CHAPTER THREE
Rocker Hayes stood on the usually quiet, peaceful Barker Street in Airway Heights, surveying the damage done to what had been a tidy, if ridiculously small house. Beside him stood the owner, Deputy Milt Dunbar, who was shaking his head in disgust.
"Do not get why anyone would do this," Dunbar said. "I tell you, just when I think I've seen everything on the job, gotta deal with this on my day off."
Rocker unclenched his jaw enough to lift his chin in response. He'd also seen plenty in his years behind a badge, and this shit was ugly.
"Looks like they used spray paint and what the hell is that, dog shit smeared all over the front steps? Who the hell does that, and to a nice girl like this?"
"Whoever it was, can't spell worth a shit," Rocker muttered.
Acid green and bright blue spray paint had been used to scrawl the words 'Flyar ho', 'cunt', and 'bich' on the beige outer walls and white front door of the tiny house.
Dunbar snorted. "That'd be ninety percent of the low-lifes around here, so no clues there. Anyways, your gal's got somebody mad. Thought at first it was one of my past arrests, but considering the word choice, I'm thinking it's my tenant they're pissed at."
Rocker glanced sideways at the woman in question.
Billie Boggs stood nearby, staring at the rental house she'd moved into a month ago. She was listening as a female Airway Heights cop spoke. Billie was nodding, but her movements were jerky. As Rocker watched, she swiped the back of her hand over her wet face and sniffled once. Upset, verging on shocky, but maintaining. That was good, because the local law had to do their job.
Then the brothers of the Devil's Flyers would step in and do theirs.
No one treated Flyer family like this—not and got away unscathed. This shit would not stand. Especially not when the victim had done nothing to deserve it.
Rocker was sure Whitey was pissed at the Flyers, maybe Lesa and Pete, but Billie had nothing to do with it, had unwittingly walked into the middle of a shit fest, literally in this case.
"Don't know who did it," Rocker said, quietly—because while Dunbar was, if not a friend of the club, at least an ally, the policewoman talking with Billie was not. "But I'll be pursuing my own investigation."
Milt Dunbar, a stocky man with short, thinning hair, spoke out of the side of his mouth. "Just stay out of the way. The new top cop's got a hard-on to prove himself, and he's riding his officers pretty hard. They'll likely take any excuse to come down on you."
Rocker grunted. If there was one thing at which he'd become an expert in the last few years, it was flying under the radar—of the law, rival clubs like the despicable Prairie Rattlers of the Tri-Cities, and whoever else the Flyers needed to encourage to stay out of their business. "Yeah. Still, nobody treats Flyer family like this."
"Not real fond of my property being treated this way, either," Milt said. "Lucky they were spooked before they could do more than kick the front door open. Otherwise, they coulda done a whole lotta damage inside."
Rocker nodded. "Amen to that. Now, looks like they're done with Billie, so I'm gonna get her outta here."
"You taking her to Stick's?"
"Nope. Somewhere safe, though. Later, man."
The female cop, a sturdy young woman with black hair and brows and a no-nonsense attitude, flipped her notebook closed, and looked at Rocker in a way that said she knew who he was. To his surprise, she gave him a polite nod. Her boss, the new chief of the Heights force, didn't bother with such niceties.
Officer Whitehorse, according to her badge, looked to Billie again. "You sure you don't want to call one of your friends to come and help you?" she asked.
Billie shook her head. "No, I'm fine. Thanks."
"Got help comin'," Rocker said now, moving to Billie's side, gaze on the cop. "Cleaning crew on the way, Marquita Ruiz and her girls."
When Billie looked up at him in surprise, he met her gaze. She was gorgeous, even with her eyes and nose pink from crying, her cheeks pale. Her lashes were tear-wet clumps, her lips damp.
She sniffled again, and shook her head, frowning up at him. "I can't afford—" she began.
Rocker cut her off. "Told you, this is not all on you, babe. Club has the Ruiz's on contract. We call 'em, doesn't matter whose place it is, they come and do their job, then send us a bill. Now all you gotta do is get in there, pack up a bag, and come with me."
She blinked, and her frown deepened. "No, I need to—I can't just leave."
He looked to the house, and raised his brow at her. "Why, you got livestock to take care of that I don't know about, or plants to water?" Since she did not have room for the first, and hadn't been in the place long enough to amass the latter, he shook his head, done with the subject. "You're not stayin' here, not until this place is cleaned up. Now go on, get what you need and let's go."
When she simply stood, giving him that look that made him want to simultaneously chuckle and growl in irritation, he lifted his hand, set it on the small of her back, and gave her an encouraging squeeze. "Babe. Don't have all day, so get a move on, yeah?"
"If you don't wish to go with this man, I can see to it you are escorted somewhere safe," the cop put in.
When Rocker shot her a look, she returned it in a way that said she was not about to back down until her job was done to her satisfaction. Since he respected that, and liked that she was taking Billie's back, he said nothing.
"What?" Billie asked. Her pale cheeks flushed, and she shook her head. "Oh, no, it's—I mean, I can go with him. He's a friend. So, uh, I'll just go and get my stuff. Thank you, Officer."
The cop allowed herself a smile at Billie, nodded, and walked away to her patrol car.
"You okay?" Milt Dunbar asked Billie, giving her a gentle smile. "Don't worry about repairs, I got insurance on the place. Always figured if anything happened, it'd be my Dad leaving a skillet on the stove and set fire to the place. Still, my insurance agent doesn't care, they'll pay. And if any of your stuff is wrecked, you have renter's insurance, right?'
Billie winced in a way that told Rocker she had nothing of the kind, but she gave Milt a smile. "Sure, and thanks. I'm glad you won't be out any money for this. I never thought anyone would—you know..."
Her soft lips trembled again, and Rocker moved, putting his hand on her again, and giving her an encouraging push toward the house. "Not your fault, babe. Now go on in and get your things. I'll be in in a minute."
She moved obediently to the front step, tiptoeing through the smears of dog shit on the planking, and disappeared into the tiny house.
"All right," Milt said. "I gotta get over to the hardware store, get some new locks."
"Might invest in some motion sensor lights," Rocker suggested. "Front and back. Just to let everyone know you got eyes on the place."
"Right." Milt looked as if he wanted to say more. Instead, he lifted his chin. "Later, man."
"Later." Rocker watched the deputy get into his pickup truck and drive off along the quiet street.
Barker Street was very quiet. Shaded by a stately row of old spruce trees that had once been a farm windbreak, and later plantings of sturdy hedges of lilac and such, every house was what Realtors loved to call 'private'.
Which to a cop meant that when something happened, no one saw shit, and if the perps were reasonably quiet, no one heard them either, or paid attention. Add in that one next-door neighbor was a deaf ninety-year-old woman, and the other worked two jobs, and there'd been no one around to witness the arrival and activities of the vandals. Until, that is, the neighbor's son arrived to take her to a doctor's appointment, noticed the spray paint and called 911.
The perps had gotten away, in an old Toyota Tercel that had been parked at the end of the street, near the back entrance to the empty repair shop on the corner. The neighbor's son didn't recall the plates, other than they were Washington state.
However, this didn't mean Rocker didn't know exactly who was responsible. Whitey Simms and his shit-for-brains little group of friends. One of Spokane's many wannabe gang-bangers.
Whitey had reason, because of his sister Aysha, to be pissed at Pete, maybe Lesa, and collaterally, the Flyers. But instead, they'd targeted Billie. And Rocker was gonna find out why, and put a stop to it. And if that meant putting a stop to Whitey himself, wouldn't hurt Rocker's feelings much.
He might not be a cop anymore, but he was still a big fan of justice.
* * *
Billie had never before been grateful that when she cried, her nose got stuffed up, but she was now. Because even through this, she could smell the stench of dog doo that had been smeared all over her front porch, and then tracked into the tiny living room, all over the big area rug. Which, although it was an ugly burgundy and puce, was practically new.
Skirting the smears she could see, she hurried into the bedroom. It was mainly taken up by a bed and bedside table. The bureau and closet were built-in. Her big suitcase resided in the bottom of the closet with her shoes and boots on top, and her clothing hanging above or folded in the bureau. There was just room to pull the suitcase out of the closet, lift it onto the bed, turn and back up to the bed so she could open the bureau drawers.
Since she had no spare cash to spend on clothing, and her summer stuff was stored in her suitcase, it didn't take her long at all to pack her things. She dumped her meager cosmetics into her wash kit, left the towels and bath mat, which had come with the house, as had the dishes and utensils.
The frig was empty except for a strawberry yogurt, an apple and half a carton of eggs, as she'd planned to shop for groceries tomorrow, Saturday. Feeling as if she'd never want to eat again, Billie left the food there.
Pulling her suitcase and carrying the threadbare hobo bag with her small purse, laptop and picture, she walked to meet Rocker, who waited inside the front door, a pained look on his face.
"Sorry," she said, flushing. "I know it's awful."
He cut her off with a hand up, palm out. "Babe. Not your fault, just don't like the smell of dog shit. Hand over your suitcase, so you can watch your step."
Realizing her chances were zero of navigating the huge piece of luggage across the filthy porch without stepping in the drying mess, Billie stepped back and let him take it.
But outside, instead of waiting for her and handing it back over, her black knight hauled her suitcase to his car, shoved it into the trunk, and slammed it shut. Then he waved her to the passenger side. "Get in, babe. Let's go."
"Okay," Billie agreed, moving toward him. "Can you drop me off at ..." But here, her words trailed off, because where would she ask to be taken? Lesa and Pete were out of town, and their house was much too far in the country and out of Rocker's way. The Hangar was close, but then someone there would have to take her out to the house after working a long shift.
The little motel where Lesa had stayed when she came to town was just up the block on the other side of the main road through town. That wouldn't inconvenience Rocker anymore.
She slid into the cushy leather passenger seat, and looked up from settling her bag on the floor at her feet. "The Heights motel," she told him. "It's right up the block."
"Know where it is, babe," he said, slamming his door and turning the key in the ignition. "Not takin' you there, though."
The big car rumbled to life, and he put it in gear. "Well, why not?" Billie asked, perplexed. "It's close."
"Yeah, and it's also in plain view of everyone who passes through town," he said, slowing for the main road, and then accelerating out onto it, gravel spurting from the tires. "And the security is shit. One old woman and a few lights do not make a place safe."
They rolled east past the local farm & ranch store, meeting a pair of men on big Harleys wearing black leather, one with red hair blown back in the wind, the other with a bandanna covering his black hair. Both lifted their hands in acknowledgment. Rocker lifted two fingers from his steering wheel in what seemed to be his standard greeting. "I'm takin' you somewhere no one will find you unless we want them to."
A chill slithered down the back of her neck, and she stared at him as they swung around a curve and onto the highway interchange. "You think Whitey and his friends did this, don't you?"
"Damn straight I do," he said, his face hard. "You aren't exactly the kinda woman who stirs shit up, so anyone else after you at the same time would be a mighty big coincidence. Not much of a believer in coincidence."
Neither was she, but the other part of his statement echoed in her ears. She turned away, focusing on the view outside. They were crossing the river gorge and headed into the north-west part of Spokane, but she barely saw the old brick buildings interspersed with older homes, and small businesses.
'She wasn't the kind of woman who stirred up shit', meaning she wasn't the kind of woman that men wanted, not enough to cause trouble, or drama. She was the kind they either ignored, or treated as a friend. The kind they wanted to code their games, but not to date.
And as for a man like Rocker... she'd never be the kind of wild and free woman that he'd offer a ride on his big motorcycle—or his car, unless he was doing a favor for the club.
"Hey, where'd you go?" At the sound of his voice, Billie turned to meet his keen gaze. He examined her face, and his expression softened. "Tuned out on me. You've had a shit day, huh?"
She wrinkled her nose. "Try a shitty week."
"Yeah, I hear you there." His big, warm hand landed on her thigh, and he gave her a gentle squeeze through her thin pants. "You're safe now, though. And we'll get this straightened out, get those little piss-ants off your back. Okay?"
Luckily, he removed his hand to put it back on the steering wheel, so Billie was able to gather her thoughts enough to answer his remarkable statement. "Uh, we will? I don't think you need to worry about my problems. I'll just find somewhere to stay—a motel here in Spokane would work. You can drop me off, and then go about your business."
Instead of answering, Rocker slowed, and turned the Firebird off of the street.
They prowled into a paved court in the L of an old brick building with a wide garage door set in one wall perpendicular to the street. The brick was mellowed by time to shades of soft rust.
The garage doors, and the walk-in door set in the wall facing the street were black, as were the frames of the long windows on either side of the door. These were covered with bars.
A small sign beside the walk-in door, also black, announced in gold lettering that this was the home of RSS Inc.
The garage doors rolled smoothly up, revealing a cavernous, cement-floored garage and workshop, ringed with counters and shelves. A big, gleaming Harley was parked to one side, black with silver ghost flames and lots of chrome. It was a beautiful machine, and suited the man at her side.
They stopped, and Billie roused herself to unfasten her seatbelt and open her car door. "Okay," she said as they stepped out into the garage. It was quiet, and smelled faintly of motor oil and old wood. "So, I guess I'll go find myself a motel."
She jumped as Rocker opened the trunk beside her, and then took a step back as he moved by her to grab the handle of her suitcase and lift it from the car. She reached for it and he shook his head, moving away from her toward a door in the right wall.
He opened the door and disappeared through it, carrying her suitcase with him. Scowling at his rudeness, because of course he was ready to be rid of her, but he could at least use his words, she marched across the garage and followed him through the door.