Maysen Jar Box Set

by Devney Perry

  “Yes, they were. And I am slowing down.” I wasn’t waking up at three a.m. to make it to the TV station for the morning show. I wasn’t cutting my hair to appease my producer or constantly watching my diet. I wasn’t reporting someone else’s stories on camera. Instead, I was writing my own.

  It was wonderful, but after two months of small-town Montana life, I was going a bit stir-crazy. Calling the hospital for birth announcements and the funeral home for obituaries wasn’t enough of a mental challenge. I needed some excitement. I needed a decent story.

  And the Clifton Forge garage had story written all over it.

  About a year ago, the Tin Gypsy Motorcycle Club had disbanded. They’d been one of the more prominent and lucrative gangs in Montana and had closed down without an explanation.

  The former members claimed they were focusing on running the garage here in town. Their shop had become renowned in certain wealthy and celebrity circles for classic car restorations and custom motorcycle builds.

  But men like them—men like Kingston “Dash” Slater with his striking good looks, cocky swagger and devilish grin—thrived on power. They craved danger and a life on the edge, without limits. As a gang, the Gypsies had power and money, in spades.

  So why had they given it up?

  No one knew. And if they did, they weren’t talking.

  “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that in the past year, there hasn’t been any news about them? And no explanation as to why they shut down their ‘club’? They went from notorious gang members to upstanding citizens overnight. I don’t buy it. It’s too quiet. Too clean.”

  “That’s because they are clean,” Dad said.

  “Sure. Squeaky,” I deadpanned.

  “You make it sound like we’re all covering things up for them.” He frowned. “Come on. Don’t you think if there were a story there, I’d tell it? Or do you think so little of me as a reporter?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. Of course you’d tell the story.”

  But would he dig for it? I didn’t doubt Dad’s ability to investigate. He’d been a star reporter in his prime. But since he and Mom had moved to Clifton Forge and bought the Tribune years ago, he’d slowed down. He wasn’t as eager as he’d once been. He wasn’t as hungry.

  Me? I was starved.

  “If there’s no story, there’s no story,” I said. “The only thing I’m out is my time, right?”

  “I’m going on the record as your father and your partner: I don’t like it. They might not be a gang anymore, but those guys have an edge. I don’t want you crossing them.”

  “Understood. I’ll ask my questions and stay away.” Or away-ish.

  “Bryce,” he warned.

  I held up my hands, feigning innocence. “What?”

  “Be. Careful.”

  “I’m careful. Always.” Okay, sometimes. Dad’s definition of careful was a little different than mine.

  I stood on my toes to kiss his cheek, then I waved and hurried out of the pressroom before he assigned me something that would keep me trapped at my desk all day.

  The police station was on the opposite end of town from the newspaper. It sat on the banks of the Missouri River along a busy street crowded with restaurants and offices. The river was running fast and high from the melting mountain snow. The June sun reflected off the water’s rippled surface in golden flickers. The Montana air was clean and fresh, a close second to my beloved newspaper scent.

  It was another smell from my youth, one I’d missed in Seattle.

  I parked my car and went inside the station, making small talk with the officer up front. Then I thanked my lucky stars when she waved me through without any hassle. The first three times I’d come here to visit the chief, I’d been put through the paces. Fingerprints. Background check. A photo.

  Maybe it was protocol.

  Or maybe they didn’t like reporters.

  The station was quiet this morning. A few officers sat at their desks, heads bent over keyboards and ballpoint pens as they did paperwork while the others on shift were patrolling the streets. The chief’s office sat along the rear wall of the building. The window behind his desk had a beautiful view of the river.

  “Knock, knock.” I rapped on the open door and stepped inside. “Morning, Chief.”

  “Morning, Bryce.” He set down the document he’d been reading.

  “You know, I never can tell if that’s a happy smile or an irritated smile when I come here.”

  “That depends.” His eyes narrowed on my purse, his bushy gray eyebrows coming together.

  I reached inside the handbag and retrieved a pack of licorice. “How’d I do?”

  He shrugged, staring at the Twizzlers as I set them on his desk and took one of the guest chairs. In my previous visits, I’d brought along Twix, Snickers and M&M’s. He’d been lukewarm toward my treats at best. So today, I’d gone out on a limb at the Gas ’N’ Go and picked up something fruity.

  “It looks like a happy smile, but with the mustache, it’s hard to tell.”

  He chuckled and ripped the package open while I did an inner fist pump. “I knew you’d figure it out eventually.”

  “You could have just told me.”

  “What’s the fun in that?” Chief Wagner stuck the candy in his mouth and chomped a huge bite.

  “Are you going to make me work this hard for all my information?”

  “Nope,” he said. “We put out a weekly press sheet. All you have to do is download it. Easy peasy.”

  “Ah, yes. The weekly press sheet. As truly riveting as those reports are, I was talking about information a bit more . . . in depth.”

  The chief steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “I don’t have anything for you. Just like I didn’t have anything for you two weeks ago. Or the week before that. Or the week before that.”

  “Nothing? Not even a tiny morsel you may have forgotten to put in the press sheet?”

  “I’ve got nothing. Clifton Forge is a fairly boring place these days. Sorry.”

  I frowned. “No, you’re not.”

  He chuckled and took another piece of licorice. “You’re right. I’m not sorry. I’m too busy enjoying the peace.”

  Chief Wagner was overjoyed that his press sheets only included infrequent 911 calls, random Saturday-night drunk and disorderlies and the occasional petty theft from a misguided teenager. This town had seen more than its share of murder and mayhem over the years—thanks to the Tin Gypsies. The motorcycle club was likely responsible for the streaks of gray in Marcus’s hair.

  Yet from what I’d been able to dig up in the news archives, the former Tin Gypsy members had spent little to no time in jail cells. Either the chief had overlooked their crimes or the Gypsies were damn good at covering their tracks.

  In their glory days, the Tin Gypsies had been led by Draven Slater. I’d seen him around town, and he carried himself with the same air of ruthless confidence he’d passed down to his son, Dash. And neither man struck me as a fool.

  My theory was that Police Chief Marcus Wagner was a damn good cop. But Draven, Dash and their Gypsies were always one step ahead.

  If I was going to get a story, I’d have to be at the top of my game. Draven had taken a backseat at the garage, which meant I’d be up against Dash. I’d seen the man around town—I’d been watching.

  Dash rode his black motorcycle along Central Avenue like he owned Clifton Forge, flashing a straight, white smile that was blinding. He was the quintessential bad boy. His sexy smirk, chiseled jaw and day-old stubble made all the ladies swoon.

  Every lady except for me.

  The other women in town could have fun with his amazing body. What I wanted from Dash were his secrets.

  And I’d need the chief’s help to get them.

  In my previous visits here, I hadn’t uttered a word about the Gypsies. I’d only come in to meet the chief and build a rapport. But if I was going to start my investigation, then it was time to go for broke.

  “Do
you know why the Tin Gypsies closed down so suddenly?”

  His jaw stopped midchew and he narrowed his gaze. “No.”

  Wrong move. He was going to clam up.

  “Okay.” I held up my hands. “I was just curious.”

  “Why?”

  “The truth? My gut says they are a story.”

  The chief swallowed and leaned his elbows on the desk. “Listen, Bryce. I like you. I like your dad. It’s nice to have decent reporters running the paper for once. But you’re both new here, so let me give you a history lesson.”

  I scooted to the edge of my seat. “Okay.”

  “Our town has had more trouble over the last twenty-something years than most have in a hundred. The Gypsies brought a lot of shit here. They know it and they’re trying to make up for it. They’ve been nothing but law-abiding men for over a year. They follow the law to the letter and the town’s changing. I’ve got citizens who feel safe walking down the streets at night. They leave their car doors unlocked when they run into the grocery store. This is a good town.”

  “I’m not trying to impede progress.”

  “Great. Then leave the Gypsies alone. I’ve gone head-to-head with them more times than I can count. What I could punish them for, I have. And I’m watching. If they do anything illegal, I’ll be the first one there to make them pay. Trust me on that.”

  The chief didn’t sound like a fan of the former club. Good to know. But if he thought his warning was going to scare me away, he was mistaken. Now I was more curious than ever what had caused the Gypsies to shut their clubhouse doors.

  If they were even closed. Maybe this was all a ruse.

  “Uh, Chief?” A uniformed officer poked his head inside the door. “We’ve got an issue that needs your attention.”

  Chief Wagner took another licorice stick and stood. “Thanks for the candy.”

  “You’re welcome.” I stood too. “Starbursts or Skittles next time?”

  “You keep bringing me licorice, and we’ll get along just fine.” He escorted me to the door. “Take care. And remember what I said. Some things and some people are better left alone.”

  “Gotcha.” Probably best not to mention that my next stop was for an oil change at Dash Slater’s garage.

  I waved good-bye to the chief and the other officer, then headed down the hallway. The sign for the ladies’ room lured me inside after too much coffee. I used the bathroom and washed my hands, my anticipation growing for my first interaction with the Tin Gypsies, but as I went to open the door, a word from two men standing in the hallway outside caught my attention.

  Murder.

  I froze and hovered, listening through the crack. The men were close, their voices no more than a whisper.

  “Riley took the call. Said he’s never seen blood like that before. The chief is debriefing him right now. Then we’ll all need to be ready to roll out.”

  “Do you think he did it?”

  “Draven? Hell yeah. Maybe we’ll finally have something to pin on that slick bastard.”

  Oh. My. God. If my ears weren’t betraying me, I’d just overheard two cops talking about a murder and Draven Slater was the key suspect. I needed to get out of this freaking bathroom. Now!

  I eased the door closed and took three quiet steps backward. Then I coughed, loud, and let my heels click on the tile floor. I whipped open the door in a fury and pretended to be shocked at the men right outside.

  “Oh my God.” I threw a hand over my heart. “You guys scared me. I didn’t think anyone was out here.”

  They shared a look with one another, then stepped apart.

  “Sorry about that, ma’am.”

  “No problem.” I smiled and walked by, doing my best to keep the urgency out of my footsteps.

  I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, using the gesture to sneak a glance over my shoulder at the bullpen. Three male officers were standing at the far corner desk; none had noticed me walking toward the exit. Two of the men were practically buzzing. Mouths moved fast as one talked over the other. Hand gestures flew. The third officer stood with his arms wrapped around his chest, his face pale as he shifted from foot to foot.

  My heart raced as I found the nearest exit door and pushed outside. When the sunshine hit my face, I flew into motion, running for my car.

  “Shit.” My fingers fumbled to hit the ignition button and put the car in reverse. “I knew it!”

  My hands shook as I gunned the engine for the street, checking my rearview mirror to make sure the cops weren’t behind me.

  “Think, Bryce. What’s the plan?” I had no idea where the murder had happened so I couldn’t show up at the scene of the crime. I could wait around and follow the cops but they’d shut me out before I saw a thing. So what else was there?

  Be an eyewitness to Draven’s arrest. Bingo.

  It was a risk, going to the garage and not waiting around to follow the cops to the murder scene. Hell, Draven might not even be at the garage. But if I was going to gamble, it was my best chance at a scoop. I could learn more about the murder from those blessed press sheets.

  Yes, if my luck held, I’d be standing front and center when Draven got hauled off to jail. Hopefully Dash would be there too. Maybe he’d be caught by surprise just enough that I’d get a glimpse at him during a moment of weakness. I’d learn something that would help me uncover the secrets hidden behind his ridiculously handsome face.

  I smiled over the steering wheel.

  Time for that oil change.

  Order Gypsy King

  About the Author

  Devney is a USA Today bestselling author who lives in Washington with her husband and two sons. Born and raised in Montana, she loves writing books set in her treasured home state. After working in the technology industry for nearly a decade, she abandoned conference calls and project schedules to enjoy a slower pace at home with her family. Writing one book, let alone many, was not something she ever expected to do. But now that she’s discovered her true passion for writing romance, she has no plans to ever stop.

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