Chapter 2

Marc

After rubbing it over my greasy hands to clean them, I throw the now filthy cloth onto the workbench and take my vibrating phone out of my pocket, glancing down at the caller display. A small smile plays at my lips as I answer.

“Hey, Les. It’s been a while. What’s up?”

“Just checking in. Seeing how you’re getting on down in desert land.”

Thinking it’s nice to hear a friendly voice for a change, I sink down onto the floor and draw up my knees, getting comfortable. “I’m doing okay.” It’s good to hear from my old fuck buddy, it’s been a few weeks since we last spoke. We’re friends, nothing more, only ever finding solace in each other’s bodies, little more than working off excess energy and satisfying a joint need. Just how I like it. I never get close to people, or allow them to get close to me. That way I can never get hurt when they leave.

“Bike get there okay?”

“Only because I trailered it.” I let the frustration show in my voice. “Lucky I didn’t try to ride it here. Took it out the other day, and the darn engine went. Black smoke billowing everywhere. It’s finished, Les.”

“Worth the money you paid for it then.” A chuckle comes down the line.

My lips curl. I’d paid nothing. An old unwanted bike, a going-away present for me. “I suppose it was, though I think you should have given me money to take it away.”

“You gonna scrap it?”

My eyes fall on the currently useless machine. “I haven’t decided. If I can find a replacement engine I might try to get it back on the road.” As I speak, eyeing up what other people would think is a piece of crap, I think it’s too soon to send it to its grave. An early 1990’s Suzuki GSXR 750 now with a blown engine. The broken heap standing next to my bright green Kawasaki Ninja. For some reason, though it’s currently a metal frame missing its major part, I’m still fond of it, and have no regrets that Les offloaded it on me. Fixing it would be a challenge, and being friendless in this new environment, something to occupy me.

“Let me know how you get on. Are you coming back this way soon?”

I’d landed in Tucson having got a transfer and promotion. Having left, I’ve no desire to return to South Carolina again. I’d only stayed there long enough to jumpstart my career. Apart from Les, I’ve no friends there and nothing to go back for. A new start, a clean break. That’s what I was after.

“I’m not sure, Les.” I let the doubt in my voice show. Not a definite negative, but I don’t want to give him hope.

There’s a sigh. Before I’d left I’d given no promise that I’d ever return, considering we owe nothing to each other, just shared the occasional fuck to scratch our mutual itch. On my side it was never anything more than that.

“But I’m really grateful to you for letting me have the Suzuki.” My words only to fill the awkward silence.

“Doesn’t sound like I did you much of a favour. In fact, it was more the other way round. Needed to clear space in my garage.”

“I’ll let you know how I get on with it.”

Another sigh, a brief period of silence, then, “I don’t think I can do this, Marc. I know we just had fun together, but I would have wanted more if you hadn’t moved a few states away.”

Now it’s my time to take some space before replying. I’d suspected there were feelings growing I’d be unable to return. “Long distance relationships don’t work, Les.”

“And certainly not physical ones like ours.”

“Are you saying we’re not friends?”

Now I hear a long drawn out sigh. “I don’t know what I’m saying. Just that’s it’s hard hearing your voice when you’re never going to come back. Look, if you need anything, I’m here. If not…”

Don’t ring. That’s what he’s saying. Just another person I’ve pushed away.

We end the call awkwardly, with no promises to keep in touch. As I replace my phone in my pocket I realise that instead of the phone call cheering me up, it had proved to be the opposite. A shit start to what will probably be a shit day.

Time’s getting on. Going into my house, I shower and change into smart dress pants and a plain, pale, blue button-up shirt, then slip on my holster and gun. Finally, sliding into my leather jacket and placing my protective helmet on my head, I take out the only roadworthy mode of transport I’ve got, my Kawasaki, and soar my way through the streets to the precinct where I work. All too soon I’m swapping my leather for a light linen jacket.

I’ve only just exited the locker room when I hear an expected shout.

“Sergeant Reynolds wants ya.”

I knew it was coming. Just hoped I’d have a little more time to prepare. I let out a deep sigh and pull back my shoulders. Might as well man up and face things head on.

Without even time to get a coffee inside me, only minutes later I’m sitting in front of my immediate superior. His face is dark and his mouth twists as he spits out without preamble, “This report’s rubbish! Nothing more than conjecture. You’re maligning a police officer, and one who’s given his life in the line of duty, with no facts to back it up.”

I open my mouth, but Sergeant Reynolds holds up his hand.

“I expected more of you than this. You came to Tucson with a glowing recommendation. You apparently cracked a case where no one else could. But now I’ve seen your incompetence first hand, I have to wonder whether that was sheer luck.” He glares and then shakes his head. “Oh, you got a prosecution in that case, your evidence enough to convince a jury. But if it was no better than the work you’ve been doing lately, I’d be worried you put the wrong man in jail.”

I bristle. There’s no way I did. The man I was responsible for putting behind bars was as guilty as they come, only no one else had managed to join the dots and point their finger at him. Once we had a name it had all fallen into place. And that’s how I got my relatively early promotion to detective.

Trying to be reasonable, I sit back, clasp my hands in my lap, and take a less combative stance. “Archer was identified as having rented the truck that knocked Dale and Crystal Norman off the road.”

“Show some respect. A dodgy identification at best.”

There was definitely something suspicious about it, but I’d discovered it was the police process that was suspect. “Detective Archer,” I start again, and say with emphasis, “rented the truck. When I questioned the rental agency, they were quite certain of that.”

“Where’s the evidence that he was driving it?” Hmm. He’s stopped refuting that he rented it. Has he conceded that point and moved on? Score one to me if he has.

But as my shoulders rise and lower, I know I can’t tell him I’ve found anything to prove Archer was behind the wheel when the truck ran the biker and his wife off the road. Only my thoughts putting together the clues. The truck was found burned out and forensics found nothing, no fingerprints or anything else, clearly an expert job by someone who knew what he was doing.

I’d only got the receptionist at the rental agency to confirm it was indeed Archer who had rented the truck when I’d gone back myself to ask. Other officers had been there before me, and had come back with nothing. Now I reckon I’m a pretty good detective, but even I wouldn’t say it was because of my prowess in my job that I got them to talk. Something tells me those that proceeded me hadn’t bothered to ask, or buried the truth once they found it. Which would mean more dirty cops. Oh, I know who my prime suspects are, but am biding my time. You don’t make accusations against fellow officers without just cause. Quickest way to finding yourself unemployed.

“And so what if he’s a distant relation to the Herreras? Or that his body was found in that house? There’s nothing to link him with the grooming of girls, nothing to say that activity was going on in that house at the time he was there and was killed.” Reynolds pauses, and I swear his eyes glow as he raises his voice. “And if there was, Detective Archer was probably present to make an arrest. You clearly haven’t thought about that. And there’s other options—he could simply have been visiting family. One of the bodies was identified as his cousin, Lucas Herrera.”

Second cousin, I correct, but don’t say that out loud. “The house has been linked…”

“No proof. There’s only the word of an unreliable kid. As far as I see it, Detective Archer lost his life in the pursuit of his duties and should be given a hero’s funeral. We can’t ask him about renting the truck—fuck, if he did rent it, it could have been to move some furniture or scrap, and it could have been stolen from him. And we can’t ask why he was in the house. He’s fucking dead!” Spit flies out of my sergeant’s mouth.

If the truck had been stolen, why hadn’t he reported it? Well I’m one person who won’t be attending his funeral, or at least, not to pay my respects. There’s too many things which don’t stack up. If he’d been at that house owned by Lucas Herrera to make an arrest, why was there no paper, or rather computer trail, showing what he was doing? Anything put forward to prove Archer’s innocence in my opinion seems to be a whitewash. I might be new to the grade of detective, but that doesn’t mean I’m stupid.

The sergeant glowers again. “And you say he was helping Susie Clyde get custody of her granddaughter.” He holds up his hand as I go to speak. “I’ll give you that a druggie is no person to look after a young kid, but let’s give the detective the benefit of the doubt. He might not have known about her habit.”

But the only thing that makes sense to me is that he did. And working on behalf of the Herreras, was going to take little Amy Norman in payment for her grandma’s debts. Why else would he offer his assistance to the unpleasant, strung-out woman? Unable to suppress a shudder at the fate that little girl had luckily escaped when her father had come back from the dead, I draw another look of contempt from my boss.

He picks up the folder and chucks it across the desk. “I don’t want you wasting anymore time trying to malign a dead colleague. And as for the biker’s accident? It’s not worth spending taxpayers’ money on the likes of him. Most probably it was a rival gang trying to take them out.”

And I can’t prove it wasn’t. But I’d like to try. Anyone, whatever their status in life, deserves justice in my view. “A young woman died.”

“A woman who’d taken up with outlaws. She would have known the risks.”

He hadn’t had to interview the biker in the hospital, seen the predictable grief and rage that his wife had been killed. Dale and Crystal Norman deserve more than simply to be dismissed because of the lifestyle they chose.

There’s more to this case, I know, a tangled dark web of intrigue. But even I’m not crazy enough to keep flogging a dead horse, at least, not officially. For one reason or another, Sergeant Reynolds has made up his mind. I pick up the file, stand, and turn to leave.

“One last thing, Detective. If you want to keep that promotion, don’t go against my wishes. This case is closed, we’ve far more important things to be working on.”

My shoulders shoot back. It’s totally unreasonable of him to threaten my position. He can tell me what cases to work, but can’t prevent me doing what I want on my own time. As I leave his office my nose twitches. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve followed my gut feeling when something didn’t smell right. I’ll just have to keep whatever I do under the radar until I can come up with some cast-iron evidence.

I leave it a couple of days until my next rest day, then take a chance and visit with Susie Clyde, Crystal Norman’s mother, an utterly nasty piece of work. When Dale came out of his coma, it was to find she’d already buried his wife, on the grounds that as he couldn’t speak for her, she was the closest next of kin. And before that, again while he was still unconscious, aided by my ex-partner Archer, she’d started a custody battle for care of his young daughter, not expecting Dale to wake up.

As I approach the front door, I can’t help wondering where the little girl is now. Maybe still being looked after by Drummer, the president of the Satan’s Devils, and his old lady, Sam. I knew Dale hadn’t returned immediately to the club, but it is possible that he’s back now and has taken over his parenting role. I lost track of him after he’d been discharged from the hospital. Maybe I should call him, bring him up to date with the case? Yeah, but what can I tell him? Only that we’ve reached a full stop.

It seems to take Clyde a very long time to answer the door. Just as I’m about to give up, I hear someone moving about inside, and then the latch sliding back.

She glares at me, instant recognition in her eyes. “What d’ya want, Detective?” She clearly doesn’t welcome the intrusion.

“Can I come inside and talk to you for a moment?” I keep my voice light. Entering her house is the last thing I want to do from the unpleasant aromas wafting out from behind the open door, but something I can’t escape if I want to give the biker some answers, and to ensure there’s no continuing risk to his daughter.

“Ain’t got nothin’ to talk to you about.”

It’s all in a day’s work. Suppressing my sigh, I try again. “There’s just some details I’d like to go over with you, if I may?”

“Ask yer questions. You don’t need to come in.”

The hand holding the door is trembling, but whether she’s scared I’m here or anxious for her next fix, it’s hard to tell. I try to test the waters by throwing out, “Mrs? Ms?” When she nods at the second, I continue. “Ms Clyde. You remember my partner, Detective Archer? I don’t know if you’ve heard, he died in service.” The last I say through gritted teeth. “I’m investigating his death.” Well, it sounds plausible to me. “Could you tell me when you first met him?” I’m after something to link him with her prior to their first ostensibly formal meeting.

Her eyes flick to the left before coming back to mine. “At those bastards’ clubhouse. The ones that took my grandbaby from me.”

Hmm. That was the first time I know she’d officially met him, but somehow my gut tells me they’d come across each other before. He’d been so quick to offer to help her, too quick. And acting out of character. I might not have been working with him long, but it had only taken a minute to pick up on his lack of empathy with the people we encountered on the job, both perpetrators and victims. I try again. “And what is your involvement with the Herreras? Can you give me the name of your drug dealer?”

She freezes, and I give myself a mental kick. It’s more than her life’s work to give that kind of information to me. Rooky error. Pushing too hard too fast.

I try to recover it. “Okay, so Archer was helping you get custody of Amy Norman—until her father came out of the hospital…” Her spit on the ground interrupts me, and I take a step back. She’d missed my toes by inches. “When did you first discuss custody with Detective Archer?”

“When he first…when I went to the biker gangs’ compound.”

Interesting choice of words. Law enforcement tend to call them gangs, they call themselves clubs. Her daughter would surely have set her right on that. And she almost slipped up. Has someone schooled her?

She’s starting to shut the door in my face. I’m not here officially and can’t risk her making a complaint, so know I’ve got all I can for today. Which has only served to confirm the suspicions I already had. “Well, thank you, Ms Clyde. I’ll be back in touch if I need to.”

“Don’t see why you would. My daughter’s dead. Left me nothing, the lazy good for nothing…”

Ignoring her rant, I ask one last question. “Oh, just one more thing. Are you still in debt to the Herreras?”

She’s not going to tell me, but I wait for the flicker of fear to cross her face to tell me she is. When it doesn’t appear, the answer is obvious. She’s been paid off. As my sergeant would say, I’m relying on assumptions here, but I’m extremely good about reading body language. Non-verbal communication often gives away far more than words. What’s she got to offer for the Herreras to clear what she owes? There’s only one answer that I can think of. Amy. Is that little girl still at risk?

The door slams in front of me while I remain lost in my thoughts.

A dead end? I don’t think so. My nose is twitching like a dog who’s picked up a scent. But unfortunately, my olfactory endings are not quite so well-tuned, and I’ll have to use my brain to sniff out where the odour’s coming from. The Herrera family, the crime family in Tucson, is the obvious place to start, but if I tackle them head on, I suspect I’d end up like Archer, in so many pieces no one could be sure if every part of him was in the right coffin. I’d be questioning them about a family member, and one who’s very dead now. Along with several other members of that family who all died mysteriously on the same night.

And why is Clyde still alive? Herreras aren’t known for having compassion. Do they think she’ll be able to get her hands on Amy for them? But they can’t, not while her father is still alive. Now I feel a trickle of fear for his life. Perhaps I should warn him.

As I walk away from the house, I leave the subject of Susie Clyde for the moment and focus instead on my strange interview with my sergeant this morning. While I’d been dropped subtle hints that my report wasn’t going down well, I didn’t expect him to blast it out of the water in the way that he had. I’m a good cop, I don’t deserve the criticism I’d received, nor the rebuke. Or the allegation that back in South Carolina I might have put the wrong man in prison. I know it’s never easy joining a new team, but surely this is taking that to the limits.

What caused Sergeant Reynolds to react so strongly to the suggestion of any stain on Archer’s character? Is he scared of the Herreras? Is that why he’s trying to put a stop to the investigation? Or could it be something else? That he’s working for them. The thought is obnoxious to me. I play things straight down the line, and up to now, where I worked previously, my colleagues had been the same. Or, as far as I could tell. But here I’ve already been thinking I smelt something that wasn’t right. But while I’d been casting suspicious eyes sideways, I hadn’t looked above me as yet.

Going back to my bike, I sit astride, but don’t drive off. Dirty cops. Is that what I’m dealing with here, or am I just seeing things that aren’t there?

I tap the handlebars and go to press start, then pause. There’s something else niggling at me. I can’t rid myself of the lurking suspicion that Drummer, the president of the Satan’s Devils MC, knows a lot more about Archer’s demise than he’s letting on. But it would be a waste of time to confront him. Even if I was given entrance into the compound, Drummer’s never going to admit any involvement, whether there was any or not.

I know how bikers work, retribution is swift. If they knew who was behind Dale’s accident, they’ll have dealt with it themselves. No waiting for a trial, they’d have been both judge and jury if they had come to the same conclusion as myself. It’s highly likely they were behind the explosion that killed my ex-partner. Another waft in the air, but this time I don’t think it’s such a bad smell. If Archer had indeed played any part in the biker’s accident, I’d have felt like murdering him myself. But of course I wouldn’t, I’d have done it all properly. He’d have been arrested and gone through the courts like any other criminal. Unless the department protected him when he was alive the same way as they’re protecting him now that he’s dead. A possibility that makes me feel nauseous.

When I finally start the engine and kick down into first, another thought comes into my head. Maybe the Herreras aren’t involved. Could the Satan’s Devils be the ones buying cops? Certainly not something to dismiss—in which case I have to tread very carefully. But it seems unlikely. Unless… Oh, for heaven’s sake. All I’m doing is thinking around in circles. Enough of this, I’ll be convincing myself the sky’s pink in a moment.

But thoughts still keep going around my head during work the next day. I go through the motions, but this time I’m watching my colleagues around me, listening for things they might let drop that could give me a clue as to whether they’re on the take. It’s a horrible feeling not knowing who to trust. In my last precinct, I was certain every man and woman would have had my back. Here, I can almost feel daggers being sharpened in preparation.

At last I get a reprieve and get out of the office when I’m needed to go and investigate a burglary. That takes most of the afternoon, and by the time I return I’m relieved to find I’m at the end of my shift. Parking my official car back at the precinct, I go inside to my locker to put on my leathers and grab my helmet, glad to get out of the claustrophobic vehicle and onto my preferred method of travel. I’m looking forward to the ride home, as the breeze will help to shake off the shackles of the day.

Autumn is a great time for riding, the monsoons of summer have gone, and what rain Tucson has is not so torrential. Even if it’s wet, I prefer to be out in the elements. I learned long ago I don’t melt. Summoning up the feeling of freedom that being on my bike gives me, I place my hand on the tank as if communicating with a pet. Then, just as I’m about to fire up the Kawasaki, already anticipating the pleasure of the open road, a man comes to stand in front of me, his long legs straddling the front wheel, his hands on the handlebars preventing any forward motion.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. My fingers still hovering over the ignition, I sigh. “What do you want, Garza? I’m off duty and on my way home.”

The man blocking my escape chews his gum, his mouth visibly working, then smacks it loudly, making me cringe. “Reynolds tell you you’ve got a new partner?”

No, he didn’t. He must have omitted that gem during the meeting the other day. I tilt my head on one side and wait. Garza’s a terrible gossip. Want everyone to know your business? You just tell it to him and you’re done.

“Me.”

For a second what he’s telling me doesn’t register. And when it does, my heart drops and I have to query to make sure I heard right. “You? But you’ve already got a partner.” Please don’t let this be true.

“Yeah, but Terry’s on sick leave. Got a hernia or something. Reynolds thought he’d pair us up for a spell.” He chews and pops that gum again.

Jesus wept! If I had to pick one person I didn’t want to be stuck with day after day, this man would be it. He’s lazy, careless, and has a reputation for cutting corners. Certainly not someone I could confide my suspicions to.

“Knew you’d be happy.” He laughs, then sneaks a look under the jacket I’ve yet to zip up. Yup, there’s more than one reason why I dislike the man.

I don’t trust the right words to come out of my mouth, so I restrict myself to a nod and am answered by yet another smack of that gum.

Needing to get out of here, I switch on the engine. He leers, waits, then when he sees I know it’s in his time and not mine, at last steps away from the bike. Resisting the urge to stick up one finger, I put it into first, twist the throttle, and I’m off, leaving the precinct and Garza behind me.

Soon I’m enjoying the fresh air, which helps to clear away some of the stench I smelt around the station, but it doesn’t banish thoughts from my head.

As I step into my apartment it feels like it’s been a very long week, and not for the first time I’m starting to regret ever moving to Tucson. Being called out by my sergeant, my concerns about not knowing who’s for or against me, and finally, those worries partly confirmed by Garza being appointed my partner, who’ll be holding me back from everything I want to do. Christ, everything’s going to hell in a handbasket.

I place my helmet and gloves on my hall table and hang my jacket up behind the door, then take a second to look around my sparse apartment, furnished with just the necessities. I could make the excuse I’ve not been in Tucson long, but in truth it’s just like anywhere I’ve ever stayed. I don’t have photos I want to display, and nothing I want to keep around to remind me of my past. I don’t put down roots, preferring to move around. I nod in satisfaction. This isn’t home, it’s just a place to exist. It’s my penance for being alive.

Going into the kitchen, I place a TV dinner for one in the microwave, eat it without really tasting it, then take myself off to bed.

But sleep doesn’t come easily. Thoughts of the past haunting me in the normal way, together with the dissatisfaction I’m no closer to be able to give the biker closure, and that I seem even further away from discovering the truth. I’ve so much sympathy for him, knowing only too well how hard it is to cope with a loss, especially when you don’t have answers as to why such a devastating event happened.

I find myself hoping Dale’s been reunited with his daughter, and that he’s leaning on the support offered by his biker family. He’ll need what I’ve seen is a close-knit group helping him as he goes through the stages of grief. I can personally attest to that being a long and difficult journey.

I give up on trying to sleep when the sun starts to rise in the sky, hating that we’re leaving a man hanging, possibly never to know the reason why his wife died. During the small hours, I’d come to a decision. I might be risking my career, but I’m going to give him what updates I can.

And of course, I can justify that I’m making contact to sneakily try and discover whether the Satan’s Devils know more about Archer’s death than they’ve admitted. Reynolds told me I hadn’t considered any alternative options. It’s a tenuous excuse, but something at least.

Not checking the time, having convinced myself I’m justified in making contact, I pick up my phone. Yeah, that’s why I’m calling. If I offer him information, it’s in the hope that in return he might let something slip.