Chapter TWO
MITCH TOSSED his gum in the waste bin under his desk and accepted the brown cardboard cup. Large size, black, perfect. He almost groaned with pleasure as the hot bitter liquid hit his tongue.
“Elixir from the gods?” Ross chuckled as he perched on the edge of Mitch’s desk.
“Fuck yes. If I can’t have the nicotine, I need the caffeine running through my veins.”
“I don’t know how you sleep at night with the amount of coffee you drink. It’s amazing you can even function.”
“You shouldn’t be supplying his habit, then.” They both looked as Superintendent Sutherland approached.
“I don’t know about that. Got to keep him happy, boss. You haven’t seen what a moody arsehole he can be when he’s uncaffeinated.”
“Hey!” Mitch punched Ross in the upper arm, then sank into his office chair.
“I need to talk to you boys for a minute.” Sutherland’s tone changed from joking to serious in an instant. He didn’t wait for their response, just turned and headed to the conference room. Mitch raised his brows and stood again. He shrugged at Ross as the two of them followed Sutherland into the room.
The long room had a bank of windows overlooking the city. The view comprised multistory buildings topped with neon company names—with the many late nights he’d spent in this very room, he knew they lit up after dark—with a peek of the distant harbor in the gaps. They were too high to see the street, and the view into the adjacent office block was uninspiring.
One of the walls was made of whiteboard. It was covered in hand-drawn diagrams that looked like family trees, dates, and lines. The lines joined squares of paper that were attached by magnets. Mitch hardly spared the busy wall a glance—he’d seen it countless times. Hell, he could probably even draw it in his sleep.
“Take a seat, gentlemen.”
Mitch fell into the faux-leather chair that was a lot more flash than the one at his desk. He took another sip of coffee before placing the cup on the tabletop in front of him. Ross pulled out the chair opposite, and Sutherland paced the room. He finally came to a stop and sat next to Mitch.
“What’s up?” Mitch asked warily. Sutherland was usually pretty straightforward, so his manner seemed off. Something was most definitely up.
“Peter Crowley.”
Mitch bristled at the mention of the name, especially hearing it from his boss’s mouth. He glanced at Ross to see his eyes wide open with surprise. He swallowed heavily.
“You know him?” Sutherland asked.
Mitch sat up straighter. “You know I do.” There was no way in hell Sutherland was mentioning Peter’s name without knowing he was Mitch’s ex.
Sutherland nodded. “Then you know he has issues.”
“I do.” Tension radiated across Mitch’s shoulders. “But what has he got to do with anything?”
“So you are aware that your ex-boyfriend has a drug problem?”
Mitch stood. “Of course I’m bloody aware. It’s the reason we broke up. What’s this all about?”
“Calm down, Mitch.” Sutherland waved his hand, indicating the chair. “Take a seat, and I’ll explain.”
The chair creaked as Mitch sat. He took a sip of his coffee and looked at his boss over the rim. The man was in his midfifties but wore his age well. He didn’t have the appearance of a man about to do any damage, and Mitch thought he could read people fairly well. Sutherland looked more concerned than anything.
“It’s come to our attention that Peter Crowley has recently taken up a new association. He’s been seen with Rocky Cummings.”
Mitch blanched. Fuck! The Soldiers of Fury. His hand shook as he put down the cup.
“Jesus Christ!” Ross looked at him in shock.
Mitch looked back to Sutherland. “When did you get the intel? How did you link him back to me?”
“A couple of days ago. He was spotted with Rocky in a car. They were driving to the airport to pick up Rocky’s brother.”
“And?”
“Yesterday the photos were being reviewed by the team when Roger Powell recognized Peter.” It started to make sense. Roger was a colleague who’d worked with Mitch and Ross for years. He’d had the pleasure—if it could be called that—of meeting Peter during the last stages of their relationship. Roger was one of the people to recommend that Mitch dump Pete’s sorry arse. Mitch assumed he’d seen enough junkies in his career on the drug squad to recognize when someone couldn’t be saved, something Mitch wasn’t able to see until Peter had broken his heart one too many times.
“How long has he been part of the club?” Ross interrupted. “I assume he’s affiliated in some way?”
Sutherland nodded. “That’s a logical conclusion given how tight he looked with Rocky.”
“But wouldn’t he have to prove himself first? He can’t just appear from nowhere and be part of Rocky’s inner circle. The Soldiers aren’t that trusting, and club protocol wouldn’t allow it.”
“The working theory at the moment is that Crowley is looking to become a prospect, so he’s seeking a sponsor in the club, and he knows Rocky’s younger brother, so it gave him an in.”
“The brother who lives in Melbourne?”
“Not anymore. But yes, that’s the assumption.”
“So how are they linked?” The whole thing still didn’t make any sense to Mitch.
“Flight records show Peter was in Melbourne last month. We can’t find any record of hotel accommodation.”
“It’s a long stretch to link them just because they spent time in the same city.”
“Perhaps. Phone records do show calls from Peter to Rocky’s brother. We’re looking for more tangible proof, but in the meantime, we’re working with what we’ve got. The fact Crowley traveled with Rocky to the airport when he picked up his brother, plus the phone calls, is enough for now. It reeks of a personal connection, not a business dealing.”
Ross leaned on the table. “So why’s the kid back now, especially after all this time?”
“We’re not sure of that either.”
“What the fuck are you sure of?” Mitch thumped the conference table.
“Listen, Mitch,” Sutherland said calmly. “I know this is out of the blue, but work with me here. Do you need a minute to get your shit together?”
Mitch slumped back in his seat. “No. Continue.”
Sutherland raised a brow but started talking. “The kid—Finn Cummings—has finished studying. We don’t know what his brother’s plan is for him, but it appears whatever it is, it will take place in Sydney. The lease on his Melbourne flat wasn’t renewed, and all his belongings have been shipped back to Sydney.”
“He’s living with Rocky?” Rocky Cummings, president of the Soldiers of Fury MC, lived in a house overlooking the river—flash enough to draw attention and special enough to impress those he wanted to show off to. Biker gang president done good.
“It doesn’t appear so. He’s living in the old house where they grew up.”
“Carl Cummings’s place? I don’t think anyone’s lived there for years. It must be a dump.”
“From the outside it looks like a run-down dump, but the kid only arrived yesterday. Maybe he’s just staying there temporarily.”
“Well, thank God he has the sense not to stay anywhere near his brother.” Mitch drank the last of his coffee, the liquid now tepid and unappealing. He grimaced. “And what about Peter?”
“Crowley appears to be staying at Rocky’s.”
The coffee roiled in Mitch’s gut, or maybe it was the idea of Peter so close to the head of the Soldiers of Fury Motorcycle Club. Jesus, the Peter he knew might have had a drug habit and started hanging with the wrong people, but the Soldiers?
Mitch could see the concern on Ross’s face. He knew Ross would be worried about his reaction and running different scenarios through his head. Will Mitch have a nervous breakdown? Will I be picking up the pieces again when Mitch falls apart? Sutherland, on the other hand, looked all business. Mitch took a deep breath.
“So what do you want me to do?”
FINN THREW open the last of the windows in an attempt to rid the old house of the musty odor that seemed to permeate every corner. He had managed to sleep in his old bedroom the night before but woke with the headache from hell due to blocked sinuses. Between the mold speckling the corners of the ceiling and the stale bedding, he was lucky the headache was the worst thing he was suffering from, although the throbbing pain in his face was the final push he needed to spring clean the house from top to bottom.
He found a few ibuprofen tablets in the bathroom cabinet and washed them down with water straight from the tap, never minding they were probably a couple of years out of date and left there from one of his earlier trips. When he stood, the reflection in the mirror shocked him. Although why he was surprised was a mystery. It had been a shitty few weeks, and he’d hardly slept for days, as the purplish smears under each eye attested to. Even his usual tan couldn’t camouflage the pallor. Finn dragged a hand across his chin, feeling the two days’ worth of fair stubble that graced his jaw, but didn’t have the energy to do anything about it.
He wore his short blond hair in a messy style. The sides were trimmed close to his skull, the inch-long lengths on top usually ruffled to stick up at all angles, a slick of product keeping the artful arrangement in place all day. Today, in lieu of hairbrush, comb, or hair gel, he ducked his head under the running water and flicked his hands through it. It didn’t matter what he looked like, anyway, not for what he had planned for the day.
The kitchen was no better than the bathroom. A layer of dust covered everything from the cupboards to the laminate benches. The dark carcasses of dead flies littered the windowsills. Why the hell Rocky hadn’t done anything to maintain the house was beyond him. It was as if his big brother shut the door on the place the day their dad died and never came back.
The floor was tacky beneath his feet as he crossed the scarred linoleum to the fridge. The appliance was old and thankfully empty, but the stink from being turned off and closed up for a couple of years was appalling and Finn gagged at the odor. He sucked in a breath and held it as he slammed the door. The bile rose in his throat as he wrenched open the back door and stepped onto the small veranda. He drew in lungfuls of the fresh air as he tried to bring the heaving under control. Fuck!
The need to puke summed up his entire situation—his whole life was a fucked-up mess.
Goddamn Rocky!
Finn’s insides were twisted just thinking about him. And being in this house, the place where they’d grown up together, wasn’t helping. But there was no way in hell he was living with Rocky and whoever else was staying with him in that mausoleum he was so proud of.
When the nausea passed, Finn straightened and focused on getting his breathing back into a regular rhythm. It was pleasant outside, unlike in the house. The backyard, although untended and overgrown, stretched for a long way until it finally blended into the bushland beyond. There wasn’t a fence separating the large acre block from the neighboring national park, so the sense of space was wonderful. Long grass brushed his jeans as he pushed through the area that should have been mown lawn, but even when he was a kid, it was never kept very short. Finn glanced to the large garage where the lawn mower used to be stored. Every now and then, his dad would demand he cut the grass, but usually his father had other things to worry about.
The timber door was warm under Finn’s fingers, the sun already heating the pale gray boards. It was going to be a beautiful day. The door creaked but swung open, exposing the dark interior. A piece of the roof was missing, a whole section of corrugated iron fallen away, letting in a wide beam of light. Tools and gardening equipment still lined the walls. Boxes were stacked in the corner—God knew what they contained and whether the contents would be any good anyway, given the state of the building and the fact they were standing on hard, compact dirt. Between the elements, the bugs, and the rats, the whole property was falling apart.
Dust motes danced in the air, and the smell of dirt and motor oil filled Finn’s nostrils, bringing with it a rush of memories. The smell reminded him of good times. The smell reminded him of bad times.
Suddenly he couldn’t stand the direction his thoughts were headed. Just stepping out of the garage was a relief. The light breeze helped clear his head, the familiar buzz of cicadas filled the air, and a magpie called in the distance. Finn took one last look at the bush and suppressed the desire to walk into its depths and just keep on walking. Instead he faced the run-down old timber house. Finn hoped putting some elbow grease into cleaning the place up would give him something to focus on. And when that is finished? Well, then maybe he would do some renovations, restore the place to how it had been when his mum was around.
One thing was certain: he preferred to plan his own future, have something of his own to concentrate on, because the alternative was unthinkable. The heaviness in his chest returned at the thought of working with Rocky, but what choice did he have?