The Blood of Brothers: A Sycamore Moon Novel (Sycamore Moon Series Book 2) (6 page)

 

 

 

 

Maxim closed the interrogation room door behind him. Clint was seated, his hands fidgeting on the table. Next to him was his lawyer, the blonde woman who interrupted them earlier. Her hair was short and combed behind her ears. She had pinkish cheeks and a well-worn smile but looked more business than pleasure. She sat up straight with her legs crossed in pressed business pants. She was about Maxim's age. Attractive in a traditional way but a bit too plain for his tastes.

"Good afternoon, Detective. My name is Teresa Banks. I'm counsel for Mr. James." She looked over at Clint, who had a bored expression on his face.

Maxim held back a chuckle. The two looked ridiculous next to each other. Clint was a drunk with a beer belly, long hair, and a wild, bushy beard. An old-school outlaw biker to the core. His companion was a WASP, well-educated, and probably didn't even smoke cigarettes. The detective figured she was a married mother of two.

"Nice to properly meet you, Mrs. Banks."

"It's Ms., Detective Dwyer."

Maxim nodded, then saw the woman wore no wedding ring. He should have noticed that. "Fine," he said, then sat down. "I'm happy your client has finally chosen to cooperate with police."

Clint suddenly scowled. "I don't need—"

The detective shot his hand up to stop him and withdrew a paper and pen from his jacket. "I need you to read this form and sign it, Clint. It's a statement of your rights."

"I know my rights," he said in protest, brushing the form away.

"Ms. Banks?"

The lawyer slid the paper back to Clint.

"We take Miranda very seriously in this state, Clint," said Maxim. "The reason they're called Miranda Rights is because Ernesto Miranda challenged his Arizona conviction."

The older man paused as he considered that. "And what happened?"

"The Supreme Court overturned the ruling."

"So there is justice."

"Sure there is," answered the detective. "He was retried and convicted."

Clint flashed a dry smile. Teresa Banks had him sign the form and slid it back to Maxim.

"My client can't be charged with any wrongdoing," she stated as she pulled a paper from her briefcase. "Here is a statement from Melody Holton, the owner of Sycamore Lodge, stating that Mr. James was in her establishment between the hours of 10 p.m. and 1 a.m. last night."

Maxim took a look at the statement. He thought about the time of death, between twelve and one. It didn't rule Clint out definitively, but Ms. Banks would stress the inconsistency in court. It was enough for reasonable doubt.

Teresa Banks allowed herself a smug smile before returning her attention to the statement. "Ms. Holton goes on to say that there were no physical altercations in her bar last night involving my client."

Maxim thought about the wording. "In her bar." It was a weak attempt at walking the line. Melody used to be a Seventh Son herself. When her mother was ousted as president and she inherited the roadhouse, she'd decided she was done with the outlaw life. Gaston agreed, but they still had a good relationship. This statement was Melody's way of not lying to police but covering Clint's ass. Maxim tossed the paper back to the lawyer.

"I'm gonna cut you off right there before you go down the wrong path with me. I've looked into things between now and this morning. I've talked to a few Sycamore Lodge regulars." The detective turned his attention to Clint. "I know for a fact that you arranged a fight in the back lot." Maxim frequented the bar himself. He knew who to talk to. It was a popular enough location that nothing could be hidden from him there. Although the witness had only mentioned that the other brawler was Native American, Maxim had more information after the autopsy. "A Yavapai."

Clint immediately stuttered. The detective had nailed it. Ms. Banks regarded the two of them.

"What is he..." she started to ask, then stopped and recovered herself. Maxim figured the woman didn't want to appear surprised in front of him.

"Listen to me, Clint. I'm not gonna arrest you for a punching match. Especially an organized one. But you know better than to tangle with the Yavapai. After the serial killings last year, you know damn well that the Seventh Sons have cut all ties."

Clint looked nervous. His eyes shifted between the detective and the lawyer. He didn't trust either of them.

Maxim pressed him. "It doesn't look good, Clint. Not when I have witnesses that put you in a fistfight hours before a Yavapai body turns up close by."

"Okay," said the biker, exasperated. His eyes were wide with what Maxim read as panic. Clint sat at attention and opened his hands in compliance. "Okay," he said more softly. "I..."

The biker didn't say anything for a moment. Maxim knew better than to interrupt. The man was coming clean.

"I was stupid," he finally said.

Ms. Banks cut in. "Mr. James. I'm going to request that you don't answer any more questions."

The detective didn't take his eyes off the man. He ignored the lawyer. "Clint, what did you do?"

"Look," the man said, facing his lawyer, "I didn't tell you because you work for Gaston. If he finds out that I scrapped with a Yavapai he'll have my head."

"Mr. James! Anything you tell me is privileged."

"Whatever."

She nodded and put her hand up to stop him. "Detective, I'm going to need a moment with my client."

"That's bullshit. You've had your time. There's a dead body downstairs that doesn't have any skin on it. I need to know how that happened. And right now, all clues are pointing to your client."

"It wasn't me!" he cried. "Lord! I didn't kill anyone. It was just a quick scuffle. We had a three-minute bell in the backyard. We roughed each other up and walked away. You know how it is," he said, pleading with Maxim. "We couldn't let loose."

He was talking about the fact that both of them were werewolves. A fight between them could have been savage if they hadn't held back. Exposing themselves wouldn't be in either of their interests.

"Three minutes?" he asked.

Clint shook his head, confused by the question. "Sure. It's a thing we do sometimes. Keeps the action civil. Contained."

"And others watched?" Maxim already knew the answer to that question, but he wanted to establish that Clint was telling the truth.

"Yeah. Must have been eight, ten people out there."

"Who was it? Why'd you fight?"

"I forget his name, but he's strong. A good fighter. He was alone. I didn't recognize him as one of the tribe immediately. The dude was drunk. Harassing the customers. I told Melody I'd take care of it as soon as I found out he was a—"

Clint stopped himself suddenly. He was going to say that he found out the Yavapai was a wolf. Maxim considered the lawyer. She worked for the MC but did she know their secret?

"An asshole," Clint finished.

"Was this what the man looked like?" Maxim slid an old picture of Carlos Doka, the victim in the morgue.

"Doka?" asked Clint? "What the fuck you have this picture for, man? I know who Doka is. Everybody does. But he disappeared last year. He wasn't the guy I fought."

"But he was Yavapai?"

"That's what I figured. I used to see him around more, before last year. Once I was already in his face, it was too late to back down."

Teresa Banks grabbed the picture. "Do you have an ID of the victim, Detective? Is this simply a matter of proving that my client did not have an altercation with the victim?"

Maxim tore the picture from her hands. "No ID yet." Technically, it was true. He didn't have confirmation of it and Carlos Doka was a bit of a stretch. But something about it felt right to Maxim's every instinct.

"This sounds like the fight is not linked to the crime," stated the lawyer plainly. "What is relevant, however, is that some time after the altercation, when Mr. James exited the bar at 1 a.m., his saddlebag was missing."

"Missing?"

"Stolen."

Maxim turned to the biker. "You suddenly remember that now?"

Ms. Banks answered for Clint. "He recalls having it before entering the bar. He knows it was missing this morning. I have a list of the full contents of the bag, none of which are illegal. His father's skinning knife was inside. Here's a copy." She pulled a printout from her briefcase and placed it on the table. It had a list of innocuous possessions. A pack of Marlboros. A Zippo with a skull on it. Leather gloves. Sunglasses.

"No pistols?" asked Maxim.

Ms. Banks shook her head. "Mr. James doesn't own any handguns."

Maxim nodded his head slowly as he pondered the new information. If Clint's saddlebag had been legitimately stolen, then it didn't matter much whether there had been a gun inside or not. The skinning knife was enough of a link to the crime.

That meant at least one Seventh Son and one Yavapai were involved. Two, if the man Clint had fought was not Doka. The Yavapai body was terrible for the motorcycle club, either way. Maxim would need to question Melody about her knowledge. If she had tipped off Gaston about a Yavapai in town causing trouble, things could have gone south quickly. He dearly hoped that wasn't the case.

The Indian reservation was about half an hour south. A small band of them, mercenaries and werewolves, used to do business with the old Seventh Sons president. Things went sour and both gangs took hits to their leadership. The Yavapai still hated the Sons, and Maxim was sure the feeling was mutual.

"So when can you get me out of here?" asked Clint.

Maxim shook his head. "You're in custody. You're gonna be held until I figure things out."

"What is my client charged with?" asked Ms. Banks.

"I don't know yet."

Clint slammed his hands on the table. "But what about my rights?"

Maxim stood up to go. "Read the form next time."

 

 

 

 

Manolo exited the black van and swiped a credit card at the gas pump. He held the fuel nozzle in place as he leaned against the side of the vehicle, casually chewing gum and watching his escort. Curtis and Trent pulled their bikes up to the storefront and went inside. Diego figured they wanted the air conditioner more than anything else. It was ninety degrees outside. That was about the peak of the summer heat in Sanctuary, but as they continued east through Arizona, to lower elevation, it would quickly get worse.

Diego took the momentary break to get off his bike, unzip his jacket, and remove his helmet. He could feel sweat running down his arms, back, and ass. Riding in the desert was fun, but he much preferred it at night. The biker paced back and forth to get the air flowing, keeping an eye on the Mexican twenty yards away. Gaston and West were still straddling their Harleys. Ever stoic. But Diego didn't have the same confidence as they did in the events unfolding.

"You figure it out yet?" asked Diego, uneasy.

Gaston and West shot him puzzled looks. The president wiped the sweat through his spiked hair. "Figure what out?"

"What the hell is going on," answered Diego. "Since when does the drug pipeline flow east? The cartel comes through El Paso. Distributes out from there. Everything moving through us comes from them to California. The only thing we've ever moved east was money."

West scoffed. "So it's 'we' all of a sudden."

"I'm here, aren't I? You wanted me along, so you need to hear me out."

Gaston nodded. "I know. I didn't ask why the tar was going back east. Maybe they're having shortages. But they also have us moving SIGs."

Diego cursed and checked Manolo again. The man was observing them but was too far away to hear. Diego kept his voice down anyway. "They're fucking guns in that van?"

"Relax," said West. "It's a small load."

"Guns can bring terrorism charges against us. Shit, our ACRs can do that."

"Exactly," joked West. "So what's the worry?"

Gaston shook his head. "Diego, I know you're nervous. Trust me. I've done this before."

"No," said Diego. "You're not seeing something." The biker paced away a few steps as he heard Omar, who had lagged behind them on the road, roll up. Seeing the discussion, he stopped next to the group. Diego ignored him and kept talking through the problem. "Something's weird. This kind of thing is too risky for a small load."

"It's a test," said the Apache. "The Pistolas don't trust us. They wanna see how we operate. See all the gears in motion to make sure the whole thing works."

The explanation didn't satisfy Diego. "This is no test. El Paso could vouch for us. This is a hit, man."

Now it was Gaston who scoffed. "If the Pistolas were gonna try to take us out, they would have done it when they had us outnumbered and surrounded."

"I'd like to see them try," said West, chuckling.

"We rode in to that meet with our weapons hot. They didn't want to take the chance. They outnumber us but we outgun them. They knew we'd be ready." Diego shook his head. "Think about it. A small load. Heroin going the wrong way. Guns. And only one Pistola driving instead of two. This is a test all right. A test to see if we can fight them off. We're not meant to get to Albuquerque intact."

Trouble crept into the faces of the other men, and for once they didn't immediately reject the idea.

"There's nobody behind us," said Omar. "I personally saw the Pistolas cross back into California. I waited a while. No one followed."

"It's not what's behind us that I'm worried about," said Diego.

The four of them sat silently, each considering the angles. When the lone California outlaw finished pumping, he approached them. Manolo had the sort of playful smirk that meant trouble.

"Everything cool, bros?"

Gaston nodded.

"Get off your bikes, at least," said the Mexican. "Get some water. Get out of the sun. We still got a long ride."

"We're fine," cut in Diego.

Gaston studied him. The possibilities dawned on him as well. "Let's hurry this up," he told Manolo. "I wanna get as much out of the daylight as possible."

The other man shrugged and tightened his bandanna. "Have it your way,
ése
. I'm gonna take a quick leak. Then we'll go." He ambled away grinning, enjoying a private joke that hadn't been told.

"Fuck me," said West, scanning the street. "I think de la Torre's right. He flipped the duffel bag around his shoulder so it hung on his chest and unzipped it, getting a grip on his assault rifle while it was still hidden within. As Curtis and Trent came out of the store, West whistled them over. They were laughing about something but noticed West's stance and quickly readied themselves.

Gaston's boot went up and down, stomping the dirt as he worked the problem. "I don't know. Attack us in Arizona? I don't think they have the balls."

Diego nodded. "They might, but they'd have more friends in New Mexico."

They all nodded absentmindedly, watching their surroundings for any signs of danger.

"Fuck it," said Gaston. "We can't ditch the escort. If we do that, then we might not have El Paso's backing anymore."

"Damned if we do, damned if we don't," said West.

Diego didn't like the expressions his brothers wore. "So we just ride with targets painted on our backs?"

"Look. Whether we like it or not, we're gonna be judged by this run." Gaston turned to Omar. "Hey, kid. How about you ride up ahead? As far as you can get. All the way to Albuquerque. Keep an eye out for anything waiting for us."

Omar turned the throttle. "Okay, but I think we're just being paranoid." He had never even turned off his hog. Without worrying about the rest of the details, he sped off, trying to get as much distance between them as possible.

Diego knew the kid worked hard to impress the other bikers. He just worried about the kind of life he would have in twenty years. The thought hit Diego that he should be worrying about his own life. He was in the same situation. He faced the same dangers.

Even worse, because he wasn't a wolf.

"As for everyone else," continued Gaston, "let's give the escort some extra leeway and spread out. Stay locked and loaded."

West clenched and released his jaw, a visual cue of the adrenaline in his veins. "Damn. I wish Clint was here. That redneck can shoot."

"You, Curtis, and Trent have the ACRs. That should equalize any odds. And we've got a ranch off the highway before the state line. I figure we'll make it at least that far safely. We can pick up some extra firepower there and continue on to New Mexico."

Curtis ran his hand over his bald head and lifted his duffel bag. "I don't like rolling into the city with this kind of weight." Because of their unusual resilience, the Seventh Sons were usually very careful about the hardware they carried. One traffic stop could lead to years in prison if they had anything illegal. Unless there was a real threat, it was better just to get shot and heal.

"It can't be helped," said West. "If the Pistolas are coming after us, we need to be ready."

Curtis just gritted his teeth and exchanged a look with Trent.