Ink's Devil: Satan's Devils MC Colorado Chapter #5

by Manda Mellett

  “I’m sure there is, will be. But right now, I don’t know what.” Mom’s holding her head as if it hurts.

  “I’ll be upstairs if anything happens,” I tell her. I just need some time on my own. Something I haven’t had since Ink was arrested, and I was taken back to the MC.

  I don’t blame Ink’s brothers for being suspicious of me and my involvement in the events of last night. When you think about it, my story is pretty lame. If I’d had more time to think, I might have done things differently. But I’d had none. Connor had made sure of that. On purpose? Or at gunpoint? Whatever, the result wouldn’t have changed.

  My hands cover my face, and I blink rapidly to push back the tears. I’m done with crying, it doesn’t help. But the anguish I feel is all but paralysing.

  I’d hoped to persuade Ink we could have a future. What would it have been like to make my life with him, like Mel has with Pyro? To have his baby like Mel’s pregnant with Ro’s?

  I’d been unlucky in all my relationships, had all but given up searching for my one. Now that I realise Ink may well have been it, our chance has come and gone.

  I sit on the bed rocking back and forth. Demon telling me Ink wanted nothing to do with me was perfectly understandable, but next saying he’d help protect me and Mom seemed at odds with that. Not that anyone’s come around as yet, maybe he’s already forgotten, or reconsidered, and our plight’s been washed off his hands?

  Once again, I wonder why Ink had taken the bag out of my hands when he must have known what would happen. If I could wind back time, I wouldn’t have let him. Or, I’d have stayed by his side so I’d been able to explain. Despite my fight, my eyes again start leaking.

  Vaguely, I become aware of a door being slammed, and loud voices from downstairs. The noises gradually filter through the sadness in my brain. Numbly wondering whether it’s Connor and he’s come in all guns blazing at Mom, I grab a tissue and wipe my eyes, and descend the stairs. The way I’m feeling right now, Connor’s lucky I don’t have a gun to hand.

  But it’s not my brother. It’s worse.

  Mom’s there, examining a piece of paper, and she’s surrounded by three cops.

  She turns when she hears me approaching. “Bethany, the cops have got a warrant to search this house. Do you know anything about it?”

  There’s a message in her eyes, I let mine widen. “Search this house? I’ve absolutely no idea.”

  The two uniformed cops glance at each other and roll their eyes.

  “You’re upset.” A plain-clothes detective approaches.

  Again, wiping my reddened eyes, I ignore his observation. “What’s all this about? What are you looking for?”

  “That warrant,” he takes it back from my mother and shows it to me, “gives us the right to search anywhere and everything. Is there anyone else in the house?” His eyes sharpen as though expecting me to lie.

  “No. It’s just Mom and me. What is this all about?” I repeat my previous question, having gotten no answer before.

  “Ms Bethany Foster?” another cop enters the front door and asks.

  I nod, fear settling in my stomach. “I’ve been asked to take you in for questioning.”

  “What on earth for?” I stare at him, my mouth dropping open, as beside me, my mom gasps.

  He shakes his head. “We think you may have information which will help an ongoing investigation. Will you please come along with me now?”

  “But you’re going to search the house. Shouldn’t I stay here?” I don’t like leaving Mom on her own.

  “Mrs Foster will be here.”

  “Ms Stephens,” Mom corrects from behind me, even now hating the reference she was ever married to my dad.

  “The car is waiting, Ms Foster.”

  “Where are you taking her?” Mom steps beside me, her forehead etched with lines of concern.

  The police officer states the name of the precinct.

  “I don’t understand,” I tell him. “I’ve done nothing wrong.” On the outside I’m trying to convey confusion, while inside, I’m wondering what and how much they know. It has to be enough for them to have obtained a search warrant. “Am I under arrest?”

  “Not yet,” he tells me ominously. “For now, Detective Barker just wants a word.”

  An innocent person wouldn’t refuse, would they? Right now, I’m not sure what is the right reaction to have, because I am guilty.

  “You go,” Mom says from beside me. “If you’re not back soon, I’ll get someone to help.” She presumably means a lawyer to represent me.

  “If you will, Ms Foster?” The police officer steps to one side, indicating I should precede him.

  I might not be under arrest, but that doesn’t make me feel any easier as I’m helped into the back of a police cruiser aided by a hand on the top of my head. The grill between me and the officers makes it feel like I’m in a cage, and the fact there are no door handles on the inside makes me feel claustrophobic. Luckily this won’t be too long a journey, my hands are already beginning to sweat. I feel like a prisoner, and it’s wearing me down.

  I’m trying hard to maintain what composure I have left as I exit the cruiser and step out, wondering whether I’ll say something to incriminate myself and this will be the last time I breathe in fresh air as a free woman. What is the sentence for being in possession of drugs? A long time, I suspect. The amount I was carrying would earn me more than just a slap on the wrist.

  With the thought that I could be going inside for many years, I take one last deep lungful of clean air, suppress the instinct to turn and run a marathon’s distance away, and step inside the precinct.

  If I thought being in the police car was intimidating, walking into the station is even worse. First, accompanied by the two officers, my purse is searched, then I’m taken through an electronically controlled gate, hearing the thick steel door slam shut behind me. I’m now in a different world. As prisoners wearing handcuffs are escorted along the corridor, I glance around wondering whether I’ll see Ink. There are also men in uniform all heavily armed. People are talking all around me, mentioning numbers which I presume relate to various crimes. I’m a tall woman, but I feel myself shrinking, becoming some insignificant being dumped into an alien world.

  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 s
omething? 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 a
nd 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.