Buried Biker (25 page)

To me, the article seemed biased. Since when did newspapers let ditzy feature writers present what should have been a news article? But there it was, with Carissa’s byline and everything. And I had to admit I wasn’t exactly an objective reader.

“Damon. Somebody to see you,” the CO called from his seat at the desk. “Bring your ID.”

I slipped the square of toilet paper I was using for a bookmark between the pages of the book and sat up, feeling around on the floor for the shower shoes. I folded the newspaper to give back to the CO. Maybe I’d finally been assigned an attorney.

With the possibility of this being a capital case, they’d have to assign somebody halfway decent, wouldn’t they? I hoped. There’d be lots of public scrutiny in the press and such. But if most of it came through Carissa, I had my doubts about the reporting.

An experienced public defender might be my best bet, although I couldn’t imagine they’d have one who would be willing to fight the murder charges. Just get the best deal possible. Like life with the possibility of parole. I’d never get another shot at parole, though. Not if I picked up another murder conviction.

I put those depressing thoughts out of my mind, brushed my hair back, and snapped up the jumpsuit. The hallway door to the cellblock slid open, and a CO came in and up to my cell, radioing a request to pop the door. I stepped out. He checked my ID band, then moved aside so I could shuffle off ahead of him.

He didn’t have to answer me, but I asked, “Lawyer?”

Frowning, he said, “I dunno. I didn’t recognize him. Looked like a lawyer, though. But not a public defender. Black guy. Spiffy dresser. And not in a harried mood.”

That was encouraging. Maybe they’d assigned a private lawyer who would take a real interest in the case, even if he was just getting whatever it was that the county paid per hour for attorneys. Nothing like what they were used to making. But it wasn’t unheard of to get enthusiastic representation from an interested private attorney.

We arrived at the meeting room where I’d previously talked with Montgomery. The door slid open, and I entered. No one was waiting. I looked back at the CO, but he just waved me in.

I sat in one of the cushioned chairs and looked around. I couldn’t be sure, but I’d bet there was a camera behind the dark window and my every move was being watched. I sat down and closed my eyes.

A little while later the door on the opposite side of the room opened. Montgomery came in. Not a lawyer. I wasn’t sure whether this was a good development or not. At least he didn’t have Belkins along.

He slid into the chair on the opposite side of the table. I nodded a greeting.

“So,” he said, straightening the crease in his trousers, “how are things going?”

I hated it when he asked things like that. “I’m locked up on a new murder charge. I’ll be lucky to get out of this with a life sentence. How the hell do you
think
I’m doing?”

He shook his head. “I guess when you put it like that, not well. I got a few questions to ask you.”

“I don’t got many answers.”

“Let’s try anyhow. How well did you know Razorback?”

“Not at all. I wouldn’t have recognized him if I’d tripped over him.”

“But you know some of the Predators.”

“Not really. Old Buckles was a commissary clerk at the prison, so I knew who he was. Everybody knew him.”

“And the others?”

“If I ever met any of them, it was in prison. And they certainly weren’t wearing club colors with their state-issue denims, so I have no idea if I’ve met any of them.”

“Wasn’t there a little altercation outside the hospital?”

Of course he’d heard about that.
“With Funky Joe? Yeah.”

“And just after I’d told you to stay away from there.”

I didn’t answer that one.

“Am I right?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

He stood up and walked behind me. “You knew about the chop shop at the clubhouse?”

“I was only out there the once. They were working on cars and it certainly looked like a chop shop, but what do I know about that crap? I don’t even have a driver’s license.”

“And were they running a meth lab?”

“That I don’t know. There was kind of an ammonia smell, so I thought maybe they were, but I didn’t see anything. If they were, it was probably one of those little shake-and-bake ones with the plastic soda bottles.”

He paced behind me. “We used some pictures that woman reporter took on her cell phone up there to get a warrant. By the time we got up there, any traces of a clandestine lab were gone.”

I couldn’t figure out where this was taking us, so I kept quiet. Reporting my noncooperation to Mr. Ramirez at this point didn’t seem like a big deal.

“Same reporter who got the pictures of you with the Predators in the park.”

I shrugged. “Yeah, well, what can I say?”

“Not a whole hell of a lot. We have the pictures. You gonna tell me about Black Rose?”

“What about her?”

“She talked a lot about you.”

“I can’t help that.”

“She’s quite a woman. You know she and Razorback ran a business together?”

“Yeah. A trenching and excavating business. The clubhouse was in a big garage on the same property.”

“That’s right.” He leaned forward. “Did you know Black Rose did most of the work for the business? Operated the backhoe and kept the books.”

“I knew she handled the backhoe.” That didn’t seem particularly surprising to me. Women did all kinds of jobs these days. After all, Kelly drove a forklift. “And I’m not surprised she kept the books. I wouldn’t have trusted any of the Predators to keep
my
books. Not if I didn’t want all the profits to disappear.”

“When Razorback decided to take off, he cleaned out the business’s bank account. They’d been saving for some more equipment, so there was a fair amount in there.”

“I bet Black Rose wasn’t happy about that.”

“You’re right about that.” He leaned back in his chair. “Do you know how to operate a backhoe?”

“I haven’t ever. I’ve never really taken a look at the controls. I’d think it’d be pretty complicated.”

“More complicated than the forklift you drive at work?”

“Got to be. It’s got more variables.”

“Think you could learn to operate it?”

“I suppose, given some instruction and a little time.”

Montgomery pulled a small notebook from the inner pocket of his suit jacket and consulted it. “What I don’t understand is why you have such a different story from what Black Rose says.”

“What does Black Rose say?”

“Well, you know the whole bit about how she says you and Razorback agreed to swap women. She said you took full advantage of it. And that she liked it fine. But you never said anything to Kelly, and she got a raw deal.”

“That’s because it never happened. Black Rose saying it doesn’t make it true.”

Montgomery glanced up at me and then back at his notebook. “When Kelly was hurt badly enough that she got sent to the hospital, Razorback knew he was likely to be in trouble. Especially since he’s already a registered sex offender. So he decided to take the money out of the bank and lie low.”

“Yeah.”

“But Razorback was mad. He blamed you. And he didn’t like that Black Rose was telling everybody what a good lay you gave her.”

I shrugged.

“I’m trying to put together what happened. At first I thought you and Black Rose decided to off Razorback and get together. But why would you deny everything, especially if Black Rose was busy bragging about it? Something’s wrong with that theory.”

There was plenty wrong with that theory, but I had no answer for him that I thought he might be willing to listen to.

He changed tactics. “The coroner places Razorback’s death sometime before noon last Saturday.”

“You had me locked up on Saturday. I didn’t get sprung until late afternoon.”

“And the bank has a video of Razorback withdrawing all that money from a couple of ATMs. The last one was about ten o’clock Friday night.”

I sat up. “I was locked up then, too. That means…”

“That means for the murder itself, you have as ironclad an alibi for the time of Razorback’s death as it’s possible to have.”

The muscles in my back and neck tightened further. Had I heard right? “So I
can’t
have been the one who killed Razorback. And they’ll have to drop the murder charges.”

He nodded.

I felt the muscle tightness begin to relax a bit. I hadn’t fully appreciated just how tense my body had been holding itself.

“That’s true. But don’t forget there’s still the possibility of accessory charges. And conspiracy.”

Not a great prospect. But at least they probably wouldn’t carry a death penalty.

I had to wonder, though, if a death penalty wouldn’t beat growing old and dying in prison.

Chapter 15

W
HEN
I H
AD
A
NOTHER
court hearing the next morning, via video conference from the jail, those charges were dropped without prejudice. Which meant they could be reinstated at any time.

But at least I got out of jail.

I had a few days before I had to make my parole appointment. If Mr. Ramirez had been unhappy with me last time, I could just imagine what he’d have to say this time. Or what he’d decide to do. My ankle itched where a monitoring box would be strapped on if he decided I needed more supervision. And that might be one of the least restrictive of the measures he would consider.

Since the plant was mostly shut down for retooling and they hadn’t told me to report, I had plenty of time. If I could figure out what had happened to Razorback, I could contact Montgomery. He’d listen to me. But I’d need some real facts, not just theories.

Sounded like they’d busted the chop shop up at the clubhouse. It hadn’t been in the newspapers I’d read in the jail, and I’d read every word in them, front to back. Maybe it would be in today’s paper. I could go buy a copy, or I could go up to the library to read their copy.

The library was a better option. I could look for a copy of the Ken Follet book. I’d only gotten a third into it read while I was locked up. And if all the copies were out, I could put in a request for them to hold one for me.

I stopped by my apartment to pick up the library books that were due.

A few things caught my eye immediately. The ice cube trays were in the sink, empty. The box that had held biscuit mix was in the trash, empty. And floury traces of the mix were on the kitchen counter.

My apartment had been searched. Thoroughly. Probably by cops—it wasn’t all torn up, and things were left more or less neatly stacked. But no effort had been made to hide the fact that it had been searched.

Since I was on parole, they had the right to search it any time they wanted. I didn’t keep anything at all that could get me in trouble. No drugs, no weapons, no alcohol. It still felt like an invasion of my space and a reminder that I had no right to expect privacy or the other rights most people took for granted as long as I was on parole. At least I hadn’t had to stand and watch, the way I had to do in prison whenever my cell was shaken down.

I checked my little stash of cash. I’d only been able to save just under a hundred dollars, but it had taken me weeks. I left it rolled inside a pair of socks in a drawer of my rickety dresser.

The socks were unrolled, but to my relief, the cash was still there.

And confirmed that it had been police who had conducted the search.

I was glad the cat and her kittens hadn’t been there—I knew of any number of instances where doors had been left open during a search and pets had run out. I wondered how they were making out at Kelly’s place.

Picking up the library books, I headed back out.

Mandy was helping somebody else, so I went back in the stacks to see if I could find another copy of the book I’d been reading. I couldn’t find one. I went over to the comfortable chairs that surrounded a table with newspapers and magazines. The last few days worth of the
Rothsburg Register
were laid out on the table in a pile. I took the most recent one.

Carissa had gotten a front page story again. There was a brief factual article about a raid on a garage back in the hills that uncovered an operation where stolen cars were disassembled for parts. It was on the same grounds as a company called General Trench and Excavating, but there was no apparent connection. It listed the names of a few people arrested, but since I was familiar with only a few of the Predators, and then only by street names, I couldn’t tell if I knew any of them.

Under the fold, Carissa had a big feature article and an array of pictures she’d taken up at the clubhouse. She wrote about how her investigative reporting had led her to the site, where she had taken the photographs that enabled the police to get a search warrant. Neither article made mention of the Predators or that Carissa’s intended project had been about a motorcycle gang. Or how close she’d come to being the victim of a gang rape. Or worse, if they would’ve decided not to leave a living victim who might get them in trouble.