Maybe the universe was trying to send him a message that this was where he belonged—so why did the powers that be have to torture him first by showing him a glimpse of what real joy could be like, of the girl curled in his arms in a golden circle of light?
“Now think about it from my point of view. Whose story do you think I’m more likely to buy? The biker boy with the juvie rape record, or the wife of the titan of industry he was boinking?” She reached for her cup and took a calm sip.
“So much for the sealed juvenile system. Did Jack manage to show you that, too? It was him who called in the arrest, wasn’t it?” he spat with contempt. “He timed it perfectly.”
“I don’t know who this Camus person is, but he’s got nothing to do with this case. We found Daniel Kinski dead in his basement yesterday.”
“Well that proves I’m innocent, then. I haven’t been to the Kinski’s in two days. I can prove it. Ask Tryg ”
“I said he was found dead; I didn’t say when he was killed.”
“Fuck.” Nick directed his gaze at her. He knew his looks could be disarming—hypnotizing even, but she was a tough nut to crack. He watched her swallow, her throat muscles moving under her collarbone. “I would think you were smart enough to know, after all your years on the force, that things aren’t always how they look.”
“Your flattery is sweet, but I’ve found that actually, nine times out of ten, things are exactly how they look. We have CCTV footage proving you were in the Kinski house on multiple occasions leading up to the day Mr. Kinski was killed. And Mrs. Kinski has confirmed it.”
Nick slumped in the chair. He knew now that nothing about his arrival at the Kinski’s had been random. Helena had known about his record; she knew he was a prime target to frame. A woman like her didn’t throw herself at some nobody biker boy unless she wanted something in return. A lesser, more naïve woman might be swayed by Nick’s looks and the excitement he represented. Helena Kinski was no innocent ingénue; in fact, it was Nick who had been taken in by her, despite his every effort to keep his wits about him.
Nick’s mind was racing, but meanwhile, Madigan was still talking. “Your DNA and fingerprints are all over the house. And Mrs. Kinski, herself, has gone on the record saying you two were sexually involved, and that you were after a shipment of drugs that that Daniel Kinski had been involved in orchestrating the theft of. In short,” she paused for dramatic effect, “it looks bad, Stone.”
“Don’t you realize that’s exactly what she wants you to think?” Nick countered. “She hates her husband; she told me she’s wanted a divorce for years and he wouldn’t give her one.”
“What’s to stop her from leaving him?”
“Because she’d be penniless!” Nick exploded. “They had a prenup ensuring she wouldn’t get a thing. So, instead, she came up with a plan to murder him, frame me, and get away with a truckload of untraceable drug money.” Nick tried to catch his breath; he was blinded with rage, more at himself for what an idiot he’d been to ever fall for Helena’s seductiveness. The more he looked at Madigan, the more he saw Helena—her freezing-cold gaze, plump pout, and perfectly sculpted hair. The icy bitch. He felt anger radiating out of his every pore.
“Okay, Stone,” said Madigan suddenly, “I’m leaving you in here a while to cool off. Maybe when I come back you’ll be ready to talk. Who knows, maybe I’ll even bring you a cup of coffee.”
“I don’t want coffee. I want—” But she was already gone. Nick screamed and banged the back of his head against the wall.
Moments, later, the burly cop from earlier came in holding a bottle of water and Nick licked his parched lips. At least he’d get some relief, finally. Maybe once he wasn’t so dehydrated, he’d be able to think straight, and come up with a plan to get out of this and help Liana.
“Officer,” said Nick, trying his best to keep the contempt out of his voice. “I know you don’t trust me, but just listen for a second. There’s a girl who needs help—”
“Shut up.” He showed his yellowed teeth as he unscrewed the cap off the bottle and dropped it to the floor. “I’ve got one thing and one thing only for you,” he said. Nick looked up sullenly from beneath his sweaty bangs. “A present.” Suddenly the guy grabbed the back of the metal chair and upended it, sending it and Nick crashing to the rock-hard floor.
“What the—” Before he could scramble up, the cop came back, aiming his scuffed black leather boot solidly between Nick’s gut and his crotch, the pain like a torpedo to Nick’s already weakened frame. He doubled over, gasping for air, writhing in pain. His hands rattled against the cuffs, unable to even move his hands forward to hold his chest, feeling like a fish on a beach, mouth moving but no sound coming out. I can’t even protect myself, he thought, cursing himself, and Liana was somewhere a million times worse.
The cop stepped back. “Courtesy of Sergeant Jack Camus. Oh,” he said turning back. “He wanted me to mention something else. Something about your girlfriend, and how he likes to hear her scream more than any other sound in the world.” As Nick wheezed in the corner, barely able to raise his head, the cop took another swig of the water bottle, then poured the rest of it in the wastebasket in the opposite corner of the room. “Have a nice night,” he said, and slammed the door shut.
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
“How come you ain’t got no photos, homes?”
Sitting at the molded metal desk in the cell, trying to puzzle through a series of algebra problems the Circleville teacher had given him, Nick flinched, though he was surprised by the concern in the other young man’s voice. They’d been cellies for a week, and Chucho had been trying to engage Nick in conversation for almost that long. He wasn’t aggressive about it; he was almost endearing, making up weird little rap songs or jokes about the cafeteria chili or the forehead tattoos of the kid across the pod, talking at length about the life he had waiting for him back on the west side of Columbus. Nick had mostly ignored him, preferring to keep a low profile, even if the Mexican-American boy seemed friendly enough. But now, he ducked his head even lower and felt his face grow warm, thinking of how it must look like, compared to Chucho, that he had nothing and nobody who gave a shit.
Later, though, after lights out, he gazed down from the top bunk, his head peeking over the side, looking down as Chucho flipped through the multitude of snapshots of family cookouts in the park, grandparents and grandchildren playing baseball and blowing bubbles, and beautiful black-haired girl wearing a cross necklace, who gazed out into the camera, with an almost angelic innocence.
“What’s her name?” he asked suddenly.
Chucho, who Nick was pretty sure had long since given up on engaging his new cellie in any kind of conversation, looked up beaming. “Itzel,” he said proudly. “What’s yours?”
And Nick took a deep breath and told him about Liana—the only one he told. At first, he was afraid it would mean he’d be perceived as weak—that a girl, of all things, had been the reason he’d ended up where he was.
But it helped that Chucho’s was, too. As it turned out, Nick was sharing space with the most successful car thief on the West Side of Columbus. The short, stocky boy had successfully hotwired at least fifteen cars. The only reason he’d slipped up and gotten caught was that he’d made the mistake of choosing a bait car—the kind any experienced thief knows not to take. But Itzel had been pregnant and Chucho was desperate to show the girl he could be a good provider. He hadn’t counted on the plan backfiring so he ended up in prison during his daughter’s birth and first year of life.
Although Chucho had plenty of issues of his own, having been in Circleville longer, he took Nick under his wing. Nick, of course, had nobody to put money in his commissary account, but Chucho, whose mother and girlfriend still visited faithfully every week and deposited money there, shared his Honey Buns and Hostess Cupcakes without fail, and the fact that someone cared about Nick was even sweeter than the taste of the sugar in the treats. He was even close to being recommended for a job i
n the laundry, which, tedious as it sounded, would finally allow him to make his own money. That was until a lanky, wild-eyed kid named Quantrell offered to trade Nick for some of them, but didn’t like what Nick had delivered, and decided to get revenge by sticking a filed-down toothbrush under Nick’s mattress shortly before weekly inspection.
“It’s mine,” said Chucho when the C.O. pulled it out and Nick’s stomach dropped to the floor, visions of a month straight of staring at a cinderblock wall flashing before his eyes. A month later, when Chucho returned, having lost weight, dark circles under his eyes, Nick pulled him aside next to the basketball courts.
“Well?” he demanded.
“Well what?”
“Why did you do it?”
“It’s simple, homes,” said Chucho. “You wanted that work detail, and you never would have gotten it if you’d had to go to the hole. You needed a favor. I did you one.”
“But you barely even know me,” insisted Nick. “For all you know, I’ll never pay you back. I could turn around and shiv you in the ribs tomorrow.”
“Faith, bro,” said Chucho, patting the taller boy on the back, then trotting off to go play basketball.
Chucho’s faith was, indeed, strong. He went to Catholic mass regularly, even convincing Nick to join him sometimes, though it never really took. The stuff that priest talked about, though—faith, forgiveness, hope, and the idea that there was somebody up there looking out for even the most reviled and wretched of people, people like Nick—resonated with him.
Chucho’s dream was being a cop. He knew they wouldn’t let him into the official academy, but thanks to the help of his priest, who vouched for his desire to reform, he’d managed to finagle a position as a reserve officer—writing traffic tickets, filing, and doing whatever the other cops didn’t want to do. For him, it was enough, and more than he thought he’d ever be able to accomplish, given his criminal record. When he got the notice in the mail, the look on the kid’s face was radiant. “It’s a new start for us, homes,” he told Nick. “All I gotta do is stay out of trouble until I get out next month.”
That was until the day in the shower, when the 400-pound wannabe Aryan brother decided he hadn’t liked the way the Mexican kid had looked at him. Chucho, having recommitted to staying in shape for the academy, had been lifting weights for months, and he didn’t realize how hard he’d pushed the guy against the tile wall, cracking his skull clean open.
By the time the COs rushed in, it was too late. The immense Aryan brother was sprawled out unconscious on the floor of the shower, blood running down the drain from the swastika tattoo on his forehead.
Nick, who’d witnessed it, hadn’t even thought twice before taking full responsibility. All it took was seeing the panic in Chucho’s eyes as his imagined future, for him and Itzel and the baby, swept away in a single moment. Nick didn’t have that future—he wasn’t sure he had a future at all—but he wanted it for his friend. Nick stepped forward, and spent the rest of his time in Circleville in solitary, having his food shoved into him through a slot in the door and bouncing a basketball alone in an empty gym for exercise. He didn’t get to say goodbye to Chucho when he left. It was a small price to pay.
But he remembered how Chucho had read to him at night, after lights out, in hushed voices, from his favorite book, “Don Quixote.” And though he never said it, Nick knew Chucho saw himself as the gallant Spanish knight, always performing acts of chivalry in honor of his lady love, Dulcinea, a woman he’d barely even seen, let alone spoken to.
“Dude, can’t you see that this guy is delusional?” he demanded one night after Chucho had waxed ecstatic, once again, over Don Quixote’s adventures.
Chucho went silent for a second. “What do you mean?”
“Dulcinea isn’t real!” Nick exclaimed, exasperated. “She’s just a fantasy for him, and that’s all she’ll ever be. She’s never going to be with him. Just like Itzel isn’t going to want to spend her life with some car thief who’s missing the first year of her baby’s life sitting in prison. I mean, her mom already hates you.”
Chucho was silent for a few moments, and Nick was ashamed of himself for popping the poor kid’s bubble. But somebody had to do it, right?
“Fantasies can become realities, homes,” said Chucho after a minute.
“Yeah, how?”
“Prove it,” he replied. “Brave deeds, grand gestures. You can’t tell her that you want her. You gotta show her.”
“The lies we tell ourselves,” sad Nick in his best sarcastic-teenager voice, rolling over and staring at the bare plaster ceiling, closing his eyes, then opening them again, wondering, not for the first time, if it would make the nights easier if he had picture of Liana—her gigantic smile and kind eyes full of laughter and compassion. If only he had ever bothered to take one—or steal one. Now he’d never see her again, whether in a picture or in real life, so it was better not to delude himself.
“You’ll see, ese,” replied Chucho. “When the time comes, I’ll find a way. And so will you.”
***
The next time he awoke, he screamed. From the pitch-dark of the interrogation room to the blazing fluorescent light was a shock to his abused system. His forehead was bleeding from where it had hit the concrete floor, and his mouth felt like it had been stuffed full of sand. Suddenly, someone had knelt down, pressing a bottle of water to his lips—real water.
“Liana?” he murmured. His eyelashes fluttered.
“No, homes, it’s me. Careful now.” He lifted the water to his lips.
Nick feebly rattled the chains cuffing his hands to the chair. They ached from where they had been rubbed raw. Chucho grinned, his teeth white in the gloom of the windowless room. “Sorry, ese. I don’t got the key. You gotta talk to Madigan about that,” he added thoughtfully. “You know, when I left Circleville and told you I hoped I’d never see you again, it wasn’t because I didn’t consider you a friend. It was because I had the crazy idea that you had it in you to stay straight.”
“Well, I have.”
“What are you doing in here?” Chris gestured around the room.
“Getting railroaded,” Nick said darkly.
“Fair enough. Nick,” Chucho said, narrowing his eyes skeptically, “this is an officer of the law you’re talking to now, not the seventeen-year-old car thief from the barrio. You call being vice president for the most notorious biker gang in three counties ‘going straight’?”
“Look, Chucho, wearing M.C. colors is one thing. Murder is another. And I didn’t kill Daniel Kinski.”
Chucho paused.
“Oh, come on, man, you believe me, don’t you?”
A wan smiled formed on his face. “Of course I do, homes, and to be honest, I think Madigan does, too. She talks tough, but she knows who pays her salary, and Helena Kinski has some powerful friends. But,” he paused, “if you’re about to ask for my help busting out of here, you’re out of luck, ese.”
“Relax,” Nick reassured him. “That’s not what I want. Besides, if you wouldn’t help me do it six years ago, why would you do it now?”
“To be fair, your plan was shit. I mean, did you really think that stealing a delivery man’s uniform and growing a mustache was going to keep anyone from seeing you slip out the gates?”
“Maybe not, but I don’t recall you coming up with anything better. Listen, I need you to find another cop for me.”
“No way, man.” Chucho took a step back, waving his hands. “Internal affairs are the scum of the earth, and they do it officially. I’m just rank-and-file. I can’t poke around investigating other cops without a damn good reason.”
Nick edged forward to the edge of the chair. “Chucho, trust me, this guy is crooked to the core. Taking him down will get you a goddamn medal.”
“What’s his name?”
Nick took a deep breath. “Jack Camus.”
Chucho’s eyes went wide. “Shit, ese, why didn’t you say so?”
“You know him?”
“Of course I know him. Hell, one of my best friends on the force is from New York. He started his career working on Rikers Island, and he told me everyone had a Jack Camus story. He was one scary-ass cabrón. He said if they hauled in a suspect who’d been interrogated by Camus, you bypassed intake and took them straight to the infirmary. And needless to say, they didn’t come out for a while. And nobody dared say anything against him—unless they wanted to end up in the ER themselves. Everybody knew he had high-up friends you didn’t want to fuck with.”
“That sounds like him. Do you think you might be able to find a link between him and Helena Kinski?”
Chucho wrinkled his brow.
“Please, Chucho. Somebody’s life might depend on it.”
It only took a second for the young cop to catch on. His face lit up. “It’s her, isn’t it? Liana?”
Quickly, all in one breath, Nick explained the text message he’d received from Liana hours ago, and how he feared it was already too late. Even as he spoke, he felt desperation fill his voice, as if anything he could possibly do now would be too little. “And meanwhile, I’m sitting here handcuffed to a chair,” he growled. “Why I am I never there when she needs me?”
“Whoa, whoa, man, hold on,” said Chucho. “You’re back together. You made it up with her. That’s not nothing.” Nick couldn’t help but smile then, though it was a smile tempered by despair, knowing that whatever joy he had been brought by Liana’s return had been cruelly short-lived. “Didn’t I tell you she’d be waiting for you when you got out? A girl like that—”
Nick groaned, remembering how, after Chucho had found out about Liana, he had kept Nick’s hopes alive, even after months passed without word from her, and Nick was all but one hundred percent convinced she wanted nothing to do with him ever again. “It wasn’t like that. She went to New York and only came back a week ago.”
Long Ride: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Black Sparks MC) (Whiskey Bad Boys Book 1) Page 22