It’s been a long time since I’ve been part of the pack, now that Paco has taken my former spot in front of me.
After my announcement yesterday, Ouray immediately called all the guys into his office. There was protest—in particular from Nosh who handed me the patch over a decade ago—but after Ouray yelled for order, I had a chance to explain myself to my brothers. Paco was voted in as sergeant at arms unanimously.
Next item on the agenda had been Wapi, who’s had a rocky road as a prospect, but has done everything he could to make up for earlier mistakes. He proved himself to be a loyal brother and Ouray put his name forward to be patched in. That was another unanimous vote and Wapi was brought in under the cheers of all his brothers.
He’s riding beside me at the front of the pack, proud as punch and smiling wide.
“Stop grinning, you moron,” I call out to him. “You’re chewing bugs.”
I shake my head when he turns his head to me, and opens even wider, sticking out his tongue. I can’t help grin at the guy’s excitement. It’s a miracle he’s even sitting up straight. The guys partied hard last night. I left early, maybe half an hour into the raucous celebration, but he’d already been three sheets to the wind. I remember when I was patched in. I’d been a few years younger than Wapi, and I got so hammered I was sick for three days straight.
Not my new brother, though, he has to have a stomach of steel.
It only takes us about four hours to get to the hotel-casino just north of Santa Fe, where we usually book a block of rooms. The parking lot is already half-full with motorcycles. Looks like some of the other MCs have arrived.
Manny, president of the Amontinados MC, walks up to Ouray the moment he parks his bike. Even though the Amontinados are firmly on the wrong side of the law, the ties with Manny go back many years, since he was a brother with the Arrow’s Edge. He didn’t like the turn Ouray was taking the club in after he took the gavel and took the optional patch out given at the time.
Only two other guys chose to opt out. There definitely was animosity, and I don’t have a clue where those two ended up, but over the years things have settled some with Manny Salinas.
“Red ain’t coming,” he announces.
“Why the fuck not?”
“Heat showed up late yesterday. One of his guys was found dead. Remember Scottie? Had that restored ’48 Panhead?”
“Crash?” Ouray wants to know.
Manny shakes his head. “No, man. Someone offed him ugly.”
“Fuck!”
He pulls out his phone and starts walking toward the edge of the parking lot, where he starts pacing back and forth.
I turn to Manny.
“What happened?”
“Red couldn’t get hold of any of y’all so he called me. All I know is Scotty was found filleted in an apartment in Durango, and he needed to talk to Ouray. Red sounded wrecked.”
My mind immediately goes to Lissie. With the limited number of murder cases we have in Durango, I have no doubt this is the case she is working on. She never said anything other than it had been a bad scene, and from what Manny described it must’ve been.
“Let’s get the fuck checked in,” Ouray barks as he approaches. “I want all my guys in my room in twenty minutes.”
No one argues as he stalks right by us into the lobby.
Twenty minutes later, we’re all crammed into Ouray’s room. Standing room only. Between checking in and getting my gear in the room I’m gonna be sharing with Paco, I’d barely had time to shoot Lissie a quick message to let her know we got here in one piece.
“Okay, everyone shut the fuck up. This is gonna be short and sweet, and I don’t feel like yelling or repeating myself.” Ouray’s deep voice carries, even when he’s not trying, and a hush falls over the room. “Scottie Clarkson, one of Red’s guys, was found dead early yesterday morning. He’d been tortured, beaten, stabbed, and had his throat slashed.”
Immediately a rumble of shocked voices goes up in the room.
“Shut it!” Kaga barks.
“Scottie was working on something for Red and me. We think that may be what go him killed.”
He goes on to explain how they formed Red Mesa Holdings and invested in the Wildcat Canyon Development because of the ANL’s connections to the project. I can tell some of the guys are as pissed as I was, like Paco, whose glare is aimed at him.
“That’s bullshit.”
Ouray’s head snaps around. “I’d fucking do it again. We’re in the business of looking out for kids and that was the objective here. The less people knew what we were up to, the better, and the fact Scottie’s dead only proves that. However,” he adds looking around the room. “It’s possible there’ll be more violence, so I need you all to be on alert. Also keep an eye out for another one of Red’s guys, Sparky Spengler, he’s missing.”
We disperse after that, but I notice Paco and Kaga hanging back. I almost go back in, but realize I’m no longer part of the chief’s counsel. By my own design.
“Hungry?” I turn to find Trunk waiting for me. “Some of the guys are hitting up the buffet in the casino.”
“Sure.”
The casino is loud; the sound penetrates the segregated restaurant. Buffet food is mediocre at best, and this one is no exception. I mostly listen as my brothers talk, and sip water while they toss back beer.
“You’re quiet,” Trunk says beside me. “Any regrets?”
I shrug. “Nah, it’s an adjustment, that’s all. I was just thinking this kind of thing used to be a lot more fun before.”
“You mean before sobriety,” he aptly concludes. “Having trouble?”
“No,” I answer, holding back the ‘not yet’ that was on the tip of my tongue.
Half an hour later in the casino bar, those words come back to me when the third person gives me a hard time for not taking the drink they offer. Not my brothers, they know better. It’s the guys I’ve shared many a bottle with over the years, and sometimes more than that.
“What the fuck is wrong with ya?” Bones, a guy from one of the clubs we used to ride with, taunts me after I refuse his offer of a drink for the second time.
The Moab Reds. That relationship had iced over after their vice president shot me last year. A particularly dark time for me. That episode skidded me right to rock bottom. Fuck, I can barely remember a single conscious moment in the months that followed.
“Piss off, Bones,” Ouray, who just joined us in the bar, snarls.
“It’s like that, is it?” Bones, who doesn’t know the meaning of no, also doesn’t have sufficient functioning brain cells to realize he’s messing with the wrong guy. “Your president holds ya dick when ya piss too? Pussy.”
Should’ve walked away but I can’t let the insult stand, so instead I haul out and land my fist under his fat chin. Already good and wasted, he stumbles back, trips over a barstool, and goes down like a brick wall. Immediately stools scrape as his compatriots shoot to their feet, guns in hand. I don’t have to look behind me to know my brothers are at my back, probably weapons at the ready as well.
“Walk away.”
The voice belongs to Rooster, Moab Reds’ new president. He calmly walks in the middle of the standoff, his back to us. I have to give it to the guy; he’s got balls with at least half a dozen guns pointed at his back.
“Put the fucking weapons away and walk. Now!” he barks.
“Stand down, boys,” Ouray says calmly from behind me. “I’m sure security is on its way, and none of us will have a fucking bed tonight if you don’t break this shit up.”
Five minutes later, Rooster’s guys—including Bones—are back at the other end of the bar, doing shots, and occasionally throwing me dirty looks. Security came and went, leaving us with a warning.
“Calling it a night,” I announce, more than done with this scene.
My fist is throbbing, which only makes me want a drink more.
Lissie
“You sure you don’t want to take some home?
”
I’m standing on the gallery outside Lisa’s door. I only wanted to pop in to see how Ezrah was doing, when Lisa insisted I stay for dinner. Apparently she can only cook in huge quantities. There was enough to feed a block party; between the four of us we’d barely made a dent.
Ezrah seems to be doing all right. Ticked off his nana wouldn’t let him go show off his scar at the club. Lisa mentioned Brick insisted he could take care of the other boys and get them fed at the club for a couple of nights. Seems the whole club, minus Brick and Tse, were out on this run.
“I’m afraid it might go to waste in my fridge, Lisa. We’re in the middle of what is turning out to be a major investigation, and it’s sheer luck that got me home at a decent hour tonight.”
It’s true. The murder of Scott Clarkson had ramped up the FBI involvement in the case. Especially since the other plant with Pro Concrete—Marty Spengler—was in the wind. Like yesterday, a lot of today was spent knocking on doors in the neighborhood of Clarkson’s apartment. Taking down statements, looking for security footage, trying to pin down times.
It’s tedious and exhausting and after an entire day of it, Chief Benedetti sent us home to get a good night’s rest.
“Fair enough,” Lisa says. “It’ll be in my fridge if you change your mind.”
My apartment is quiet in comparison. Dinner was a lively event with Kiara’s nonstop chattering. Such a sweet child. Ezrah didn’t say much, but I would occasionally catch him watching his sister with the hint of a smile on his face. Ornery as he may be, it’s clear he loves his sister and nana.
I head straight for the bedroom and change into a pair of lounge pants, heavy socks, and a sweater. Then I pour myself a tea, stuff my phone in my pocket, grab my laptop, and my notes on Dani, and head out my new sliding doors to the balcony. It’s a beautiful night, getting cooler, but the air is crisp and fresh.
I set my glass on the small table and sink down in the one purchase I made since moving in—my comfy Adirondack chair. I prop my laptop and phone on the wide armrest and open my file folder.
I’ve gone over this file many times in the past few months, and although I’m pretty well convinced Dani hasn’t holed up in Durango somewhere, I’m still hopeful I can find some answers here.
Between the last postcard she sent me and that single, much too short and alarming phone call early this year, there is a long eight-year gap. Eight years without any kind of communication.
I take out the three postcards she sent. The first one has a picture of the Grand Canyon and all it said on the back is, ‘Wish you were here.’ The second card was sent from Vegas and says, ‘Having the time of my life.’ She called a few times during that period with wild stories of parties and sleeping under the stars. I remember her trying to convince me to join her in Vegas.
I loved Dani and missed her like crazy but unlike her, the thought of not knowing where my next meal would come from, or where I’d put my head at night was never that appealing. My focus had been trying to fit into the family mold by being the best cop I could be, hoping one day I’d get the respect from my family I craved. Of course that day never came.
The last card was sent from Canyonlands National Park. On the back she had scribbled the words: ‘Found my destiny.’
Then eight years of silence until the thirty-second conversation that had me concerned.
Of course I’d tried to trace the call, and since then put her name in any search engine I’ve been able to access, but it’s like Danielle Gorman disappeared off the face of the earth. Her driver’s license was never renewed since she left Albuquerque, and has long since expired. I haven’t been able to find any record of her.
The only things I have are the old journal entries I made whenever I would hear from her. Maybe it’s time I started putting some feelers out. I’ve been hesitant before, unsure whether asking around would perhaps do more harm than good. For all I know, the call had been a bump in the road for her, which she’d resolved on her own, but the fact I haven’t found any trace of her continues to nag at me. Especially lately.
That feeling I’m missing something has me flip through my notes again, paying closer attention to the last entries where she talked about an awesome rally in Vegas, and a ‘big teddy bear from the north woods’ sweeping her off her feet. I never did get more information, just the card a week or so after, saying she’d found her destiny.
Big teddy bear is not a lot to go on.
I put the file down when my phone rings. Yuma’s number pops on the screen.
“Hey.”
“You answered.” The sound of his voice immediately sends ripples of anticipation down my back.
“You caught me home. How was the ride?”
“The ride was great.” It almost sounds like there’s more he wants to say but he holds back.
“Am I hearing a hesitation in there?” I probe and am rewarded with a deep sigh.
“It’s tougher than I thought it would be,” he admits. “Fuckin’ guys giving me a hard time at the bar. Almost ended up in a brawl.”
“Yikes. Don’t let them get to you.”
It’s silent for a few moments before he says, “Talking to you helps.”
I look up at the mountains, a silly grin on my face.
We spend some time talking about the rally, and a little about the investigation, until the cool night air starts getting to me.
“I’m sitting out on the balcony, but it’s getting a little chilly out here. I should get my stuff inside.”
“It’s getting late, I’m gonna let you go and grab some sleep.”
I don’t particularly want to end the call but I have another 7:00 a.m. meeting scheduled for tomorrow.
“Okay.”
“We’re heading back on Sunday.”
“Are you gonna be okay?”
“Yeah. I’ll be fine.”
A silence stretches, as apparently neither of us want to end the call, until I have to stifle a yawn.
“Night, James.”
“Night, Lissie.”
I’m already lowering the phone when I hear him saying something.
“What was that?”
His deep chuckle settles warm in my belly, but not as much as his words do.
“I miss you, Babe.”
CHAPTER 15
Lissie
“DNA CAME BACK on the first body. It is Jeff Lansing.”
It’s not exactly a surprise, but Gomez’s confirmation is another thing off our list and will help us get a warrant for access to Lansing’s office and his house in Monticello. Although you’d have to wonder if anything worth finding would still be there at this time. We’ll find out soon enough.
We’ve congregated in the conference room once again—despite being a Sunday—sharing the previous day’s findings and coordinating next steps. This investigation is like a ball of twisted wire and no one knows which end is attached and which one isn’t, but I don’t think there is a single person in this room who doesn’t suspect a single source at the core of it.
“We also got some good info from the SIM card you recovered,” Gomez continues as he passes around handouts. “List of contacts and three months’ worth of account printouts. We need to cross reference those, and then compare them with the list of names from everyone associated with the development, as well as anyone we know has connections with the ANL. Now that we have Lansing’s identity confirmed, we’ll get telephone records for him as well.”
“Anyone have any luck getting any intel on Marty Spengler?” Joe Benedetti asks, looking at Gomez.
“None. The agent who went to the Mesa Riders’ compound asked around, but no one’s seen or heard from him.”
“So they say,” Ramirez mumbles. “That crew doesn’t exactly put a lot of faith in law enforcement. I’m not sure they’d hand one of their own over.”
“Good point, which is why we’re keeping an eye on the compound.”
“Franklin finds out, he’s not going to be happy,” Keith
concludes.
“Can’t be helped.” Just then Gomez’s phone starts buzzing on the table in front of him. “It’s the office,” he explains, answering the call.
I listen with half an ear while flipping through the handout, when I hear Gomez say, “Bones?” and my eyes shoot up. So do everyone else’s. “Send it over,” he tells whoever it is on the other side before hanging up.
He looks around the table.
“Not sure what it means, but it can’t be good. Greene did some creative online digging into Clarkson’s financials, and found a monthly charge from Dropbox.”
“Isn’t that an online storage? Like the cloud?”
The FBI agent’s eyes come to me. “Similar idea, yes. Anyway, he managed to break into the account. Found a bunch of images. He’s sending them now.”
One by one our phones start pinging.
I check the incoming email and open the five attachments. All photos from what looks to be a freshly dug hole in the dirt. The last three show the formwork holding back the soil, and concrete being poured.
“Son of a bitch,” I hear Ramirez say. “Zoom in. You’ll see it.”
“We need to get Doc Carter in here,” the chief announces. “Is there any way we can get this enlarged?”
“I can hook my phone up to the projector,” Tony suggests, getting up, while Benedetti is already calling the coroner’s office.
On my screen I clearly see what look like rib bones sticking out of the dirt at the bottom of the hole.
_______________
“Thoughts?”
I turn to look at Blackfoot who is behind the wheel. We’re just driving away from the Pro Concrete office, where we had the dubious pleasure meeting with the mayor’s cousin and owner of the company.
“He’s a pompous ass.”
Keith chuckles. “That apparently runs in the family. But other than that, what’s your take on him?”
“I don’t believe he’s clueless. He strikes me as someone who controls every single aspect of his business. And how convenient his foreman—the one person who’d be able to answer our questions on the Durango development—is incommunicado.”
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