The Blood of Brothers: A Sycamore Moon Novel (Sycamore Moon Series Book 2) (20 page)

 

 

 

 

Gaston's Harley was backed up to the curb of the Sanctuary town square. He sat sideways on the V-Rod, leaning on the seat but with his boots on the pavement. Half a toothpick twisted between his teeth, his jaws working overtime, mirroring his thoughts. It was a new day, but everything wasn't bright and peachy. The hangover was just beginning.

It took a lot of drinks to give a wolf a headache. Getting drunk was easy enough—the alcohol still diluted the blood—but the craving that the body felt after the binge, the signs of addiction, generally didn't occur. Sure, he always felt dehydrated when he woke up, but it didn't sap his strength as much. This time, Gaston felt like he was dragging.

It didn't matter. The Seventh Sons at half strength were more than enough to send a message.

West and Curtis straddled their hogs on either side of him. Diego chose to park his pretty-boy bike laterally. Unlike the dusty motorcycles of the rest of the club, Diego kept his nice and shiny. With everything that had happened, Gaston wondered where the man had found the time.

"This isn't our smartest idea," said Diego, the only one not resting against his bike. He paced up and down the sidewalk, staring at the Sanctuary Marshal's Office with apprehension. "I mean, getting in their face and all."

"I'm sick of smart ideas," replied West. Curtis chuckled and kept his eyes on the floor as if to conserve energy.

Across the cement plaza, past the light posts and potted trees, Kelan Doka was inside the police station. He hadn't been arrested, which meant he'd be walking out the front door eventually. Gaston assumed the presence of the MC would cause a stir, get the cops worried, and that someone would come out to talk to them. So far, it was as if they hadn't even been noticed.

But they had. Without a doubt, Maxim and that pompous asshole Hitchens were inside rolling their eyes. And if they were really lucky, Kelan Doka had seen them as well and had already shit his pants.

"Tonight's the new moon," said Gaston. His words had a patient dullness to them, but the anticipation was there, underneath. "No way they keep Kelan in the station for that."

Diego shrugged and walked back towards his bike with his hands in his pockets. He caught a glare of something in the sun, licked his finger, and wiped the gas tank of his Scrambler. That's when Gaston finally understood why Diego bothered to clean his bike. It was just about keeping busy when nothing else could be done. It was the same as chewing on a toothpick.

"Any word on Clint?" asked Gaston, thinking along the same lines. Transformed wolves and hospitals didn't mix. He turned his head slightly to peek behind him, expecting Curtis to answer. Curtis was tight with Trent, and Trent was at the hospital making sure Clint was under guard.

"He's straight. Same as before," replied the biker. "He's gonna be hurting like hell when we move him tonight."

"That won't last long," said the president with a smile. The turn was coming very late tonight. The hospital would be quiet. The Sons should have an easy go of sneaking Clint out before the wolfskin healed him.

Gaston Delacroix had been in the same situation the year before. When he'd helped Maxim take down Deborah, she'd stuck him with two bullets—one in the neck. Clint got it worse with rifle fire, but Gaston had been sidelined longer. He had been stuck in the hospital for over a week, waiting on the full moon. He essentially went through the worst of the recovery on his own before being transferred to the Sanctuary clinic. This town, it protected its own. It was a haven for wolves living in a world that wasn't meant for them. Officer and outlaw alike could respect that.

But the Yavapai were no longer welcome in Sanctuary. Gaston had no idea who'd killed Carlos Doka, but Omar was dead and Clint had gotten close. Werewolf or not, they had crossed the line.

 

 

 

 

Maxim shook his head in annoyance as he stood by the greeting desk, watching the show outside the front window. Four motorcycles and four tough guys, sweating more and more as the day came on. It wasn't a very interesting performance. Not yet, anyway. This part was more like watching the roadies assemble the drum set. It was the precursor. But something was coming. The second the marshal's office allowed Kelan to go outside, the lights would spin wildly and the music would blare.

"Let me go out there and tell them my mind," complained Hitchens, hands on his wide hips.

"That's what they want, Barney."

"So you're saying they're asking for it." In the sergeant's mind, that was even more reason to go out.

"They're not doing anything illegal," reasoned Maxim. "There's no reason to ask them to disperse. Kelan will have a police escort."

"He'll have an FBI escort," came a voice from behind them. Raymond Garcia had been tailing Maxim around the station all morning, and it was getting annoying.

The detective took a breath and decided not to argue with the FBI agent about the club. "You want to come with us to the reservation?" he asked.

"I don't want you to come at all, Detective. Your history with the Seventh Sons and killing one of the Yavapai will only enrage the tribe."

Maxim stared at Garcia, first dumbfounded but quickly feeling the anger creep in. "This is my case, Agent, even if you're taking charge of it."

The man put his hand up. "Don't work yourself up over this. I've already spoken to Marshal Boyd about it. It's nothing personal. You can continue your homicide investigation from here.

Maxim traded a glare with Hitchens. "The Yavapai are part of that investigation."

"You've taken your shot on the reservation. I know we have new information now, but let me take mine."

This was a vindictive move by Garcia. He was asserting his power. He was saying that the job Maxim was doing wasn't good enough. But even though the detective didn't like the man right now, he couldn't let him go down to the reservation by himself.

"Fine, but you don't know what you're getting into down there. Sergeant Hitchens is going with you. He knows the area." Since Cole had the day off, Hitchens was the only wolf on staff, but Maxim didn't mention that part.

Hitchens stepped forward and nodded. "It's true. I know my way around."

The FBI agent was about to deny the request, but shrugged it off. "You want to keep eyes on me, keep one of your men close? Okay then. But you'll be in a follow car, Sergeant, and you'll answer to me."

Hitchens nodded carelessly. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

Raymond Garcia neared the glass and crossed his arms over his chest. "Look at them out there, making themselves known. It can't be denied—their presence is proof of their involvement."

"One of their own did get shot," offered Maxim.

"Sure. The innocent motorcycle club. I'm sure they're just bringing flowers to the dead man's kids."

Hitchens stuck his chin in the air and took a territorial tone. "Roger didn't have any kids. It was just him and his wife, Emma."

"So what? You're displaying your knowledge of the locals?"

"No, Agent Garcia. I'm establishing that this is a tight-knit community and we'll do whatever we can to protect them. We're not gonna protect a guilty motorcycle club while innocents die, and I'm offended by the attitude." Hitchens threw his hands in the air. "The hell with this. I'm telling them to disperse and don't you try to stop me."

Maxim didn't this time. They watched him saunter outside toward the bikers.

"He's right, you know," said Garcia. "The Seventh Sons have targets on their backs. They shouldn't be anywhere near Sanctuary."

"What happened to protect and serve?"

"I save it for the people who deserve it." Agent Garcia turned and headed back into the office. The detective followed. He wasn't done yet.

"That joke you made? About the flowers? It's more true than you know."

"Yeah?"

"When I talked to the coroner's office, they told me the Sons had already contacted them. They're paying for the funeral."

"That's because they know they're responsible."

Maxim grunted in frustration. He couldn't completely discount Garcia's point. Maxim had lectured Diego about the same thing: Evil begot evil. Club business was bound to follow them home. But he needed to make sure that Garcia understood the other side too.

"The point is that they're more than they appear. Most of them live outside Sanctuary, but the club has damn near adopted it as a home. They know everyone. Take care of them. Emma? She's gonna be seen to. What's the FBI gonna do for her?" Garcia didn't answer as he sat down at his desk. "These guys, they care about the town more than you think. You accuse us of protecting them, and that's true to the extent that it's legal, but they want to protect the town as well. They're here as a show of force, to make Kelan think twice about returning."

"Or maybe he'll just bring more guns next time."

"I'm not saying they're perfect, or even ideal. They're fuck ups. Flawed just as much as any of us. Probably more."

The FBI agent sat with a blank expression, bored with the debate. "So what are you saying? They're like family? No matter how bad they are, you're stuck with them?"

Maxim smiled sarcastically. "Not quite, but things go more smoothly when the law acts like the responsible older brother sometimes."

"Brothers," repeated Garcia, shaking his head dismissively. "As long as they're not blood brothers."

There was a loud click beside him. Garcia jumped before realizing the switch on the coffeemaker had flipped off. Garcia sighed and turned it back on. The distraction punctuated the end of the conversation.

The detective strolled a few more steps to his desk and collapsed in the swivel chair. He'd made his point, he decided. There was a fine line between keeping the peace and being a dick, but it was possible to walk it. Maxim couldn't expect Garcia to understand Sanctuary immediately. It would be a start, at least, if the agent would stop exercising his authority over everybody every chance he got. He wasn't the only one with answers.

Maxim's desk phone got half a ring off before his quick hand snatched it off the receiver.

"Detective Dwyer."

"Yo, this is Damian. From Coconino."

"I know who you are, kid. What's up?"

"I got your victim's GSR results back. The gunshot residue on his hand mostly matches the revolver we found, but there's an anomaly with the primer elements."

Maxim leaned forward. "With the powder?"

"Yeah. The casings are made out of brass, which is pretty common. But here's the thing. The GSR showed traces of nickel. We couldn't reproduce that in the tests."

Maxim glanced at Agent Garcia as the man leaned back in his chair and crossed his black boots on his desk. Maxim swiveled his chair the other direction and lowered his voice.

"What does that mean?"

"Well, it likely means that the victim fired a weapon with nickel-coated jackets. Now, being shot with a gun can sometimes give a false positive for having fired one—the residue goes both ways—but nickel coating isn't very common. In this case, none of the bullets at the scene had matching residue except for one. Can you guess what the exception was?"

Maxim pounded his fist on his desk. "The .44 slug in the ceiling?"

"Exactly."

The detective's anticipation became obvious. Garcia turned his head to watch Maxim's reaction to the phone call.

"How did you get that without a .44 casing?"

"Easy," said Damian. "The slug has residue from the explosion. It didn't hit anything else before embedding in the wood so the evidence was preserved nicely. You see what this means?"

"Sure. It means the gun is a plant." Maxim raised his voice for the last part, since Garcia was listening in anyway.

"Yup," said Damian, beaming. "You know, a lot of what I do is just textbook stuff, but seeing you read the scene like that without any science was pretty amazing. You immediately suspected something."

"Don't sweat it, kid. Most of what you do is impressive to me."

Garcia's black boots swept to the floor. "What is it?" he asked.

Maxim stuck one finger in the air as he missed something Damian had said. "What's that? Did you find anything else?"

"No," said the kid. "I was just asking about that extra boot print you wanted me to run. You haven't sent it over yet."

"Oh that." Maxim turned back to his desk and saw the paper imprint he'd created. With a sideways glance at Garcia, he shuffled some other reports on top of it to disguise the subject. "Yeah. I'll get that to you. Thanks."

By the time Maxim hung up the receiver, Raymond Garcia was on his feet looming over the detective.

"What was that about?"

"The revolver is a plant," repeated Maxim. "GSR proves that the vic fired a .44 Magnum. Combined with the other inconsistencies at the scene, I think it's safe to say that the revolver we found was placed in Rivera's hand and fired three times after he was dead."

The FBI agent crossed his arms. "Maybe there's something there," he admitted. "But we can still trace the gun to Clint James as a probable source. Whether Omar Rivera was involved in Doka's homicide or not, Clint is still in the middle of this."

"Not necessarily."

"Listen to me, Detective. Your troubled little brothers, the guys outside, the ones who are actually here—who we can see and touch—they're the ones neck-deep in this. Their presence is proof of their involvement."

Maxim shook his head. "They check out. Most of the Sons were out of town when Omar Rivera was killed. Clint was still in custody."

"So he had a helper. And don't think I didn't discover that Diego de la Torre was attacked by Carlos Doka last year. If anybody helped Clint, it was him."

Maxim calmly took to his feet and leaned on his desk. "I don't see it, Garcia. You don't know Diego like I do."

"In point of fact," he exclaimed, "your association is exactly what concerns me. And we still have Clint's skinning knife and revolver tied to the first body."

"Clint claims his saddlebag was stolen. He was being his usual evasive self but eventually admitted it. He said the knife was in there. He didn't mention the firearm, but I'd bet it was in the bag as well." Maxim snapped his fingers as if it had been so obvious. "That's it. That's the reason Clint was lying his ass off in the interview. Besides getting into an unsanctioned brawl with one of the Yavapai, he was holding an illegal weapon. A throwaway. Gaston would have had his ass for either of those infractions."

The FBI agent appeared incredulous. "You're saying your innocent motorcycle club is being set up?"

"It's worse than that. The killers stole Clint's saddlebag, left the knife at the first scene, killed a club member and planted the revolver on him. Now it looks like Omar killed Doka."

"With Clint's help."

"Right. And what does all this do?"

"Besides defy plausibility?"

Maxim narrowed his eyes. "It starts a gang war." Garcia scoffed, but Maxim wasn't done. "It also gives us some new information."

"What's that?"

"Think about it. Whoever killed Omar Rivera also killed Carlos Doka. Since we know the kid didn't have the gun, the revolver is a link to both murders."

Both men became silent as Hitchens stuck his head in the office, Kelan Doka in tow. The Yavapai wore a black T-shirt and cargo pants tucked into his desert boots. "The MC is still outside," said the sergeant. "I figure nothing's gonna change until we get this one outta here. Better now than never."

Garcia nodded. "Give me a minute." He turned to Maxim and leaned in conspiratorially. "I understand the importance of keeping the knowledge of Clint's weapon from the Yavapai. Let's not discuss the matter with anyone else except the marshal for the time being. I understand your theory, but we can't ignore the fact that Clint and Omar could have been involved in something together on the side. Weren't the Paradise Killings the result of extra-curricular club activity as well?"

Maxim forced himself to take a breath. "Tangentially."

"I'll take that as a 'yes.' Just don't make any assumptions about the Seventh Sons. That's all I'm asking."

"Ditto," said Maxim as the FBI agent turned to go. He kind of smiled and shot Maxim a parting glance before heading out.

"Fair enough."

Raymond Garcia was a tough read for the detective. He seemed like a decent cop. His head was a little too far up his ass, but that wasn't the worse he'd seen.

Maxim took a few steps from his desk, stretching his legs. He eyed the three men in the front room. Hitchens instructed Kelan and Garcia on the procedure for the escort. The FBI agent, of course, made changes to the plan. Maxim chuckled and studied the men's boots. Garcia had a black pair of steel-toes. Kelan wore sand-colored desert boots. All the mercenaries wore similar clothes, Maxim knew. They thought of themselves as their own private militia force. He applauded his foresight in asking Renee, the clinic nurse, to spirit away Kelan's boots so he could steal a quick impression.

And now they had to let the Yavapai man go. It was a shame, but it had to be done. Too many uncertainties still surrounded the homicides.

Just then, as if to bring clarity, the audible rumble of motorcycles grew louder. Maxim quickly realized that the racket was caused by more than four engines. He hurried to the front door of the marshal's office and joined the others in gaping out the window.

A line of beat-up motorcycles rode down Main Street. Eight, ten riders wearing black jackets with a skull and crossed pistols. Most of the Mexicans lined the block at an even spacing and remained on their bikes. Two of the men parked across the street and approached the huddled Seventh Sons.