Chapter 10

Marc

I have no problems getting the key from the agents, but I think I’m in the wrong place as I ride up on my bike. I pause in the road and check the address. Yes, I’m here alright. But the clean and tidy suburban dwelling was not what I expected as home to a biker. It’s a decent-sized single-storey adobe house, the front yard and exterior kept well maintained. I expected to find a neglected building, shrubs out of control having not been tended over the winter. If this is really Heart’s house, the only answer is that someone from the club must have been looking after it for him. In his state of mind, making arrangements to keep his property tidy would have been the last thing on his mind. And he’d already warned me I’d be walking into a mess.

I hadn’t objected. After all he was doing for me, getting his house cleaned and his wife’s stuff boxed up was the least I could do.

I ride up the short driveway and park my bike. There’s a garage to the side, but I don’t have the key for that. I do, however, have one for the front door. Still doubting this is going to be my residence until I get an alternative arranged, I ring the doorbell just in case someone is inside. When no one answers, I try the key in the lock. It turns, and the door opens. A loud beep sounds.

Oh shit, there’s an alarm. Quickly I look around to locate it, and find a piece of paper with a code written on it as well as my name. I’m expected. I quickly key in the number combination and the system goes back to sleep. Also printed on the paper are instructions and a description of the security system, explaining the front and back doors and all the windows are fitted with alarms. Beside the note sits a remote for the garage. Heart told me this place was secure.

My heart, which had speeded up as I dealt with the security, starts to slow down, and it’s only now I take stock of my surroundings. I’ve entered into a comfortable living room where I see two big couches, one facing a massive TV on the wall. The floor’s polished wood with a couple of rugs, one in front of what looks like a working fireplace, and there are comfortable cushions scattered around. The strong odour of polish assails my nostrils.

It’s been cleaned. Despite Heart cautioning me, it looks like all the work’s already been done.

Continuing to examine what will be my residence for a while, I spy an empty toy box is off to one side, reminding me that this was a child’s home too. Quickly I pull my eyes away from that evidence and cross the room, entering a kitchen fully equipped and with modern appliances. It smells fresh and clean, and my horrific imaginings that there’d be over eight months’ worth of food rotting in the fridge start to dissipate. But just to make sure, I open the door and find no rotting items, but a fresh bottle of milk and some basic commodities, and a whole shelf taken up with beer.

A smile comes to my face. Heart’s brothers must have arranged to have it prepared for me. Now far more optimistic and eager, I check out the rest of the house. The first door I open is to a den. It’s got a second TV and is decorated with motorcycle paraphernalia. On one of the walls is a framed picture of Heart when he was in the Marines. He’s kneeling, grinning, at the front of the photo, his comrades around him. I stare at it for a moment. I’d almost forgotten what he looked like. Obviously his hair’s grown out from the crew cut he’d worn at that time, but his eyes are sparkling, his full mouth curved up. I’d hardly have recognised him as the same man I’d only seen in a hospital bed.

Another photo is of him, Crystal, and Amy, and my heart breaks for the motherless child and the woman who’s gone. I put out my hand and steady myself on the sofa. They looked so happy, so good together, and so much in love. It reminds me I’m in another woman’s home. She might be gone, but I mentally make a promise to take good care of it, just as if she was going to come home.

A short walk down a hall and I come to the bedrooms. The first door I open has to belong to a child. There’s pink everywhere, and a toy castle, and the bed cover is that of a Disney princess—Ariel I believe—but I could be wrong, not being up on such things.

The room opposite is the master, a large airy room which seems too feminine for a biker, and dominated by a huge bed. Off to the side can be seen an ensuite. I close the door quickly, feeling like an intruder.

Going to the last room, I find the guestroom. There are crisp clean sheets on the bed, and a plain grey comforter. This room’s more masculine and will suit me fine. I sit on the mattress, quickly assessing it’s going to be comfortable. The closet is open, showing it’s empty of clothes and has plenty of room for the few new things I’ve been able to purchase when I stopped off at Target on my way here—basic underwear, a few t-shirts, and a couple of pairs of cheap jeans. After the fire I need to replace everything, a mammoth task as I think of all I’ve lost. I slip off my jacket and lie back on the bed, cataloguing, not for the first time, my burned possessions.

Every fucking thing. Oh, except that the neighbour who pulled me out had helpfully grabbed things nearest to the front door, which was luckily my Kawasaki helmet and jacket that matches my bike. And at least I had my bikes as modes of transport, the quick response of the fire service had prevented the flames spreading to the garage. While I’ve got my main ride here, soon I’ll have to get a taxi and go pick up my Suzuki.

When I’d considered the fire when I’d been in the hospital, it was almost as if it had happened to somebody else. Now I’ve got to cope with the practicalities, I’m overwhelmed that everything I owned is gone. I’ve got no hairdryer, straighteners, just a hairbrush a helpful nurse had brought in for me. Basic toiletries that had come from the hospital shop. I’ve lost my laptop—although it was a work one—but my own tablet and kindle went up in flames.

I can see a lot of online shopping at Amazon is in my future, and hope that one of the TVs is smart.

Tears roll from my eyes, though I’m not normally so emotional. I feel lost and alone, cast adrift, almost like the time I had to recover from losing my family.

I sit up sharply, making my head protest. I’ve lost possessions, nothing like people. I’ve got to pull myself together and move on.

My bladder is signalling me I have to find the bathroom, so after my silent admonishment I get up and once again go to the hall. There it is, next door to my bedroom. Stepping inside, I do the necessary, and then look around. Suddenly overcome with amusement, chuckling, then bending over with laughter.

I should have suspected when I found all the beer, it just hadn’t occurred to me at the time. But the range of men’s toiletries which had been supplied, razor and shaving cream, as well as the black and grey towels, shows me I’m not who was expected.

Nope. Heart must have given my name as Marc.

For some inexplicable reason I find the situation funny, and I’m still giggling as I return to the bedroom.

After putting away my meagre collection of clothes, I find the makings of an omelette and get myself something to eat. Then, moving to the living room, take out my phone and call Heart. I have to thank him for allowing me to stay in this beautiful house and for getting it prepared, even if the preparations are quite masculine.

Opening a beer, appreciating the generosity, though I would have preferred wine, I settle back and place the call. It goes unanswered.

Later that evening, I try calling again. Once more the tone rings, then cuts out. This time I leave my thanks via a message.

After two days I’ve got myself sorted. Shopping’s been done, the house full of food that I prefer, and the garage is now home to two bikes. I’m settling in, but I can’t get comfortable. I’m too worried. Every other time I’ve rung Heart I’ve managed to get him, usually on the first or if not, the second try—or recently, he’s taken to calling back. I tell myself there’s no need to worry, there’s a load of explanations. Maybe I’m just unlucky and finding him on the road each time. Maybe he’s lost his phone.

After a week my concern builds, expecting him to have contacted me if only to check how I’m settling in. We’ve spoken so regularly over the past few months, the calls increasing in frequency as time went on, and especially while I was recovering in the hospital. Our growing friendship meaning he kept checking up on my recovery.

Has he been arrested? Well, that’s one thing I can check. I place a call to the station and get them to run his name, and nothing comes up. I pace the room, biting my nails. He’s a lone biker in unfamiliar territory. Anything could have happened to him. I try to recall what I know of his itinerary. He should have been leaving Los Angeles by now and visiting his friend Dart in San Diego. Perhaps I can call there to see if he’s arrived?

But I don’t have the club’s number.

Now I’ve started fretting, I can’t stop. Where is he? Telling myself there must be a simple explanation, I can’t help grabbing my keys and go out to get my Kawasaki from the garage. There’s someone who might help me. I owe it to Heart to try.

The first hurdle is getting into the compound.

The prospect manning the gate won’t let me in. I tell him who I am, unashamedly using my police credentials. It takes a bit of toing and froing, but at last the gate is rolled back. Once inside the Satan’s Devils compound, I have to wait to be escorted up to the clubroom. I’m hurried through the communal area, with only a moment to take in the suspicious eyes landing on me then, at last, I’m in an office and in front of the man I’ve come to see.

“Drummer.” I nod my head. And then turn to the other person in the room. From my previous dealings with the club, I remember he’s the VP, but check his name flash to confirm my recollection is right. “Wraith.”

The man behind the desk frowns. “Detective Hannah. I’d say it’s a pleasure, but…” He doesn’t need to spell out police aren’t welcome at the compound.

Pointing to the free seat in front of the desk, I raise my eyebrow. He nods, and I slip off my green and black jacket and place my helmet at my feet. He’s obviously waiting for me to speak, so I don’t disappoint.

“First, I’m not here in any official capacity. I’m on a leave of absence from work.”

Drummer cocks his head to one side. “You been up to things you shouldn’t?”

They don’t know? They must know and are playing it dumb. But if they want to hear it all over again, I’ll give them the short version. “I was injured and burned when someone threw a bomb into my house. I’ve only been out of the hospital for just over a week.”

They exchange looks. Well, perhaps there goes my idea that the Satan’s Devils had anything to do with it. Unless they’re very good actors.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Drummer gives me an appraising look. “Has that anything to do with the reason for this visit? If so we can cut this short. My club has nothing to do with what happened to you.”

I shake my head too fast and pause, waiting for the pain to subside, and I automatically put my hand up to my temple. It reminds me I should be resting, not cavorting around the countryside and meeting bikers. Drummer doesn’t miss much.

“If you’re on sick leave, should you be here?”

“I had to come,” I tell him simply.

“’Bout time you told us why. We’re busy men, Detective,” Wraith butts in.

I nod, slower this time. “Please, call me Marcia. As I said, I’m not working. And I’ve come about Heart.”

Again, both men exchange glances, eyebrows raised as if they didn’t expect that. “Heart’s not here.”

I know. I lean forward and put my hands between my knees, studying them for a second before looking the president in the eye. “I’m aware Heart has been gone for five months or so. I know he was banned from the club. I know exactly where he’s been and what he’s been doing.”

Drummer sits up sharply and locks both hands behind his head. He stares at Wraith for a moment, and it feels like the temperature in the room has dropped by a few degrees. “You seem to know an awful lot of club business for a detective. I’d like you to tell me why the police been keepin’ fuckin’ tabs on him?”

Shit. I’ve walked in here with my personal concerns about the man who’s become my friend, not putting sufficient emphasis on the fact that OMGs—outlaw motorcycle gangs as they’re known by law enforcement—and cops do not mix. I’ve got to tread very carefully here. My eyes meet Drummer’s, and I make sure to keep them on him, trying to convey my sincerity. “I’m going to tell you the truth, Drummer. When I first made contact, it was to update him on how the investigation into his wife’s death was going.” I frown. “Or not going as the case might be...” I break off and try to pull the right words together and in the right order, knowing I’ve got to convince this suspicious man that for once I’m on his side.

“And how is it going?” Wraith asks sharply, before I can say anything else, his eyes flicking to meet those of his prez.

“Not well enough. But we need to park that for now. It’s not what I’m here to talk about.” Once more, both men look surprised, but neither interrupt when I continue. “I called him first as in my official capacity. One thing to cross off my list. Just another working day.” In my mind I’m remembering that call. “I knew immediately Heart was in a bad way, but I doubt that comes as news to you. Let’s just say we’ve got losses in common, and I understood his state of mind only too well.”

Their expressions give nothing away.

“He told me he was out on the road for six months, but it was clear he wasn’t going to last that long without someone on his side.” I feel brave enough to glare at Drummer. “He never shared club business with me, didn’t tell me the reason he was out on the road or why he was staying clear of the club. I surmised you thought getting him away from where all his memories were would be the best thing. But you were totally wrong. He was out on a limb with no support.” I pause, knowing I’ve got to lay everything on the line if I’m going to convince them. Taking a breath, I continue. “He was suicidal when I first spoke to him. I’d go so far as to say if I hadn’t called him when I did, he wouldn’t be breathing today. Survivor’s guilt is a hard thing to deal with. I’ve been there, done that, so I decided to help.”

Drummer looks at Wraith, who grimaces. Drummer’s face is impassive, but his steely grey eyes say a lot. I know MCs are a brotherhood, the camaraderie unequalled. Suddenly I feel enraged on Heart’s part. “You sent him away at the worst possible time. With no back up, and no one in his corner. If he wasn’t still here, it would be on your head.”

Drummer’s taken aback at my attack. But it’s Wraith who speaks. “Did he admit what he’d done before he left?”

I shake my head. I guessed something had happened, but I didn’t know what. “I had no choice.” Drummer waves Wraith down. “It’s on me. I made the decision.”

“Club vote,” Wraith quickly reminds him. “He couldn’t have stayed.”

“Leaving that aside,” I take back the conversation again. Whatever Heart had done, it was in the past. “Heart needed someone. Really, he needed, needs, therapy, but I did my best. We got into the habit of talking, at first every couple of weeks, and then more often. He’d tell me what he was doing and where he was going.”

I glance at one then the other. “Do you even care what he was up to? Well, I’ll tell you anyway. He was travelling on a road trip that he and Crystal had planned, seeing the things she wanted to see. He started off at Death Valley, and very nearly didn’t make it out of there. That’s when I first spoke to him. After that, he made his way to Yosemite, San Francisco, then down the Pacific Coast Highway. Last time we spoke, he was heading for Los Angeles. From there he planned to stop at San Diego and visit the clubhouse where his friend Dart now is, before heading back here when his six months were up.

“He wavered this way and that about coming back to the club, but when I spoke to him that final time, he was fully committed that he’d return. And at last felt strong enough to look after Amy.”

“You know a lot about him.” Drummer doesn’t sound comfortable.

“We’ve become friends. He needed one.”

Now the president leans forward and puts his hands flat on the desk. “Have you come here to accuse us of not supporting him? You’ve got a fuckin’ nerve. We were here for him. Never left him alone for a moment from the time he went into hospital until he came out. But he pushed us away, did things that hurt the club. I sent him away to give him space to get his head straight once and for all.”

I match his ire. “You nearly lost him for good.” Then I remember the reason why I’m here. “And perhaps you now have.”

“What the fuck are you talkin’ about?”

“It’s why I’ve taken the unusual step of coming to you today.” My voice drops, my concern for my friend coming out. “I knew the reception wouldn’t be friendly. But I’m asking you to put my connection with law enforcement aside. I’m worried about Heart, Drummer. I haven’t been able to contact him for more than a week. He’s gone missing.”

A further look between the two men and some silent exchange passes between them. It’s the VP who speaks. “Maybe he’s got sick of you botherin’ him all the time.”

“If he was sick of me he wouldn’t be letting me stay in his house,” I snap back.

Drummer’s eyes open wide. “You’re Mark? Well, fuck me. What the fuck you usin’ a man’s name for?”

“Marc. M. A. R. C. It’s short for Marcia.” I don’t know why I have to explain.

“You’re a fuckin’ cop and you’re staying in a club member’s house?” Drummer’s cheeks blaze red.

Knowing I have to talk him down to get him off the subject of the strange friendship between Heart and myself, I start speaking quickly. “That doesn’t matter for now. It’s Heart that I’m worried about. And you should be too.”

Drummer’s eyes bore into me, then at last he nods. “You’re fuckin’ right, I should be worried about him. Lettin’ a cop stay in a club’s house for one thing.” He glares at me until I get the point. I return his stare, almost unblinking, hoping what I thought of him would be true, that his worries for one of his members would override his hatred for the law. It takes a few more moments, during which I refuse to back down, then he wipes his hand over his beard. “Okay, workin’ on the assumption that you’re still pals together. What makes you worried about him? What do you mean he’s missin’?”

“I can’t get in touch.” And then I tell him what little I know. When I last spoke to him, and where he was at that time.