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

by Domino Finn

  "No," answered the rookie, "he didn't. But he saw the bite marks."

  "Did he get a good look at any of the wolves?"

  "He thinks there were two or three of them, but they scattered before he got there. Afterward, he only got a close look at one. The baby, he says."

  Maxim smiled. "The baby werewolf."

  Javier threw his hands up and complained to Gutierrez. "He says he knew you wouldn't believe him."

  Maxim patted the man's arm. It wasn't that he didn't believe the groundskeeper. It was simply a matter of interpretation. Sanctuary was a small town, naturally prone to superstition. Especially so with the Seventh Sons in their backyard. When Maxim had first learned that werewolves did in fact exist, he wondered if he'd given enough credit to other supernatural claims in the past. But he called himself an open-minded skeptic. People exaggerated in the face of the unknown, no matter the truth. Just because one thing existed, it didn't mean everything did.

  There couldn't have been any werewolves around—it wasn't even a full or new moon. Javier's sighting of a "baby wolf" suggested to Maxim a coyote more than anything else. The common animals were smaller and weaker than wolves. It might take several of them to pull a body down, or rip it in half. The bite marks on the vic ran up the arm to the shoulder, but no higher. That meant the animal wasn't as tall as a wolf.

  What made the most sense was that the groundskeeper had witnessed wild animals feeding on a dead body. That somewhat eased Maxim's concerns about the Seventh Sons being involved, but he still had the knife to deal with. And, even worse, that meant he had no other leads. The real murderer was out there without suspicion.

  As the detective asked more questions, it became clear that Javier Gonzalez couldn't help the case. Maxim told him to stay away from the school the rest of the day while the crime scene was processed and asked Gutierrez to take him home. Then he decided to get to the real crux of the problem, and stepped into interrogation room one.

  Whereas Javier Gonzalez was withdrawn and afraid, Clint James was the opposite. He sat forward aggressively. He was loud and demanding, still drunk from the night before, and had a chip on his shoulder. Which meant that whether or not he had something to hide, he would make the interview miserable. Immediately, he did not disappoint.

  "Well here I am," he said, "as a service to you and the marshal's office, and you leave me locked in here like a criminal."

  "Still have a penchant for the dramatic, I see," rebuked the detective. "The door wasn't locked and you're not detained. You're just doing your civic duty."

  "And fucking glad of it. I'm a pillar of society, I am." Clint attempted to tame his bushy beard back to make himself more respectable. It didn't suit him.

  Maxim studied Clint James. He appeared both wild and tired, an aging man who'd found that partying wasn't as fun as it used to be. He had a black welt under his eye. Some scratches on his forearms. He was even missing a patch of hair. "Mind telling me where you got those injuries?"

  The biker pressed his lips together and shook his head dismissively. "It was just a little incident in New Mexico."

  "And the PD over there could confirm that?"

  "I don't see how. I never called them."

  "What about the other guy you tussled with? What would he have to say?"

  Clint smiled. "That he got his ass whooped."

  Maxim nodded and cleared his throat. "Well, I should check with him anyway."

  "Good luck. I don't know the guy's name. Never seen him before."

  "You expect me to believe that someone with your strength just got in a random fistfight?"

  "Hey," said Clint, throwing his hands up. "I held back. I know the rules. Can't let the secret out or the CDC's on my ass. I kept it low profile. In fact, that's why I didn't go to the police." The man smiled at his clever rationalization.

  "Just tell me where you were last night," said Maxim, still not bothering to sit down.

  "Sycamore Lodge, Ociffer. I had just come from my aunt's house on the outskirts of Bernalillo. That's outside of Albuquerque, to you."

  "Stay there a lot?"

  "I live there, most times."

  "And what prompted your momentous visit to Sanctuary?"

  "You getting smart with me, Detective?"

  Maxim grinned. "Of course not. I just mean that it looked like the club was gathering for a specific reason."

  Clint's eyes wandered around the room, searching for an explanation. "I don't know what you mean. I figured it had been a few weeks since I'd seen my good brothers. I just happened to swing by for a visit, on account of saying hello. But what kind of asshole would I be if I didn't stop at the Lodge first for a pitcher? The MC gets a special discount, you know."

  "So you have no specific knowledge of what the Seventh Sons are up to?"

  "Didn't I just say that?"

  Maxim twirled his hand to indicate that he wanted to move on. "Just get back to the part about the bar. Were you with any of your brothers there?"

  "Good Lord," said Clint, rolling his eyes and looking to the heavens. "Are you hard of hearing or something? I went straightaway to handle my business before I checked in."

  "And you don't remember when you left?"

  "I do not, sir, on account of me being tired from the long ride. I don't want you thinking I was intoxicated or nothing." Clint laid his hands on the table and sat up straight. "You mind hurrying this up?"

  "Settle down," ordered the detective. "Did you see anyone else at the bar?"

  "Sure I did."

  Maxim stared at Clint until the man realized he should elaborate.

  "Well, the usual crowd, I suppose. Some Mexicans. Some Indians. Some tourists. You know, I was surprised I didn't see you there."

  Maxim ignored the comment.

  "I mean," said Clint, "seeing as to the frequency of your visits."

  "I got your meaning," said the detective, doing his best to keep calm. "Did you see any fights or have any words with anyone? Was anybody messing with your bike?"

  Clint shook his head. "Officer, I only saw the bottom of my glass. Now can I get going?"

  Maxim shot the man a stupefied look. Clint was not worried about his situation. The detective decided to deliver a wake-up call to the suspect. He pulled out his phone and scrolled through the few pictures he had personally taken of the crime scene, then slid it in front of the biker.

  "When was the last time you saw this knife?"

  Clint stared hard. "I cannot recall, Officer."

  "Detective."

  "Right."

  The fluorescent light hanging close to their heads began to buzz, and Maxim rapped against the housing to silence it. "But you carried it with you down from New Mexico?"

  The suspect shrugged. "Now I don't think I said all that."

  "But you did. Carry it, I mean. You always have your daddy's knife on you. You wouldn't part with it, wouldn't sell it. Unless you accidentally dropped it at a homicide scene."

  The biker's eyes widened. "What?"

  The detective leaned past Clint and swiped the image on his phone over to the next. It was a wide shot of the victim. "You do know a man was murdered? Hung upside down, drained, skinned. A bit like that mule deer you cleaned last winter."

  The suspect was surprised but didn't grimace or show displeasure at the photo. "Now that's a common technique, there. Certainly not something that can be attributed only to myself."

  "Can't say the same about the custom-made knife, Clint."

  No one said anything for a minute. The evidence was damning and the picture of the victim convinced Clint he was in trouble. He was beginning to close up. Maxim wondered if he should lay off. He could ask about the gun. He could ask about the vic's identity. No matter what he came up with, however, he was positive the knife was the easiest link to establish. Starting there was best.

  Maxim thought about how Clint had been so willing to show him the knife when he'd first asked. The biker had led him out to his Harley as if everything was norm
al. It wasn't until they were outside that the misdirection began. The detective recalled Clint's bike. Unlike the others, it was missing gear.

  "What happened to your saddlebag, Clint?"

  The man stammered before answering. "What saddlebag?"

  "The one that hangs off the back seat of your bike. I've seen it many times before. Where is it? And don't tell me you pawned it."

  Clint didn't answer.

  "You don't have it stashed anywhere, do you? Because if Sanctuary officers find it and it's full of drugs—"

  "I ain't touched that stuff since Lucky's. It's against my parole."

  "You sure, Clint? Once you cross the line, it's easy to go back."

  "Of course I'm sure. Listen, I wish I could help but I can't. This ain't got nothin' to do with drugs anyhow. One fuckup and I'm tagged for life. I ain't the only one who does things we ain't supposed to, you know."

  Maxim didn't follow. "What are you talking about?"

  "I'm talking 'bout your high and mighty superior fucking attitude. Like just 'cause a man breaks the law once, all of a sudden he's a shitbag. Don't you forget that I was in the clubhouse last year when Gaston gave you that briefcase full of money."

  The detective's eyes darted to the one-way mirror, then he quickly turned away so as not to draw suspicion. He hoped nobody was outside watching. Maxim stormed around the table and leaned over Clint so that their faces were only inches away. "Listen to me, you fuck. That case of money was used to draw out the previous Seventh Sons president. To get her away from hostages. It wasn't a payoff."

  "That's funny," retorted Clint, mildly unsettled but appearing resolute in his accusation. "Because, to my knowledge, that briefcase was never recovered."

  Still keeping his voice low in case they had a spectator, Maxim whispered, "There were scores of officials on that scene. The money was lost. It could be anywhere."

  The biker returned Maxim's fierce stare. "You think Gaston cares what you did with his money once it left his hands?"

  Without thinking, Maxim grabbed Clint by his shoulder and lifted him from his seat. He tried to pin him against a wall, but felt the man's overwhelming strength kick in. Clint was, like the other Seventh Sons, a werewolf. An hombre lobo. And he didn't need his animal form to overpower the detective.

  The biker shoved Maxim away. Clint sneered as the detective slammed his shoulder into the window. It sent a loud rap through the building. Maxim turned to grab his pistol but saw Clint raise his hands in the air. He backed into the wall and said, "Now, I wasn't trying to hurt you, but you need to be thinking twice before you manhandle me."

  The detective stood still, not drawing his weapon. Within moments, the interrogation room door swung open. It was Hitchens. The sergeant. Another wolf, but one that wore blue.

  The black man's eyes were bloodshot red. "Is something going on in here that I should know about?"

  The biker quickly shook his head. He wasn't interested in starting a fight. Maxim contemplated the situation and relaxed his pose. "No. Sorry about the noise. It was my fault—just got a little excited."

  The sergeant stood in place, still fuming. "Good," he replied to Maxim, but his aggressive tone was for Clint. "Because if I get even a whiff of a detective getting assaulted, you will not exit this building." Clint nodded.

  "It's okay, Barney," said Maxim, using the sergeant's first name to emphasize their friendship. "I can take it from here."

  Hitchens nodded. "Sit down, Clint." The suspect did as he was instructed. "I don't need to chain you up, do I?" Clint shook his head. "Okay then." With that, Hitchens left the room.

  Maxim took a few moments. He realized antagonizing the wolf wasn't his best tactic. As they settled down, the detective recovered his cell phone and glanced at the picture. He got to thinking about the case again.

  "This body is bad for Sanctuary, Clint. It's bad for the Sons."

  The biker swallowed. The brief scuffle had sobered his expression. "Listen, Maxim. You're asking me to admit to carrying a knife near the scene of a murder where it was used."

  Maxim nodded, agreeing on the heart of the matter. "Can we talk in hypotheticals, Clint?"

  "I hypothetically don't give a shit." He said it quickly, like a built in part of his renegade nature, but no mirth was in the words.

  "I'm inclined to believe that you had nothing to do with this man's murder, but if you lie to me you are backing yourself into a corner. At best, you're impeding an investigation. If there's some other charge you might be concerned about, the marshal's office doesn't need to look into that."

  Clint pushed out his lips. "I would have believed that before you had that angry black man arrest me for DUI."

  The detective nodded. He understood the bitterness, but that was Clint's mistake to live with. Sanctuary could forgive certain transgressions that might be punished in bigger cities, but endangering citizens was not acceptable.

  "Hypothetically," repeated Maxim, "if you had that knife at Sycamore Lodge, then knowing what happened to it from there would be the best way to clear your name."

  Clint took a deep breath. He was still unconvinced, but warming to the idea. Before either of them could speak, the door opened again.

  "I need another minute," said Maxim.

  "You won't get it," replied a female voice. Maxim turned and saw a woman wearing a business suit pushing past him. She was blonde, a little younger than him, and from what he could tell, new in town. "Mr. James, do not say another word. I'm your legal representation."

  "It's okay," said Maxim. "Clint is just about to tell me what he knows."

  "No he isn't, Detective."

  Maxim turned back to the biker and nodded. Clint glanced at the woman, then back at him, then shrugged and remained silent.

  "What the fuck, Clint? I thought we understood each other."

  "Detective Dwyer!" admonished the lawyer. "We'd love to assist the police, but I need time alone with my client beforehand. We can schedule a formal interview at a later time."

  Maxim wanted to scream, but this was part of the job. "Assisting the police means answering my questions now, while the body's still warm."

  The woman flashed a blank expression. She had nothing left to say. Maxim took another peek at Clint, but the interview was over.

  "Fine then," said Maxim sternly. "Take your time. You're officially under arrest. Get comfortable."

  Chapter 5

  The Public Health Service Commissioned Corps, which Diego had long served, was a United States uniformed service, but not an armed service. As an ex-Ranger, Diego was an exception and received ancillary weapons training. In fact, he had a great fondness for firearms. He had just never used them illegally before.

  Diego checked the payload in his Benelli M4 combat shotgun. It was modern and silver colored, a private joke since he used to hunt werewolves. Of course, there was nothing silver about his high-velocity buckshot. Weapons like this needed the right ammo. Autoloaders were prone to jamming, but that was user error. Not the gun's fault. Put a cheap shell in this shotty, get a cheap result.

  West Wind exited the clubhouse supporting three heavy duffel bags over his shoulder. He chuckled when he saw the care Diego gave his weapon.

  "We're not hunting pheasant today, little man," said the Apache.

  "We're not hunting anything."

  "You know what I mean. I hope you've got more than birdshot in there, 'cause this trip's for real."

  Diego knew what West was saying. He'd fired the shotgun at the range and when hunting, but that was the extent of its use. He ignored his uncertainty and held up the Benelli. Aside from its color and the lack of certain attachments, marines were outfitted with the same firearm. "This is large game buckshot. 12-gauge. It'll take anything down."

  West Wind puffed out his chest and squared himself to Diego.

  "Well, almost anything," admitted Diego.

  "Nah," said Omar, walking away from his bike. "That's a badass shotgun. Don't let West get you down—some of us j
ust have classier taste. Check this out, for instance." The kid pulled out a .44 Magnum. "A Colt Anaconda. Plenty of stopping power, even in a revolver."

  West muttered something under his breath. Diego tried a smile, but seeing Omar so excited to get use out of his giant handgun was unsettling. "Whatever you say, Taxi Driver."

  "Nah, that was a Smith & Wesson. But de Niro was a badass in that anyway."

  "He got shot up."

  "But he didn't die. Anyway, that's the life. They can pry this from my cold, dead hands if it comes to that."

  Diego shuddered. There was no shaking the feeling that he was making a big mistake by going along.

  Sometimes the biker told himself he had no choice. He had a duty to help his brothers, just like when he was in the Corps. Then he would realize he was being an idiot. What was he thinking by getting involved? It was an unsettling kind of indecision that turned his stomach and made everything bitter.

  Diego felt a hard slap on his back, Gaston's way of making a friendly gesture.

  "You need to know how much I appreciate this. With Clint out of commission, you're really coming through for us."

  Diego nodded and slipped the shotgun into a holster attached to his Scrambler.

  The Seventh Sons all readied their bikes in the morning sun. None of the jovial mood from earlier remained. A determination was in their eyes, a burden in their thoughts. Each of them knew the stakes.

  The bikers were all decked out in their riding gear. Gaston only wore thick cargo pants and a red workout shirt. West had a jean jacket on with cut-off arms. Most of the others had more traditional jackets. For Diego, that meant his black leathers. Except for the steel buckles on his boots, his entire body was covered with a worn, matte finish. The leather was thick and protective because it needed to be. While the rest of the MC members had their individual styles, none needed the protection as much as Diego. They were wolves. Their bones were stronger. While they could suffer damage and break, the next moon would see them completely healed. Without that advantage, Diego needed the interior armor plates and helmet. The stuff even came in handy in fights.