GATOR: Wolves MC (Riding With Wolves Book 2) (6 page)

September 15, 2015–Los Angeles, California

San Francisco is about a five or six hour drive from L.A. So when I turned myself in for questioning at L.A.P.D., I knew I’d be in holding for
at least
that long, waiting for J.T. to come interrogate me.

But I knew that she
would
come, and that alone made the waiting worth it. What’s six hours when you’re waiting to see someone you haven’t seen in over ten years? And what’s six hours to someone who did six months in jail?

I could wait over six hours if I had to, and trust me, I
had
to. If someone had their sights set on J.T. and me, like I told Hammer, I wasn’t going to let us be sitting ducks. But I wasn’t going to let us be walking targets either. If someone was trying to get me—or J.T., or both of us—they couldn’t get us while we were in an interrogation room in the police station. So that’s why I had to turn myself in for questioning, why I
had
to wait over six hours in holding, and why I told Hammer to go talk to Crete.

Crete, if you’re wondering, is the Wolves’ “boss” and “leader.” He’s the one who calls all the shots and sets all of our agendas. He makes up our rules and handles the shit when one of us breaks them. He’s also the one who protects us, helps us, and shows us how to serve the better good—and he’s the one to go to whenever there’s a problem… And my current predicament was definitely a
big
problem.

If Hammer was right—and I had no doubt he was—Pigpen’s murder meant that the Wolves had been compromised, somehow or some way, and that someone had access to our info, which they were trying to use against us. And I, surely, wasn’t their primary target. There ain’t many folk who got a personal vendetta against
me
specifically. I never really did that much to warrant revenge—at least not revenge like this.

Sure, I mighta slept with a guy’s girlfriend here and there—maybe even slept with a guy’s wife, or damn, maybe even his mother. I may have pissed off some folks partyin’ too loud and causin’ a scene, and I may have hit a little too hard when it came to takin’ care of business. But, I never done nothing so bad that it’d call for settin’ me up for a junkie’s murder, or for dragging
her
into it.

Her
, of all people! Whoever was behind this sure knew where to hit me. But they underestimated me. I threw myself in front of a gator for J.T. once. And now I’d do whatever it took to protect her again. That dumb-shit who killed Pigpen pulled the wrong card when it came to playin’ ole Gator!

“Struthers,” the jail guard shouted, approaching the holding cell from the far end of the hallway. “Carl Struthers, you have a visitor.”

I’d had my eyes closed for some time—doing what some people call meditating—and it took me a moment to get back to the real world.

“A visitor?” I asked, opening my eyes. I’d had them shut so long that the light appeared bright, and I had to rub my fingers over them to mute it a little. “I ain’t expecting no visitors—and I already told ya, I ain’t talkin’ to nobody ‘cept Detective J.T. Knowles.”

“It’s your lawyer,” the guard clarified.

“My
lawyer
?” I asked. Last time I checked, I didn’t have one.

“Yeah, you heard me,” the guard answered. “Your lawyer’s here, and he wants to talk to you in private. So get your ass up and come with me. I don’t have all day.”

I stood up and slowly walked over to the door. The guard was much smaller than I was, and he seemed intimidated by my physical presence.

“This way,” he said, shutting the door behind me.

“My
lawyer
is here?” I asked again.

“Are you stupid, boy?” the guard asked, abusing his power. He was obviously banking on our difference in status to outweigh our difference in stature. “I told you—
twice
—that your lawyer’s here.”

I decided to bite my tongue and swallow my pride, and I followed the guard around a corner to another hallway where a stuffily dressed man sat on a heavily stained chair. The clock above his head read 2:42 p.m., which meant I’d been in holding for just a little less than three hours.

“Mr. Struthers?” the stuffily dressed man asked, rising to his feet.

“Yes,” I replied. “And you are?”

“Mike Adams,” he replied. “I’m your lawyer… and I’m here to advise you before you talk to the police on this matter.”

“I don’t got a lawyer,” I said. “Didn’t call one and don’t need one.”

I was just about to ask the guard to take me back to the holding sell when this Mike Adams guy coughed dramatically and reached up to scratch his cheek. He scratched it with three fingers—his index, middle, and ring fingers—and kept his pinky finger and thumb tucked under his palm, like the padding of a paw.

“Well, come to think of it,” I said, picking up his signal, “guess I should talk to counsel before I talk to the po-po.” When he scratched his check the way that he did, he threw me the Wolves’ signal, which is our way of communicating a Wolves’ affiliation when we can’t otherwise directly say it.

The guard didn’t pay any mind to the attorney’s strange cough or gesture, or to my sudden change of heart. He shrugged it all off and opened the door to a private room, or cell, and Mike Adams and I entered it.

Adams pulled out a seat and sat at the small table in the room, then motioned for me to do the same.

“Who sent you?” I asked, taking a seat.

“You know who sent me,” he answered, speaking under his breath as he thumbed through the files in his briefcase. He extracted a manila envelope, pulled it out, and reached into it.

“Here,” he said, sliding a small, thin flask across the table towards me. “It’s whiskey.”

“No thanks,” I said, pushing the thing back towards him. I sure could’ve used some hair of the dog to fight off the headache I had from the two beers I’d drank earlier, but I
never
drink whiskey.

“Why are you here?” I asked, leaning over the table.

Mike Adams picked up the flask and took a drink from it. And from the looks of him, he sure needed it—and it probably wasn’t the first drink he’d had all day. He wasn’t just stuffily dressed, he was—what’s the word?—disheveled…and he looked nervous and shaky as all hell.

“You’re about to talk to the police,” he said. “And I’m here to make sure you don’t tell them any more than you have to.”

“I might look and sound like a big lug from the bayou,” I said, “but rest assured, I ain’t an idiot. I’m not going to say anything to incriminate me, or my brothers, and I don’t need you sittin’ there, keepin’ watch over me.”

“Fine,” Adams said, taking another hit from his flask. He held it out to me again, but I declined.

“If you don’t want me here with you during the interrogation, that’s fine,” he went on. “Your call. But you should
at least
go over your story with me now. Let me hear it. Run it by me, and I’ll tell you if you’re good to go, or if there’s anything you should leave out or change.”

“I ain’t got no story to tell the detective,” I replied. “She’s gonna interrogate me—ya know, ask me questions—and I can’t tell you my answers to her questions, ‘cause I ain’t even heard ‘em yet.”

Adams fidgeted around in his seat for a moment. He picked up the flask to take another draw, but ended up placing it back in his briefcase instead.

“Of course, I expect that you’re going to tell her that you didn’t commit this murder,” Adams added. “So what are you going to tell her when she asks you if you know who did? What will you say if she asks you for any leads you may have, or asks you for information that may be relevant to the case?”

I looked the attorney over again. He couldn’t have been much older than I was, but he didn’t wear his age well.

“I’ll tell her what I tell her,” I replied, trying to look away from Adams’ sallow eyes. I thought again about what Hammer said—about there being a mole in our organization—and how I didn’t want to name names and point fingers at my friends. I didn’t know this “Mike Adams” from Jack, so if I wasn’t even sure I could trust my friends, why on earth should I trust him?

“Which is?” Adams asked.

“Which is what it is,” I answered. “And that’s
all
I got to say to
you
.” I stood and walked away from the table, then pounded on the door, to call the guard.

“Mr. Struthers,” Adams said, standing up, “I think it’d be wise if you went over your answers with me. You don’t want to end up taking the wrap for this, do you? Do you wanna serve time for a crime you didn’t commit… again?”

I ignored the attorney’s comments and pounded on the door a second time.

A few seconds later, the guard opened the door.

“You done in here?” he asked.

“Yup,” I stated firmly while Adams nodded his head.

The guard led me back to the holding cell, without so much as a word, and saw me into it. I sat down on the cold concrete slab that barely passed for a seating surface or bed and closed my eyes again. I may not have been willing to go over my answers with Mike Adams, but he’d given me the incentive to go over them in my head.

September 15, 2015–Somewhere along Coastal Highway 1

“Can we stop at the next gas station we see?” Barnes asked, squirming in his seat. “Or a store, a restaurant—anything. I have to—”

“I can tell what you have to do,” I answered. “And trust me, I don’t want you doing it in my car. So yes, I’ll stop at the first place I see.”

Barnes and I had only been in the car for a couple of hours, and I swear, driving with him was like driving with a child. (Not that I knew since I didn’t have kids of my own, and given the rate I was going, probably never would.) Every ten miles or so, he’d ask how far we had left or request and updated E.T.A., and whenever we’d drive along a strip of highway with particularly beautiful scenic view, he “oohed” and “ahhed” like he’d never seen the ocean before.

Who knew, maybe he hadn’t?

In any event, the first suitable stop I saw after Barnes’ warning was a little off-the-road diner called Chick’s. It looked like a total dive, but the parking lot was pretty packed, so it couldn’t have been
that
wretched. And it had to have a bathroom, which was priority number one.

As soon as I pulled into the lot, Barnes started shaking like a dog at the door, waiting to be let out, and no sooner than I’d parked, he unbuckled, rushed out of the car, and made a beeline for Chick’s. I turned off the car and followed, though not at the same speed.

Chick’s looked much better on the inside than on the outside, but still, that wasn’t saying much. It was a beat-up old place with a counter and tabletops that, obviously, hadn’t been replaced in years, and the waitresses wore pale pink uniforms with aged white collars and trims. All told, the setup reminded me of something you’d see in a horror movie. It looked like the type of place where something sinister was about to go down.

I headed straight for the hostess—though I guess she was more of a cashier, or matron of some sort—and passed on my chance to pee. I didn’t have to go that badly—and I certainly didn’t want to go in
this
place.

“What can I get ya, doll?” she asked as soon as I came near. She had to weigh about three hundred pounds and looked like she was confined, or attached, to her high chair.

“I’ll take four of those muffins,” I said, pointing at a bakery case to my right. “And two large coffees—to go.”

Just then, Barnes walked out of the hallway that led to the restrooms. He smiled, nodded at me, and said, “I’ll wait for you by the car.” Then the poor thing nearly tripped on his own feet on his way to the door, and I noticed a long piece of toilet paper trailing from his shoe.

“Better make one of those a decaf,” I said, rolling my eyes and turning back to the waitress. “Doesn’t look like he needs a caffeine buzz.”

The large lady got up off of her chair—I guess she wasn’t attached to it after all—and readied my order, and less than a minute later, she came back and handed it to me. I pulled my wallet out of my purse and opened it, but before I could take out any cash, the waitress stopped me.

“Don’t worry about it, honey,” she said. “It’s on the house. Law enforcement eats and drinks here for free.”

“Thanks,” I said, shoving my wallet back in my purse. “How could you tell?” We’d driven in in an unmarked car, and neither Barnes nor I were visibly wearing any ID.

“I can tell,” the waitress chuckled. “I’ve been workin’ this job for years, and I kinda developed a sixth sense ‘bout people. I can tell who’s who, who’s good and who’s—”

Before Big Bertha could finish her sentence, I heard a roar of laughter from behind me.

“And who’s bad,” I heard her say, as I turned to see the source of the noise. There were two men and a girl at a booth near the doorway. The guys were big, beefy things, wearing dirty clothes and dozens of tattoos, and the girl looked to be strung out on something or recovering from a night she’d never recall. I hadn’t noticed them when I came in, but now that I did, I was concerned.

“They causing you trouble?” I asked, turning to the waitress again.

“Eh,” she answered. “Not
trouble
, but they been tyin’ up that table for
hours
. Been here since early this morning and ain’t ordered much. It’s just messin’ with our business and tips, that’s all.”

I grabbed the coffees and muffins, nodded at the waitress, and thanked her before turning to leave. The moment I turned around, the trio at the table stopped talking and looked at me. Then one of the guys mumbled something under his breath, and the three of them took to laughing again, rather loudly.

Something needed to be done.

I walked over to the table. “You guys about done here?” I asked, eyeing them to determine who the alpha in their pack was.

“No,” one of the big, beefy tattooed guys replied. He picked up a soggy French fry and waved it in the air. “Just finishin’ our grub now. But all of a sudden, my appetite’s ragin’ again.”

He looked at his big, beefy tattooed buddy and laughed, then looked back at me. “Wouldn’t mind a milkshake,” he said, staring at my tits.

“Or a slice of pie,” he added, moving his eyes down to my skirt. “But I can’t decide—cherry or lemon cream?”

His buddy starting laughing loudly again, and the strung-out girl beside him smiled and chuckled as she stirred her straw around in her almost-empty glass.

“That’s enough,” I said, raising my voice just enough to cut through the men’s laughs. “You’re making a scene.”

“A scene?” the first, foul-mouth man asked. He raised his hand to his chin and squeezed it, and when he did, it looked like the images inked on his arm danced around.

“Doesn’t look like anyone minds what we’re doing,” he went on, “except you.”

“Well, my opinion is the only one that matters,” I replied, reaching into my coat pocket and pulling out my badge. I flashed it at the group, then put it away.

“That’s just jewelry, baby,” the same man said, brushing his hand in the air. He was obviously the alpha and was, obviously, trying to lord his power over me, too. “Last time I checked, it wasn’t a crime to eat a meal and chill with your friends.”

“
That’s
not a crime,” I said. “But loitering
is
a punishable offense. You can’t order a couple plates of food and just hang around here all day.”

“We haven’t been here all day,” the alpha replied. “We’ve just been taking our time—savoring both the atmosphere and the food. We’ll leave here when we’re done. But like I said, I’m hungry again and may order something else.”

Right then, the alpha’s phone buzzed on the table, and he quickly picked it up and checked it in a way that indicated he was reading an email or text. Then, he looked up at me, grinned, and looked back at his phone.

“Saved by the bell,” he said, setting the thing down and reaching into his pocket to pull out a wad of cash. “We’re outta here,” he said to his friends. “Time to go.”

With that, the trio stood up, and the alpha tossed a fifty-dollar bill on the table, which was more than enough to pay for their food
and
tip the folks at Chick’s mighty damn well.

“Looks like I’ll have to get that slice of pie another time,” the alpha said and smiled as he squeezed past me. It was a good thing I hadn’t eaten yet, because if I did, I’d have lost my lunch.

I stayed put in Chick’s for a moment and watched as the three lowlifes made their way to their vehicle and got in, and as soon as they pulled off onto the highway, I grabbed the fifty from the table, walked over to the big ole gal behind the counter, and handed her the money. She took it from me and smiled, then thanked me and asked me if I wanted anything else to go.

I politely declined and made my way back out to my car where Barnes was standing, kicking at gravel on the ground.

“The doors were unlocked, you know,” I said, heading over to the driver’s side. “You could have waited
in
the car.”

“I didn’t know,” Barnes replied. “Most people lock their doors.”

“I’m not
most people
,” I said, taking my frustrations out on the rookie. If it had been any other officer, I would have griped about the confrontation that I’d just had, but Barnes had just gone potty like a good boy, and I didn’t want to tell him anything that might make him piss his pants.

As soon as we were back on the highway, I turned on the radio and tuned in to National Public Radio. Barnes and I chatted for a bit about some of the issues the NPR orator discussed, but our conversation faded to mere comments by the time we’d driven another two hours or so.

At one point, when we were about an hour and a half outside or L.A., I heard something about Donald Trump’s political campaign for the presidency, and I couldn’t help but make a snarky remark, to which I got no reply. I looked over at Barnes, and he was fast asleep. His head was tilted back, and there was spittle accumulated at the corners of his mouth.

It was confirmed yet again. Yes, Barnes was the perfect ad hoc partner. He was exactly who I needed at my side for this trip and investigation. And indeed, driving with him was like driving with a child.

I used what was left of Barnes’ naptime to sort through my thoughts. And, trust me, I had many to sort through. First and foremost, I couldn’t believe that the sweet, gentle giant I’d known so many years ago was capable of murder, especially a murder like this one. I couldn’t fathom how someone who’d once saved me from a gator could slit a young man’s throat and disfigure his body.

However, my years in the police force had taught me many things and showed me that, without fail, people
will
surprise you. I worked too many cases where it ended up being the least likely suspect who was responsible for a murder—you know, the blonde girl-next-door type, the well-respected doctor, or the ambitious college student. If
those
types of people were capable of murder, who’s to say a guy like Carl Struthers—like Gator—wasn’t?

And, that was another thought I had swirling in the mix. Who
was
Carl Struthers? Who
was
Gator? What type of person was he? I hadn’t seen him in over ten years and had no idea what became of him—other than the rap sheet and the fingerprints I had before me… and they weren’t pretty.

The man had been convicted of assault and served six months. He obviously had a gang affiliation. And he was somehow involved in the junkie’s murder.

Could he really have changed
that
much? What was he like now? What type of man was waiting for me in the holding cell? Did he still look the same? Still talk the same? Was he still as kind as he once was?

Or was he something different now? Was he like those guys from Chick’s? Was he covered with tattoos, carelessly dressed, and grungy like them? Did he have a similar bad attitude and negative outlook on life? Was he as flippant, disrespectful, and perverse?

If you lie down with dogs, you get fleas. Was
Gator
a junkie now too? A pusher? A dealer? A runner?

AAAAHHHHH!!!!!!!
I was already screaming in my head and wanted to shout out loud. However, I knew it would do me little good and would cause me nothing but trouble with the sleeping kid beside me, and I couldn’t deal with what I was thinking, let alone
discuss
it.

I decided that I needed to clear my head, or at least chase my thoughts away with something…
anything
. I changed the radio station from NPR to the first decent music station I heard, and I ever so slightly cranked up the volume.

I’d just tuned in at the end of something fast and heavy, with solid, steady bass and drums that quickly distracted me. However, just as I was getting into it and moving on, the song ended. The song that followed was a slow, alternative rock ballad that I hadn’t heard in years…

Go figure!