Biker (27 page)

Do. Not. Think. About. The boy
.

His skin peeled back to expose raw flesh, pain in every joint, unable to relax in any position. Spine fucked up. So bad. Pratt didn't know how to turn it off.

“Pratt!”

“What?” He found himself staring out the window at an endless series of warehouses abutting the Beltline.

“Don't zone out on me.”

“Sorry.”

They headed south on 14.

CHAPTER 51

Lake County cruiser was parked on Makepeace across the entrance to the Munz' driveway, lit by two sconces set in both of the stone pillars. Cass stopped the truck and waited for the officer to approach.

He shined his flashlight on both their faces. “May I see some identification please?”

Cass and Pratt handed over their driver's licenses. The deputy examined them minutely. “Wait here,” he said, returning to his car.

“What's he doing?” Cass said with irritation.

“He's phoning the house, giving Flintstone the head's up.”

“What kind of operation is Flintstone, anyway?”

“Ex-military. They do a lot of contract work in the Middle East. Very competent from what I understand. They do security for a lot of big companies, celebrities.”

Pratt reached beneath the seat, snagged his fanny pack and fastened it with the pouch forward, the weight of the pistol reassuring against his thighs.

The cop returned and handed over the licenses. The electronic gate slid silently to one side. The long green tunnel leading to the house was as Pratt remembered, the truck's headlights picking out moths. What had seemed natural and secluded was now an invitation for trouble. At the house all exterior lights were ablaze. A black Chrysler 300 was parked in the roundabout. A Flintstone agent in a blue blazer and khakis sat in the front seat, feet on the ground through the open door. He got up as Cass pulled up behind him.

Cass and Pratt got out of the truck.

“Hey, how are ya? Jimmy Bonner,” the Flintstone agent said, sticking out a hand. He had a military haircut and the bearing that went with it. He wore a blue tie and shiny black shoes. His grip was cool and dry. He shook Cass' hand. “I know that cop vetted you, but I'd like to see some ID too, because we're obsessive-compulsive sumbitches.”

Pratt laughed and handed over his driver's license. “How many of you are there?”

“Foucalt and Stuart are around here somewhere. You'll meet them later. Whatcha got in the fanny pack?”

“A 40.”

Bonner nodded. “Well I can't tell you not to wear it, but try not to shoot any of us, okay?”

“No prob.”

Munz met them at the front door. The builder wore a purple, green, and orange Hawaiian shirt with the tails pulled out over Bermuda shorts and Skecher sandals, a poorly concealed automatic jutting up from his waist. He grudgingly shook their hands.

“So the detective,” he said. “We finally meet.”

“Mr. Munz.”

“Call me Nate. Everybody else does. Ginger's in the breezeway.” He gestured down the corridor toward the rear of the house, falling into step behind Pratt. Most of the drapes and blinds were drawn, casting the interior in cool gloom. Ginger lounged on a sofa in the screened-in breezeway sipping from a tall glass of iced tea. She smiled wanly as they entered but made no attempt to get up.

“Forgive me for not standing up,” she said. “I'm feeling a little rocky this evening.”

“Would you like something to drink?” Nate said with an air of resignation.

Cass and Pratt asked for coffee. Nate headed for the kitchen.

“Usually I have someone here,” Ginger said, “but Nate thought it better if we had no extraneous personnel on site. You know this may all be a set up. Moon loves to play mind games. He's probably in Mexico right now having a tequila and laughing at us.”

Cass sat next to Ginger and touched her hand. “Ginger, don't you remember what he was like? He's coming after us.”

“You know, I have learned a few things over the years. We were so young and naïve to ever think he was some kind of god in the first place. Moon's a smart guy. It just doesn't make sense for him to risk everything on a pointless vendetta. We've got Flintstone Security out skulking through the woods. We've got the FBI, DEA and Homeland Security looking for him. I choose to think that he's not coming, and even if he does, we've taken all the proper precautions. It's not worth worrying about.”

Hardly
, Pratt thought. Proper precautions would involve a completely anonymous safe house far from home until Moon was apprehended or confirmed dead.

Munz returned with a carafe of coffee, cream in a white ceramic tureen, sugar in a sterling silver bowl with spoon. The tray contained a plate of English tea biscuits.
Tally ho
, Pratt thought as he helped himself to the coffee.

Munz set the platter on the coffee table in front of Cass and Ginger. “Any news?”

Pratt shook his head. “You know as much as us. He's out there somewhere.”

Munz sat in a leather recliner, took a biscuit and crunched. “We're ready,” he said, patting the pistol at his side. “You packin'?”

Too many cop shows
, Pratt thought tapping his fanny pack. “Yes sir.”

Munz nodded. “Tried to arm Ginger, she wouldn't have it,” he said with a tone of disapproval.

“I'm sorry, dear, I'm just not a gun person.”

“Well I am,” Munz asserted pulling a Glock, dropping the mag and slamming it back in, careful to keep the muzzle pointed away at all times. “I was a gunnery sergeant in the Army, did two tours in Iraq, back in the day.”

“Thank you for your service to our country,” Pratt said.

Munz looked at him funny, realized Pratt was sincere and nodded. “Got you two in the basement guest suite. You've got your own bath down there and a kitchen if you want to cook. Opens up onto the pool deck.”

“Thanks, Nate,” Cass said.

“I figure there's strength in numbers, not that these Flintstone boys can't do the job. These boys know what they're doing. All ex-military.”

Cass stretched. “I'm fried.” She shot Pratt a smoldering look. “You coming?”

“Josh,” Munz said, “we need to talk. Shouldn't take more than a few minutes.”

“I'll be waiting,” Cass said.

CHAPTER 52

Munz led Pratt up the stairs to the first floor, down the hall to a study that overlooked the woods. The man cave had walnut paneling, a wall of books, many with fat leather bindings, a free-standing globe, a mounted deer's head over a field stone fireplace, a flat-screen TV mounted flush with the wall, a rich cocoa carpet and leather furniture. Munz went directly to a wet bar in one wall and took out two tumblers. He poured a couple fingers of Macallan in each, added ice from a mini-fridge, came back and handed one to Pratt.

“Cheers,” Munz said. They clinked. They sipped.

Munz sat in a leather wing-backed chair, gestured for Pratt to take the sofa. “I appreciate the risks you've taken on behalf of Ginger.”

“That's why I get the big bucks.”

“Yes. I'd be interested in knowing how much this has cost me so far.”

Pratt did a quick audit in his head. Thought about billing Munz for the thou he'd laid on Robles. Took a nanosecond for the shame to set in. “About sixteen hundred dollars.”

“How 'bout I pay you off and you and Cass can be on your way in the morning?”

Pratt stared at his drink. “Is that how Ginger feels?”

“Don't be a smart-ass. I know about Ginger's past. She's left all that behind. You and Cass have brought it all back in again. She cries at night and gets night sweats. Do you know how long it took for her to feel halfway normal?”

“Nate, she asked me to find her son.”

Munz reached over to the cherrywood desk, snagged a wood cigar box and pulled it over. He held a fat cigar toward Pratt.

“No thanks.”

Munz shrugged, took out a cigar cutter and nipped the end. He lit it with a gold flame thrower, turning the end slowly until it glowed red. The room smelled of tobacco and aftershave. Manly smells.

“You've done all you can and I thank you. I'm willing to round your fee up to an even five grand.”

Pratt shrugged. “It's your house.”

“Good man.” Munz got up, went behind the desk and found his check ledger in a black leather folder. He sat back down again and pulled a Montblanc pen from his breast pocket.

“Nate, that's not necessary. You can wait until I submit a voucher.”

“Not a problem.”

Pratt heard a car door slam. He looked out through the window at Cass getting something out of the truck. Bonner spoke with her briefly. Pratt was dog tired. He hoped Cass didn't expect him to fuck her but of course she would.

Munz peeled the sea green check out and handed it to Pratt. Pratt folded it and stuck it in his vest pocket. “Ginger tells me you were in a gang.”

“The Bedouins,” Pratt said. “I was young, dumb and full of come.”

“Let me see your gun.”

Pratt removed the Ruger, released the magazine into his hand, checked the chamber, handed it over.

Munz held the pistol in a two-handed grip and aimed at a stuffed deer head over the fireplace. “I won't lie to you, Pratt. I fear what the discovery of this child will do to our marriage.”

“I can understand that.”

“Ginger should have thought of that before she hired you to whack this particular hornet's nest.”

Pratt didn't know what to say so he sipped his drink. The old Westclox on the mantel ticked loudly. Munz blew a perfect smoke ring.

“I will give you ten thousand dollars to make this boy go away.”

Pratt thought of all the ways he could do that, all the ways it might already have been done. When you don't know what to say, Chaplain Dorgan had told him, count slowly to ten. Pratt counted.

“That would not be in my client's interest.”

“Bullshit! Who knows her interests better? You or me?'

Pratt counted. Cass was waiting.

“I can't do that, Nate. It's been a long day. I'm going to turn in.”

Someone pulled the front door clapper. Pratt's cell phone rang. Munz heaved himself to his feet. Pratt opened his phone. It was Calloway.

“Turn on Channel 13.”

“Why? What's going on?”

“Looks like the War Bonnets staged a little war party on Bloom's receptionist.”

CHAPTER 53

Pratt found the remote on the desk and turned on the television. He heard Munz opening the front door, muted conversation. Pratt scrolled through the channels until he came to WMAD Channel 13, a news channel. There was a live-action feed from a row of one-story apartments in the old Triangle region near the Capitol.

Pratt remained standing as Munz returned accompanied by Agent Bonner. All three stood and looked at the television. Four cop cars and an ambulance pulled up on the lawn of the federally funded housing unit designed for the handicapped. Perry had lived in an apartment with smooth floors and no sill with most of the drawers and appliances lowered to wheelchair level. There was a body covered by a tarp in the harsh glare of a half dozen police spotlights.

“We're at the Greenbush Housing Project on West Washington. Apparently there was a shoot-out in one of the apartments involving members of the War Bonnets motorcycle gang. There are two confirmed dead, including the apartment's occupant who fought back with his own gun … Police are withholding the occupant's identity pending notification of the next-of-kin. We'll know more in a minute. Chief Johansen is going to say something.”

“It was Perry Winkham,” Pratt said. “Danny Bloom's receptionist.”

“Why kill him?” Bonner said.

“He's sending me a message,” Pratt croaked.

“That doesn't make sense unless you and Winkham had a special relationship. Did you?”

“He liked to tease me because he knew I was uncomfortable around gays. Moon's saying it's scorched-earth time. He's coming after me and anyone who is close to me.”

“Do you think we need more ops, Mr. Bonner?”

Bonner laughed. “Those clowns aren't getting within a hundred miles of this place. Are you kidding me?”

“How many War Bonnets can there be?” Munz said.

“One hundred to two hundred members,” Pratt said.

Munz picked up his glass and headed for the bar. “Jesus! What if they all come here?”

“Not even a factor, Mr. Munz. Every law-enforcement agency in the country is all hopped up over outlaw cycle gangs. They can't gather anywhere without drawing heat.”

Munz held the bottle out to Pratt. Pratt shook his head. “What's your feeling, Josh?”

“I can't rule anything out. Moon wants to kill us personally but he might use his boys to soften us up.”

“Reason I knocked,” Bonner said, “the Lake County Deputy out front alerted me. We're on top of this. They won't get within a hundred miles of this place. If they did, any one of us is more than a match for all of them. You were in combat, Mr. Munz. You know what it's like.”

“Yes, and I don't ever want to see it again,” Munz said unconvincingly. Pratt knew the look of a man itching to use his gun. Just what they fuckin' needed.

“Guys, I really have to turn in,” Pratt said.

He went downstairs to the basement—there was an elevator next to the stairs—and found Cass sitting up in the guest bedroom watching Letterman wearing a teddy. Pratt was beyond exhaustion. He just wanted to sleep.

“Baby, I gotta crash. Give me a rain check.”

Cass smiled. “We'll see.” She reached for his cock as he neared the bed. Pratt swatted it away.

“I mean it. We just learned that the War Bonnets killed Perry, Danny's receptionist.”

“That fag?”

“He was a friend of mine, Cass.”