”

  She nodded, reaching in her pocket for the lens cover. “Any idea who this guy is?”

  “Trailer belongs to Wallace Gaines. Former con, he’s been on the level for quite a while. Well, other than hanging around with the Rebels.”

  Danielle’s hands tightened a bit on the camera.

  “Best I can figure he deals for them, and if we search the trailer I’m sure we’ll find a stash of weed and money. But nothing tying him to the actual club.”

  “I see.” Danielle looked down on the body again. It was the body of a hard-lived life, she supposed. His arms were corded with muscle, which was also obvious in the shape of his shoulder. Looking at the face again, she supposed sixty might be overshooting the mark a bit.

  “That’s right, you’re living next to one of them now.” Martin said, sounding oddly cheerful suddenly in that bloody room. “Knuckles, right? He bought Downey’s old place.”

  “Yeah,” she answered, turning to face him again, trying to ignore the weird clench her stomach had when he brought up Knuckles’ name in this place.

  “He’s a bit nuts, but I doubt he’d do anything to anyone in the neighborhood,” Martin assured her, catching the reluctance in her tone. “Hell, I’d trust most of them a hell of a lot more than some folks in this town. They help us out more than they hurt us, between you and me.”

  She nodded just as a throat was cleared behind Martin. The guy jumped, moving out of the way to show Troy standing right behind him. “Chase is done in the other room. You ready for this?” the Deputy asked her, meeting her eyes for the first time since he’d eyed up her neck in her office.

  “Sure,” she said, gesturing with the camera. “Lead the way.”

  The other room was barely a bedroom. Just a long, skinny set of painted paneled walls with a door on one end, curtained window on the other. The only furniture was an ancient sofa and a desk from somewhere around nineteen-seventy, no chair. A laptop was smashed on the desk, next to a roughly treated cell phone still plugged into its charger. Another cell charger cord was on the desk, no phone attached. She walked past the desk to stand in the narrow space between the sofa and the wall, trying not to rub against either.

  There was blood everywhere. This victim had been slashed and stabbed who knew how many times, the streaks of blood all the way up the wall to the tiled ceiling. It even speckled the cover of the light fixture, one of those bowl-shaped things with generic frosting and no pattern.

  Over the back of the sofa, a huge mass of blood had been smeared. Frowning, Danielle leaned in to see it better, but she couldn’t make out what it was meant to be. It was definitely a deliberate shape, but the mess was nearly impossible to decipher.

  So, she dropped her eyes down to the body. The blankets had been drawn off this man, and he must have slept in the nude. She immediately noted the defensive wounds on both arms and his hands, which were flung out to the sides. One was resting on the floor, the other up the back of the sofa. His chest was a mess of gore, opened and torn from stab wounds. They’d gone to town on this poor fucker.

  “On this guy, I’m guessing exsanguination,” she said, slipping the lens cover back in her pocket and bringing the camera up. “He was struggling, fighting. Brought up more blood. If anyone was holding him down, they would have been pinning his shoulders or arms down. There will be bruising if they did.”

  “Check out that mug. The poor guy took a real beating.”

  Danielle brought the camera down to peer at the young man’s face, and as she did she nearly dropped the camera on the body.

  Brian. Brian Crawford. Brian that was taken from her front lawn last night by Red Rebels, after Knuckles did all that damage to his face. He was swollen and coated in red, but she could see it. The punk that had been spending too much time with Grace.

  Shit. Oh, double shit.

  “You know him?” Troy asked quietly.

  “Grace did,” she answered, too in shock to lie. “I warned her off of him.”

  “Were they…dating?”

  “I have no doubt they were interested in each other. But not in the dating manner.” She met Troy’s eye, hoping she looked unshaken. “He’s twenty-three. He’d been pestering her.”

  “Pestering her how?”

  Big fucking mouth. “He wanted her to sell Sunshine at the high school for him.”

  “Well, shit Danielle. That would have been good to know seeing as how we just had a girl die from taking that shit.”

  Danielle sighed. “Yeah, I’m sorry. But Grace made it sound like he hadn’t had any success with it. That’s why they were so pissed.”

  Troy frowned. “Pissed how?”

  “There was a confrontation outside of a youth center in Bakersfield a few weeks back,” she said, snapping off a few shots of the defensive wounds on the victim’s upturned arm, then hand. “These gang bangers were calling her out in front of the rest of her support group. That’s when she told me what they’d wanted. She was sure they knew Brian here.”

  Troy sighed. “I wish you’d reported that.”

  “A Bakersfield PD officer came by. Asked what was going on.” She stood up and met Troy’s eye again. “I have his card at home, if you want it. He seemed to know those guys, wasn’t too scared of them personally. But he was pretty worried about Grace.”

  Troy nodded. “Yeah, get me his name and number when you think of it. He’ll likely have some light to shed on this.”

  She looked up at the wall again. “What the hell is that supposed to be anyway? Their finger-painting skills leave a lot to be desired.”

  Troy smiled, which seemed inappropriate considering where they were, but someti
mes it was necessary after all. “You don’t see it? Big round body, small head, long tail.”

  As he spoke her eyes lost their focus slightly, and she could make out a shape finally. “Is that…is it a rat?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Finally,” Knuckles shouted as Fritter’s Harley Dyna roared up the lane towards Terry Fauntino’s scrapyard. Not that Fritter could hear him.

  He pushed away from the side panel of the new Grainger’s Garage cargo van, tossing his cigarette butt to the side.

  “Sorry,” Fritter answered after killing the motor, pulling his helmet off. “Major drama at home. Adeel starts regular school today.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. The shrink says he’s ready, but he started throwing a fucking fit when Sharon was getting him out the door.”

  Knuckles winced. “Shit. I hope he’s okay. Try again tomorrow?”

  Fritter shook his head. “Nah. He went.”

  “How’d she manage that?”

  Fritter shrugged. “I did it, actually.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Now Fritter laughed. “No, really.” He swung a leg off the bike and stood, undoing his riding gloves. “He’s crying and freaking out, so I just grabbed him, looked him in the eye and said, ‘No free rides, kid. You gotta go to school like everyone else.’”

  Knuckles eyed him wearily. “Sharon was okay with that?”

  “Probably not, but it worked. He just…snapped to. Wiped his eyes and grabbed his backpack.” Then Fritter frowned. “Hope I’m not sleeping on the couch tonight.”

  “Does she really make you sleep on the couch?”

  Fritter grinned at him. “Nah. I can usually bring her around.”

  Knuckles chuckled and climbed into the driver’s side of the van. There was a time when their discussions about women would have been much more detailed, but not anymore. Not since Fritter’d gone and got himself an old lady.

  Finally, he could understand the tight lip. He had no interest on comparing notes about Danielle, and when it really got down to it he didn’t want to hear any down and dirty details about Sharon Downey. A year ago, absolutely. Not anymore, though.

  Fritter climbed in the passenger side of the van and together they pulled into Terry’s scrapyard. The road was uneven and hard to navigate so the bike stayed by the gate.

  When Dirty Rats had broken into the Grainger Garage and beaten Mickey, then shot him, they’d had to have been after a decent store of Thebaine that the Rebels had hijacked from the Mad Gypsys what seemed like a half century ago. At the time the Thebaine was hidden in the sand pits under the hydraulic lifts. After that breach, Knuckles had devised this hiding place; in the cavity of an ancient, rusted Comet parked on the edges of Terry’s scrapyard. He’d had to pay Terry five hundred bucks for the car, and agreed to throw in another fifty dollars per month to keep the car covered like it was a project someone was intending to work on one day. Not a bad price for a yard prowled nightly by two horse-sized Dobermans.

  As they bumped over the barely-there lane, Knuckles was lost in his thoughts about the club “growing up” when Fritter burst out laughing.

  “What the hell?”

  His pal shook his head. “I gotta ask. I’m sorry.”

  “What?”

  “Rusty and Spaz came back last night with stories—”

  “Oh, fuck off.”

  “—and for the life of me, I want to believe they’re full of shit.”

  “Mouthy little bitches,” Knuckles mumbled, swerving to avoid a jagged hunk of metal.

  “Well, you gotta admit. The last guy that should be getting involved with a civilian is you.”

  Knuckles frowned. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “How old is she?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Same age as me. What does it matter?”

  “She’s got two kids?”

  “Yeah.”

  Fritter was quiet, staring out the side window, then he turned back. “That’s a big fucking deal, man.”

  “I know it is.”

  “You like the kids?”

  Knuckles sighed, scratched his forehead. “I mean…yeah. I fucking like them. The youngest was the one that found me, man.”

  “She found you?”

  Knuckles had to smile at the memory. “She was hanging around my garage when I was unable to ride. She’s into motorcycles, she’s helping me put one together.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. She’s ten, and man, she’s hilarious.”

  “We should get her and Adeel together. He needs friends.”

  Knuckles looked over at his brother, smile growing. “She’s friends with anyone within five minutes.”

  “What about the other one?”

  “Well, the other one’s Grace. And she’s sixteen.”

  “Oh,” Fritter’s tone indicated he knew what a teenage girl was probably like.

  “Moody. But really…I don’t think she’s a bad kid. Just gets herself in stupid situations.”

  “And what about the woman?”

  Knuckles swallowed, eyes back out front, clearing his throat. “Danielle.”

  “Danielle, hey? Shit, you’re blushing.”

  “Shut up.”

  “What’s she like?”

  Knuckles shook his head, unsure how to put it. “I don’t know. She’s…she’s average height. Shoulder-length hair. And freckles. Lots of freckles. Everywhere.”

  “Freckles everywhere?”

  “Don’t start that with me.”

  Fritter laughed again, then it died off. “What else, man? Come on. I’m trying to figure this out.”

  “She’s…” his voice died off. He didn’t know how to put it, how to tell Fritter that she calmed the tension and buzzing of his conscience. She gave him a place that felt comfortable. She made him feel a little less alone in a way he didn’t even know he needed.

  How did he say all that without sounding insane?

  “She’s what?”

  “I don’t know. She just makes me feel good.”

  “Hmm.”

  Knuckles ignored that as he pulled to a stop behind the tarped Comet.

  “Okay, I’ll shut up.”

  “Yeah, if only that was true.”

  Fritter yanked the van’s side doors open as Knuckles dragged the busted axle off the hood of the Comet, then peeled the cover off the hood, tossing it up onto the crushed roof. The Comet had rolled in the ancient past.

  Together they got the hood open, shoved a bunch of rusted parts out of the way, then found the old ruck sacks that he’d shoved the zipper-locked baggies of white powder into. Thebaine was the opioid ingredient in Oxy, and this product had been bound for Canada before the Rebels had intercepted it. Now they’d put it to good use setting Guidinger up as a traitor.

  When the Thebaine was loaded in the van they shut the doors, threw the cover back over the car and replaced the hunk of metal holding it down. They were quiet on the ride back to the gate, with Knuckles trying to pretend Fritter wasn’t still grinning like an idiot.

  “We don’t do anything the easy way,” the schmuck eventually mumbled.

  “What?”

  “You and me.” Fritter shook his head, squinting against the sunlight flooding the cab. “We’re supposed to end up with strippers. Or prostitutes.”

  Knuckles had to chuckle. “Or no one.”

  “Or no one,” he agreed easily. “This Danielle, she’s a coroner, isn’t she?”

  “Yeah.” Sometimes he forgot that. She was so normal, it seemed almost ludicrous that she had such a weird job.

  “She’s practically law, man.”

  That gave him pause.

  “Consider this your head’s up. Jayce is worried.”

  “Jayce?”

  “She works at the Sheriff’s department. How many of our associates do you think she’s going to have to look at, assess, hell, testify about? Unless you think she’ll give up that post.”

  He shook his
head. “Nah, she’d never do that.”

  When he stopped at Fritter’s bike, his head was getting mottled again. The buzzing started up, and that’s when he realized he’d actually woken up without it. Shit, he hadn’t had a single moment of worry about her job. She kept it so neatly packed away. Except for that young girl that had died, that is. That one had obviously stayed with her.

  “See you at the clubhouse,” Fritter said, still grinning as he climbed out of the van.

  “Yeah,” he replied dryly. He waited for Fritter to get into his gear, then followed him all the way back into the residential streets of Markham. At the clubhouse, Spaz was waiting next to the open garage door, allowing Knuckles to pull straight into the stall. The door lowered behind him as he climbed out.

  “All good?”

  Knuckles nodded. “No problem.” Yanking the side doors open again, the gestured to the canvas bags inside. “Where does Jayce want it?”

  “Office.”

  They moved the six packs through the stall, down the hall past the kitchen, and into the clubhouse itself. Rusty was helping himself to some coffee behind the bar, and when Knuckles saw him he was tempted to drop the bags and blacken his eye, but something in the guy’s face made him stop.

  “Good, you guys are back.”

  Knuckles frowned. “What happened?”

  “Good fucking question. Throw that in the office and then meet us in the boardroom,” Jayce instructed, walking past at his no-bullshit pace right through the boardroom doors.

  They all took their usual spots, and Knuckles was the last one to his. Rusty got up to close the doors, then resumed his place.

  “Okay,” Jayce started with the habitual tapping of his knuckles on the table. “Last night Knuckles tuned in Brian Crawford, came around a sixteen-year-old he’d been warned off of before. But we also know he’d been trying to recruit someone from the high school to sell Oxy as well.” Jayce laced his fingers together and leaned onto the table now. “What happened last night, Spaz?”

  The IO shifted in his seat. “Rusty and I took Crawford to his uncle’s place, like Knuckles said to.”

  “Like Knuckle’s said,” Jayce cut in, raising an eyebrow his way.

  Knuckles gave his best sheepish look. “Sorry. Probably should have called to ask.”