by Devney Perry
“Mike.” Willy shook his hand. “This is Bryce. Bryce, meet Mike.”
“Nice to meet you, Mike. Thanks for doing this.”
“You bet.” His voice was hoarse. The dark circles under Mike’s eyes matched Willy’s. Despite the pungent smell of chemicals within the sterile space, the stale scent of alcohol wafting off his body nearly made me gag. “I owe Willy one after he drove my ass home last night. Had one too many after our pool tournament.”
I nodded and breathed through my mouth. “That’s nice.”
“What can I help you with?” Mike asked.
“The coroner’s office is closed and—”
“Those guys.” Mike scoffed and rolled his eyes. “You know, I bust my ass getting reports done and sent over to them. They take their sweet time actually getting them processed. Whose did you want to see?”
I braced. “Amina Daylee.”
“Oh.” His shoulders sagged. “No can do. Active investigation. You’ll have to get that one from the cops.”
“Damn.” I sighed. “Well, it was worth asking. I’ve had some examiners in the past who let me read their report or told me a little about it. Sometimes even off the record so I couldn’t print anything until it was released by the police. But having an idea of the autopsy helps me ask the right questions. It might lead to other clues too.”
My speech was a stretch. I expected Mike to shove us out the door at any moment, as he probably should.
“I can’t show it to you,” he said as I held my breath, waiting and hoping for the magic word. “But”—bingo—“I can give you the high level. Off the record. You’ll have to wait for the details to be released to print them.”
“Perfect.” I glanced at Willy, who sent me a wink.
“Come on,” Mike muttered, motioning for Willy and me to follow him down the hallway.
The building was deserted, the only light coming from the windows since the overhead lights were all off.
“Quiet day?” I asked.
Mike shrugged. “It’s just me right now. I had an intern but she’s off for the summer.”
We crowded into Mike’s office at the end of the hallway. The desk and floor were scattered with stacks of file folders the same teal as his unbecoming scrubs. The hallway had smelled like antiseptic and bleach, but in here, the air was perfumed with coffee and an undercurrent of hangover.
“Okay.” Mike flipped open a folder as he sat behind his desk. I sat across from him in a folding chair while Willy remained standing against the doorframe. “Amina Daylee. Age fifty-nine. Cause of death, blood loss due to multiple stab wounds.”
Information I’d already gleaned from the police reports and my discussion with Cody Pruitt at the motel. Cody’s wife had cried as she’d told him about the scene in room 114. The entire bed had been soaked through with Amina’s blood. Some had dripped to the carpet, creating nearly black puddles. Cody’s wife had stepped in one when she’d rushed to Amina’s side to check for a pulse.
“How many stab wounds?” I asked.
“Seven. All upper body.”
I swallowed hard. “Did she suffer?”
“Yeah.” Mike met my gaze and gave me a sad smile. “Not for long. He hit a major artery, so she bled out fast.”
“Do you know time of death?”
“I’ve got a pretty tight timeline but as always, it’s an estimate. Between five a.m. and seven a.m.”
Which meant Draven had killed her first thing in the morning. “Anything else you can tell me?”
“She’d recently had intercourse.”
My spine straightened. “Any signs of force?”
“No. It was likely consensual.”
“That’s something, at least.” I was glad Amina hadn’t had to endure a rape before her death. “Did the sperm come back as Draven’s?”
“This is all off the record.” Mike looked between me and Willy, a sudden look of fear crossing his face like he’d already said too much. “Right?”
“Right,” I promised. “I won’t use any of this in the paper until the authorities release it to the press.”
Mike studied my face for a long moment, then gave me a nod. “The new preliminary quick test matched his sample. I’m still waiting on the full results. But the prelims are rarely wrong.”
An interesting twist. Draven and Amina had had sex before he’d killed her. Why? Were they new lovers? Old lovers? Why the motel instead of his home? Was her death an act of passion? All questions I would have written down in my notepad.
Fucking Dash.
“Thanks so much for your time.” I stood and held out my hand.
Mike stood too. “None of this gets printed until the report is released.”
“You have my word. Thanks again.”
Willy and I excused ourselves from the office, making our way back into the sunshine and fresh air. As we climbed into my car, Willy laughed. “You’re good. I was sure he’d kick us out when you told him what report you wanted.”
“I have my moments.” I smiled and turned on the car. “Thanks for the help.”
“Any time. What now?”
“Now?” I blew out a long breath. “Now I need to find more about our victim. Her daughter is in Colorado, but I wouldn’t approach her this soon anyway. Amina grew up here but doesn’t have any family left. I’m hoping to find a few people who knew her as a kid. I want to find out why she came back, and why she met up with Draven.”
“I might be able to help with that,” Willy said. “How about I buy my new boss a beer?”
“You’re on.”
As it turned out, The Betsy wasn’t just a seedy bar, but a place where the town’s history was as abundant as the dust mites floating from the rafters.
Thanks to three of the bar’s regulars—a trio of men well past seventy who were all somehow related to each other through cousins and marriages, I’d lost track—I had more information about Amina Daylee than I’d been able to find on my trusty sources Facebook and Google.
Amina’s name hadn’t shown up much in the newspaper archives. The only reference was a graduation announcement decades ago. It was how I’d pieced together that she’d gone to Clifton Forge High, one year junior to Draven. But besides the same alma mater, I hadn’t found much information about her family.
According to the guys at the bar, Amina’s family hadn’t lived in Clifton Forge long. Her stepfather had worked for the railroad and had been transferred here from New Mexico. One of the regulars recalled that the family had moved here not long before Amina had learned how to drive, because he’d sold them a car. I was a little too old for her at the time but that girl was a head turner.
The family was well-liked, from what the guys at The Betsy remembered, but their interactions had been limited because the winter after their daughter graduated and moved away, Amina’s parents were both killed in a tragic car accident. Somehow, I’d missed that in the news archives because her mother had taken her stepfather’s last name while Amina had kept Daylee.
Her parents were buried in the town cemetery. Maybe she’d come back to visit their graves.
“Another one, Bryce?” the bartender asked.
I swallowed the last gulp of my beer. “I’m good, Paul. Thanks.”
About twenty minutes ago, I’d lost Willy and the three regulars to the pool table while I’d stayed in my stool, finishing up my second beer. The door behind me opened, the bright afternoon light streaking inside. The thud of heavy boots vibrated the floorboards as the new customer came toward the bar.
Glancing over my shoulder, I expected a stranger’s face. Instead, I found vibrant hazel eyes and a face I’d all but memorized.
“You stole my notepad.”
Dash slid into the empty stool beside me and jerked his chin at Paul, a silent order that must have meant fetch me a beer because Paul did just that. Dash rocked on his stool, getting comfortable. The seat was so close to mine that one of his broad shoulders came a fraction of an inch from touching the bare
skin of mine.
My heart skipped—stupid organ—and I gritted my teeth. I refused to acknowledge how close his forearm was to mine. I refused to look at the black tattoo that decorated his skin in wide, black strokes. I refused to budge as he crowded me because, damn it, I was here first.
“Do you mind?” I eyed him up and down. “Move over.”
He didn’t budge.
“I don’t like you.”
The corner of Dash’s mouth turned up. With his other arm, he reached behind himself and dug something out of his back pocket, slapping it onto the bar. My yellow notepad. “Here.”
“Thief.” I snatched it up and put it in my purse. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of looking through it now. But the second I was alone, I was checking every single page.
“Not much of a notetaker, are you? There wasn’t shit in there I didn’t already know.”
I scoffed. “Because I’ve already printed it in the newspaper.”
“Here you go.” Paul came over to deliver Dash’s beer. “What’s the word on your dad?”
“Bond hearing is tomorrow.”
“You think he’ll get out on bond?”
Dash shot me a wary glance, like he didn’t want to answer while I was sitting here. Tough luck, King. I was here first. “Yeah. He’ll get out.”
“Good.” Paul sighed. “That’s real good.”
Good? “Aren’t you worried that a potential murderer will be out of police custody and roaming the streets?”
Paul only laughed, killing any chance at a decent tip. “Holler if you need anything, Dash. I need to head back and change a keg.”
“Will do.” The bastard thief had a smug grin on his face as he lifted the pint glass for a drink.
Unable to tear my eyes away—more stupid organs—I followed the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. Watched with rapt attention as his tongue darted out to dry the foam on his top lip.
“I’m going to steal something else if you keep staring at my mouth like that.”
I didn’t look away. It was a challenge, but I didn’t look away. “Has anyone ever told you that your eyebrows are rather bushy?”
Dash laughed, the low and rich sound sending a shiver down my spine. “Once or twice. How was your meeting with Mike today?”
“Informative.” He was following me now? God, this man was irritating, but I kept my expression neutral. “I’ve learned a lot today. Sunday’s paper is going to be a good one.”
“Look forward to reading it.” Dash set down his beer and twisted in his seat, his knee bumping into mine. “It’ll be the last time the Tribune prints something I don’t already know.”
“And why’s that?”
“Dad’s getting out tomorrow.”
“And what, exactly? He gets out of jail and kills me too?”
His stubbled jaw ticked. “He gets out of jail and tells me what the fuck really happened. Then we end this little game.”
“It’s not a game.” I stood from my seat, slinging my purse over a shoulder. “This is my job. The town deserves to know there’s a killer in their midst. A woman was murdered and she deserves justice.”
“She’ll get justice when the cops find the person who killed her, not hold an innocent man.”
“Innocent? I’ve read enough about this club of yours to know your father is far from innocent.”
“Former club.”
“Semantics.”
“Fuck, you’re difficult,” he growled.
“See you later, King.” I headed for the door, waving to Willy who was still engrossed in his game of pool. He’d have to find another ride to the office because I wasn’t hanging around The Betsy a second longer.
Well, maybe one more second.
“Oh, and Dash?” I turned and met his glare. He’d been watching me walk away. “How long do you think it took after your dad fucked Amina Daylee for him to kill her? An hour? Maybe two? He doesn’t strike me as a cuddler.”
Dash’s jaw barely tightened, his eyes only widening a fraction. He was good at hiding surprise, but I was better at spotting it. He’d had no idea his innocent father had had sex with Amina right before her murder.
I left him sitting there, his mind visibly whirling, and walked out the door. Slowly, secret by secret, I’d uncover the truth. First about Amina Daylee’s murder. Then about the Tin Gypsy Motorcycle Club.
And when I did, maybe this empty feeling that I was missing something from my life would finally go away.
Chapter Seven
Dash
I waited outside the county courthouse for Dad in my truck, idly tapping my knee with my thumb. His bond hearing was over, and as soon as he checked out, we were getting the hell out of here.
It was strange to be driving the Dodge in summer. I’d bought this truck only a month before spring, so we were still adjusting to one another. It was black, like all its predecessors. It still had the new-car smell because I hadn’t had much time behind the wheel. As soon as the ice thawed from the roads each spring, I only rode my bike until the snow flew in late fall. Montana winters were long and most of us who rode didn’t want to miss a single decent day.
But I’d wanted to pick Dad up today. We had too much to talk about to put it off for the ten minutes it would take for us each to ride our own bikes to the garage. And I hadn’t wanted to take the guys away from work at the garage to get Dad’s bike over here.
He came out the front door wearing the same clothes he had been in last Friday. His silver stubble was thick, nearly a beard, and as he climbed in, his deep brown eyes were tired. Dad looked like it had been a month since he’d been arrested, not just a week.
“Hey.” He clapped me on the shoulder, then buckled his seat belt. “Thanks. Appreciate you covering bail.”
“No problem.”
“Did you put up my house?” he asked.
“No. The garage.”
The judge had determined Dad wasn’t much of a flight risk, but given that he was the primary suspect for a violent murder and his past association with the club, bail had been set at half a million dollars.
“Damn.” Dad sighed. “Should have put up my house instead. Wish you hadn’t tied up the garage.”
“They’d ask a lot of questions if I just showed up with a duffel bag of cash from my safe.” I put the truck in drive and pulled away from the courthouse. “Your house. My house. The garage. Doesn’t matter. It’ll go away when we clear this shit up.”
Half a million cash wasn’t hard for either of us to come by, but considering how we’d made that money, we used it for things where it couldn’t be traced. Definitely not for covering a bond.
“Could have left me in there.”
“Never.” I frowned. Not only because he was my dad and didn’t belong there, but because I needed answers. Maybe I’d finally be able to show Bryce up. Because at the moment, in this race for information, I was losing miserably. “We gotta talk about what happened.”
“I need a day.” Dad laid his head back. “Then we’ll talk about it all.”
“We don’t have a day.”
“The cops aren’t going to find anything they haven’t already. Whoever set me up for this was thorough.”
“It’s not the cops I’m worried about,” I told him, watching as he sat up straight. “We’ve got a problem with Lane Ryan’s daughter at the paper.”
“What kind of problem?”
“She’s digging. And she’s good.”
“What’d she find?” Dad asked.
“At the moment, she’s focused on the murder investigation. But I’m worried she’s not going to stop there.”
“Fuck,” Dad muttered. “We don’t need a damn nosy reporter digging up old Gypsy business.”
“No, we don’t. We’ve been lucky. We shut things down. We played by the rules. And people just let it go.” They were happy to have peace in town for a change. “Bryce, this reporter, she’s not the type to let anything go.”
A trait that wou
ld have been irresistible had she been working on my side. Even as an enemy, she was damn tempting.
“Threatened to ruin her reputation. That backfired. But I’ll handle her.” I just had to figure out how.
The more I pushed, the more she pushed back. And Bryce was a strong-willed woman. I’d learned from my mom at an early age that most men didn’t stand a chance against a strong-willed and stubborn woman.
“Just be careful,” Dad said. “We both can’t be in jail.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to do something to land me in jail. I just . . . I have to find something to hold over her so she’ll back off.”
Fear used to be my weapon. My favorite tool. In my twenties, I’d used physical violence to make people afraid. But then I’d learned that extortion and blackmail were usually more effective. None would likely work on Bryce, certainly not getting physical. I’d never harmed a woman in my life and wasn’t about to start now. The idea of hurting her made my stomach turn.
“You could figure out a way to get her to work with us. Not against us,” Dad suggested.
Not a bad idea. Was there a way I could get Bryce to become an ally? If she were a friend, not a foe, I’d be able to feed her information about the Gypsies, not worry about her digging behind my back. And then I could control the information she put in her precious newspaper.
“Smart. That could work.”
“Maybe we should have been more open about why we shut down,” Dad said, staring out his window. “I’ve been wondering if it was going to put a target on our backs.”
“What would we have said? There was no way to explain it without bringing up a bunch of shit that needs to stay quiet.”
“You’re right.” His shoulders sagged. “Just been a long week. Lots of thinking about the past and the wrongs I’ve done. I fucking hate jail.”
“Most do.”
I’d only been in jail once, when I was nineteen. I’d been hauled in as a suspect for an assault and battery. Guilty as the night was long, I’d beaten the hell out of a man who’d cheated me at poker and pulled a gun on me when I’d confronted him about it.