GATOR: Wolves MC (Riding With Wolves Book 2) (8 page)

September 15, 2015–Los Angeles, California

I had to get out of that tiny little room! The “dance” with Gator was getting too intense, and I needed a breather. Plus, I still had to keep in mind standard practices and procedure.

When Barnes and I arrived at the station, we had to take care of things before I began the interrogation. First, we had to check in with local, wait for them to verify our identities, and briefly brief them. Then, we had to have Struthers called from holding—and, once he was, I chose to leave him waiting for a bit.

That’s one of our judgments calls, one of our tactics. Sometimes, when questioning a suspect, the detective will run into the room and throw the book at him, barking out questions and demanding answers. But other times, the detective will leave the suspect waiting in the interrogation room for a bit—waiting, wondering, and letting their minds wander.

Another one of our judgments calls is to get up and leave at different points during the interview… which was the call I chose to make when things got too intense with Gator. It was time to toss him a curveball—and time for me to take a break.

When I say things got too intense or refer to our exchange as a “dance,” I mean there was an uncanny fluidity to it. He had an answer for every question I asked, and he didn’t seem at all nervous about the situation. I was having a hard time reading him—and catching up with him.

And I was having a hard time keeping my eyes off of him. He’d “grown up” in the most amazing ways and wore his age well. Even Courtney Whatever-Her-Name-Was wouldn’t be able to shake a stick at him now.

His curly blonde hair was longer than it used to be—but not long by contemporary measures. It was rock star long, like the kind sported by nineties musicians—and it was
clean
and fairly well maintained. His clothes were clean and fairly well maintained also, and they clung tight to his muscular body, which, I’ll remind you, again, showed no signs of nervousness.

Gator didn’t shake or avert his eyes. He didn’t sit in a tense, uptight position. He didn’t fidget with his hands or repeatedly move his limbs. He just sat there, answering my questions, looking bad-boy gorgeous… which was too much for me to take, despite my years of seasoned experience.

“What’d ya find, Barnes?” I asked when I got to the cubicle my partner was using to conduct his research. I needed to use my break away from Gator to find out more about him.

“Carl ‘Gator’ Struthers is affiliated with a gang called the Wolves,” Barnes answered rather quickly. “And the Wolves have had some rough times recently. There’s been nothing on them for about twenty years, then, all of a sudden, a few months ago, a Wolf named Terry Cramer gets convicted of killing a member of a rival gang, the Street Seraphs… Then Cramer goes and gets killed in a prison fight—and two days after his funeral, another Wolf, Sam ‘The Hammer’ Hammond, gets attacked on the streets and dropped at the E.R. in San Marino. No one went down for
either
of those crimes… But get this—”

Barnes looked at me expectedly, and I looked at him with a little awe in my eyes. I was rather impressed by his recitation.

“This Hammer guy is the same guy Struthers assaulted ten years ago. He and Struthers are ‘brothers’ in the same gang now.”

“Interesting,” I replied, still trying to decide what to do with all of this new information.

“Anything else?” I asked. “Anything more on the vic?”

“Not yet,” Barnes answered. “I just finished compiling all this on Struthers and haven’t even started on Berry yet.”

“Well, start on Berry now,” I retorted. Barnes was doing a surprisingly good job at his research—but he didn’t need to know that!

“His alias is ‘Pigpen,’” I added, sharing something Gator had just told me. “And rumor has it, he wasn’t very popular.”

Barnes nodded at me, and I leaned down to read over some of the facts and details he’d just told me. They were a little convoluted, and I wanted to get a good grasp on them before addressing them with Gator.

“Hmm,” I hummed, pulling away from Barnes’ screen and taking it all in. “Thanks… I’ll be back in a bit.”

I turned and left Barnes to his busy work, walked back towards the interrogation room, then took a deep breath before entering.

“So,” I said, walking into the room, “the Wolves and the Street Seraphs don’t seem too happy with each other these days, huh? First, one of yours kills one of theirs—then, he ends up dead, and another one of your boys is attacked two days after your funeral… So now it’s time for the Wolves to make another move? Is
that
why John Berry’s dead? Was he involved in the attack on your friend? Did you kill him to pay your buddy, Hammer, back for what you did to him ten years ago? Was Pigpen’s murder your way of settling two scores?”

“Those sure are a lot of questions,” Gator replied. “Which one you want me to answer first?” His Lou’siana accent was still there, but not nearly as heavy.

“Whichever one you want,” I answered.

“Well, I don’t remember ‘em all now,” Gator said, smiling at me.

It took every ounce of strength in me not to smile back at him.

“But suffice it to say,” he continued, “I already told you I had
nothing
to do with Pigpen’s murder. You seem to know your current events—and your history—but you’re putting’ the facts together in the wrong order. I didn’t do nothing to get to settle no scores, and I don’t think any of my brothers did. This ain’t our move against the Seraphs—or anyone else—this is
their
move against
us
.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. I’d been thrown for a loop.

“The Wolves don’t get a lot of attention,” Gator explained. “The police, the media, and the public don’t talk about us that much, because we really don’t get into that much trouble. In fact, we usually try to prevent trouble—and troublemakers don’t like that.”

“So, what?” I interrupted. “Your group is trying to get rid of trouble in L.A.—so you bring your trash to San Francisco? Is that your way of sending a message to your rivals to get out of town?”

“Stop,” Gator said, tilting his big head at me. His eyes were big and blue, like a puppy’s, and he begged me with them just like one. “You really gonna make me keep tellin’ you? I didn’t have nothin’ to do with this murder… So stop wasting our time proposing theories ‘bout why I committed a crime I didn’t.

“What I’m getting at is this… Pigpen’s murder has nothing to do with Pigpen. It isn’t about him, no matter what other facts ya got to go on. It’s about the Wolves, or about me—and someone is using
you
to make a point.”

“Using
me
?” I asked. “How do you figure?” I sounded like I, too, was back home on the bayou.

“It’s obviously no coincidence that
my
fingerprints were tied to a murder in
your
jurisdiction,” Gator replied. “We both know that. It had to happen for a reason.”

“And
what
do you suppose that reason is?” I inquired.

“I told you that everyone calls me Gator on account of a run-in I had with an alligator a long time ago, back in Lou’siana,” Gator said, repeating what he’d said earlier. “Now, some folks just know the basics, and some folks know the full story… Some folks know about the girl I jumped in front of to save—the one who stuck around and helped save
me
. And some folks know that the reason I came out to California in the first place was to find her.

“Those folks know how important that girl was to me—and they probably done know that I checked up on her over the years and kept track of her education, personal life, and career. They probably done know that I knew when she graduated, married that computer geek, got hired at San Fran P.D., and made detective.”

Gator broke eye contact with me for the first time during the interrogation and looked around the room. Fortunately, he didn’t look at me and see the shocked looked on my face. I swear, I must have looked white as a ghost. I wanted to run out of the room again. This “dance” was getting even more intense, and far more personal.

“This is too much hard work to go to just to frame me for a worthless junkie’s murder,” he went on. “Whoever did this to Pigpen did this because they wanted that girl I cared about to come looking for me, so that they could set me—and the Wolves—up for a greater fall. Pigpen was just a pawn in their greater scheme—a quick move to taunt us—and I have no doubt that you are too… And
that’s
why I voluntarily turned myself in for questioning on this crime.

“Right now, know it or not, you’re a walking target. So I had you come to
my
turf, so that
I
can ‘protect and serve’
you
… You’re in this room with me now, and it’s the safest place you can be. But once we leave this room, you’ll still be safe—‘cause I ain’t takin’ my eyes off you. Even if you find some reason to arrest me or keep me here, my
eyes
will still be on you, and I’ll have your back, one way or another, until you done find out who really killed that junkie.”

“So you turned yourself in to protect
me
?” I asked, reiterating Carl Struthers’ bottom line. “You threw yourself under the bus for
my
safety, just like you threw yourself between me and that alligator?”

Gator smiled a sweet smile. “Honey,” he said, “I wish we
was
facin’ a gator this time.”

I certainly didn’t admit it—but rest assured, I agreed.

September 15, 2015–Los Angeles, California

“Who
are
we dealing with then?” I asked Gator.

“Don’t know and couldn’t tell ya,” he replied, matter-of-factly. “At least not yet. But, the Wolves
have
had their fair share of problems over the past several months—including those unfortunate events you listed earlier, as well as some you couldn’t know and didn’t mention. This isn’t the first backhanded move that’s been made against us, and I reckon it won’t be the last… unless
we
stop it.”

“Who do you mean by
we
, Gator?” I asked. I felt a vibration in my chest pocket, but ignored it. “Do you mean you and me, or you and the Wolves?”

“Guess I mean all of the above,” Gator answered. “I don’t have to tell you, looks can be deceiving—and so can words. The Wolves may be a gang, and I may be a member of that gang, but we ain’t the bad guys. We’re actually on the same side of this battle as you are, and we’d all be best served to join forces.”

My chest pocket vibrated again—and again, I ignored it.

“There’s a lot that goes on in our world that simply ain’t recorded,” Gator continued. “The Wolves and I can tell ya tons of information you ain’t gonna find in any file or on any database. And more than some of that information has gotta be pertinent to this case.

“But the rest of the Wolves ain’t gonna come out of their dens and offer up information like I did. You’re gonna have to go to them, and you’re gonna have to go to them with something that shows you’re really on
their
side. You’re gonna have to go to them with me—and trust me, you’ll need me to find them.”

My chest pocket vibrated again—for a third time—and Gator stopped speaking to look at it. Either that, or he was looking at my breasts. Either way, it may me feel a little self-conscious.

“So you wanna
help
?” I asked, drawing out my question and pulling out my cell phone. I looked at the missed calls list—
three
missed calls from the chief!!! I had to call him back, but I couldn’t rush out just yet.

“First thing’s first then,” I added. “If you want to help, we have to get you out of this room and back out on the street, now don’t we? Where were you between six last night and six this morning?”

“That’s a pretty big timeframe,” Gator chuckled. He was right, but it was the best I had to go on at this point, since I still hadn’t gotten an official time or location of death.

“Maybe it is,” I replied. “But I need an answer if there’s any way you want to be cleared for release.”

“Well,” Gator answered, looking away from me again, “I can’t account for
every
moment… But I figure I went to Pinky’s around seven or seven thirty and had a few drinks with my boys. Then, around ten thirty or so…”

Gator paused and looked at me again.

“Around ten thirty or so,” he went on, “I left… with a female friend.”

“And where did you go?” I asked.

“Her place,” Gator said somewhat bashfully.

“So you picked up a girl at the bar?” I asked, trying not to pass judgment. “Do you know her name?”

“Of course I do,” Gator answered. “Belinda.”

“Belinda what?” I asked.

Gator shrugged his shoulders, and I rolled my eyes.

“Did anyone see you leave with this Belinda? Did anyone see you go into her place? Do you have any proof that you were with her?” I asked.

“Sure enough,” Gator replied. “Of course my boys saw me leave with her. And we stopped at a gas station—Adler’s—along the way. I have the credit card receipt in my wallet.”

“Alright,” I said. My phone buzzed again, and I saw Coop’s number flash across the screen. “What’s her address?”

Gator gave me a partial address, which I scrawled down on my file folder. Then, I grabbed the folder—and my phone—and headed for the door. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I said on my way out.

Once I was beyond earshot, I pressed “redial” on my phone and returned the chief’s call.

“What the hell’s going on down there?” he asked as soon as he answered.

“What do you mean?” I replied.

“Neither one of you has been answering your damn phones,” Coop said. “I tried calling both you
and
Barnes a few times each… but no answer. So what the hell’s been going on down there? What’s had you both so busy that neither one of you can take a call from me?”

“Maybe the service down here isn’t so—” I started.

“You’re in
L.A.
, Knowles,” Coop reminded me, “not South America. Don’t give me that shit about the service being bad… I get it. You were busy and had to ignore my calls. But ignoring not
one
but a few of them is
not
acceptable under ordinary circumstances—and you can surely understand how I’d be concerned and irritated that
both
you and Barnes were ignoring me. I was worried that something was wrong. So tell me—is it?”

“No, sir,” I said, slightly humbled and feeling like an asshole for several reasons. “I was in with Struthers, and Barnes has been back in a cube running research. I was collecting the details of Struthers’ alibi, so I didn’t want to destroy the momentum by taking your calls. I don’t know why Barnes didn’t take your calls, but I’m sure he, too, had good reason. I’m on my way to see him now and can find out what’s up for you, or have him call you, if you’d like.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Coop replied. “I just need to talk to
one
of you. I just want to know what’s up—if you’re making any progress.”

“Yes and no, sir,” I sighed. “You were right. This one isn’t cut and dry—at all. Struthers’ prints may have showed up on the suspected murder weapon, but I’m pretty he’s not our guy.”

“And why do you say that?” Coop asked.

“Well, for one thing,” I answered, “he referred to the weapon as a knife rather than a switchblade… And when I mentioned the needles, he had no idea what I was talking about. Plus, his alibi sounds pretty solid, and it should be pretty easy to confirm.”

“Hmm,” the chief purred like a distraught fat cat. “Well, run the alibi, finish the interrogation, check in with me when you’re done… and
answer my phone calls
.”

“Will do, sir,” I said, hanging up the phone.

I walked briskly from the hallway to the cubicle where Barnes had been conducting his research. But, lo and behold, he was not there. His phone, however, was right there on the desk, and it was blinking with alert notifications.

“Where’s Barnes?” I asked, peeking my head out from behind the cubicle wall and addressing a small group of officers assembled near, of all things, a water cooler.

“Barnes?” one of them asked inquisitively.

“Yes, Barnes,” I answered. “My partner. The San Fran P.D. officer who was using this cube… Where is he?”

“Oh, the rookie?” another officer asked. “He ran down to the head ‘bout twenty minutes ago. Hasn’t been back since.” He and the other officers distastefully chuckled.

“Thanks,” I said, though I didn’t meant it.

I headed down the hall, in the direction the snide officer had indicated, toward the john. When I got to the door, I pounded on it and shouted, “Barnes, are you in there?”

I got nothing more than a muffled noise as a reply and decided, against my better judgment, to be more proactive about the situation.

“Female detective entering the head,” I announced firmly and loudly. Then, I counted to ten and entered.

There was another officer going about his business at one of the urinals, and he seemed completely undisturbed by my presence (or announcement). And I did my best not to make eye—or other bodily part—contact.

I looked to the stalls. “Barnes?” I asked, approaching one of the closed doors. All I could see was a pair of legs bent over, kneeling on the ground, facing the bowl.

“Yeah, Knowles,” Barnes replied, gurgling. “It’s me… Not feeling so well.”

I heard what had to be the sound of Barnes vomiting—or at least spitting up—but luckily, some of it was drowned out by the nearby urinal flushing.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, fighting the urge to dry heave out the negligible contents of my own stomach.

“Think that burger made me sick,” he said. “My fiancée has me on a lean protein diet—and that was the first real burger I’ve had in about three months.”

I didn’t know that Barnes had a fiancée, but I should have figured he’d be whipped.

“Well, finish what you gotta do in here,” I said. “Then meet me back in the cube. The chief called, and he was angry. He wants this case solved two hours ago.”

“K,” Barnes muttered between gags.

I hightailed it out of the bathroom and went back to the cubicle, where I sat down in Barnes chair and looked over the info he’d left displayed on his computer screen. Apparently, he hadn’t gotten much done since I’d last talked to him. (He’d probably spent most of that time puking.) However, I looked over what he’d found.

About two minutes into my review, Barnes showed up in the cubicle beside me—and he looked like hell heated over. His brow was sweaty; his face was flushed; and his eyes looked like they were gonna pop out of his head.

“So
that’s
what fast food does to someone on a lean protein diet?” I asked, eying his sickly face and form.

“I guess so,” Barnes answered, grabbing hold of his stomach. “I feel like my insides are being shredded.”

I looked at the poor kid empathetically for a moment, then turned to the screen again. “So you haven’t found anything major, I gather?”

“No,” Barnes replied, shaking his head slowly. Any faster and he probably would’ve hurled again.

“I’ll keep looking though,” he said, nodding toward the chair.

I glanced at the time on the lower right-hand side of the computer screen. It was 9:24—and for all I knew, it was probably past Barnes’ bedtime.

“Go back to the motel,” I said. “Just have one of the local boys drive you back, and I’ll finish up here… All I have to do is run Struthers’ alibi, then he’s free, and we’re outta the station for the night. But there’s no need for you to stick around and wait it out, not in the condition you’re in… Just go back to the motel, get some rest, and you can pick up with your research tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?” Barnes asked, brightening up a little.

“Yes,” I replied. “It’s not a problem.” I’d chosen Barnes as a partner for a reason, remember, and the basic foundation of that reason was how unnecessary and useless he really was (or rather, how unnecessary and useless I wanted and needed him to be).

Barnes smiled and turned to walk away.

“Your cell phone!” I called out to him. He’d left it sitting on the desk.

“Thanks,” he said, coming back to retrieve it.

“Anything else you need from here?” I asked, just to make sure. “Got your badge, your piece, your wallet?”

Barnes patted his pockets, then sighed. “Damn it,” he said.

“What?” I asked, rolling my eyes. I’d hoped my other questions would’ve proved moot.

“I don’t have my wallet,” he replied.

“Well, where is it?” I asked.

“I think I left it… in your car,” Barnes answered.

“Just grab it on your way out then,” I said. “You know I keep my—Oh, no, that’s right.
You
made me lock my car doors! Well, don’t worry about it now then. I don’t have time to run out to my car, and I’m not gonna sit around and wait for you to do it. Just go back to the motel now, and I’ll run your wallet—and the rest of your things over—in the morning.”

“Welllll,” Barnes said, staring down at his own feet. “My motel room key is
in
my wallet.”

“You’re kidding me!” I exclaimed.

I reached to the floor beside me, to where I’d stashed my bag for safekeeping during the interrogation.

“Here,” I said, reaching into my purse, pulling out my own wallet, and extracting the key to my room. “Just go back and take my room. I’ll get your key from your wallet and take yours.”

Barnes took the credit-card-like key from my hand and put it in his pocket.

“And, here,” I said, still fumbling with my wallet. “Take this in case you want to get a soda from the vending machine or something.” I handed him a few dollars in cash. “I hear ginger ale is good for calming the tummy.”

Ah! Again this trip with Barnes made me feel like he was a child and I was a parent.

Barnes went over and talked to some of the officers who’d laughed at him behind his back just a few minutes earlier, and I went back to reviewing the information on the computer screen.

Once I’d seen all I needed to, or could see, I approached the other officers as well. Barnes had already left, but I needed to talk to them for another reason.

“I need someone to pull Struthers’ wallet from processing,” I said to the group. “And I need someone to look into his alibi… Should be sweet and simple.”