As I approach the front door, I can’t help wondering where the little girl is now. Maybe still being looked after by Drummer, the president of the Satan’s Devils, and his old lady, Sam. I knew Dale hadn’t returned immediately to the club, but it is possible that he’s back now and has taken over his parenting role. I lost track of him after he’d been discharged from the hospital. Maybe I should call him, bring him up to date with the case? Yeah, but what can I tell him? Only that we’ve reached a dead end.
It seems to take Clyde a very long time to answer the door. Just as I’m about to give up, I hear someone moving about inside, and then the latch sliding back.
She glares at me, instant recognition in her eyes. “What d’ya want, Detective?” She clearly doesn’t welcome the intrusion.
“Can I come inside and talk to you for a moment?” I keep my voice light. Entering her house is the last thing I want to do from the unpleasant aromas wafting out from behind the open door, but something I can’t escape if I want to give the biker some answers, and to ensure there’s no continuing risk to his daughter.
“Ain’t got nothing to talk to you about.”
It’s all in a day’s work. Suppressing my sigh, I try again. “There are just some details I’d like to go over with you, if I may?”
“Ask your questions. You don’t need to come in.”
The hand holding the door is trembling, but whether she’s scared I’m here or anxious for her next fix, it’s hard to tell. I try to test the waters by throwing out, “Mrs? Ms?” When she nods at the second, I continue, “Ms Clyde. You remember my partner, Detective Archer? I don’t know if you’ve heard, he died in service.” The last I say through gritted teeth. “I’m investigating his death.” Well, it sounds plausible to me. “Could you tell me when you first met him?” I’m after something to link him with her prior to their first ostensibly formal meeting.
Her eyes flick to the left before coming back to mine. “At those bastards’ clubhouse. The ones that took my grandbaby from me.”
Hmm. That was the first time I know she’d officially met him, but somehow my gut tells me they’d come across each other before. He’d been so quick to offer to help her, too quick, and acting out of character. I might not have been working with him long, but it had only taken a minute to pick up on his lack of empathy with the people we encountered on the job, both perpetrators and victims. I try again. “And what is your involvement with the Herreras? Can you give me the name of your drug dealer?”
She freezes, and I give myself a mental kick. It’s more than her life’s work to give that kind of information to me. Rookie error. Pushing too hard too fast.
I try to recover it. “Okay, so Archer was helping you get custody of Amy Norman—until her father came out of the hospital—” Her spit on the ground interrupts me, and I take a step back. She’d missed my toes by inches. “When did you first discuss custody with Detective Archer?”
“When he first… when I went to the biker gangs’ compound.”
Interesting choice of words. Law enforcement tend to call them gangs, they call themselves clubs. Her daughter would surely have set her right on that, and she almost slipped up. Has someone schooled her?
She’s starting to shut the door in my face. I’m not here officially and can’t risk her making a complaint, so knowing I’ve gotten all I can for today, it’s only served to confirm the suspicions I already had. “Well, thank you, Ms Clyde. I’ll be back in touch if I need to.”
“Don’t see why you would. My daughter’s dead. Left me nothing, the lazy good for nothing…”
Ignoring her rant, I ask one last question. “Oh, just one more thing. Are you still in debt to the Herreras?”
She’s not going to tell me, but I wait for the flicker of fear to cross her face to tell me she is. When it doesn’t appear, the answer is obvious. She’s been paid off. As my sergeant would say, I’m relying on assumptions here, but I’m extremely good about reading body language. Non-verbal communication often gives away far more than words. What’s she got to offer for the Herreras to clear what she owes? There’s only one answer that I can think of. Amy. Is that little girl still at risk?
The door slams in front of me while I remain lost in my thoughts.
A dead end? I don’t think so. My nose is twitching like a dog who’s picked up a scent. But unfortunately, my olfactory endings are not quite so well-tuned, and I’ll have to use my brain to sniff out where the odour’s coming from. The Herrera family, the crime family in Tucson, is the obvious place to start, but if I tackle them head-on, I suspect I’d end up like Archer, in so many pieces no one could be sure if every part of him was in the right coffin. I’d be questioning them about a family member, and one who’s very dead now, along with several other members of that family who all died mysteriously on the same night.
And why is Clyde still alive? Herreras aren’t known for having compassion. Do they think she’ll be able to get her hands on Amy for them? But they can’t, not while her father is still alive. Now I feel a trickle of fear for his life. Perhaps I should warn him.
As I walk away from the house, I leave the subject of Susie Clyde for the moment and focus instead on my strange interview with my sergeant this morning. While I’d been dropped subtle hints that my report wasn’t going down well, I didn’t expect him to blast it out of the water in the way that he had. I’m a good cop. I don’t deserve the criticism I’d received, nor the rebuke. Nor the allegation that back in South Carolina I might have put the wrong man in prison. I know it’s never easy joining a new team, but surely this is taking that to the limits.
What caused Sergeant Reynolds to react so strongly to the suggestion of any stain on Archer’s character? Is he scared of the Herreras? Is that why he’s trying to put a stop to the investigation? Or could it be something else? That he’s working for them. The thought is obnoxious to me. I play things straight down the line, and up to now, where I worked previously, my colleagues had been the same. Or, as far as I could tell. But here I’ve already been thinking I smelled something that wasn’t right, and while I’d been casting suspicious eyes sideways, I hadn’t looked above me as yet.
Going back to my bike, I sit astride, but don’t drive off. Dirty cops. Is that what I’m dealing with here, or am I just seeing things that aren’t there?
I tap the handlebars and go to press start, then pause. There’s something else niggling at me. I can’t rid myself of the lurking suspicion that Drummer, the president of the Satan’s Devils MC, knows a lot more about Archer’s demise than he’s letting on. But it would be a waste of time to confront him. Even if I was given entrance into the compound, Drummer’s never going to admit any involvement, whether there was any or not.
I know how bikers work, retribution is swift. If they knew who was behind Dale’s accident, they’ll have dealt with it themselves. No waiting for a trial, they’d have been both judge and jury if they had come to the same conclusion as myself. It’s highly likely they were behind the explosion that killed my ex-partner. Another waft in the air, but this time I don’t think it’s such a bad smell. If Archer had indeed played any part in the biker’s accident, I’d have felt like murdering him myself. But of course I wouldn’t, I’d have done it all properly. He’d have been arrested and gone through the courts like any other criminal. Unless the department protected him when he was alive the same way as they’re protecting him now that he’s dead. A possibility that makes me feel nauseous.
When I finally start the engine and kick down into first, another thought comes into my head. Maybe the Herreras aren’t involved. Could the Satan’s Devils be the ones buying cops? Certainly not something to dismiss—in which case I have to tread very carefully. But it seems unlikely. Unless… Oh, for heaven’s sake. All I’m doing is thinking around in circles. Enough of this, I’ll be convincing myself the sky’s pink in a moment.
Thoughts still keep going around my head during work the next day. I go through the motions, but this time I�
��m watching my colleagues around me, listening for things they might let drop that could give me a clue as to whether they’re on the take. It’s a horrible feeling not knowing who to trust. In my last precinct, I was certain every man and woman would have had my back. Here, I can almost feel daggers being sharpened in preparation.
At last I get a reprieve and get out of the office when I’m needed to go and investigate a burglary. That takes most of the afternoon, and by the time I return, I’m relieved to find I’m at the end of my shift. Parking my official car back at the precinct, I go inside to my locker to put on my leathers and grab my helmet, glad to get out of the claustrophobic vehicle and onto my preferred method of travel. I’m looking forward to the ride home, as the breeze will help to shake off the shackles of the day.
Autumn is a great time for riding—the monsoons of summer have gone, and what rain Tucson has is not so torrential. Even if it’s wet, I prefer to be out in the elements. I learned long ago I don’t melt. Summoning up the feeling of freedom that being on my bike gives me, I place my hand on the tank as if communicating with a pet. Then, just as I’m about to fire up the Kawasaki, already anticipating the pleasure of the open road, a man comes to stand in front of me, his long legs straddling the front wheel, his hands on the handlebars preventing any forward motion.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. My fingers still hovering over the ignition, I sigh. “What do you want, Garza? I’m off duty and on my way home.”
The man blocking my escape chews his gum, his mouth visibly working, then smacks it loudly, making me cringe. “Reynolds tell you you’ve got a new partner?”
No, he didn’t. He must have omitted that gem during the meeting the other day. I tilt my head on one side and wait. Garza’s a terrible gossip. Want everyone to know your business? You just tell it to him and you’re done.
“Me.”
For a second what he’s telling me doesn’t register. And when it does, my heart drops and I have to query to make sure I heard right. “You? But you’ve already got a partner.” Please don’t let this be true.
“Yeah, but Terry’s on sick leave. Got a hernia or something. Reynolds thought he’d pair us up for a spell.” He chews and pops that gum again.
Jesus Christ! If I had to pick one person I didn’t want to be stuck with day after day, this man would be it. He’s lazy, careless, and has a reputation for cutting corners. Certainly not someone I could confide my suspicions to.
“Knew you’d be happy.” He laughs, then sneaks a look under the jacket I’ve yet to zip up. Yup, there’s more than one reason why I dislike the man.
I don’t trust the right words to come out of my mouth, so I restrict myself to a nod and am answered by yet another smack of that gum.
Needing to get out of here, I switch on the engine. He leers, waits, then when he sees I know it’s in his time and not mine, at last steps away from the bike. Resisting the urge to stick up one finger, I put it into first, twist the throttle, and I’m off, leaving the precinct and Garza behind me.
Soon I’m enjoying the fresh air, which helps to clear away some of the stench I smelled around the station, but it doesn’t banish thoughts from my head.
As I step into my apartment, it feels like it’s been a very long week, and not for the first time I’m starting to regret ever moving to Tucson. Being called out by my sergeant, my concerns about not knowing who’s for or against me, and finally, those worries partly confirmed by Garza being appointed my partner, who’ll be holding me back from everything I want to do. Christ, everything’s going to hell in a handbasket.
I place my helmet and gloves on my hall table and hang my jacket up behind the door, then take a second to look around my sparse apartment, furnished with just the necessities. I could make the excuse I’ve not been in Tucson long, but in truth it’s just like anywhere I’ve ever stayed. I don’t have photos I want to display, and nothing I want to keep around to remind me of my past. I don’t put down roots, preferring to move around. I nod in satisfaction. This isn’t home, it’s just a place to exist. It’s my penance for being alive.
Going into the kitchen, I place a TV dinner for one in the microwave, eat it without really tasting it, then take myself off to bed.
But sleep doesn’t come easily. Thoughts of the past haunting me in the normal way, together with the dissatisfaction I’m no closer to being able to give the biker closure, and that I seem even further away from discovering the truth. I’ve so much sympathy for him, knowing only too well how hard it is to cope with a loss, especially when you don’t have answers as to why such a devastating event happened.
I find myself hoping Dale’s been reunited with his daughter, and that he’s leaning on the support offered by his biker family. He’ll need what I’ve seen is a close-knit group helping him as he goes through the stages of grief. I can personally attest to that being a long and difficult journey.
I give up on trying to sleep when the sun starts to rise in the sky, hating that we’re leaving a man hanging, possibly never to know the reason why his wife died. During the small hours, I’d come to a decision. I might be risking my career, but I’m going to give him what updates I can.
And of course, I can justify that I’m making contact to sneakily try and discover whether the Satan’s Devils know more about Archer’s death than they’ve admitted. Reynolds told me I hadn’t considered any alternative options. It’s a tenuous excuse, but something at least.
Not checking the time, having convinced myself I’m justified in making contact, I pick up my phone. Yeah, that’s why I’m calling. If I offer him information, it’s in the hope that in return he might let something slip.
Chapter Three
Heart…
Dawn’s approaching, the sun rising into the cloudless sky, throwing the mountains into relief and gradually illuminating my way. Pain blasts through me with every step. When I’d stumbled in the darkness, I’d put my left foot down hard.
I’m dragging my leg. It’s becoming harder to ignore the bolts of agony slicing through me with each forward motion, barely able to put weight on it at all now. I try swallowing some painkillers, but without anything to wash them down, they stick in my dry throat. For that sole reason, I regret not bringing water with me, not wanting pain to force me to stop. My brain keeps instructing that I must keep on moving, knowing at some point my sense of self-preservation will make it hard to resist turning back. But I won’t be doing that. There’s nothing left for me now, nothing to live for. I’m ready to die.
Of course, it would have been easier to swallow all my tablets at once and simply pass away in my sleep, but something prevented me from taking the coward’s way out. A part of me doesn’t want my brothers to learn I’d given up, that I’d taken my own life. I don’t want them to bear any blame for sending me away. In my twisted mind it makes perfect sense that doing it this way, I’ll either never be found, or it would be assumed I’d simply got lost and died an unfortunate death.
Forced to pause when I take another uneven step, I check the phone to see the time, noting there’s no phone signal here at all, the realisation bringing a small frown to my face. I’ve no way of calling for help, there’s now no way for me to be located in time. But that’s what I wanted.
Pushing on in the same direction, I take another step, and then another, cursing my throbbing leg, not sure how much longer I can carry on, and hoping I’m even now far enough away. Spying some rocks up ahead of me, I decide it’s a good enough spot to wait up for a moment. I might not have traversed the distance I wanted, but from here it would be the devil’s own job getting back, dragging my limb so badly injured in the crash.
At last at the rocks, I find a comfortable perch and start massaging my weak, barely healed muscles. I’m thirsty, tired, and starting to get hungry, and for the first time I wonder how long this will take. Will dehydration and heat exhaustion make me start hallucinating? Or can I just curl up into a ball and wait for my life to fade, my final thoughts of my wife.
I startle when the phone starts vibrating in my pocket, then I laugh, thinking the delirium has started. I’ve got no signal, I’ve already checked that. Knowing there’s no point answering a phantom call, I ignore it until it rings off. What a strange delusion to have. Then it chimes and shakes again, and again, until it eventually stops. And then once more. Part of me is still hardwired to think it might be important, part of me is amused, as why should I give a damn at this point? And as there’s no signal, it can’t be a real call.
A couple of minutes pass, then it rings and vibrates once more.
Do ghosts contact you by phone? Is there some mystical signal they can tap into? I wish it would stop, the interruption is disturbing the serenity of my surroundings. Someone’s insistent, and it’s starting to annoy me. Why can’t I just die in peace? I glance at the caller id, but it’s from a number I don’t recognise—well of course not, it’s not really ringing… That’s when I see I somehow have got some signal, though it’s only one bar. A few steps on and even that might disappear. My hand hovers for a moment, then my innate brain takes over and I find without having a fucking clue as to why, that I’m accepting the call.
“Good morning, Mr Norman. I’m sorry for interrupting you this early.”
My real name. Not many people call me that. I take the phone away from my ear and regard it with annoyance, tempted just to press the red key, but I find myself holding it close once again and asking, “And you are?” My voice sounds gravelly, dry and unused.
“I’m the detective handling your accident and your wife’s death.”
“She was murdered.” Saying it aloud and so starkly with all the harsh nature around me sounds right. Someone took her life, and now I’m going to give mine to join her.
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