Thirty-Three
Ronnie’s apartment was part of a new-construction block not a quarter mile from the school, the facades fresh brick, the balcony railings iron, the front gates manned by a surly security guard who made her wait while he buzzed Ronnie’s unit and confirmed that she was in fact his girlfriend.
Whatever that meant after she’d promised to spend the night with someone else.
There was an empty space beside his Lexus in the parking lot, and she walked up the brick-enclosed outdoor stairwell with a guilty, thumping pulse. This wasn’t her; she wasn’t the girl who played two men at the same time. But she couldn’t bring herself to see it that way: Mercy didn’t count; Mercy wasn’t cheating; Mercy was a given. Ronnie would never understand that.
Ronnie had to go.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly through her teeth as she knocked.
It took him a minute to answer, and when he did, he was dressed for the day: plaid oxford, Dockers, loafers, dark hair combed down and to the side. He had his phone in his hand – that damn phone again – and his brows went up, like he was surprised to see her.
“Ava. Don’t you start class this morning?”
“I’m on my way there now.” She had the impression he didn’t want to deal with her now; he seemed distracted, his gaze not quite landing on her. “I wanted to check in with you. You didn’t answer my calls yesterday afternoon.”
That brought his eyes to her. “I was busy. I was moving my stuff in.” An accusation there: you should have been here helping me.
“Right. Still…I left you several messages.”
“Ava,” he sighed, “I applied to UT’s grad program because that’s where you were going. I rented an apartment here, I’m interviewing for jobs here, because of you. I am here because of you. And it’s more than obvious you don’t want me here.”
“No, Ronnie–”
He pulled a disgusted face. “Stop denying it. You got back home with your biker people and you don’t want anything else to do with me.”
“My biker people?” she asked, bristling.
“I’m sorry – Biker Americans. Is that the PC way to put it?”
“You’re being an ass.”
“Well, it’s about time, apparently.” He was really getting worked up now, his cellphone-free hand braced on the doorjamb, his breath picking up. “Maybe that would turn you on for once, huh? If I was some psycho asshole.”
She took a step back, arms folding across her chest. “Stop it.”
“No, you stop it,” he bit back. “I’m sick of this bullshit, you giving me the brush-off and getting embarrassingly tipsy in bars over someone so much older than you he ought to be in jail right now.”
Ava took another step back, hand curling tight around the strap of her purse.
“You need to tell me, before I spend four months here waiting around to start school, if you have any intention of turning back into the Ava I met at UGA. Because if this is what I’m stuck with” – he gestured to her – “then I’m out of here. I deserve better than this.”
She hadn’t expected it to sting so hard. She was in the wrong, yes, but she hadn’t thought he’d pull out all the old rich-boy tricks: she was some biker slut, she wasn’t good enough, there was something wrong with her, she ought to be ashamed.
“You’re right,” she said, voice brittle. “You deserve way better. You deserve a girl who’ll abandon everything she’s ever loved and be exactly the girl you want her to be.”
She whirled around and put her back to him, marching down the stairwell the way she’d come, her heels striking the concrete like hammer blows.
“Ava, wait–”
“Goodbye, Ronnie,” she called without turning. “Don’t let me waste one more second of your precious time.”
Her hands were shaking as she climbed into her truck and wrapped them around the steering wheel.
“Tell me I’m not stupid,” she whispered to herself.
But she thought about Mercy’s voice over the phone last night – “Come spend the night with me tomorrow” – and knew she was.
Mercy knocked on the Teagues’ back door at five after nine. Harry the prospect had been leaning against his bike in the drive, beside Maggie’s Caddy, playing something on his phone that made little pinging sounds. Mercy had nodded at him in greeting, and as he listened to Maggie’s feet come across the kitchen, he reflected that he should have stopped to slap the phone out of Harry’s hands. He was supposed to be guarding, not killing time.
Maggie was in jeans and boots, a soft old sweatshirt she made look fashionable. “I’m all ready,” she said, leaving the door open for him, going to the kitchen counter where she’d laid out her first aid kit. “Come sit down.”
He shut the door behind him and shed his cut, jacket, shirt, draping them across the table before sitting down. He wished, as he watched Maggie wash her hands, that it was Ava here instead.
“She’s at school?” he asked before he could help himself.
“MmHm.” Maggie picked up her 10cc syringe of alcohol and came to stand behind him. She was beautiful, feminine, warm, she smelled nice, but there was no thrill there, no secret delight in the light scrape of her nails as she peeled up the edges of the bandage tape. He wanted Ava. “She stopped by Ronnie’s new place on her way in,” Maggie said, voice half-focused, her attention on the wound as she exposed it to the air. There was a flicker of deep pain as the tape pulled away from the tender flesh. “Apparently,” she mused, “they’re having some sort of relationship drama.”
“Hmm,” Mercy hummed.
“I for one” – her tone became ironic – “can’t imagine why.”
He chuckled. “Dude’s uptight.”
“He is that.”
The alcohol flushed through the wound, burning like acid, and he felt the tendons in his neck leap involuntarily.
“Still,” Maggie continued, “I have to give him credit. He came all the way up here. He met us. That’s more than most non-club guys would do.”
Mercy didn’t comment.
“He calls himself her boyfriend, which is more than most would do, seems like.” She swabbed the wound with a firm flick of her wrist, digging in deeper than she needed to, proving a point.
It was the dance, the subtle weapon deployment of all clever women. He’d always despised it. He managed to admire Maggie Teague for it.
He pushed back. “He’s every mother’s dream son-in-law alright. Who wouldn’t want her daughter with that guy?”
“I dunno.” Maggie smeared the bullet hole with antibiotic ointment. “There are some mothers who’d want their daughters to be happy. Want their daughters to be with the men who truly loved them.”
She went to the counter for the fresh gauze and tape. “There’s some mothers,” she said, “who understand that love doesn’t always look normal, and that it doesn’t have to.”
“That’d be a pretty understanding mother,” he said, “to understand something that looked sick.”
Her hair swung forward and brushed the back of his neck as she applied the fresh bandage in a few deft movements. “A pretty smart one, too,” she added.
Mercy grinned.
“All done,” she said. “It looks good. Come get it dressed tonight.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He hadn’t had a chance to stand when she spun around in front of him, her hands on his shoulders, bent at the waist so they were on eye level. All subtlety had left her. Her eyes were wide, earnest, her mouth drawn in a tight line.
“You have to stand up to him this time,” she said, voice emphatic. “I can’t plead for you, and Ava can’t cry and fuss and stomp her feet. It has to be you, Merc. You have to insist, and he’ll bitch for a while, but he’ll respect you for it.”
“I don’t–”
“Felix Lécuyer,” she said in her most maternal voice, “don’t you dare let my baby waste her time on some douchebag who doesn’t love her. If you don’t love her either, then you run as far and as fast as you can away from her. But if you do – like I know you do – then for the love of God, marry her, give her babies, be her man. I’m so damn sick of seeing the two of you circle each other. Don’t repeat five years ago. Don’t treat her like a whore.”
“I have never done that.”
“Prove it,” she challenged, stepping back. “Prove it to her. Because everyone in the world knows you worship Ava…except for Ava.”
Ghost sipped coffee, his expression one of extreme concentration as the audio of last night’s interrogation played on Ratchet’s laptop. Amid the screams, the deep breathing, the cursing, the denials, there was one thing that had stood out: Fred – poor stupid Fred – had admitted that someone was backing the club financially, but he didn’t know who. Mercy had believed him, and he’d shown him, well…mercy, finally, one clean shot through the forehead execution style.
“Turn it off,” Ghost said, and Ratchet shut down the audio browser fast. “What have we got from the files?”
“A big damn mess,” Ratchet said with a sigh. “The bookkeeping’s psychotic.”
“But?” Ghost prodded.
“But there’s money being funneled into an account set up in Larsen’s name. Fifteen thou a week.”
“Shit,” Aidan said. “So that leaves out…half this city.”
“It does narrow the pool,” Ghost agreed. He looked to his son. “You’ve gotta lean on Greg, see if he knows anything. When we take these guys down, I wanna take their backer with them.”
That was Ghost, always pushing for more. The big takedown rather than the small.
Mercy leaned back and let the table he was sitting on hold more of his weight. The move pulled at his neck, and he grimaced.
Ghost saw. “Did you go have that looked at this morning?”
He nodded. “Mags changed out the packing.”
“Good.” Absent, already turning away again: “Don’t do that stupid shit again.”
Walsh was sitting across the table from Ratchet, poring over the stolen files from Carpathian HQ. “I think we” – motion toward the secretary – “can trace backward and get a routing number; if we can access the account, we can see deposits and withdrawals. But I’d bet you anything this is set up under a fake name.”
Fake name – it stirred up memories, prickled the back of Mercy’s neck. A fake money source, just like the drug supplier whose trail they’d lost five years ago.
“I wanna know it anyway,” Ghost said. “And until then, I want everything on lockdown tonight. No gaps, no slips. Nobody gets in or gets near one of ours.”
Nods all around.
He sighed, shoulders sagging. “Fielding’s gonna come question us, one at a time, about Andre. So be prepared for that to fuck up your day.”
“Right here,” Maggie said, positioning Harry beside a parking meter in front of Flanders’ with a fast pat on each of his shoulders. “And if I signal you through the window” – she gestured to the flower shop over her shoulder – “come running. Okay?”
“Yes’m.”
She sighed and nodded. These two new prospects were good boys – lifeless, but good. She just hated the burden of them, that constant shadow, the feeling like she couldn’t blow her nose without someone studying her every move.
“You know,” she said, as a cloud slid away from the sun and the light set Harry’s red hair aflame. It whitewashed his pale skin, brought his freckles out in stark relief. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Prince Harry?”
He gave her a faintly amused look from under his russet brows. “My real name’s Lionel, ma’am. The boys called me Harry ‘cause I looked like him, and ‘cause it was easier to remember.”
Maggie snorted. “I hope you didn’t plan on keeping your dignity, prospecting with these guys.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Alright, we’ll be back.”
“These two are good,” Jackie said as they turned away and crossed the street amid sluggish midafternoon traffic, echoing Maggie’s thoughts. “That year Jace and Andre came on” – little shake of her head that set her red bob swinging alongside her ears – “slim pickin’s.”
“I never could believe either of them patched,” Maggie admitted as they squeezed between two parked SUVs and stepped up onto the sidewalk.
“With Hound and Troy getting up there, though…” Jackie let it hang.
That was how the club had to work; the old blood died out, and new blood had to be transfused.
“Let me ask you something,” Jackie said, catching Maggie by the elbow just before they reached the door. Her expression had become tight, serious, a little awkward. “Something Collier said in passing – not gossip,” she assured, “just something he was wondering.”
Maggie nodded.
“Aidan thought he was going to be VP, didn’t he?” Jackie asked with a tasteful wince.
Maggie sucked at the inside of her cheek. “I think so, yeah, but I think he knew that would never happen. Just like I think he knows he has lots to prove before someone hands him an officer patch and puts him in charge of anything.”
Jackie nodded. “Collier thought…well, nevermind.”
“Not ‘nevermind.’ ” Maggie plucked at her purse when she would have pulled away. “What?”
“It’s nothing. Really, it’s not. I just…”
Maggie was getting irritated. “Just what?”
“Don’t want there to be some sort of internal politics bullshit in addition to the external bullshit we’ve got going on,” Jackie said in a rush, with a loud exhale on the end, like she’d been wanting to say that for days, and was relieved to get it off her chest.
It was anything but a relief to Maggie. “Does Collier think there’s internal politics bullshit?”
“No. No…he just…he’s worried, is all.”
“And you just thought you’d mention it to me, ‘is all,’ so I could put a bug in Ghost’s ear and get things all smoothed over, right?”
Jackie looked startled.
“If the boys have a problem, then it’s their problem to handle,” Maggie said. “I’ve got a enough to worry about keeping Dartmoor running, keeping all of them fed and partied and alive and bullet-hole-free. Their arguments they have to settle themselves.”
Jackie glanced away, blinking hard. She looked nothing like herself, pale and rattled all of a sudden.
“Jackie, what’s wrong? Are you guys having problems–”
“No.” She shook her head, hair falling across her face. “Forget I said anything. Just nerves, you know.” She held up one trembling hand to prove her point.
Maggie frowned. She felt like she’d just learned her ship was taking on water…as they plowed straight toward an enemy vessel. No, she wanted to say, I didn’t think there was any personal bullshit – not until you made me think it!
She said, “Let’s get this over with. We can stop at Bell Bar for lunch. Get you some anxiety medication,” she added with a humorless chuckle.
Jackie just nodded and pushed her hair back, still looking drawn and uncertain.
Maggie made a mental note to keep an eye on…whatever this was…and then shoved it aside. She smoothed her expression and reached for the door handle of As a Daisy flower shop, one last check over her shoulder to see that Harry was in place. He was watching them with just the right amount of casual intensity.
She was putting in a good word for him with her hubby, she decided.
Daisy was a tiny rectangular shop, the center packed with displays of vases, balloons, baskets, grapevine wreaths, florist foam, glass jars, and wooden boxes: things to put your flowers in. There were big bins of glass beads of every color, smooth river stones, bright rough gravel; tubs of faux Spanish moss, green moss, yellow moss. Spools and spools of ribbon, the ends lolling like tongues, fluttering in the drafts of AC. The cut flowers were in the coolers that lined the side and back walls. And the desk sat dead center, the shop’s proprietress standing behind it, arranging calla lilies in a narrow, fluted vase trimmed in blue ribbon.
Ramona Baily glanced up briefly, that habitual checking of new customers. “Welcome to…” Then she did a double take and trailed off, her eyes going wide behind her black-framed, rectangular glasses.
“Maggie,” she said, voice toneless with surprise. “Jackie. Hi.”
Maggie pretended to inspect a heavy porcelain milk jug, running a finger down its glossy side, while she scrutinized Ramona from behind her sunglasses. “Hi.” She affected bored. “How much is this?”
Ramona pushed her glasses up into her short dark hair and Maggie saw the first faint sheen of perspiration at the woman’s temples. Fear. She ignored the question. “I meant to send an arrangement to the funeral. I’m sorry I didn’t. I’ve been so swamped lately–”
Maggie waved her quiet and edged toward the desk as she inspected the collection of glass beads. “You don’t ever send flowers to club events as a gift. Why should you start now?”
“Oh.” Loud sound of her swallowing. “Well, I just thought it would be a nice thing to do.”
“You mean, because you weren’t available to do the flowers for the funeral in a business sense.”
Slow, careful voice: “Right.”
“Flanders seemed to think,” Jackie spoke up, gliding perfectly into the dance from her position beside the desk and startling Ramona again, “that our business wouldn’t be welcome here.” Her brows were notched with worry, her voice a perfect blend of hurt and confused.
Ramona’s gaze swiveled between the two of them, hair slinging at the ends. “No, I never – I’ve been busy is all.” She let out a high, thin, nervous laugh. “You guys know Flanders. He loves gossip. Any excuse to wring his hands and get flustered, and he’ll take it.”
“I heard it at work too, though,” Jackie lied. “I said something about popping down to Daisy and the girls at the water cooler shook their heads and told me I didn’t want to do that.”
“Your shop’s gone anti-Dog,” Maggie said. “And everyone knows it. Nobody seems to know why, though. After all, I’ve dropped thousands of dollars in here over the years; I can’t imagine why anyone would turn away that kind of patronage.”
Ramona dampened her lips. Her chest heaved beneath her green embroidered apron. The Fear was getting hold of her, turning her inside out. “No, I wouldn’t…”
Maggie sighed, made a show of pushing her sunglasses up on her forehead. “Let’s be honest here, Ramona, okay? Can we?” She leaned an elbow on the desk, comfortable, but disappointed, the air of an old friend who just didn’t understand. “We saw those Carpathians come in here the other day. And then there’s this talk about how you don’t want us coming in. Now me, from the outside looking in – you have to know how that looks to me. It looks like you’re picking sides.”
“No.” Ramona’s eyes bugged. “I’m not. I don’t want to be involved in” – she made a helpless gesture – “whatever you’ve got going on with them.”
Maggie smiled sympathetically. “I get that. But here’s the thing: not taking sides is still taking a side. Because if you let them in, and turn us away, that’s saying you’re down with the Carpathians.”
“No–”
“And I can’t say I blame you, because you don’t know all the facts.”
Her brows lifted. “What facts?”
“The Dogs and the Carps are nothing alike, really,” Jackie said. “And it all boils down to history.”
Ramona looked dazed.
“The Dogs have been around since the late forties. They got started in London, built themselves up there, began setting up chapters in the US. It’s all about tradition with the Dogs: a self-sustaining legacy. Working in harmony with hometowns. It’s a proud tradition for our boys.”
“But the Carpathians,” Maggie said, rolling her eyes. “Rednecks with some eastern European blood in them somewhere, looking to move themselves up in the world. Guys like that don’t want to work hard, build their name, their reputation. They want to attack an existing group, and supplant them. The Larsen family goal is to wipe out the Dogs, and then they’ll be the reigning MC in Knoxville. And you can trust me, they won’t have any of the same public interests as the Dogs. These aren’t one-percenters, Ramona. These are the guys who show up in the middle of post-apocalyptic movies and run people down with meat hooks. Now, is that who you want to support? Is that the business you want in here?”
Ramona glanced down at her hands, her fingers knotting around the handles of her scissors. “I’m not choosing sides,” she said in an exhausted voice. She lifted her eyes and gave Maggie a meaningful look from beneath her brows. “I don’t care what’s going on. With either club. I think the whole thing’s stupid. I’m just trying to keep my shop open.”
Maggie asked, “What? You can’t pay your lease and the Carpathians offered to help with that?”
“No.” But Ramona swallowed, glancing away, throat pulling tight. No, that wasn’t it, but it wasn’t far off the mark.
“Did someone threaten you?” Jackie asked.
Silence.
Yes, that’s exactly what had happened.
Maggie pulled a scrap of dentist office reminder postcard from her purse and jotted her cell number on the back. She laid it on the counter, beside Ramona’s shivering hands. “I want you to call me, if you decide you want to talk about what’s going on.”
No response, but Ramona pressed her index finger to the edge of the card. She’d think about it; she’d lose sleep thinking about it.
Maggie slid her sunglasses back in place as they exited, sunlight blanketing them and burning on the bright top of Harry’s head across the street.
“So they’re threatening to take kneecaps on Main Street,” Jackie said. “That’s bolder than we thought.”
Fielding brought two young uniforms with him, a fresh-faced girl straight out of training and a boy with shoulders too big for his issued shirt. They flanked him, wide-eyed, twitchy, a little bit in awe of the sprawling complex around them. At some point, someone had told them bikers were greasy, broke, and disorganized. They hadn’t expected all of this.
Mercy noticed them talking to Aidan out in front of the bike shop. Aidan sat sideways on the seat of a customer’s bike and was smoking, sunglasses hiding his eyes. Mercy could see the female cop giving him the up-down look and liking what she saw. Clearly, she hadn’t expected one of those greasy, broke, disorganized outlaws to look like Aidan Teague.
Mercy half-smiled to himself and kept his head down, buried deep in the guts of the machine he was working on.
He didn’t escape notice, though. A few moments later, he heard footfalls behind him and Fielding said, “Lécuyer. Let’s take a little walk.”
Mercy passed Aidan on his way out, and they traded smirks. Fielding walked farther away than he had before; he and his lackeys led Mercy to the edge of the shop parking lot, where it turned into the wide drive that spanned the complex.
“You must have some super-secret shit to tell me,” Mercy said as he drew to a halt and shoved his hands in his pockets. He stood with the sun at his back, so his shadow swallowed the sergeant up completely. It was a small satisfaction.
The cop made a disgruntled, schoolmarm face. “I figured you’d appreciate some privacy given the…sensitive nature of our conversation.”
“Sensitive?” Mercy grinned. “Sergeant Fielding, are you gonna ask me out?”
The guy underling lifted his brows.
The girl hid a tiny smile behind the clipboard she held.
Fielding didn’t so much as twitch. “You haven’t been around for a while. I thought you’d moved on to some other chapter.”
Mercy shrugged. “For a few years.” The grin again. “Did you miss me?”
“No, but I’m betting Kenneth’s teenage daughter did.”
Mercy felt his face freeze over. His expression didn’t change, but it hardened into a plastic mask. “Well, Ghost has got his girl Ava, but she’s not a teenager.” Another shrug, for effect.
“Not anymore, but she was when you first became sexually involved with her. The age of consent in Tennessee is eighteen, Felix. She was seventeen when you skipped town; that’s statutory rape.”
“Statute of limitations on that ran out three years ago. If it even happened. So don’t get hard yet, mon ami.”
“I can’t prosecute, no, but I don’t think anyone in Knoxville would like to know that a rapist was back in town.”
“Are you fucking serious?” Mercy grinned again, but there was nothing pleasant about it this time. “You came all the way down here to ask about some imaginary thing I did five years ago? In case you forgot, one of our guys was murdered last week. Maybe you should be asking about that.”
“Just trying to establish a timeline,” Fielding said. “Five years ago, Ava Teague gets hospitalized, and you leave town. Last week, you come back into town, and five hours later, Andre’s dead.”
Mercy laughed. “Oh, so I must have done it. Me, the teen-raper and brother-stabber. Is that it?”
Both uniforms were getting uncomfortable. The girl had edged back a step.
Fielding shrugged. “Fourteen years ago, you came into town, and an all-out gang war erupted. Trouble seems to follow you around, Lécuyer. If someone says ‘murder,’ I’d be stupid not to come sniffing after you.”
“Or maybe I follow the trouble.” Mercy winked at him. “When you feel like arresting me and dragging me down to the precinct, I’ll be happy to cooperate. Until then, I’ve got shit to do.”
He half-expected to feel Taser prongs at his back, but he made it back inside the garage, to the bike he’d been working on before. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw that Fielding had Walsh in his crosshairs, the blank-faced Englishman staring at him with a total lack of interest. Served the asshole right; he’d have better luck questioning a fence post.
“Prick,” Aidan said, from somewhere behind him.
“Yeah,” Mercy agreed.
A prick with more information than any of them had ever offered up.
Ghost looked up at the knock at the central office door. Without Maggie around fulltime, the place was quickly going to shit. He’d be the first to admit that he sometimes took his wife’s business contributions for granted; he didn’t really learn that until she took a day or two off and his tidy world began to fray at the edges.
He hated fraying.
Jace stood in the threshold, still bloodshot and unkempt like he had been the morning after the party. Was the stupid little shit perpetually hungover?
“What?”
“Fielding’s talked to everyone. He wants to see you now, and he’s being a pain in the ass about it.”
Ghost sighed. “Send him in.”
Jace ducked out and was replaced by Fielding’s woefully bland, professionally-frowning countenance. He stepped over the threshold like he was stepping over a dirty puddle in a bad part of town, nose wrinkled for effect.
Ghost sat back in his chair and folded his arms. It didn’t matter how many pins the guy added to his uniform, how many titles he acquired within the department, to Ghost, he’d always be the awkward, plain kid who’d been crushed to learn that Maggie Lowe was running off and getting married before he’d ever worked up the courage to make a play for her himself. “You’re a sick fuck,” he’d told Ghost once, when he was still just a rookie beat cop. “She was just a kid, and you ruined her.” “I guess you never heard that ‘kid’ swear,” Ghost had returned.
Not one of their better conversations.
“Sergeant,” Ghost said. “I can give you five minutes, then I’ve got to get back to this balance sheet.”
Fielding nodded, hooked one thumb in his pocket, let the other arm hang limp. Awkward. He would never look at home in his own skin. He’d gotten more comfortable with being a pain in the ass, though.
“Jasper Larsen says you and your boys rode out to threaten them yesterday.”
“And my old man said he had tea with Winston Churchill during his last round of chemo. Did you come here so we could swap tall tales, or is this actually about the murder victim?”
A faint smile tugged at the man’s lips. “Your son’s got a chip on his shoulder; nice to be reminded it’s hereditary.”
“I’d imagine he hates bullshit as much as me. We’re crazy like that.”
The smile tugged again, then disappeared. “Did you threaten Larsen?”
“I’m real confused here,” Ghost said. “One of my boys turns up dead, and you’re asking me about some dipshit I don’t know or care about.”
“I’m asking because I smell a goddamn biker war on the horizon, and Knoxville, Tennessee isn’t about to become an MC battleground on my watch.”
Ghost took a deep breath and let it out slowly, letting his arms relax, folding his hands together over the flat of his stomach. “Vince, did you ever meet my uncle? Duane?”
His face hardened. “Everyone at the department knows who Duane Teague was.”
“Yeah, but did you meet him?”
“No.”
“No, ‘cause you were a baby when he died, right? ‘Cause I was only ten. Shit, you weren’t even born yet.”
Fielding crossed his arms, anger replacing some of the awkwardness. “Neither was your wife. What’s your point?”
“Uncle Duane was the sweetest man I ever met; sweeter than my dad. My old man would smack me upside the head if I so much as breathed too hard. But Duane, he was good to me. He put me up on his bike in front of him when I was five, and let me twist the throttle. He got me into Harleys.”
When the sergeant didn’t interrupt, he said, “Duane gave more money to charity than anyone else in this town, in his glory years. He took toys to the kids on the cancer ward every Christmas, and he gave out candy at Halloween, and he helped little old ladies across the street. And he was the president of this club for ten years.” He thumped the end of his forefinger onto the desk for emphasis. “This club – my club – has been a part of the fabric of Knoxville since 1960. And never during that time has the club hurt Knoxville.
“You’ve got one problem and one problem only, Vince. The Carpathians. The fucking Larsen family is going to burn this city to the ground if you let them. They killed my guy Andre, and here you are, asking if I hurt Jasper’s feelings. Now you tell me, what the hell kind of police work is that?”
“Andre had two different narcotics in his system at the post-mortem,” Fielding said.
“Never said he was a good guy, just said he got murdered.”
“And how do you know it wasn’t one of your own? Where was Lécuyer when the murder happened? You think just ‘cause he escaped charges in Louisiana, no one remembers what happened down there?”
“I think,” Ghost said, grinning, “that you’ve spent too much time looking through our personal business, trying to sprinkle on dirt when you can’t dig up any. I know the mayor’s putting the heat on you, telling you you’ve got to break down the Dogs, but you’re looking at the short-term win here. This mayor won’t last but the one term. This city – that’s forever. You scrape out the Dogs and let the Carpathians take our place – what does Knoxville look like after that? Are you willing to trade the devil you know? Just for a little instant gratification?”
Fielding turned his head and stared through the gapped blinds, out at the sunshine beaming on the asphalt, the busy foot traffic of Ghost’s corrugated steel empire. “You know,” he mused, “I’ve accused you of things over the years, but I was wrong on one count.” His eyes came back to Ghost. “You’re not stupid.”
Ghost tipped his head. “Guess I gotta take what compliments I can get.” He made a shooing gesture. “Your time’s up. Come back if you get a warrant.”
Fielding turned.
“Oh, and Vince?”
He paused, looking irritated that he’d obeyed. “What?”
Ghost leveled a sharp look on him. “The next time you mention my wife, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”