Lyrics on the Wind (Lost Kings MC Book 17)

by Autumn Jones Lake

  Clearly, Jiggy’s looking forward to dealing with law enforcement as much as I am.

  Two Harleys thunder into the parking lot and stop in a grassy spot away from all the other vehicles. Jigsaw and I jog over to meet them.

  Pants gets to me first. “I’m sorry, brother.” He pulls me in and slaps my back. “Ice called in his local contact at the FBI. He should already be here. You can trust him,” he says against my ear.

  Shit, guess Ice has been making friends with all the alphabet agencies, not just the ATF. Don’t give a fuck. Right now, I’m grateful for whatever shady business Ice has his fingers in—as long as it helps me find Shelby. “Thank you.”

  “We’ll get your girl back.” T-Bone slaps my shoulder next. “Ice is working on those photos with Z.”

  Guess that means the two of them are coordinating how to break into the Virginia DMV’s records or whatever other databases they need. Thank fuck.

  “Logan!”

  I groan, recognizing Greg’s voice.

  “Who’s the pencil neck?” Pants cracks his knuckles.

  “Her manager.”

  He grunts in response.

  “The cops are waiting in her dressing room. They want to speak to you.” Greg stops short, surveying our small group. “What happened to you? Where is Shelby?”

  “Bane decided to play fireman. I got held up by security. And some motherfucker stuffed Shelby in her trunk and took off.” I jerk my thumb in Jigsaw’s direction. “We went after him but lost sight of the van out on the highway.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Greg stabs his fingers through his hair and yanks. “I knew something wasn’t—”

  “Save it. Who’s here?”

  “Local PD and an FBI agent. No one’s called it a kidnapping yet, but the FBI showed up pretty quick.”

  Next to me, Pants shifts on his feet but neither of us say a word.

  “Trent supplied them with the info he had, which wasn’t much,” Greg continues. “We were waiting for you to get back. What the hell happened?”

  “Let’s go.” I push past him, marching toward the loading dock.

  “Uh. Yeah.” Greg hurries to catch up. Guess he expected me to balk at speaking to the cops. Normally, I would. But Z’s right. I need every person possible searching for Shelby. Killing the fucker who took her will come later. Her safety is my first concern. Revenge can wait.

  Greg wasn’t quite accurate. The cops are waiting outside Shelby’s dressing room.

  A guy in a black suit and shiny loafers steps away from the uniformed officers. His gaze flicks to Pants and T-Bone briefly before settling on me. “Logan Randall?”

  “Yes.” I shake his hand quickly.

  “Agent Adam Jackson with the FBI.”

  “Thank you for arriving so fast.”

  Even though my greeting was sincere, the corners of his mouth twitch in annoyance. Maybe he doesn’t enjoy taking orders from Ice. “Before we process her dressing room, can you relay what happened?”

  I blow out a breath and organize my thoughts. No point in mentioning the viewing booth I’d set up to monitor Shelby’s fans. It’ll just distract the cops, and I don’t think any of the footage will be useful to their investigation. Then again, Greg and Trent might have already spilled that whole story.

  “I was checking on something at her merchandise booth.” I shift my gaze down the hallway where two security guards are talking to another set of cops. “Security guards stopped Jensen and me on our way back to Shelby’s dressing room.” I jerk my thumb in Jigsaw’s direction. “I’m pretty sure whoever took her set that up to keep us distracted.”

  The agent flips to a clean page in a small notebook and scratches out a few words.

  “Bane was supposed to be watching Shelby’s room,” I continue. “She sent me a text that the door was locked and to knock three times while we were getting hassled by security.”

  “Was the door locked when you got to the room?” He doesn’t seem interested in our tangle with the arena’s security or its possible connection to Shelby’s abduction.

  “No, it was ajar. Shelby never leaves it open when she’s inside. She would’ve been changing out of her stage outfit and packing up her things.”

  “How long have you known Shelby?” he asks without looking up at me.

  “A few months.”

  “And she’s your…?” This time he meets my stare and raises his eyebrows.

  “Girlfriend.” Old lady. Biggest fucking piece of my heart. My whole world.

  His gaze flicks to Greg. “I took a look at the letters she’s been receiving. You believe she has a stalker?”

  “That’s why someone was supposed to be watching her at all times.” I glance at the local cops behind the agent. “Local police didn’t seem to think it was their problem.”

  One of the cops shifts and opens his mouth. Agent Jackson shoots a stern glare his way. The officer’s mouth snaps shut.

  “Mr. Anderson has already forwarded the letters to my office. We’ll be reviewing them at length.” The agent tucks his notepad away in his pocket and snaps on a pair of thin latex gloves. “Mr. Randall, follow me inside but don’t touch anything. Everyone else, wait out here.”

  The “everyone else” apparently doesn’t include the local cops because they trail us into the room. I swallow hard, surveying the mess. Shelby must’ve fought back. Did he hurt her? Threaten her? She had to have been knocked out or she would’ve been kicking and screaming the whole way.

  Fear and anger drum a steady beat in my chest.

  “Her bandmate says you think she was loaded into a trunk? What kind of trunk?”

  I hold my arms out wide. “A huge old black trunk. Like something you would’ve seen on the Titanic.” It’s always amused me Shelby uses something so ancient-looking to carry all her stage stuff. “Brass locks.” I point to the mess of clothes, shoes, and other stuff carelessly dumped into a heap by the couch. “Everything in that pile was inside of the trunk. She never empties it out like that and she wouldn’t leave her stuff all over the place. That’s why I think he used the trunk to smuggle her out of here.”

  Jackson nods slowly. “The young man said he thought something was off when he saw someone he didn’t recognize with the trunk.”

  “Correct. He came and got me. Jensen and I went after the van but lost him.”

  “Heard it was quite a show, you getting dragged through the parking lot. Awfully brave.”

  “Not brave enough. We didn’t stop him.” And fuck if that’s not going to haunt me for the rest of my life.

  Lock it down.

  Whatever anger, frustration, or inadequacy I have burning inside me will have to wait. Getting Shelby back safely is the only thing I can afford to focus on right now.

  “You could’ve gotten killed.” His keen eyes don’t leave my face.

  “I wasn’t thinking about that.”

  “Trent gave us a description of the van but not the plate number.” The agent flips to an earlier page in his notepad. “It’s not a lot to go on.”

  “I’ve got pictures.” I probably should’ve led this discussion with the photos—not taken this roundabout way to get to the important information. “Not sure how fuzzy they are, though.” I’d barely glanced at them when I sent them to Z.

  He raises an eyebrow. “You chased the van down and took pictures?” He holds his hand out for my phone.

  “Jensen has some too, I think.”

  He fiddles with my cell for a few minutes. I assume he’s sending the photos to himself.

  After he finishes, he hands the phone back. “Thank you. That will be helpful.” He jerks his head toward the bathroom. We stop just outside the door and he peers inside, pointing to the clothes on the floor. “You said she would’ve been changing? Can you confirm that’s what she wore on stage?”

  I glance at the crumpled black and blue dress. The cheerful flower pattern seems to mock me now. My throat constricts so tight, I can only nod in response.

 
His shrewd eyes land on the open window next. “Do you know if she opened that?”

  “Doubtful.” I lift my chin toward the top of the window. “No way she’d be able to reach the latch.”

  “Did you open it?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Was it like that earlier? Before her show?”

  I study the window for a minute. Shelby would’ve been uncomfortable, worrying someone could spy on her. She would’ve said something. Asked me to close it. “No.”

  He carefully works his way over to the sink and squats down to examine her smashed phone without disturbing it.

  “She almost always has it on her,” I say. To move things along, I point to the water bottle lying on the floor. “She sent me a text saying her water tasted funny.” I pull up the message and hand over my phone, not giving a shit if he scrolls through our whole exchange. I’ve never deleted a single one of Shelby’s texts.

  He hands the phone back and stares at the window, then the small shower stall. Again, he squats down, taking his cell phone out and shining the flashlight over the interior. “She use the shower?”

  “Yeah, last night.”

  He motions me closer and holds the shower curtain back. “Boot prints.”

  My gaze lands on the bright circle of light. A few smudges of dirt surround two clear, muddy prints facing outward.

  “Shit,” I grumble.

  Jackson glances at my own boots and back to the prints. “Way too small to be yours.”

  Something close to a snarl rumbles out of me but I don’t comment.

  After a few seconds, he drops the shower curtain and climbs up on the toilet, careful not to touch the window or walls. He peers outside. “Ground level,” he mutters and sweeps his gaze over the space from the higher perspective.

  He jumps down and barks a few orders at the local cops before ushering all of us back into the hallway.

  “I need our crime scene people to go over this room. Since she received the letters, for now we’ll operate on the assumption it’s the same guy and not a ransom situation.” His gaze snaps to Greg. “Who would someone call, just in case someone makes a demand?”

  “Her mother? But they’re dirt poor. She couldn’t afford to come up with a lot of cash. Maybe the record company…? Me, I guess.” Greg’s helpless eyes land on me. “Ransom crossed my mind. We’re trying to keep the situation quiet for that reason…”

  “It’s not a ransom,” I growl. “This sick piece of shit took her.”

  “Stop fucking wasting time,” Jigsaw adds, “and get some asses out there looking for her.”

  Agent Jackson narrows his eyes at Jiggy but doesn’t address him. “Mr. Randall, walk with me.” He jerks his head to the side, and I follow him down the hallway leading back to the loading dock. When he seems satisfied we’re alone, he tucks his notepad into his pocket.

  All professional pretenses seem to melt away as he laces his fingers together behind his head and stares down at the concrete floor for a few seconds. “Ice tells me you’re visiting from your New York charter.”

  “Yeah,” I answer in a bored tone. “The bottom rocker on the back of my cut can tell you that too. What’s your point?”

  His mouth slides into a bleak half-smile. “Before I waste a ton of resources, assure me that this has nothing to do with your club. You piss someone off? Another club got a beef with you? Maybe the Vipers decided to come after your old lady? Black Venom? South of Satan? Someone else?”

  I should’ve seen this coming. Jackson’s done his MC homework. Goody for him.

  “You said you looked at those fucking letters,” I answer through clenched teeth. “This has nothing to do with me or my club.”

  “Don’t get twisted. I have to ask.”

  “It’s not my club. It’s some stalker fan.”

  “You understand I need to rule out every possibility, right?”

  I stand firm and look him straight in the eyes. “Then do it quick and don’t waste time.”

  “Is there any chance she left on her own?”

  The question throws me for a second. My jaw drops. “In her trunk?”

  “We don’t actually know she was in the trunk.”

  “Are you fucking shittin’ me right now?” Disbelief drips from every word. “How the fuck else did she get out of here with no one seeing her?”

  “Is there a possibility the stress of the tour is too much and she skipped out? This is a lot for someone her age to handle.”

  “No. She’s been working toward this for years. It’s stressful, sure. But she loves it. It’s what she was born to do.”

  He stares at me for a second, like maybe he didn’t expect such a corny sentiment out of my crude biker mouth. “She could have hired someone to help her escape the tour—”

  “You saw the same things I did in that dressing room, didn’t you?” Frustration bleeds into my words. This ‘Shelby escape plan’ theory isn’t where he needs to waste his time. There’s no fucking way my girl decided to up and leave.

  “It’s a possibility,” he suggests.

  “No, it’s not. Shelby’s not a quitter. And she wouldn’t leave without telling me. If she wanted to go AWOL, all she had to do was ask. I would’ve taken her anywhere she wanted. She knows that. I was planning to join her on the road. Help take some of the stress off of her.”

  His expression doesn’t change. “Any chance she wanted to get away from you, then?”

  “Jesus Christ, seriously?”

  “I have to ask, Mr. Randall. Honestly, if I wasn’t the one standing here, as the boyfriend, we’d be looking a lot more closely at you.”

  “I was on the other side of the arena when she was taken, for fuck’s sake.” I squeeze my eyes shut for a brief second. “Cindy. Shelby’s hair-and-makeup person. She took video of the security guards hassling us.”

  “I’ll talk to her. We’ll test the water bottle too.” He pulls out his notebook again and jots down a few lines. “Personally, I don’t think you had anything to do with it.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  He sighs and glances at his notepad, flipping back a few pages. “The letters are troubling.”

  Relief courses through me. He’s moving off his Shelby-ditched-the-tour-and-her-possessive-biker-boyfriend theory. “No shit.”

  He ignores the sarcasm. “I had a chance to briefly read them. They did not contain any direct threats.”

  “Shelby sure felt threatened by them.”

  “I don’t blame her. People who make direct threats to celebrities are less likely to act.” He taps the notepad. “This indirect ‘we belong together’ crap is usually indicative that the person plans to act. Still, I’m surprised it happened this soon.”

  “Your point?”

  He shakes his head. “Can I be honest?”

  “Please do,” I answer with as little sarcasm as I can manage.

  “The fact that whoever it was pulled this off so neatly concerns me. He would have had to be stalking her real close to time the situation the way he did.”

  That thought’s been brushing up against me since the second I realized she was missing.

  “Not only that,” Jackson continues, “but stalking situations usually go through stages. This guy clearly has the extreme entitlement and attachment to her, but she hasn’t even had a chance to reject him.”

  “How was she supposed to reject anonymous letters?”

  “Is it possible he was communicating with her in a different way at first? Maybe for a longer period of time?”

  “She has a few creepers I’ve been keeping my eye on who seem to come to a lot of her shows.” I pull up some of the screenshots I’ve taken and show him.

  He raises his eyebrows again. “You’re stalking her stalkers? That’s…interesting.”

  “I was worried about her. For good reason. Obviously.”

  He taps his fingers against his thigh. “Indulge me for a second. All the letters were dropped off for her, correct?”

  “A
s far as I know, yes.” Thank fuck he’s focusing on relevant topics.

  “Who could have left the letters? Not why. Just who had the opportunity?”

  “Well, I wasn’t around for the first couple of letters, so I don’t know about them. I’d have to assume her band, Greg, and anyone involved with the tour. From what I understand, the first one was dropped off at the venue’s ticket window, and Greg brought it to Shelby’s room.”

  “Interesting.” He writes a few words in his notepad.

  “The most recent one was found on the windshield of the band’s van at their hotel. So that doesn’t narrow the pool of candidates. Everyone involved with the tour stayed there. Shelby and I stayed somewhere else.”

  “How close is she to her band?”

  “Not that close. I think they were hired just for the tour. Except for Trent. They go way back.”

  “Romantic relationship?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “How does he feel about you muscling your way into her life?”

  Clearly, he’s trying to taunt me, but I’m not falling for it. I shrug. Since I haven’t spared a single fuck about Trent’s thoughts on my relationship with Shelby, there isn’t much to say. “You’d have to ask him.”

  Jackson stares at me, as if waiting for a more complete answer.

  “We get along but mostly stay out of each other’s way.” I let out an irritated sigh. “Like I said, I don’t know him that well.”

  “What about the manager?”

  “Except for not taking the letters seriously from the beginning, he’s all right. For real, Shelby didn’t take the letters seriously until recently either. She just told me about them yesterday.”

  “Manager seems to have it in his head that this can be kept quiet for now.” He gestures to the walls around us. “But word will spread fast. I would like our investigation to remain under wraps for as long as possible. Otherwise, people will call with bullshit ‘tips’ and slow us down.”

  “Okay…and your point?”

  “Stay away from any press.”

  I snort. “You don’t have to worry about that with me.”

  “What about the other band on the tour?”

  “Shelby hasn’t had much interaction with them that I know of. She says they keep to themselves.”