Iron Goddess (5 page)

When Shea was sure Hunter and his boys were gone, she hurried over to her sister. Wendy sobbed so hard her body shook. Blood dripped from the top of her head where Mackey had coldcocked her with the revolver. The yellow-green of fading bruises colored Wendy's face and arms, reminding Shea of the countless times their mother had been black and blue from Ralph's beatings. The bitterness Shea felt toward her sister softened. History was repeating itself.

“It's okay; they're gone.” Shea put an awkward hand on Wendy's arm.

“They'll be back,” Wendy said between sobs.

“We can worry about that later.” Shea helped her stand, guided her to a chair in the customer waiting area, and handed her a paper towel. “Put this on your head until the bleeding stops.”

“Thanks.” Wendy pressed the paper towel to her scalp and winced.

“Wanna tell me what that was about?”

“Hunter's my old man.” Wendy offered an embarrassed smile.

“Yeah, I gathered that.”

“He used to be real nice, but lately any little thing sets him off. I try to stay outta his way when he's like this, keep him happy best I can. But sometimes he gets pissed off no matter what.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, like air squeezing out of a tire.

“The other day our daughter, Annie, asked why Daddy beats on me. I thought I'd been good about hiding it. But she's eight now and startin' to notice things.” Wendy stared at the floor. “That was the last straw. I had to get us out of there.”

Wendy has a kid?
“Where's Annie now?” Shea asked.

“I left her at my friend Margaret's when I went to work this morning.” She grabbed another paper towel and wiped her nose. “Then this afternoon, on my way back to her house, Hunter and the guys spotted my car and started chasin' me.” She crumpled the paper towel and clenched it in her fist. “That's why I came here. I got your voicemail. Figured maybe you could help.”

“How'd you know where I worked?”

“Oh please! I seen your booth at the bike shows in Phoenix. Word gets around.”

Shea grimaced. “Was it true what he said?”

“ 'Bout what?”

“About the Thundermen being in Bradshaw City all night.”

“I dunno. Me and him got into it last night. Then he got a call from One-Shot, some club business he had to deal with. Threatened to kick my ass when he got back. Once he drove off, I packed a couple bags and went to Margaret's with Annie.”

She dabbed at the bloodstains on her blouse with the paper towel, which smeared it more. “I should prolly head to Margaret's and check on Annie. Hunter ain't too smart, but he knows Margaret and I are friends. Sooner or later, he'll figure out we been staying there.”

“Thought about filing a restraining order against him?” asked Terrance.

“Like a restraining order'd stop Hunter.” Wendy managed a weak chuckle. She stood up and wobbled until Terrance grabbed her.

“You should go to the hospital first and make sure you don't have a concussion,” he said.

“I'm all right. Got a thick skull. Besides, I gotta check on Annie.” Desperation tinged her voice. She looked at Shea with a pleading smile. “But I wouldn't mind if you tagged along. Margaret could drop you back here.”

“Shea would be happy to,” said Terrance.

Shea gave him the stink eye; it was the last thing she wanted to do.

“Wait here a moment,” she said to Wendy.

Shea beckoned Terrance with her finger. “You and me gotta talk.” She led him into the office and slammed the door shut. “What the hell you mean, I'd be happy to?” she asked in hushed tones. “I promised Jessica I'd take her to a new sushi restaurant in Ironwood for dinner. I ain't got time to be riding along with my sister to God-knows-where.”

Terrance looked confused. “You hate sushi. You call it fish bait.”

“So? Jessica likes it and I like her. Point is, I ain't getting in the middle of no custody dispute between my crazy-ass sister and her old man. I like not being dead.”

“She's your sister, Shea. At least give her a ride to where she needs to go.”

“She has a car. She's perfectly capable of driving to her friend's house on her own.” Shea crossed her arms and stared out the office window at the barren showroom.

“Have a heart, girl! She nearly got killed a moment ago.”

“Yeah, and nearly got me killed in the process. I ever tell you she lied to protect that scumbag father of ours? So, fuck Wendy and her fucked-up life. If I wanna see trashy white people doing stupid shit, I'll watch reality TV where there's no chance of me getting my head blown off.”

“What about your niece? Aren't you interested in meeting her? She's family, for God's sake.”

Shea wanted to say no. Wendy chose to be a Thunderman's old lady. But a part of her wondered what would've happened if someone had been there for Mama.
What if Mama had gotten away from Ralph and taken me and Wendy with her?

“Fine.” Shea pulled out her phone to call Jessica. “Hey, hon. I'm gonna be a little late.”

“No, you can't be a little late. We have reservations at six thirty. I already picked out an outfit for you to wear.”

“Well, as much as I
love
you picking out my clothes,” Shea said, rolling her eyes, “I have to give someone a ride up to Bradshaw City.”

“Let me guess. It's a woman.”

“No. Well, technically, yes, but it ain't like that.”

“How did I know?”

“Jess, she's my sister.”

“Oh baloney, you don't have a sister.”

“Actually, I do.”

“You never mentioned her before.”

“That's 'cause we haven't spoken in seventeen years. We've been…what's the word?”

“Estranged?” suggested Jessica.

“Yeah, that's it.”

“You haven't seen her in seventeen years, but suddenly you have to give her a ride to the other side of the county?” Jessica's voice dripped with sarcasm.

“She and her old man are having problems. Listen, call the restaurant and see if you can push the reservation back to seven thirty. I should be back in plenty of time.”

Jessica paused a moment before responding. “Fine, I'll call them. But you'd better be here.”

“I swear. We'll be eating raw fish and that spicy green stuff in no time. Love you.”

Shea hung up, walked out of the office, and stood in front of Wendy.
God, she looked pathetic,
thought Shea.
Mascara running, face swollen, blood everywhere
.

“Fine. I'll ride with you to your friend's house.”

“Will you drive? I'm a bit wobbly.” Wendy held up the bloody paper towel, as if to prove her point.

Shea frowned. “Got your key?”

Wendy held up a ring of keys with a Confederate battle flag charm attached. “It's the one with the Ford logo on it.”

Shea took it from her. “Grab your purse,” she said with all the warmth of a Popsicle.

Wendy pointed Shea to an older model Mustang. The paint on the roof was peeling and faded, as if someone had taken a belt sander to it. The broken passenger side mirror hung limp like a dog's ear.

Shea opened the driver's door and sat down. Crumpled bits of paper, empty soda cans, and the occasional french fry littered the floor. Wendy climbed into the passenger side.

“Where we headed?” asked Shea.

“Margaret lives on the east side of Bradshaw City. I'll show you.”

Shea drove up Arizona 89 twelve miles to Bradshaw Highway. For the first five minutes, they rode in silence. Shea stared out at the road ahead, trying not to think about Derek or the Pink Trinkets' bikes or how pissed Jessica was going to be when she finally made it home.

“I missed you, you know,” Wendy said, looking out the passenger window.

Shea tightened her grip on the steering wheel, her anger igniting like gasoline fumes. “Maybe if you hadn't lied, I woulda stuck around.”

“Lied? About what?”

Could she really not know? “Never mind.”

“Well, whatever it was, I'm sorry, all right?”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Fine.” Wendy twisted a strand of hair. “It's cool you got your own bike shop. I remember you and Daddy working on bikes together all the time.”

“Can we not talk about him?”

“Geez, is there any subject you ain't opposed to talking about?”

“Right now, I don't feel like talking about anything. I just want to get this over with.”

“Whatever.”

For the rest of the way, an oppressive silence filled the car, interrupted by occasional directions from Wendy. Shea turned off the main highway into a neighborhood of compact redbrick homes. She parked in front of a house with a rusted tricycle in the middle of the dirt yard and an older model minivan with a dented bumper in the gravel driveway.

As they walked to the front door, several of Margaret's neighbors stood staring at them from adjacent yards. Shea nodded at the onlookers and whispered to Wendy, “What's with the audience?”

“Something's wrong.” Panic colored Wendy's voice. The door stood open, its frame busted in. “Annie!”

“Dammit, Hunter must have gotten here before us.” Shea had hoped to avoid more of the MC's violent drama.

She moved Wendy away from the door and pulled Hunter's Beretta from her waistband. Her thumb pressed the button to eject the magazine. Eight rounds left. She hoped it would be enough. She slapped it back in.

“Wait here,” she whispered. “They may still be inside.”

“But my baby!”

“Sit tight.” Shea left her sister sobbing on the front porch and slipped into the house. Her heart pounded in her ears.

The living room was small but uncluttered, decorated in a style Shea liked to call “early garage sale”—sort of shabby-chic, without much chic. Threadbare couch, milk crate bookshelves, and carpeting that reeked of mildew. On the upside, there wasn't any smashed furniture or other evidence of a struggle.

She tiptoed deeper into the house. A small hallway extended off to her left. To her right was the kitchen.

The familiar funk of blood filled her nose.
Maybe Margaret left a roast out on the counter too long,
she thought, calming herself against more sinister possibilities.

She stepped into the kitchen. The scent of blood grew weaker. No roast lay on the counter. Just a small pile of dishes in the sink. A voice in her head screamed at her to get out of the house, but she had to find her niece first.

Following the odor, she crept down the hall to the first bedroom on the right. A pile of plush toys sat on a bed with a faded patchwork gingham quilt. Posters of boy bands adorned the walls. She searched the room and wall closet, careful not to leave prints. There was no sign of the girl or the source of the smell.

She checked the bedroom on the left. A queen-sized bed with a tan and blue comforter dominated the room. A deep gouge marked the top of a bleached pine dresser that lined the opposite wall. Shea looked under the bed, in the attached bathroom, and the walk-in closet. The stink of blood grew stronger, but she found nothing to cause it.

“Shea?” Wendy called from the front door. “Can I come in? Is Annie in there?”

“Stay put. I'm still looking.”

In the last bedroom, she found the source of the smell.

“Fuck.”

Blood dappled the walls like a Jackson Pollock painting. The stench of blood, urine, and feces filled the room. A woman with shoulder-length black curls lay on the blood-soaked bed.
This must be Margaret.
She'd been shot twice in the face and several times in the chest. A smashed lamp and an overturned chair suggested a fight.

Shea's stomach grew queasy. The voice in her head grew more insistent, telling her to get out.
Where the hell's Annie?
She opened the closet door, hoping to find the girl curled up and frightened, but safe. Instead she found hand-me-down boy's clothes and an assortment of worn shoes.

“Shea?”

“Hold on.”

“Shea, the cops are here.”

“Aw, crap!” Shea ran to the front door only to be met by Deputies Aguilar and Winslow—aka Commando and Frat Boy—guns pointed at her head.

“Drop your weapon and get on the floor facedown.” From the look on Aguilar's face, he wasn't cutting her any slack this time.

She dropped the Beretta on the floor and lay facedown on the carpet. At least this time there was no broken glass and she was clothed. She caught a strong whiff of mildew as Aguilar cuffed her. Sirens wailed outside.

“You got any other weapons on you?” His voice was cold and angry.

“No.”

Winslow stalked down the hallway, clearing the rooms as he went.

Aguilar pulled her to her feet and patted her down. “This makes twice in one day, Ms. Stevens. You going for a record?”

“It ain't what it looks like, Deputy. Honest.”

“Oh Christ,” called Winslow from the far bedroom. “Aguilar, we're gonna need a bus.”

Aguilar pushed Shea down the hall and stopped in the bedroom doorway. Winslow had his arm wrapped around his face to ward off the smell.

Aguilar glared at her with fire in his eyes. “Shea Stevens, you have the right to remain silent.”

Shea spent the next hour and a half alone in an interrogation room with only a table and four wooden chairs for company. She'd lost all sensation in her right pinkie and ring finger because of the handcuffs. But her mind wasn't focused on the cuffs.

Since she'd woken up that morning, one person had been killed, another shot, and a third kidnapped. She herself had been shot at by an outlaw biker and had been in an armed standoff with a Mexican drug trafficker. She still had no idea where the stolen motorcycles were. And here she sat, stewing in a police station. Jessica was, no doubt, plotting ways to kill her for standing her up yet again. Shea was in the eye of a Category 5 shitstorm.

Willie and Sheriff Buzz Keeler, whom she'd called Buzzkill since childhood, walked into the room. Buzzkill was in his late sixties, standing a few inches above six feet, and weighing north of three hundred pounds. His ruddy face had a permanent snarl on it, which darkened whenever he glared at someone he disliked. She'd been in the “dislike” category since as far back as she could remember.

Willie and Buzzkill sat down on either side of her. Two more people walked in behind them, both dressed in business clothes and carrying leather-bound notebooks. The first was a bespectacled white guy with a receding head of curly, black hair, wearing a dark suit, who looked more like an accountant than a detective. A petite Hispanic woman with bangs and a ponytail, dressed in a red blouse, a black jacket, and matching slacks, followed him in, dragging a fifth chair. Despite her size, she looked like someone who could handle herself.

Willie removed the handcuffs. “Shea, this here's Detective Micah Edelman and Detective Toni Rios. And you remember Sheriff Keeler.”

She nodded at the detectives while rubbing her wrists to get the blood flowing back into her fingers.

Buzzkill leaned back in his chair and slammed the door shut. He'd aged a bit since she'd seen him last. He reeked of Old Spice and sweat. But that beer belly of his was coming along nicely.

“Been a while, Miss Stevens.” He slapped a folder down on the table.

“Yeah.” Shea wasn't feeling talkative.

“Seems we have ourselves a situation here.” Buzzkill pulled a photo of Margaret's body from the folder. “This poor young lady, name o' Margaret Ortega, got herself kilt this afternoon, round 'bout five o'clock. You know anything 'bout that, missy?”

“Margaret was dead when I got there.”

“Why were you at Ms. Ortega's house?” asked Detective Rios.

“My sister dropped by my motorcycle shop this afternoon. She wasn't feeling well afterward, so I agreed to drop her by her friend's house.”

“Why her friend's house?” she asked. “Why not her place?”

Shea shrugged. “Have to ask her.”

Willie pulled out the notebook he'd used that morning to take notes about the break-in at the shop. “After seventeen years of not seeing Wendy, you two must've had quite the reunion. How come she looks all beat up? You two get in a fight?”

“No.” Shea's hip ached from the hard chair she sat on. She shifted her weight from one side to the other, growing restless from the endless questions.

“Uh-huh.” Buzzkill glared at her. “Two people get shot on the same day, and you happened to be at both crime scenes. How you explain that?”

“A coincidence.”

“Is that so? Ya know, I ain't a big believer in coincidences.”

“Coincidences happen all the time, Buzzkill. Look it up.”

Buzzkill's face turned purple. “You gettin' smart with me, girl? 'Cause you're lookin' at charges of murder and kidnappin'.”

“Come on, Shea,” said Willie. “I also have a report of gunfire coming from your shop this afternoon. What the hell's going on?”

“Nothing, I swear!”

Detective Edelman, who'd been taking notes the whole time, looked up at Shea. “I'll be honest, Ms. Stevens; right now, all the evidence points to you for the murder of Ms. Ortega.” He spoke like an Ivy League blue blood from Boston or New York—Shea could never tell the difference. “If you're innocent, it'd behoove you to tell us what you know. Otherwise we
will
have no choice but to charge you.”

Time for me to shut up now,
she thought. “I ain't saying nothing else without my lawyer.”

Justin Bryce was a soft-spoken, pear-shaped guy in his late fifties. Back when she was arrested for grand theft, he'd served as her public defender. Didn't keep her out of prison, but he got her sentences to run concurrently. After getting out, she'd hired him to get her rights restored and to handle legal matters for the shop. He'd become kind of a family friend—albeit an expensive one.

“You're lucky,” said Justin after Buzzkill and the others stepped outside the interrogation room. “I finished a case up in Prescott an hour before you called.”

“Not guilty?” she asked, hoping for a positive sign.

“He did better than he would have without me. Let's leave it at that.” He frowned. “Tell me what's going on here. Why're they looking at you for this woman's murder?”

“Early this morning, someone broke into Iron Goddess and shot Derek. Stole a bunch of merchandise, too. I called 911. They took Derek to the hospital.”

“Sorry to hear about that.” He scribbled down some notes. “How does that relate to this woman's murder?”

“I thought the Confederate Thunder mighta been the ones who broke in, so I called my sister, Wendy. She's married to the club's president—a guy by the name of Hunter Wittmann. Thought maybe she'd heard something one way or the other.”

“The Sheriff's Office isn't investigating the break-in?”

Shea smirked. “Between illegally profiling Latinos, pulling people over for ‘driving while black,' and staking out the county's doughnut shops, Buzzkill's boys are probably too busy to do any real police work,” she said. “Figured it'd be faster if I did the investigating myself.”

Justin chuckled. “And?”

“Apparently Hunter's been using her as a punching bag. Wendy and her daughter, Annie, spent the last night with her friend Margaret. Then this afternoon, she showed up at Iron Goddess, followed by Hunter and his boys. They started knocking her around, asking where Annie was. When I told 'em to clear out, one of his guys shot at me. He missed, fortunately, and we kicked them out without any further incident.”

“How'd y'all manage that?”

“Oh, you know us ex-cons.” She smiled for the first time in hours. “We're resourceful.”

“Uh-huh. So you kick the Bowery Boys out and then what?”

“Wendy was all shaken up and asked me to drive her to Margaret's—promised Margaret would gimme a ride back. When we got there, we found the front door busted in. I went in looking for the girl and found Margaret dead in the back bedroom. No sign of Annie. That's when the cops showed up.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“Like what?” Shea recalled her run-in with Oscar, but figured, why bring it up? It didn't have anything to do with Margaret or Annie.

“Like anything else the sheriff might surprise me with. I'm not a fan of surprises.”

She shook her head. “No, that's it.”

“Okay, let's bring them back in here and see if we can't get all this cleared up and go home.”

Justin brought Buzzkill, Edelman, and Rios back into the room.

“Where's Willie?” she asked.

“Sergeant Foster had other business to attend to,” said Edelman.

“Your client ready to confess, Counselor?” asked Buzzkill.

“Sheriff, the only thing my client is guilty of is giving a ride to her sister, Wendy, who is separated from her husband, Hunter Wittmann. She has been staying at Ms. Ortega's residence. If you're looking for a suspect in the child's abduction and Ms. Ortega's murder, I suggest you look at the girl's father.”

Rios looked confused. “Why would Mr. Wittmann kill Ms. Ortega?”

“He's a Thunderman. Feels he can shoot whoever gets in his way,” Shea said. “I've heard he's been picked up a few times for assaulting Wendy.”

“Now, folks,” said Justin, “who do you think's more likely to have done this—a hardworking businesswoman or an outlaw biker with a history of violence?”

“Your client has a criminal record herself and was caught holding a gun at two different shootings,” said Buzzkill. “I'd say that makes her a suspect.”

“My client never met the deceased before she found the body. Her employees can confirm that she gave her sister a ride to pick up the girl.”

Edelman shuffled some papers and pulled one out. “The ones at Iron Goddess Custom Cycles?”

She nodded. “That's right.”

“Would that include Olivia White River, who served two years for DUI?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes. “You mean Lakota? Yes.”

“And Amy Marana, nickname Switch, who spent several years committed to the Cortes County Behavioral Health Center after putting three students and a teacher in the hospital?”

“She had schizoaffective disorder after her family abused her. She's better now.”

“And your business partner, Terrance Childers, previously known as Theresa Childers,” said Edelman. “He served four years for illegal possession of prescription narcotics, did he not?”

Buzzkill leaned over the table, sneering at her. “Seems like your alibi hangs on the word of criminals, junkies, and lunatics, all of whom work for you. Hardly enough to convince a jury. Why don't you quit lying and tell us the truth?”

Her blood boiled. “I
am
telling the truth, you fat piece of—”

Justin put a hand on her shoulder. “My client had no motive to kill the deceased, much less abduct her own niece. These charges are absurd.”

“The motive could be any number of things. Drugs, money, who knows?” said Rios. “There's been a sharp rise in drug trafficking and related violence throughout Cortes County. A lot of it ties back to Mexican drug gangs.”

“What's that got to do with me?” Shea asked. “I ain't Mexican.”

Edelman referenced his sheet of paper again. “You know a man named Oscar Reyes?”

Shea shook her head, wondering how much worse this would get. “Name doesn't ring a bell.”

“We received a report that a white female—medium build, short hair, and a scarred face—threatened him with a firearm earlier today at his family's restaurant. What can you tell us about this?” asked Edelman.

Justin leaned over to her and whispered, “What's he talking about? You know this Reyes character?”

She shook her head.

Justin turned to Edelman. “My client has no knowledge of this. What does this have to do with Ms. Ortega or the missing girl?”

“Mr. Reyes is a member of
Los Jaguares,
a street gang that smuggles heroin and guns for the Santa Cruz drug cartel,” said Edelman. “Margaret Ortega is Mr. Reyes' cousin.”

That was news to Shea. In her mind, she could hear Terrance telling her he told her so—that the meeting with Oscar would come back and bite her. Guess he got that one right.

Edelman continued. “My guess is you've been using your business as a front to sell heroin for the Jaguars. Maybe a deal went sour, so when someone robbed your shop and shot your guy, you suspected the Jaguars. You retaliated by killing Ms. Ortega.”

“Really?” asked Justin, arms crossed, looking rather unimpressed with Edelman's theory. “And the missing girl?”

Edelman shrugged. “We're still investigating that. Maybe the child's father does have her.”

Shea stood up. “That's nuts. I got no idea who killed that woman. And I couldn't've kidnapped my niece. I was in the house when y'all arrested me.”

Buzzkill pointed at her. “You sit down, missy, or I will cuff you again.”

Rios smiled with a look of concern in her eyes. “Shea, we get it. You were in a tight spot. Economy's bad, making it harder to make ends meet. So you made deals with the Jags to keep the doors open. Anybody in your situation would have done the same thing. We just need you to tell us what happened.”

“That's horseshit. I already told you what happened.”

“Everybody, relax.” Justin pulled her back down in her chair. “Sheriff, have you checked my client for gunshot residue?”

Buzzkill squirmed. “We did, but the results were inconclusive.”

“You mean the results came back negative.”

“Don't mean nothing.” Buzzkill sat back and crossed his arms. “She coulda been wearing gloves or washed her hands.”

“Had the gun you found on my client been fired recently?”

“Again, inconclusive.”

“I see. So the only thing you do know is my client was in the house with no motive and no evidence of having fired the weapon she was holding. Is that the case?”

The sheriff frowned. “We're still investigating.”

“You sound like a broken record, Sheriff.” Justin stood up. “Let me suggest an alternative theory, if I may. Hunter gets wind that Wendy is leaving him and staying with someone with family ties to the Jaguars. Believing his wife has betrayed him and the club to the enemy, he and his fellow outlaw bikers grab the girl and kill the Mexican woman. Doesn't that seem much more likely given the evidence?”

“Maybe.”

“Well then, unless you plan to arrest my client, this interview is over.”

Buzzkill sat there fuming. It pleased Shea to watch Justin put him in his place.

He closed the folder and stood up. “Detective, please release this woman. For now.”