by Tia Lewis
I begged off eating, unable to handle the thought. “Honey, you need to eat. You’ve already lost weight, and it’s been less than a week. Please, eat something.”
“I know how long it’s been,” I murmured, drinking my coffee. Hoping it would wake me up; add a little life to my cold body.
“You didn’t have much weight to spare in the first place,” she added, frowning. When she frowned, and a little furrow appeared between her eyebrows, she reminded me so much of my father it almost crushed my heart.
“I’ll be okay. It just makes me sick. It won’t be forever.” I picked at a butter croissant just to keep her happy, putting little bits of it in my mouth. I’d have to send her home with the casseroles, I guessed, or else keep them in the freezer forever. No sense in heating up an entire dish just for myself. At least my uncle and cousins could eat it.
“So, what are you going to do about the house?” she asked. It was all I could do to keep from rolling my eyes. Why did I have to think about such things? And all at once, too. It seemed unfair that a family should have to face major life questions at a time like that. There should have been a week where nobody could ask questions, and nobody would be expected to make decisions in such a fragile state.
“I don’t know. Live here, I guess.” I shrugged.
“All alone? Just you, in this big house?” Her blue eyes peered questioningly at me over the rims of her thick black glasses. I knew which side of the argument she sat on, at least.
“It’s not that big. A three-bedroom rowhome in Queens. You talk about it like it’s a mansion.”
“It’s more than you need, though.”
“Well, what did you have in mind?”
“I thought you would sell the place and use the money for an apartment in the city. You know. Get you a nice little apartment that you can decorate all nice. Perhaps get a pet. A puppy sounds good. You’ve always liked dogs.”
“Aunt Karen.” I massaged my forehead preparing myself for an incoming headache.
“What? You want a cat instead?”
I shook my head at the thought. “This is my home. I’ve never been the sort of person who wants to live in Manhattan. Can you imagine how fast the money would disappear? I have girlfriends who rent apartments with three, four other people just to make ends meet. It’s too expensive.”
“You’re practical. Just like your father.” She smiled a little.
“Yes, well, a detective doesn’t make enough money to be impractical.” I’d learned the value of a dollar at an early age, raised by a single parent … a widower. My father always managed to get by, though, even if it meant working crazy amounts of overtime. “Besides, this is my home. I’m not ready to leave yet, and I’m sure as hell not ready to pack up my father’s things and do anything with them. I just need some more time to think everything through.”
She nodded. “I understand, sweetie. You’re right. I just want you to be able to live your life now. You’re a beautiful, smart young woman with a lot of years ahead of you. Don’t bury yourself here.”
Bury. What an attractive choice of words after what we’d done less than twenty-four hours earlier. I could still see the wooden casket with a mountain of flowers behind it. All the arrangements sent by friends, coworkers, adoring family members.
“So, I was talking to Tommy after the services,” Aunt Karen said. My ears perked up at the mention of my father’s boss’s name.
“Yeah? What did he say?”
“He didn’t want you to know, of course, but I thought you would want to.” She paused.
“Okay. What did he say, Aunt Karen?” I repeated, waiting for her to spill the news. “Aunt Karen!”
“Quiet down, quiet down,” she replied before clearing her throat. “Tommy told me—he thinks—”
“He thinks what?”
“He thinks it was the Blood Riders, sweetie.” Her hand covered mine, keeping me from throwing the coffee cup against the kitchen wall.
“The Blood Riders! Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Nikki, calm down.”
“I knew it was them!” I shouted, clenching my teeth as I stared into the blackness of what remained of my coffee. How fitting, because it matched the way I felt every time I thought about that bunch of outlaw degenerates. My father had built his career on bringing them to justice. I used to joke that we should send them a Christmas card every year—I was so familiar with them, their names, their habits, that it seemed they were part of my family.
“I’m so sorry, but I had to tell you.”
“I can’t believe this.”
“I’m just as shocked as you. I mean, you think they would do something so evil after all this time?” My aunt looked as skeptical as she sounded. She had a point. Why, after all, the years of playing cat-and-mouse with the motorcycle club, would they finally break down and kill my father? Killing a cop was an incredibly risky move, even when the people involved were hardened and vicious criminals.
“I can’t believe this,” I repeated, chewing on my thumb in deep thought. “I think he uncovered something big.”
“What do you mean?”
“He must have. He must have discovered something, and I believe that they knew it, and they knew they couldn’t afford to keep him around. That’s why they shut him up.”
“Nikki, don’t talk like that.”
“It’s the only thing I can think of.” I shook my head in disbelief as my heart continued to beat uncontrollably. “Damn it!”
“See, that’s why I shouldn’t have brought it up.” She stood to wash her plate at the sink. “I always say the wrong things.” I heard the tears in her voice even though her back was turned to me.
I sighed, getting up to give her a comforting hug. We’d never exactly been close, geography making it difficult. Her family only ever came to visit from Pittsburgh over Christmas, so a once-a-year relationship meant we had a lot of getting to know each other to get through in the days after my father’s murder.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Karen. I didn’t mean to yell.”
“It’s okay. This whole situation has been too much to handle.” She whimpered.
“I know.”
“But I had to tell you what Tommy said.”
“To be honest, I had a feeling it was them.”
“Oh?” She wiped her nose with a kitchen towel.
“Ever since I got that call and found out somebody shot him in that alley—” I folded my arms. “As soon as I heard Tommy’s voice, I knew it. I knew it would be the Riders.”
“I’m sorry you were alone when it happened,” she sniffled.
“I wasn’t. I have the biggest extended family in the world. The NYPD.” I grinned. “They took care of me until you got here.”
“Who will take care of you when I’m gone?” She only had a week away from work, and would fly home on Sunday afternoon.
“I will.” I nodded resolutely. “I mean, let’s face it, I was the one taking care of Dad for a long time. As soon as I was tall enough to reach the stove, I cooked dinner. I did his laundry and set the timer on the coffee maker so he would have a fresh pot when he came down in the morning. I packed his lunches. It was always just him and me.”
“You two were inseparable.” She forced a smile.
“Yeah. We were. If anything, I’ll have a lot more free time now.” By the time I finished speaking, the tears had started to flow. Aunt Karen wrapped her arms around me, and the two of us let loose. I didn’t mind that she was supposed to be comforting me and cried just as hard as I did. I knew she and my father had been close as kids and had her husband’s company not transferred him to Pittsburgh they would have remained just as close.
I was glad to have somebody to cry with, for as long as I had the time to cry. Once she left, the crying would be over. I had work to do.
“Are you sure you’ll be all right out here, by yourself? I’m worried about you.” Karen looked more concerned than ever as I dropped her off at the airport gate.
> “I’m positive. Tommy Long already warned me that he’s going to be a big part of my life from now on.” The entire NYPD squad had sort of adopted me in the aftermath of my father’s murder. It was the least they felt they could do. “Besides, I have my friends, my career. I have a life. I’ll be all right, Aunt Karen.”
She didn’t look convinced, but I was used to that. I gave her a fierce hug, kissing her cheek, telling her to hug her husband and the boys for me. “They’re so sorry they couldn’t be here,” she said.
“I understand. School just started, he has to work. I know they’d want to be with you right now. Be sure to make good use of all those casseroles you’re taking with you.”
She laughed. “I should hope so. We took enough time packing them.”
After one more hug, I sent her on her way and got back in my car. Already other drivers honked at me for blocking the curb. I gave them a little salute with my middle finger and drove away.
With Karen gone, I could breathe more easily. Not that I didn’t appreciate her time and her eagerness to help, but it was even more exhausting trying to maintain a conversation with her than it was to sit by myself. I was stronger than I looked, too.
I would have to be if I wanted to pull off what I had in mind. My father would have killed me. He would have straight-up gotten up out of his grave and killed me if he knew what I planned. It was crazy. It was dangerous. It was the only way I knew I’d get justice.
I remembered my father sitting with me at the dinner table, sighing. “They’re tricky, those Blood Riders,” he’d said, running a hand through his mane of gray hair. He’d always had a nice head of hair, though he blamed the MC for turning it gray so early.
“What do you mean, Dad?” I’d asked, eager to soak up as much information as possible. If I wanted to excel at criminal justice, I needed to know all the ins and outs of police work.
“I can’t pin them down. For a bunch of low-lives, they have a legal counsel like you wouldn’t believe, Nikki. I mean top lawyers. Old firms with solid reputations. Not some shady shysters, the way you would expect or see in the movies. I’m telling you, it’s a whole other ball game with those folks.”
“Well, aren’t all lawyers shady by nature?” I’d smirked. Then, “Shady by Nature! Band name! I call it!”
He’d laughed at our little joke. Our talent for accidentally coming up with potential band names—if only either of us had any musical talent.
My father’s laugh had only been half-hearted, though. He was too sick inside to laugh, knowing he couldn’t catch the club. “I know they’re up to something big. I know they’re behind a lot of the drug and gun trade, not to mention other things. Maybe prostitution, though I can’t get enough proof for that. But there’s something. And those lawyers always had an excuse or a loophole. There was always something to make their boys look like angels. All you have to do is look at them to know they’re no damned angels.”
“You’ll get ‘em, Dad. It just takes time.” I’d patted his hand, smiling. I was so sure of myself then. I was confident that my father, the super detective, would take down the bad guys. He was my lifelong hero.
What had they done? They’d gunned him down like a dog in an alley that reeked of garbage, between two Chinese takeout restaurants. All because he was on the right side of the law, and wanted them to pay for what they’d done to the city they called home.
They knew him. He was always a part of their lives, always at their arrests and trials—even if the cases never went anywhere. He was the sticky gum they couldn’t get off their shoe, he used to say.
So they knew him. But they didn’t know me. And I was about to use that to my advantage.
2
Nicole
My first task upon getting home was taking off my black bra and flinging it across the room. Another positive part of being alone, with no houseguests or random visitors. I could dress the way I wanted. Off came the blue jeans, and on went the comfy gray sweatpants.
I opened my laptop to do a little research into the perfect “biker girl” look. If I was going to play the part as a groupie, I needed to look right. I couldn’t give myself away. It would be tough enough mastering their way of speaking, their attitude. I might have been from Queens—complete with the New “Yawk” accent—but I had spent most of my youth in Mentally Gifted programs. I’d participated in the National Spelling Bee as a ten-year-old. I’d graduated summa cum laude from NYU a year early. The right look would take me far, and help me get into my role.
In a stroke of genius, I went to YouTube. Surely these girls would upload videos of themselves, right? The ones my father always used to tell me about. Girls who might have had futures, had they not gotten sucked into the biker lifestyle. The violence, drinking, partying, and the endless strings of sexual partners. I’d been distinctly uncomfortable when my father told me that part, but he thought it necessary that I understand.
“All they want to be is a groupie,” he’d explained. “It’s their goal in life, and they’ll do whatever it takes to make it happen.”
How inconceivable. I’d look at him in disbelief, but he’d insisted. “They make themselves available to every member of the club, hoping somebody will choose them as their main squeeze. Then, they’re off-limits to the others. Not out of respect for the girl, of course, but out of respect for the guy. You would think men with so much so-called pride would loathe the idea of their woman having been with the others. They don’t see it that way—if anything, it’s a matter of pride that they all know how good she is in bed, and that he’s the one who gets that for the rest of his life. Or until he’s tired of her. Crazy, huh?”
“Gross.” My eyes had gone wide, cringing at the thought. Being everybody’s plaything until one of them adopted me. It was disgusting, degrading. Didn’t these women have any pride or self-esteem? I’d understood enough about psychology by then to understand the underlying factors. Terrible home lives, lack of attention from male figures—or far too much of the wrong kind of attention, which could scar a young woman even worse. I would put that to use when I infiltrated the Blood Riders.
Was it a good idea? I wasn’t so sure of myself when I started watching the countless videos from club parties. I’d only typed “motorcycle club party” into the search bar and come up with hundreds of results. I took a deep breath before clicking the first video.
The first thing I noticed was loud, driving music. Then the raucous laughter—the kind of laugh a person expects to hear coming from a rough bar. The girls made the typical duck face kisses whenever the camera pointed their way. It’s universal, I thought, shaking my head.
I paid attention to the way they dressed. Crop tops, t-shirts that had been slashed to bits until they were hardly recognizable as clothing. They were sleeveless, low-cut, off-the-shoulder, and even backless in some cases. Tight camisoles. Mini-skirts, tight jeans. Leather pants. My thighs chafed at the very thought.
Oh, the hair spray. I would have to buy a case of it. Teased hair, curled hair, all of it shellacked into place. Their faces were slathered in heavy makeup, especially the eyeliner and mascara. Dark red lipstick. Lots of cheap jewelry. Boots, usually knee-high but ankle boots sometimes, too.
I made a list of the things I would need, then I focused on the way they carried themselves. They wanted to be sexy. How would I be sexy? I didn’t have the faintest idea. Not that I hadn’t dated, but I wouldn’t have called myself hot on my best day. I was tall, awkward, always picked on as a kid for being taller than the boys. I knew how to look nice, but it was a different world for those girls. They oozed sex. It was their stock and trade, I guessed. Serving the men their cold beer and whiskey, and then servicing them after the party.
I watched videos until I thought my eyes might bleed if I looked at another. I’d started early in the afternoon, but by the time I finished it was dark outside and I was convinced I would never pass for one of those girls. Ever. Would I have to debase myself the way they did? I shuddered to thin
k.
I paid careful attention to the girls in the corners, the ones who weren’t in on the action. Maybe I could be one of those girls. A wallflower. I knew I grasped at straws, trying to rationalize, but it was all I had. If I sought to be the party girl, I would fall on my face. Literally, in fact, judging from the height of the high heels all the girls wore. I would need time to practice.
I have all the time I need. With my father’s pension coming through any day and a house with no mortgage, I could afford to take a leave of absence. The time off would let me sink deep into the world of the Blood Riders.
My desktop wallpaper, I saw it when I closed the browser. Just me and my father, taken only months earlier. I wore my graduation cap and gown. We never looked very much alike except for our big, cheesy smiles. I touched the screen. “I’ll find out who did this to you, Dad,” I whispered. Soon the tears filled my eyes, blurring the picture.
It had taken a week before I felt comfortable enough to go out in public with my new look.
At first, I was sure everybody stared at me. Men, women, and children. I might as well have worn a sign around my neck: “Look at me pretending to be a biker girl!” Then I remembered it was a good thing, especially in the case of men. I wanted them to ogle me. It meant I passed.
Still, I couldn’t help jumping a little when I walked past windows and saw my reflection. That couldn’t be me, already tall enough without three-inch knee-high boots to turn me into an Amazon. That wasn’t me with the wavy hair, teased at the crown and sprayed like crazy to hold its shape. I didn’t wear arms full of leather bracelets and cheap black beads. And I certainly never wore shirts that just barely covered my torso.
It was me, though. I could tell because my feet screamed whenever I walked in those damned knee-high boots.
I knew the Blood Riders operated out of Jamaica, Queens which I wasn’t keen on visiting since I knew all too well what went down there, thanks to my father’s bedtime stories. Most kids got nice stories of princesses and glass slippers. The daughter of Detective Robert Bluth wanted to hear about homicides and shoot-outs. No surprise that I grew up to study criminal justice. It was where the action was, though, and I needed to make my face known to the club members somehow.
