Black Sheep (13 page)

“I’m sorry I didn’t make it to Aunt Lacey’s funeral.” Lacey had died of cancer while
Caitlyn was at the FBI Academy.

His footsteps slowed. He stopped outside a paneled door leading to an executive suite.
Suddenly he looked old, wrung out. Not the always-laughing Uncle Jimmy she remembered.

Then he brightened and laid a hand on the doorknob. “I have a surprise for you.”

He opened the door before Caitlyn could protest that she was in no mood for surprises.
His office had a wall of windows overlooking the casino floor, a large mahogany desk
sitting on top of a luscious, thick Karastan rug. And her mother sitting in the leather
Aeron chair behind the desk.

“If Muhammad won’t go to the mountain,” Jimmy chuckled, “then, you know.” He stood
watching, pleased by the shock on Caitlyn’s face.

Not that she didn’t enjoy seeing her mom. But she was here to work and Mom was, well—
high-maintenance
was the best term to describe Jessalyn Tierney.

Jessalyn stood up, her posture regal, and glided across the room to greet Caitlyn
with a hug and kiss on the cheek. She wore a designer suit with modest diamond earrings
that along with her perfectly styled signature French twist added just the right touch
of elegance.

“I knew I was right in coming up here. You sounded so distressed on the phone.” She
laced her arm through Caitlyn’s as if they were best friends shopping for prom dresses.
“Mama will cheer you up. I’ve already scheduled facials and massages and Jimmy reserved
us front-row seats for the show tonight.”

“Tyne Daly in
Gypsy,
” he gushed. “But first, let’s catch up over a nice dinner. My treat.”

He took Caitlyn’s other arm and she suddenly felt like she was nine again, being towed
into Sunday school against her will. But the smile on her mother’s face was too bright
to resist—especially when mixed with the guilt Jimmy’s words had brought. She did
avoid her mother; she could be a better daughter.

The search for Lena could wait another hour or so, she told herself. Somehow that
did little to soothe the feeling of foreboding that made her rest her hand on the
butt of her Glock, reassuring herself it was still there.

*   *   *

Goose would’ve spotted Caitlyn Tierney even without the clerk’s heads-up or her bright
red hair. The woman didn’t walk. Instead, she strode like an old-time gunslinger,
weight balanced against the extra two pounds of weaponry she carried on her right
hip, gaze constantly in motion, assessing risk, absorbing details, ready for anything.
When she arrived at the registration desk, she swung her head as if she was used to
having longer hair than the short cut that framed her face and made her look less
like a cop and more like a fairy-tale elf.

An elf with scars. One along the side of her head, peeking out from beneath her hairline.
Another skimming up along her breastbone. He liked her for not trying to hide it beneath
a turtleneck or buttoned-up blouse.

She had a nice figure, obviously in good shape. Not too skinny or too fat, with narrow
hips but a generous bust. No artificial enhancements. Not that she needed any, at
least not to his taste. Goose was of the definite opinion that too much of a good
thing didn’t necessarily make it better.

Then she arched her neck as she swiveled her stare onto him. He gave it right back
to her. No sense trying to hide, too late for that. Plus he wanted to see what she
was made of. Poppy had said to find out everything he could about the fed. Goose might
be better able to do that by getting in her face rather than by lurking in the shadows.

The smile he gave her as she rose to the challenge and didn’t flinch from his gaze
was genuine. Best job Poppy’d ever given him. Most fun, too. Maybe he’d misunderstood
Poppy and Weasel. Caitlyn didn’t seem like she could be a threat to the Reapers.

He watched her reunion with Jimmy McSwain, grinned as Jimmy called her Ging, then
took the keycards the clerk Poppy had bribed gave him. One to Caitlyn’s room, one
to each room adjacent to Caitlyn’s. He had bugging equipment ready to place, a keystroke
recorder he’d plant on her laptop, as well as a GPS tracker for her car. Everything
he needed to get the lowdown on why a federal agent was chasing after the same law
student Poppy wanted to find.

Goose had no idea what the law student had stumbled across or why it was so vital
to bury it and her; that was between Poppy and whoever was pulling Poppy’s strings.
But he figured it was in his best interests to find out as much as he could about
both Lena Hale and Caitlyn Tierney. That way he could figure out how to protect both
women from the Reapers while also keeping the Reapers happy. A win–win for everyone
and no need for violence.

Caitlyn gave him one more glance before following her uncle into the private administration
offices. Goose winked at her, enjoying the view from behind as much as he had from
in front. Then he hustled to catch up with the bellboy carrying her bag. It bulged
like there might be a laptop inside. If so, he was itching to see what was on it.
More he knew, the better he could do his job.

Hopefully without anyone getting hurt.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The MC’s clubhouse was crazy busy, gearing up for the big poker run tomorrow. Reapers
were arriving from all over the Atlantic seaboard, including a crew from the home
charter in Florida. Bernie was the low man on the totem pole, prospect-wise, despite
it being his home turf.

As he ran beers to and fro, carried buckets of empties, restocked the bar, and dished
out chicken wings and fries, Bernie couldn’t stop thinking of Lena and the poor leopard.
It’d been a day and a half since he’d been able to break free long enough to go check
on them, and worry was churning his guts into acid.

All he’d wanted was to save some animals. And then he’d overheard Poppy talking to
someone on the phone about a girl who was close to knowing too much—too much what,
Bernie had no idea—and that she had to go. When Lena had stopped by the clubhouse
and he’d seen her talking with Weasel, he knew she had to be the one, so he’d grabbed
her before Weasel could.

He hadn’t counted on her being so out of it for so long after he’d tranked her. Just
like he’d had no idea how hard it would be to get a stupid leopard to eat.

He’d read online that big cats didn’t need to eat every day, that in fact it was bad
for them. He’d also read about a host of diseases they were prone to if not fed properly
while in captivity. Everything from all their teeth falling out to blindness to liver
disease.

There was a break in the action as the guys moved outside to start in on the pig being
roasted in an oil barrel. Bernie took advantage of the pig pickin’ to call the guy
in Pigeon Forge, the one they’d taken the animals from in the first place. He needed
to know what the leopard liked to eat and if it maybe needed any medicine.

“Mr. Manson, please,” he said when a woman answered the phone.

She sniffed hard as if she’d been crying or something. “Who’s calling?”

“It’s an old business friend,” Bernie improvised, thinking hard about what to say.
“I used to sell him—er—merchandise.” He grimaced, knew it sounded lame, but he didn’t
know the exotic animal industry well enough to know what Manson would have actually
bought from anyone. Dummy. Except animals, of course.

Didn’t matter. The woman bought it. “You’ll need to take your business elsewhere,
mister. Manson died.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” Bernie was about to hang up when he had a thought that
grabbed at his throat, making it hard to swallow. Like Manson’s ghost himself wanted
him to ask. “My condolences, ma’am. Can I ask what happened? I just saw him last week
and he seemed fine.”

“He got jumped coming out of a bar. Beat up. They took him to the hospital but then”—she
sniffed again, her voice choking out the rest—“he didn’t make it.”

“That’s terrible.” Bernie stumbled over the words, not sure what to say. His stomach
began to flip-flop, churning out more acid. He reached for his Tums. “Do the police
have any idea who did it?”

“No, sir. Not sure they care too much. ’Round these parts, as long as it doesn’t involve
anything that would drive tourists away, they don’t too much mind what happens. Especially
not to folks like Manson.”

The police might not know who killed Manson, but Bernie sure had a good idea. “Sorry
for your loss, ma’am,” he said without thinking and hung up.

Goose. Who else would Poppy send to see if Manson had double-crossed them and stolen
his animals back from the club? Who else would Poppy ask to take care of club business
except the new enforcer?

No wonder Goose had come in so late last night. Looked so tired when Bernie saw him
this morning.

His throat tightened again, but this time it wasn’t a ghost clutching at him. It was
his stomach ready to hurl at the thought that he’d almost confided in Goose. About
the animals, about Lena, about everything.

He grabbed his jacket and keys, ran out the back door before anyone spotted him. There
was no way he could stay and face the Reapers as they partied. No way he could continue
to hide the truth. But if they knew he knew, he’d be the next one lying on a slab
in the morgue.

*   *   *

Uncle Jimmy insisted on dinner in the dining room reserved for high rollers. As they
entered, Jessalyn on his arm, he pointed out various celebrities, smiling and nodding
and waving to them. Caitlyn didn’t recognize any of their names, but names weren’t
her strong suit.

“How’s Bernie?” she asked once they were seated. If she was stuck in a family reunion,
might as well get caught up. But apparently it was the wrong thing to ask.

Jimmy scowled down at his silverware and beckoned the waiter to replace a tarnished
salad fork. “Bernie is Bernie,” he said with a sigh. “The boy is hopeless.”

Jimmy’s tone was exactly the same one her mother used when talking about Caitlyn.
Poor Bernie. Her cousin had always been a dreamer, one of those kids with their noses
buried in a book or sitting hypnotized, too close to the TV. Caitlyn doubted she’d
heard him utter more than a dozen words.

Her phone rang just as the salads arrived. “Sorry.” She glanced at the screen. Didn’t
recognize the name. But not many people had her private cell number. “I should take
this.”

“Caitlyn, surely it can wait,” her mother said. “We’re having dinner.”

“It’s work.”

“It’s a family dinner. You haven’t seen your uncle in fifteen years.” For Jessalyn
family always came first. The fact that Caitlyn’s dad’s job often made that an impossibility
for him was a constant disappointment.

And Caitlyn was just one more disappointment to her mom. Long ago, Caitlyn had given
up trying to meet her mom’s high standards. But she could never give up a secret hope
that maybe one day she’d do something to make her mother proud. Obviously that day
wasn’t today. She left the table and answered the call.

“Caitlyn?” The voice was female with a South Carolina accent. “Have you found Lena
yet?”

Caitlyn riffled through her mental associations of names and faces. She knew she should
recognize the voice but couldn’t picture who it was. She answered the woman’s question
to buy more time and see where this was going. “No.”

“I’ve been calling and calling her cell but it goes right to voicemail,” the woman
continued in a rush. “But then I thought of using our Find Me apps—”

Suddenly it clicked. The roommate. Caitlyn couldn’t remember her name but it didn’t
matter. “Find Me apps?”

“You know. You load them on each other’s phone before you go to a party with a friend.
That way if you get separated you can find each other—unless you hook up and don’t
want to be found, then you just hang a
DO NOT DISTURB
sign on your cell and it goes to the friend’s as well.”

No. Caitlyn didn’t know. Things sure had changed since she was in college. Suddenly
she felt old. “So, did it work?”

“Kinda. I’m not sure. It says Lena’s near Evergreen at a bar called the Pit Stop.”
The girl’s voice upticked as if she was asking a question. “I Googled it and it looks
like some kind of biker bar. Definitely not the kind of place Lena would go. So maybe
someone stole her phone? Anyway, I thought it might help.”

“Thanks. It does.” Caitlyn had a vague memory of a log cabin above the river, motorcycles
crowded out front. “Does it say when she went there?” Probably too much to ask, but
worth a try.

“Oh sure. Let me look. It says she arrived there Wednesday at eight oh four
PM
. At least that’s when she turned the app on. Oh. I guess that means she didn’t have
her phone stolen. Because why would a thief turn the Find Me app on?”

“I’ll check it out. Is there any way I can access the history of where her phone’s
been through the app?”

“No. Sorry, it only reports when and where the app was turned on. Last time listed
is a concert we both went to a few weeks ago.”

“Thanks for trying.”

“When y’all find her, tell Lena to call me, okay? I’m getting kinda worried.”

“I will. Bye.” Caitlyn hung up. She remembered the Pit Stop—it was a dive when she
was a kid, what her mom called an eyesore. No reason to think it’d be any better twenty-six
years later. The bar was Reaper territory, a motorcycle club that verged on outlaw
status. Her dad had ended up in the ER a few times getting stitches after encounters
with the Reapers, trying to shut down bar fights and all-night parties.

Why would Lena go there? Unless it had changed since Caitlyn was a kid.

She returned to the table. “Jimmy, is the Pit Stop still run by the Reapers?”

“They took it over, it’s their private club now. Good thing, too. I keep them out
of the resort for the most part, but sometimes they have big rides that attract plenty
of law-abiding motorcycle enthusiasts, like the poker run this weekend, so I try not
to judge. Why?”