At last I’m shown into an interview room, grateful of the peace that suddenly descends. Though the iron bolts which could hold shackles on the floor tell their own story.
The cop who’d escorted me stands with his back to the door.
We wait.
Another impulse, this time to bite my fingernails has to be resisted. Even if I was totally innocent, I’d be inclined to admit to something I wasn’t guilty for just to get out of this environment, were it not that such admission would lead to me being somewhere worse. Did Ink sit in this very chair protesting his innocence?
Somehow the thought he very well might have done gives me a kernel of comfort.
Eventually the door opens and a man in his fifties walks in. He’s got a weary look on his face as though he’s seen it all before, and he probably has. He’s followed by a younger man in his thirties, who has sharp, intelligent eyes.
The second man introduces himself first, “I’m Detective Barker, and my colleague is Detective Hastings.” He indicates a device he’s just switched on. “We’ll be recording our conversation.”
I have never been questioned by the police before. “What is this about?” It’s the third time today I’ve asked. Perhaps this time I’ll get an answer. “Don’t you need to tell me my rights or something?”
Ignoring the question, they ask me to confirm my name for the tape. I do.
Now seated, the detectives lean forward, and at last enlighten me. “We wish to question you in relation to illegal substances which were recovered during a drug bust yesterday.”
“What?” My eyes actually widen in horror, but I hope it conveys mystification to the officers. “Why on earth would I know anything about that?” I shake my head. “Are you asking if I saw something? I went to the gym in the morning.” I crease my eyes now, as if deep in thought. “I didn’t see anything—”
“We will indeed be asking what you saw,” the detective interrupts impatiently. “At the moment we’re inclined to interview you as a potential witness. However, if you suspect you may be about to say something to incriminate yourself, I will read you your rights.”
I freeze. “I don’t understand. You’re talking about drugs. Wait, is that why you’re searching our house?” I meet his eyes directly. “I have never taken, or had any inclination to take, any drug whatsoever.” I frown and decide to be honest. “I did try marijuana in college, but that’s legal. I don’t understand why I’m here. Are you arresting me?”
“At this moment we don’t intend to charge you with a crime.” His words would have been comforting were it not for the expression on his face which seems to add not yet.
“Look,” I’m tired, confused, and not about to drop myself, or Ink, in it, “how will I know whether I’m incriminating myself? I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” I consider for a moment, wondering if the next question could be interpreted as pointing to my guilt, but ask it anyway. “I have never been questioned before. I know you’ve not charged me, but have I the right to get legal representation?”
The detectives exchange snide glances with each other. “You do have the right to have a lawyer present. Have you an attorney on speed dial?”
“No, but I have his daughter who’s my best friend. Her father lives in Denver, but he must know someone local who could help.” It’s only been two weeks since I was at Mel’s wedding. I’d spoken to her parents there and found her dad an approachable sort.
They seem reluctant, but they give me some time to make a call. Mel immediately agrees to contact her father. He’s fast. It’s only a couple of hours before a lawyer, a Mr Ottoman, is shown into the room. He’s a big, black man who regards the detectives with sharp eyes, while gentling his expression when it lands on me. He must be about Mel’s father’s age and immediately gives me twin feelings of confidence and comfort.
After he’s seated beside me, he nods to the detectives and immediately takes control. “You’re interviewing Ms Foster as a witness, I believe, and that she has not been charged with any crime?”
“Not as yet,” Barker confirms, unpromisingly.
Ottoman turns to me. “Go ahead and answer their questions. If you feel unsure about anything, let me know and we’ll discuss it. Likewise, if I’m not happy with a question or whether you should answer, I’ll indicate.”
I feel a little more relaxed now he’s here.
“If we can begin?” Barker asks but starts without waiting for an answer. “Ms Foster, can you tell me how well you know Damon McNeish.”
I frown and shake my head. “I know no one of that name.” I’m being completely honest.
Impatiently, Barker elaborates, “You may know him as Ink.”
“I don’t know him at all.”
“Ms Foster,” Barker says sharply, “your lawyer should have advised you to tell the truth.”
“I didn’t say I hadn’t met him, but we didn’t have much time for conversation. As you must realise, he didn’t even tell me his real name.”
“So, when did you meet him?”
“At Mel’s wedding. Melissa Evans as she is now. She married her man, Pyro, Brendan, two weeks ago.”
“And what relationship have you got with Mr McNeish?”
I shrug. “You know what weddings are like. A lot of drink flowing, people looking to hook up. Look, it may have escaped your notice, but I’m tall. Ink’s taller and that was refreshing. He intrigued me, and with the alcohol in my blood, I was attracted to him. We… er… made love. That was it.”
“You only saw him that one night?”
“I went to the Satan’s Devils’ clubhouse the following weekend. I’d been one of Mel’s bridesmaids, the other were women whose partners were Satan’s Devils. I’d gotten to know them quite well. Mel invited me back as they were having a surprise birthday party for Violet’s man Demon—he’s the prez. As I knew everyone going, it sounded like fun. Ink was there. We hadn’t planned on meeting again, but well, we again hooked up.” I’m having no difficulty so far. Everything I’ve said is the truth. Except I hold back that the sex was amazing and the best I’ve ever had. But there’s no way I’m divulging that.
The older detective, quiet until now, speaks up. “You’re saying you only had a physical relationship with Mr McNeish?”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a relationship, but that’s not a crime, is it? I’d be stupid to imagine anything other than that. Most bikers enjoy the single life.”
“So, you’re leading us to believe you’re a woman who just goes with a man for sex?”
“That, as Ms Foster has observed, is no crime,” Ottoman puts in calmly, no judgement at all in his tone or expression. “Perhaps you can explain what you want to know about Mr McNeish, other than trying to establish a relationship where it appears there was none.”
“Did Mr McNeish use any illegal substance in your presence?”
“No,” I say fast. “If he had, there would not have been a second time. I wouldn’t trust a man with a habit. I saw no drugs being used in the club, I wouldn’t have felt comfortable if I had. Of course, the odd joint, but nothing more.” And a live porn show, but that’s no crime.
Is this all they’re going to be asking? I start to feel less tense.
Barker opens a folder in front of him and passes a picture across. Ottoman takes it before I can glance at it, but after a second, slides it in front of me.
“Ms Foster, do you recognise this rucksack?”
It’s mine and has clearly been photographed as evidence.
“I had one just like that,” I point to the picture and admit.
“Had?”
“Yes.” I frown, trying to summon up all my acting skills. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen it.”
Barker sighs. “Ms Foster. Define ages please.”
“Years?” I shrug. “I really can’t remember. It was old, not fashionable, not even good enough to carry my gym stuff.” I frown. “Why have you got a photo of it? Or one very much like it?�
�
“Why so much interest in an old bag, Detectives?” Ottoman asks.
He’s ignored. “Your fingerprints were on this particular rucksack, Ms Foster. And we found none from anyone else.” The stare from his eyes is unblinking. I set my features and try not to shrink under his gaze. “I’d like to know just how this rucksack ended up in our evidence room.”
Tapping my fingertips together, I steeple my hands under my chin. “I haven’t seen it since the burglary,” I tell them.
Barker rolls his eyes. “You were burgled?”
“Our house was, a couple of years back.”
“Did you list the rucksack on the inventory of things stolen?”
I move my head side to side. “What with putting the house back straight and cataloguing everything for the insurance, I didn’t notice it gone. Forgot all about it until now. And even if I had noticed, it wasn’t worth making a fuss over.”
Ottoman holds up his hand. “I have no idea why you’re asking about this rucksack, but your interest carries the implication it’s been used, or appears to have been used, in committing a crime, or was at a crime scene. Ms Foster has told you she hasn’t seen the rucksack for a very long time. She’s also given a plausible explanation of how it could have come to be in the hands of someone who did commit a crime.”
As the detectives go to speak, Ottoman continues, “I gather the only reason Ms Foster has been brought in for questioning is her fingerprints came up as a match for those on the rucksack.”
The detectives exchange glances. “We are also interested in the relationship between Mr McNeish and your client. Mr McNeish is being questioned in connection with a serious crime and was carrying the rucksack in question. Ms Foster has admitted to knowing Mr McNeish and of having a relationship with him. That’s a lot of coincidences in my book. I suggest Ms Foster did not have it stolen in any home invasion, but instead gave it to Mr McNeish to use in connection with a crime.”
“Hold up,” Ottoman interrupts. “Coincidence yes, but tentative at best. First, a relationship of any substance between my client and Mr McNeish has not been established. Second, however Mr McNeish used the rucksack which appears at one time to have belonged to Ms Foster, there’s no logical leap to suggest she had any knowledge of what it was used for.”
The detectives stare at me, I try not to fidget.
Barker sighs. “I’ll ask a straight question. Did you or did you not give Mr McNeish the rucksack, Ms Foster?”
“No.” The word is accompanied by an adamant shake of my head. It’s true. Strictly he took it from me, I didn’t give it to him.
“Could Mr McNeish have taken the rucksack from your house? Has he been to your home?” Barker won’t give up. He seems like the proverbial dog with a bone.
Don’t drop him in it.
“I honestly don’t think so. Ink only came to the house once.”
“To collect the rucksack? Were you involved with what Mr McNeish was carrying last night? Did you know where he was?”
“Look, I’ve told you, I have no idea what happened to the darn rucksack. I have no idea how Ink came into possession of it. I don’t know where Ink was or what he was doing last night, let alone what he was carrying. If I’d thought about it, I’d have presumed he was at the club.”
“Who else has access to your house?” This from Hastings.
“My friends often visit. My brother. They’ve been there far more often than Ink.”
“I think Ms Foster has helped you answer your questions as best that she can. That she had a rucksack which you say is the one found or used at a crime scene doesn’t seem a crime by itself. Unless you have other evidence that links my client to any breaking of the law, I suggest we draw this interview to a close.”
I hold my breath, waiting for the detectives’ response.
Barker nods thoughtfully. “Where were you last night, Ms Foster?”
“Last night, I stayed in. I read a book and went to bed early.”
“Witnesses?”
“My mother.” Or that’s where she’d thought I’d been. Quite truthfully, she’ll be able to cover for me, I’m sure. Or at least, perhaps I better start praying that she does.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Mace
Cad had managed to pull up the driver’s permit photo of Connor Foster and has sent it to our phones. At least we’ll be able to recognise the motherfucker. There is definitely a familial resemblance to Beth. Facial features, that is—his hair is blond, not bright blue.
As predicted, the storm moved off, temperatures have risen overnight, and the forecast looks promising enough that we can take our bikes. It’s late afternoon by the time we arrive in Denver, and we draw up in an almost empty country park on the outskirts. The crash truck pulls up behind us, and out jumps Pal carefully carrying his and Cad’s most recent acquisition, the drone.
“What’s the range of that thing?” Beef asks him, his eyes critically examining what looks like little more than a toy.
“It’s limited by battery power and the time it can stay in the air,” Pal informs him. “What’s more important is that the warehouse is a quarter of a mile away from here, so for our purpose, it can easily get there and back, and I can have some time to fly it around to check the lay of the land and what’s going on.”
“What do you need to control it?” I ask, noticing Pal’s not carrying a control device.
Pal grins and pulls out his phone. “I just use this.”
A fucking app. Who’d have believed it? Well I suppose there’s one for everything now.
“I’ll get it set up. I’m using here as the home point it will automatically return to, should I lose contact for some reason. I’ve already programmed in the coordinates of the warehouse. I’ll get it in the air while we’ve still got some light.”
Pal looks excited, it’s the first time he’s using his new toy in a real situation. For me, it’s anti-climactic when, without fanfare, the drone lifts smoothly into the air, rises above the trees, then disappears behind them.
Pal’s attention now switches to his phone. Looking over I’m impressed by the quality of the image as the drone flies over the park and out across the landscape. It’s not long before it reaches its destination and the warehouse appears below. I have to admit I’m impressed and already thinking how useful this shit is.
“That’s the place.” Looking over Pal’s shoulder, Beef points to the screen. It’s easy to recognise from the Google images Cad had pulled up and shown us back in Pueblo, but now we can home in on the detail. It’s small, hardly worthy to be called a warehouse but must have been useful for someone at some time. What it’s being used for now is of more interest. At first glance it would appear not much, it’s almost derelict. But that could be a cover of course.
“No cars or trucks.” Pal sounds disappointed.
“None?” Beef takes the phone for a moment and examines it. “Could they have parked inside?”
Pal takes it back from the VP, then taps and slides his finger across the screen. After a couple of minutes, he informs us, “No loading bay they could have driven into. I’ve circled the whole of the outside.”
“Doesn’t mean no one’s there,” observes Hell. “Could be they’ve left people behind, dropping them off then picking them up to hide what they’re up to.”
“Or, it’s not a base at all. Just somewhere he used to make the calls from in case they were able to be tracked. Look at that.” Thunder points to the device Pal’s holding. “It looks abandoned to me.”
Fuck. I smash one fist into my other palm. “Wild goose chase. There’s nothing there.” Frustrated I pull out my cigarettes. Liz is the only other person to take one though I offer them around. “What’s the plan?” I ask the VP. “Go to the dad’s place instead?”
“I still think we need to check it out.” Beef frowns. “I’ve known meth labs set up in places like this. Just because it looks abandoned doesn’t mean it is and could be a disguise. Maybe if we go in we
won’t find anything, but what we do know is that Connor was there yesterday. There may be something we can find.”
“If Beth’s brother was hurt, there could be blood,” Hellfire suggests. “If he’s dead, there might be some sign, or even a body.”
“And if there’s no evidence of a scuffle, he was lying through his teeth.” I state what I fully expect to find. Nothing at all.
“Hang on. Look.” Pal waves us back over to him. I finish off my cigarette, stub it out on the heel of my motorcycle boot, and pocket the end. It’s an ingrained habit not to leave evidence behind.
I glance over his shoulder. “Well, fuck me. Can you zoom in?”
Pal does, and a face of a man who shares the same bad habit as I comes into view. He’s just lit a cigarette himself.
“Not Connor.” I’ve just compared his face to the photo on my phone.
“Hey, what’s that. Under the lean-to there?” Pyro’s looking more carefully now.
“Bikes,” says Judge. “I can see two rear wheels.”
“Connor ride?” Hell asks but gets no answer. None of us know.
“You sure you’re not missing a car or truck, Pal?”
“Certain. I’ve double checked everywhere.”
As he zooms back in at the man having a smoke, I chuckle, getting a few looks of surprise. I point to Pal’s phone. “He’s got no fuckin’ idea we’re watching him.”
“Move it away,” Liz says suddenly. “I don’t want to see his fuckin’ cock.”
Sure enough, the man’s turned, and is taking a leisurely piss against the wall.
“Offends your sensitive eyes, does it, Liz?” I chuckle again.
“See enough fuckin’ cocks in my line of work,” he complains. Well, he was the one who suggested extending the tattoo business to include offering a piercing service.
“Circle the drone around so we can get an idea of how best to approach, then bring it back,” Beef suddenly decides. After Pal’s done exactly that, the VP stares off into the distance for a moment, then states, “Going by the transport they’ve got, we’ve got two, possibly four of them if they doubled up on their rides. There’s nine of us.”
Satan’s Devils MC -Colorado Box Set: Books 4-6 Page 62
