She checked the bedroom on the left. A queen-sized bed with a tan and blue comforter dominated the room. A deep gouge marked the top of a bleached pine dresser that lined the opposite wall. Shea looked under the bed, in the attached bathroom, and the walk-in closet. The stink of blood grew stronger, but she found nothing to cause it.
“Shea?” Wendy called from the front door. “Can I come in? Is Annie in there?”
“Stay put. I’m still looking.”
In the last bedroom, she found the source of the smell.
“Fuck.”
Blood dappled the walls like a Jackson Pollock painting. The stench of blood, urine, and feces filled the room. A woman with shoulder-length black curls lay on the blood-soaked bed. This must be Margaret. She’d been shot twice in the face and several times in the chest. A smashed lamp and an overturned chair suggested a fight.
Shea’s stomach grew queasy. The voice in her head grew more insistent, telling her to get out. Where the hell’s Annie? She opened the closet door, hoping to find the girl curled up and frightened, but safe. Instead she found hand-me-down boy’s clothes and an assortment of worn shoes.
“Shea?”
“Hold on.”
“Shea, the cops are here.”
“Aw, crap!” Shea ran to the front door only to be met by Deputies Aguilar and Winslow—aka Commando and Frat Boy—guns pointed at her head.
“Drop your weapon and get on the floor facedown.” From the look on Aguilar’s face, he wasn’t cutting her any slack this time.
She dropped the Beretta on the floor and lay facedown on the carpet. At least this time there was no broken glass and she was clothed. She caught a strong whiff of mildew as Aguilar cuffed her. Sirens wailed outside.
“You got any other weapons on you?” His voice was cold and angry.
“No.”
Winslow stalked down the hallway, clearing the rooms as he went.
Aguilar pulled her to her feet and patted her down. “This makes twice in one day, Ms. Stevens. You going for a record?”
“It ain’t what it looks like, Deputy. Honest.”
“Oh Christ,” called Winslow from the far bedroom. “Aguilar, we’re gonna need a bus.”
Aguilar pushed Shea down the hall and stopped in the bedroom doorway. Winslow had his arm wrapped around his face to ward off the smell.
Aguilar glared at her with fire in his eyes. “Shea Stevens, you have the right to remain silent.”
Chapter 11
Shea spent the next hour and a half alone in an interrogation room with only a table and four wooden chairs for company. She’d lost all sensation in her right pinkie and ring finger because of the handcuffs. But her mind wasn’t focused on the cuffs.
Since she’d woken up that morning, one person had been killed, another shot, and a third kidnapped. She herself had been shot at by an outlaw biker and had been in an armed standoff with a Mexican drug trafficker. She still had no idea where the stolen motorcycles were. And here she sat, stewing in a police station. Jessica was, no doubt, plotting ways to kill her for standing her up yet again. Shea was in the eye of a Category 5 shitstorm.
Willie and Sheriff Buzz Keeler, whom she’d called Buzzkill since childhood, walked into the room. Buzzkill was in his late sixties, standing a few inches above six feet, and weighing north of three hundred pounds. His ruddy face had a permanent snarl on it, which darkened whenever he glared at someone he disliked. She’d been in the “dislike” category since as far back as she could remember.
Willie and Buzzkill sat down on either side of her. Two more people walked in behind them, both dressed in business clothes and carrying leather-bound notebooks. The first was a bespectacled white guy with a receding head of curly, black hair, wearing a dark suit, who looked more like an accountant than a detective. A petite Hispanic woman with bangs and a ponytail, dressed in a red blouse, a black jacket, and matching slacks, followed him in, dragging a fifth chair. Despite her size, she looked like someone who could handle herself.
Willie removed the handcuffs. “Shea, this here’s Detective Micah Edelman and Detective Toni Rios. And you remember Sheriff Keeler.”
She nodded at the detectives while rubbing her wrists to get the blood flowing back into her fingers.
Buzzkill leaned back in his chair and slammed the door shut. He’d aged a bit since she’d seen him last. He reeked of Old Spice and sweat. But that beer belly of his was coming along nicely.
“Been a while, Miss Stevens.” He slapped a folder down on the table.
“Yeah.” Shea wasn’t feeling talkative.
“Seems we have ourselves a situation here.” Buzzkill pulled a photo of Margaret’s body from the folder. “This poor young lady, name o’ Margaret Ortega, got herself kilt this afternoon, round ’bout five o’clock. You know anything ’bout that, missy?”
“Margaret was dead when I got there.”
“Why were you at Ms. Ortega’s house?” asked Detective Rios.
“My sister dropped by my motorcycle shop this afternoon. She wasn’t feeling well afterward, so I agreed to drop her by her friend’s house.”
“Why her friend’s house?” she asked. “Why not her place?”
Shea shrugged. “Have to ask her.”
Willie pulled out the notebook he’d used that morning to take notes about the break-in at the shop. “After seventeen years of not seeing Wendy, you two must’ve had quite the reunion. How come she looks all beat up? You two get in a fight?”
“No.” Shea’s hip ached from the hard chair she sat on. She shifted her weight from one side to the other, growing restless from the endless questions.
“Uh-huh.” Buzzkill glared at her. “Two people get shot on the same day, and you happened to be at both crime scenes. How you explain that?”
“A coincidence.”
“Is that so? Ya know, I ain’t a big believer in coincidences.”
“Coincidences happen all the time, Buzzkill. Look it up.”
Buzzkill’s face turned purple. “You gettin’ smart with me, girl? ’Cause you’re lookin’ at charges of murder and kidnappin’.”
“Come on, Shea,” said Willie. “I also have a report of gunfire coming from your shop this afternoon. What the hell’s going on?”
“Nothing, I swear!”
Detective Edelman, who’d been taking notes the whole time, looked up at Shea. “I’ll be honest, Ms. Stevens; right now, all the evidence points to you for the murder of Ms. Ortega.” He spoke like an Ivy League blue blood from Boston or New York—Shea could never tell the difference. “If you’re innocent, it’d behoove you to tell us what you know. Otherwise we will have no choice but to charge you.”
Time for me to shut up now, she thought. “I ain’t saying nothing else without my lawyer.”
—
Justin Bryce was a soft-spoken, pear-shaped guy in his late fifties. Back when she was arrested for grand theft, he’d served as her public defender. Didn’t keep her out of prison, but he got her sentences to run concurrently. After getting out, she’d hired him to get her rights restored and to handle legal matters for the shop. He’d become kind of a family friend—albeit an expensive one.
“You’re lucky,” said Justin after Buzzkill and the others stepped outside the interrogation room. “I finished a case up in Prescott an hour before you called.”
“Not guilty?” she asked, hoping for a positive sign.
“He did better than he would have without me. Let’s leave it at that.” He frowned. “Tell me what’s going on here. Why’re they looking at you for this woman’s murder?”
“Early this morning, someone broke into Iron Goddess and shot Derek. Stole a bunch of merchandise, too. I called 911. They took Derek to the hospital.”
“Sorry to hear about that.” He scribbled down some notes. “How does that relate to this woman’s murder?”
“I thought the Confederate Thunder mighta been the ones who broke in, so I called my sister, Wendy. She’s married to the club’s
president—a guy by the name of Hunter Wittmann. Thought maybe she’d heard something one way or the other.”
“The Sheriff’s Office isn’t investigating the break-in?”
Shea smirked. “Between illegally profiling Latinos, pulling people over for ‘driving while black,’ and staking out the county’s doughnut shops, Buzzkill’s boys are probably too busy to do any real police work,” she said. “Figured it’d be faster if I did the investigating myself.”
Justin chuckled. “And?”
“Apparently Hunter’s been using her as a punching bag. Wendy and her daughter, Annie, spent the last night with her friend Margaret. Then this afternoon, she showed up at Iron Goddess, followed by Hunter and his boys. They started knocking her around, asking where Annie was. When I told ’em to clear out, one of his guys shot at me. He missed, fortunately, and we kicked them out without any further incident.”
“How’d y’all manage that?”
“Oh, you know us ex-cons.” She smiled for the first time in hours. “We’re resourceful.”
“Uh-huh. So you kick the Bowery Boys out and then what?”
“Wendy was all shaken up and asked me to drive her to Margaret’s—promised Margaret would gimme a ride back. When we got there, we found the front door busted in. I went in looking for the girl and found Margaret dead in the back bedroom. No sign of Annie. That’s when the cops showed up.”
“Anything else I should know?”
“Like what?” Shea recalled her run-in with Oscar, but figured, why bring it up? It didn’t have anything to do with Margaret or Annie.
“Like anything else the sheriff might surprise me with. I’m not a fan of surprises.”
She shook her head. “No, that’s it.”
“Okay, let’s bring them back in here and see if we can’t get all this cleared up and go home.”
Justin brought Buzzkill, Edelman, and Rios back into the room.
“Where’s Willie?” she asked.
“Sergeant Foster had other business to attend to,” said Edelman.
“Your client ready to confess, Counselor?” asked Buzzkill.
“Sheriff, the only thing my client is guilty of is giving a ride to her sister, Wendy, who is separated from her husband, Hunter Wittmann. She has been staying at Ms. Ortega’s residence. If you’re looking for a suspect in the child’s abduction and Ms. Ortega’s murder, I suggest you look at the girl’s father.”
Rios looked confused. “Why would Mr. Wittmann kill Ms. Ortega?”
“He’s a Thunderman. Feels he can shoot whoever gets in his way,” Shea said. “I’ve heard he’s been picked up a few times for assaulting Wendy.”
“Now, folks,” said Justin, “who do you think’s more likely to have done this—a hardworking businesswoman or an outlaw biker with a history of violence?”
“Your client has a criminal record herself and was caught holding a gun at two different shootings,” said Buzzkill. “I’d say that makes her a suspect.”
“My client never met the deceased before she found the body. Her employees can confirm that she gave her sister a ride to pick up the girl.”
Edelman shuffled some papers and pulled one out. “The ones at Iron Goddess Custom Cycles?”
She nodded. “That’s right.”
“Would that include Olivia White River, who served two years for DUI?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes. “You mean Lakota? Yes.”
“And Amy Marana, nickname Switch, who spent several years committed to the Cortes County Behavioral Health Center after putting three students and a teacher in the hospital?”
“She had schizoaffective disorder after her family abused her. She’s better now.”
“And your business partner, Terrance Childers, previously known as Theresa Childers,” said Edelman. “He served four years for illegal possession of prescription narcotics, did he not?”
Buzzkill leaned over the table, sneering at her. “Seems like your alibi hangs on the word of criminals, junkies, and lunatics, all of whom work for you. Hardly enough to convince a jury. Why don’t you quit lying and tell us the truth?”
Her blood boiled. “I am telling the truth, you fat piece of—”
Justin put a hand on her shoulder. “My client had no motive to kill the deceased, much less abduct her own niece. These charges are absurd.”
“The motive could be any number of things. Drugs, money, who knows?” said Rios. “There’s been a sharp rise in drug trafficking and related violence throughout Cortes County. A lot of it ties back to Mexican drug gangs.”
“What’s that got to do with me?” Shea asked. “I ain’t Mexican.”
Edelman referenced his sheet of paper again. “You know a man named Oscar Reyes?”
Shea shook her head, wondering how much worse this would get. “Name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“We received a report that a white female—medium build, short hair, and a scarred face—threatened him with a firearm earlier today at his family’s restaurant. What can you tell us about this?” asked Edelman.
Justin leaned over to her and whispered, “What’s he talking about? You know this Reyes character?”
She shook her head.
Justin turned to Edelman. “My client has no knowledge of this. What does this have to do with Ms. Ortega or the missing girl?”
“Mr. Reyes is a member of Los Jaguares, a street gang that smuggles heroin and guns for the Santa Cruz drug cartel,” said Edelman. “Margaret Ortega is Mr. Reyes’ cousin.”
That was news to Shea. In her mind, she could hear Terrance telling her he told her so—that the meeting with Oscar would come back and bite her. Guess he got that one right.
Edelman continued. “My guess is you’ve been using your business as a front to sell heroin for the Jaguars. Maybe a deal went sour, so when someone robbed your shop and shot your guy, you suspected the Jaguars. You retaliated by killing Ms. Ortega.”
“Really?” asked Justin, arms crossed, looking rather unimpressed with Edelman’s theory. “And the missing girl?”
Edelman shrugged. “We’re still investigating that. Maybe the child’s father does have her.”
Shea stood up. “That’s nuts. I got no idea who killed that woman. And I couldn’t’ve kidnapped my niece. I was in the house when y’all arrested me.”
Buzzkill pointed at her. “You sit down, missy, or I will cuff you again.”
Rios smiled with a look of concern in her eyes. “Shea, we get it. You were in a tight spot. Economy’s bad, making it harder to make ends meet. So you made deals with the Jags to keep the doors open. Anybody in your situation would have done the same thing. We just need you to tell us what happened.”
“That’s horseshit. I already told you what happened.”
“Everybody, relax.” Justin pulled her back down in her chair. “Sheriff, have you checked my client for gunshot residue?”
Buzzkill squirmed. “We did, but the results were inconclusive.”
“You mean the results came back negative.”
“Don’t mean nothing.” Buzzkill sat back and crossed his arms. “She coulda been wearing gloves or washed her hands.”
“Had the gun you found on my client been fired recently?”
“Again, inconclusive.”
“I see. So the only thing you do know is my client was in the house with no motive and no evidence of having fired the weapon she was holding. Is that the case?”
The sheriff frowned. “We’re still investigating.”
“You sound like a broken record, Sheriff.” Justin stood up. “Let me suggest an alternative theory, if I may. Hunter gets wind that Wendy is leaving him and staying with someone with family ties to the Jaguars. Believing his wife has betrayed him and the club to the enemy, he and his fellow outlaw bikers grab the girl and kill the Mexican woman. Doesn’t that seem much more likely given the evidence?”
“Maybe.”
“Well then, unless you plan to arrest my client, this interview is over
.”
Buzzkill sat there fuming. It pleased Shea to watch Justin put him in his place.
He closed the folder and stood up. “Detective, please release this woman. For now.”
Chapter 12
Half an hour later, Shea and Justin walked out of the police station.
“I guess your meeting with that Reyes fella must’ve slipped your mind,” he said with a sour expression on his face as they approached his car.
“Look, I didn’t think it was relevant. Thought he might know who broke into Iron Goddess. Things got a little heated.”
He opened the passenger door for her. “Do yourself a favor, kiddo. Stay away from the Jaguars.”
“Trust me, I intend to. Where’s my sister?”
He climbed into the car. “I didn’t see her in there. They probably questioned her and let her go. Want me to make some phone calls and find out?”
“Naw, I’m more worried about her daughter, Annie. Hunter’s a violent son of a bitch.”
“The Sheriff’s Office put out an AMBER Alert. I’m sure they’ll do everything they can to get her back to your sister safe and sound.”
“You think they’ll try to pin this murder on me?”
“They don’t have much of a case. Hunter is the more likely suspect, anyway. All they have on you is wrong place/wrong time.”
“I wouldn’t put it past Buzzkill to frame me. He’s still bitter about the time I boosted three of his patrol cars.”
Justin laughed while he drove them back to the shop. “That was eighteen years ago. Not even Sheriff Keeler holds a grudge that long. He just wants to see justice served. As long as you don’t do anything further to incriminate yourself, you should be fine.”
She wasn’t convinced, but let it go and stared out the window. A billboard advertising the new sushi restaurant caught her eye. “Oh shit, Jessica!”
On her phone, Jess had left sixteen voicemail messages. Shea dialed. It rang four times and went to voicemail. Maybe she’s in another room and didn’t hear it. She redialed. On the third ring, Jessica picked up.
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