The Blood of Brothers: A Sycamore Moon Novel (Sycamore Moon Series Book 2) (15 page)

 

 

 

 

Maxim knew something was wrong as soon as he walked into the Sanctuary Marshal's Office. When the young desk clerk saw him, he immediately pretended to be busy. Inside, Cole and Gutierrez sat at their desks, speaking in hushed voices that quieted as soon as they noticed him. The marshal's office door was closed, which was never a good sign.

"Missed you at the crime scene," said Maxim.

Cole just shrugged. "I thought Coconino locked it down."

The detective dropped his hat on his desk and scoped around to make sure no one else was listening. "You know the drill, Cole. If I'm at the clubhouse, I want you or Hitchens to back me up."

Gutierrez chimed in. "What about me, boss?"

"You can go to Starbucks."

The rookie laughed it off and faked a wounded look, but he wasn't really offended. Maxim's message was clear: if he was going to be surrounded by wolves, he wanted at least one of them to be wearing blue. Hitchens and Cole were the old guys, the veterans, but they were the strongest.

"I thought the Sons wouldn't give you any trouble," protested Cole.

"Hey, man, I would usually think that too, but I won't get extra chances if I'm wrong."

Cole nodded. Motorcycle clubs weren't the most stalwart of friends. Not to cops, anyway.

Boyd's door swung open and slammed into the wall, its fuzzy glass insert shaking within its frame. The young marshal marched out, scanned the room, and faced Maxim.

"Ah, Detective Dwyer," he said, pretending to be surprised at running into him. "I'm glad you've returned. What's your assessment?"

Maxim noticed Cole and Gutierrez sit up straighter. "It was a shootout. Ballistics should tell us a lot."

"I'd rather not wait for all that. The autopsy may confirm or deny anything we have, but we need to take action before that if we mean to prevent a gang war." Marshal Boyd approached Maxim. "Do you think it was the Seventh Sons?"

"Killing their own? That doesn't make any sense. Besides, they're locked up in New Mexico."

"They were released several hours ago. NMSP notified me of the incident."

"Which was?"

"They were just held under suspicious circumstances and questioned. They were released without charges."

Maxim snorted. Diego had been right when he said that nothing would come of it. "Well, get me the timeline for that so I can rule them out. I don't think it was them. Diego was the first one back and found the body."

A voice came from inside the private office. "Why wasn't that club member brought in for questioning?" A man in a light-blue Oxford shirt and white tie emerged from within. He was a Mexican man, almost forty judging by the gray on the side of his head and peppering his mustache. His hair was shorn short and clean, except for the top of his head where it was a little longer and spiked up. The man had a big nose and a strong brow line, with deep, dark eyes. They stared at him accusatorily.

Maxim turned to the marshal. "Who's this guy?"

Boyd didn't answer. The man did. "I'm your new best friend, Detective. I'll be assisting you in this investigation."

Maxim refused to face him. He searched Boyd's blue eyes for the answer. With a resigned breath, the marshal said, "This is Special Agent Raymond Garcia, of the FBI."

Raymond put a hand out and Maxim shook it with the minimum required cordiality. "Maxim Dwyer."

"I know you," he said. "Small-town detective takes down the Paradise Killers. That was impressive work."

Maxim nodded plainly. He didn't tell the man that he had also outed a rogue CDC agent. Sanctuary had been exploited by the feds before. Maxim knew it was a cliche, but he didn't trust the FBI.

"No offense to either of you," said Raymond Garcia, "but I'm surprised you've stayed at this small station. You could have leveraged that case into a career anywhere."

That was something else the FBI agent didn't know. Maxim had killed a werewolf, an associate of Carlos Doka. Sanctuary was a special case that needed to be handled delicately. Sycamore's affairs needed to stay in Sycamore. Maxim was plenty happy taking on that challenge.

"Well no offense," countered Maxim, "but what the hell are you doing here?"

The marshal winced, no doubt hoping Maxim wouldn't have introduced his gruff side so early. Garcia took it in stride.

"I want you to know, straight away, Detective, that I'm not here to take over your case. The FBI is very adept at complementing local law enforcement. It's one of my primary jobs in the Civil Rights Program."

Maxim turned to the marshal again. Either way, one of them was going to answer his question.

"It's common for the FBI to investigate violent hate crimes," said Boyd.

Maxim scoffed. "Not this again."

"I know what you're thinking," said Garcia. "This is a gang war, not a hate crime. I understand that. But our resources are often applied to gangs that commit crimes of bias. No matter which way you look at it, a Native American being strung up and skinned alive took our notice. As soon as that skin was hung on tribal soil last night, I was dispatched."

"He wasn't skinned alive," shot back Maxim.

"Regardless—"

"And you don't know what I'm thinking. The Seventh Sons didn't do Doka."

Garcia eyed the marshal. He was skeptical of Maxim's statement but didn't attack the theory. "Whether the motorcycle club was involved with the first death or not, they are clearly implicated. The Yavapai tribe may not require your burden of proof to retaliate."

Both points were sound, thought Maxim. They were again, however, surface observations. "I don't think Omar was killed as Yavapai payback. There's a gang beef with a California club called the Pistolas. I want to check them out."

Garcia's eyes widened at the mention of the club's name. He knew them. "Then you should welcome FBI cooperation, shouldn't you?" Maxim kept a neutral face, unsure of Garcia's meaning. He explained. "I understand that Sycamore is largely unincorporated and the county office allows you to police some of their jurisdiction, but surely you understand that California is out of your scope. Federal leverage will come in handy for that."

The detective nodded reluctantly. "And what about the Pistolas? Have you heard of them?"

Raymond Garcia smiled. "Of course I have. I have a background in undercover gang work. Hey, I'm the right skin color, right?"

Boyd smiled, thinking the two men had found some common ground, but Maxim was still wary.

"I've worked in some of the surrounding areas," said Garcia. "I know about the Mexican pipeline and the role of the Seventh Sons. That's one of the reasons I jumped at this case. I'm intimately familiar with the gang world. I know some things that would blow your mind. Trust me, I'll be of assistance."

Maxim smirked at the agent's words. In all likelihood, Garcia was ignorant of the wolves. He may have been an expert on gangs, but he had no idea what made the Seventh Sons tick.

"Now I have to come clean," said the FBI agent, to both the marshal and Maxim. "There is speculation of impropriety between this department and the Seventh Sons. Some critics think the Paradise Killings could have been prevented if this office had been doing its job."

Boyd's face reddened. "Now wait just a minute—"

Garcia put his hands up in apology. "That's not coming from me. I'm on your side, Marshal. But if my assistance can provide a sense of impartiality to the proceedings, then all the better. First and foremost, I recommend that we give absolutely no special treatment to the Seventh Sons. This Diego should have been brought into the station for questioning. Given the current events, we need more than his word that he wasn't involved."

Maxim felt defensive at the mention of justice not being served equally under his watch. "Hey, I was the one who arrested Clint James."

"And you released him."

That was news to Maxim. He checked with the marshal, who nodded.

"He cooperated," said Boyd. "We didn't have enough to hold him and he had a good lawyer. He was released after Diego called in Omar's murder, so he's clear there."

The detective sighed. Usually the marshal making that move would have angered him, but they needed a united front against the FBI. "He'll be easy to scrounge up again if we need him. Trust me."

"Detective," chided Raymond, "I just don't want a situation to arise where you rely on the motorcycle club to solve this case. The Seventh Sons are tight. We had a man try to infiltrate their ranks once but they wouldn't take him. We don't know why."

Of course, Maxim thought, the answer was simple: the Bureau's man wasn't a wolf.

"They aren't just a bunch of drunken outlaws," continued Garcia. "They're smart and well connected. Believe me, they have a network of interests that we must consider before clearing them of any wrongdoing. And that includes law enforcement."

"I'm not in anybody's pocket," asserted Maxim.

The marshal cut between the two men. "He's not accusing anyone specifically, Detective. But I do believe his presence can give this investigation legitimacy."

"Well that's bullshit, Marshal. I go where the evidence goes. You should know that about me by now." But Maxim did allow a sputtering of doubt to creep into his ironclad resolve. It was true that the Seventh Sons were criminals. The Pistolas angle was a new one. Who knew what business deals they were up to or what obligations they had? It was possible that the club was tangentially responsible for Doka's death at least, was it not?

Raymond Garcia was an outsider, an FBI agent from the Civil Rights Program here on a bullshit hate crime investigation. But he did have gang expertise. And he did want to stop a war from breaking out. Shit, it was even likely that Marshal Boyd had requested the agency's help, for the very same reason.

Maxim decided that he would give the guy a chance. It wasn't going to be easy to tread around the wolf angle; the detective needed to hide some details because of that, but he could make it work.

"Great," said Maxim. "I imagine you both will want to read my report as soon as possible. If there's nothing else, I'll have it on your desk before I leave tonight."

Boyd and Garcia both nodded at the same time, eager to receive cooperation. The FBI agent turned to the marshal with an almost embarrassed expression. "I hope it doesn't put you out, Marshal, but I'm going to need your office."

Boyd just laughed. "There's an extra desk in the main room. You can have that." The marshal pointed it out and the three of them turned to see Gutierrez pouring himself a coffee at said desk.

"Marshal," stuttered Raymond, watching the rookie spill a packet of sugar, probably on purpose. "I have the authority to assume a command post."

"Take it up with the mayor," he shot back. Cole rose from his seat and approached with an intimidating posture.

"I am accustomed to better accommodations," protested Garcia.

"Welcome to Sanctuary," Boyd answered, and then stepped into his private office and slammed the door shut.

"Well," said the FBI agent, recovering, "maybe it
is
better for me to sit out here. Keep an eye on you guys."

Raymond Garcia attempted a chuckle to lighten the mood. Maxim and Cole watched him retreat timidly to his desk.

"Sometimes the machine shuts off by itself," said Gutierrez, pointing to the coffeemaker. "Since you're sitting here now, can you make sure to re-flip the switch if that happens?"

 

 

 

 

Sycamore Lodge often served as a rendezvous point for the motorcycle club. Now, more than ever, since they were homeless. The Seventh Sons each had a place to call home, of course, but the clubhouse was their communal sanctuary. It being a crime scene prevented their access, so they needed to settle for a town called Sanctuary instead.

Diego had gotten the news to them before they returned from New Mexico. The Sons had immediately regrouped, as any supportive pack did, but besides promises of vengeance and other shows of testosterone, there wasn't much to say. The MC simply spread across one half of the bar area and stared in silence, inebriation dulling their pain. Coarse laughter filled the room but it was the ominous red light and sway of the alcohol that really set the scene.

It was too bad Melody wasn't working tonight to see this, because even Diego was drinking, but after the events of last year, with her mother dying, she probably needed to be as far away from death as possible.

Diego had originally come to Sanctuary looking for his sister, Angelica. Being the older brother nurtured his protective nature, but his little sister had felt claustrophobic under his cloak. She'd moved on, finding her own adventures, calling him every few months with an update. It wasn't until now that Diego realized it, but in Angelica's absence he had watched over Omar like family.

The blood of his brother still stained the knee of his leather pants.

The bottle of Heineken felt both foreign and familiar in Diego's hand. The last time he had a beer, he thought, was at his father's grave. It seemed apt to afford Omar the same honor. More than any other force in a person's life, family had the power to derail.

They heard the V-Twin engine outside that announced their president's return. The MC sat in expectant silence as Gaston entered.

"The police just cleared out," he said. "We got our home back." Gaston turned and saw Clint in attendance. "Holy shit, when did they let this jailbird out?"

Clint James stood and grabbed Gaston in a brotherly bear hug. "Sounds like you all preferred the accommodations in my home state." Diego grimaced at the thought. It had been a bad couple of days for the club. "I think I won out," continued Clint, stroking his mane of a beard. "I've been there before. It ain't fun."

Gaston nodded in agreement and patted the man's bright red jacket. Diego supposed it was a small victory to be reunited again. He wouldn't spoil that for the others. But his dark mood was shared by his brothers, and the levity of the moment dissipated when Clint took his seat.

"I want every single one of you staying over tonight," commanded Gaston. "No exceptions. We stick together to see this through. Understand?"

Curtis and Trent nodded. Clint whooped. Diego's icy resolve was his only answer, and he noticed the same in West's stare.

Gaston paused. "The blood hasn't been cleaned up yet. We'll call someone tomorrow." He was a tough man, but it was obvious he was unsettled at the thought.

"We've all seen a little blood," said the Apache. It wasn't to make light of what had happened to Omar. It was more a statement that they wouldn't be shaken by what needed to be done. The others nodded grimly.

"Gaston!" came a shrill voice from the crowd behind them. A young blonde girl who wore a tight shirt without a bra and jean shorts cut so high that the pocket linings were visible scampered towards the club. West took to his feet quickly and moved beside Gaston. He put his hand up to stop the hot girl in her tracks.

She twirled her hair in her fingers and looked quizzically at the president, but he just set his jaw, not even bothering to turn around. As a fallback tactic, she winked at West.

"Club business," he stated. Then the intimidating man nodded her away. She smartly followed his suggestion.

West Wind faced his brothers again. "The Yavapai have taken the fight to us. We must take it to them."

Curtis glanced at his friends nervously and rubbed his bald head. "The reservation?"

The Apache nodded. "Five of us. Only two of them."

Diego's face darkened. "You're only counting wolves. There's six of us." The two men locked eyes for a moment, but West relented with a nod. "And there are more Yavapai mercenaries. We don't even know for sure that only two of them are wolves."

"I think we'd know," said Gaston.

"Maybe." Diego took a long swig of beer and emptied his bottle. "Maxim told me that Doka's brother nearly started a riot. It would be dangerous for us to go down there. Stupid."

West didn't blink. "I never claimed to be smart."

Diego bounced to his feet. He couldn't sit still anymore. He was too tense. "Look, I'm pissed about Omar. Believe me, I'm gonna find the pricks who did this. But I'm not even sure it was the Yavapai."

"That doesn't track," said Clint. "Back at the station, your cop friend thought I was set up. Guess who came around the Lodge a couple nights ago and started a fight with me? Hotah Shaw. He's Kelan's right hand."

West grumbled. "That guy needs a good ass kicking."

"Me and him had us a three-minute bell. I got mine."

Gaston slammed his fists onto a table. The beer in the half-filled pitcher sloshed from side to side. "You scrapped with one of Kelan's men when you came into town? You didn't think to mention that to me?"

Clint threw his hands up defensively. "Listen, I was just helping Melody out. Hotah was taking a piss on everybody in here so I set him straight. It was clean and controlled. I wasn't gonna say nothing, but..."

"But you figured after everything that went down, you'd better come clean."

Clint raised his eyebrows as a dog who just chewed up the curtains might. "Well, sure. And I didn't say nothing to Maxim, but he figured it out on his own. He knows I fought with a Yavapai, but he doesn't know who."

Gaston wasn't appeased. "You do understand there's a reason why I gave the hands-off order? The Yavapai are not to be touched. Now one of them is dead and your knife was used to take his skin off."

The hillbilly shrugged his shoulders weakly. "Like I said, the cop thinks I was set up."

"That doesn't make sense," cut in Diego, annoyed at how easily the club got off topic. "Doka was one of them. What if they're being set up too?"

"Or Hotah is going behind Kelan's back," offered Curtis.

Gaston entertained the possibility. Diego decided to give them all he had learned from Maxim.

"Omar was attacked by three or four guys. He was taken down by gunfire. Shot up when he was on the ground. It was sloppy." The rest of the club morosely listened to the details. "We have to consider that wolves didn't do this."

West snorted. Clint spit some beer on the wood floor in disgust. Werewolves didn't like the thought that they were mortal, that they could be taken down by someone weaker than them, but it was a truth they would be wise to admit. Diego used to be a ranger in the Commissioned Corps, especially trained for the grim task. He knew it could be done, and the others had to acknowledge his expertise.

"Omar wasn't very strong," muttered Gaston. "Diego could be right." Some of the others, upon hearing their president accept the possibility, began to consider it. Diego noticed that Gaston was past that, though, working on the next piece of the puzzle. He turned to Diego. "You think the Pistolas did this."

The statement escaped the president's lips as little more than a whisper, but the fortitude that the words carried made them crystal clear in the loud bar.

"They kicked over his bike," pressed Diego. "That run was a setup. We were meant to get arrested out of state, where we had less influence."

"But the state police are our friends," protested Gaston. "We're tight with Cortez."

"Big help that connection was. The troopers back us only as long as we're the highest bidder. If the Pistolas got to them it would explain a lot: We fuck up a run for El Paso and most of our club gets tied up with the law. If it wasn't for Omar scoping the police, things could be a lot worse right now."

"Fat lot of good that did him," said Clint.

"And if it wasn't for you realizing something was wrong..." said Gaston, trailing off. Diego saw appreciation on the faces of his brothers. They hadn't known how he would fare in their business but he had protected them in the end.

West strode over to Diego and extended his hand. Diego eyed the big man. He was stoic. Not a word or hint on his face as to his meaning, but Diego thought he understood. He moved to shake West's hand. The Apache shot forward with a quick movement and grabbed Diego's wrist instead. Diego tried to move but the clasp was strong. West stood firm and held the wrist as they stared at each other.

"Bygones, and all that," said West. "We put our shit behind us." Diego bit down and clasped the man's wrist in return. "We need to all watch out for each other. Got it?" Diego nodded.

West retreated to the head. Strategies would come later. For now, absorbing the realization of their new enemy was enough. As the group sat in silence, Diego leaned into the bar and waved his empty bottle in the air. He needed an excuse to turn away from the MC. He hadn't told them everything yet.

The biker stood there, with the larger group but alone, as he listened to the wolves make small talk. They needed distractions. They needed confidence. And Gaston impressed them with those things. Diego never would have guessed that the biker brute who stole his sister away from Detroit could be a good leader, but he was. But as long as they had a foot in illegitimate trade, what happened to Omar wouldn't be an isolated incident. Diego couldn't live like that. It was too senseless.

Halfway into his new bottle, he heard heavy boots approach from behind. It was Gaston, still wearing the same shirt from the day before, the gel in his spiked hair flaking away in dried disarray. It had been a long night for all of them. Given their safety, a little downtime was just what the doctor ordered.

"I know he was your friend," said the president. Diego stared at the label of his beer and thought about playing pool with the kid the previous morning.

"He was smart," said Diego.

"He came through for us. And so did you."

It didn't protect him, in the end, thought Diego. Another sip of the cold beer convinced him to come clean. "I thought I wanted this, Gaston, but I don't. The brotherhood is solid—the MC, the riding—but the drugs are just stupid, man. Chasing money like this will always lead to death."

Gaston scoffed. "People will always take what someone else has. You can't avoid it by standing on the sidelines."

"That's bullshit, Gaston, and you know it. Sure, shit could happen to anyone at any time, but don't dismiss your part in this. Drugs, guns, the cartel—you're pushing the limits. You're inviting this kind of thing. You might be okay with that. I'm not."

"You're good at it."

"Yeah, well I was good at my last job too." Diego thought about the Commissioned Corps. A paid government assassin. He had to quit to save his soul.

The president wore a disappointed look. He leaned his back on the bar and glanced at the rest of the guys. "So you're out?"

"If you'll let me. I figure that's an easy call since I'm not a wolf."

"The other guys don't care about that anymore. You've proved yourself."

"It won't change my mind."

The big man sighed heavily and searched for a drink. "I won't give you any trouble, Diego. As long as you take some time to think about it first."

"That won't be a problem. I'm seeing this through until Omar gets avenged. I told you I was getting those pricks."

Gaston smiled and nodded softly. "That's one thing we can agree on."

The two men stood wordless while they took in the scene at the roadhouse. A live band began playing in the other room. They were some kind of rockabilly group, the fifties meets distortion. A thickening crowd wildly hopped beside the small stage. Up on the wooden level of the main bar, the tables had all filled out. Plates of burgers and ribs passed around. The outside patio was no different, although perhaps cooler. Friends stood around fire pits and laughed, unaware what Sanctuary really was.

Diego always liked Sycamore Lodge. It was the unofficial turf of the MC, maybe more official now that Melody owned it. It didn't feel the same, though. Not without Omar.

The front door swung open and Maxim Dwyer entered. He wore his black suit and white panama hat, and Diego noticed that his gun was holstered on his belt. The detective's eyes scanned the interior and landed on Diego and the Sons. He moved through the room, taking in all the customers like he was looking for somebody, and knocked his hand twice on the wood of the bar. Without a word, the bartender poured him a bourbon, neat.

Diego pushed away from that same bar, a feat that was more difficult than it should have been. His tolerance wasn't what it used to be. Gaston, however, patted him on the shoulder.

"Let me take this one."

The biker read the urgency on Gaston's face and acquiesced with a welcome slump onto a barstool.

"Also," said Gaston, before he turned away, "keep what we talked about to yourself. No sense distracting the other guys with your news yet."

The president of the Seventh Sons went to have a few words with Maxim, and the two filed down the back hallway and outside into the yard.