On a Knife's Edge (12 page)

Some stared at him. A few others glared. Lynch ignored them
all as he trailed Grunge to a couple of vacant easy chairs which flanked a
small lacquer table.

Lynch sank—and sank and sank—into the over-stuffed cushions.
Fuck. He’d never sat in anything so luxurious. He worried he’d rip the
expensive upholstery.

Grunge splashed more tequila into his tumbler then set the
bottle of the table. “Hang here a sec. I’ll be right back.” He headed for the
meeting room door.

Scanning for a familiar face, Lynch sipped his drink. No
Ennis, Tiny or Mick. No Hez either, a good thing. Angry resentment still
scorched Lynch’s blood that his supposed best friend had been fucking Shasta.
He stretched his neck. It popped loudly in his ear.

But he needed to forget Hez and concentrate on his
mission…get the necessary information for Jarvis and find out who killed Flyer.

His gut quivered. Expensive stuff and men he didn’t know
from Adam…something wasn’t right. And the sooner he found out what, the better.
For him and his club.

Grunge plopped into the adjacent chair and handed him a wad
of bills. “Here ya go. This should hold you for a while.”

Lynch took the bundle and did a quick count. Three grand.
His gaze rocketed to Grunge’s. “What the hell…I've never seen such a payout.”

“That’s cuz we’ve never been involved in such a
motherfucking sweet deal before.”

“What kind of deal? Robbing banks?”

“Nothing that complicated—or dangerous, brother.” Grunge
poured himself more tequila with a chuckle and smug grin.

Lynch frowned at the man’s silence. “So spill. What the
fuck’s been going on since I left? First the Patrón, then the fancy furniture
shit. Now this…” He held up the money. “And who are all these guys?”

“Most of ‘em came down from Vancouver with Junkyard. But
don’t worry, brother.” The treasurer settled into his chair. “They’re all good.
Junkyard vouched for them.”

“And they got patched in? Just like that? On the word of one
guy?”

Grunge scowled. “Yeah, just like that. Junkyard’s the one
responsible for the cash in your hand. If he says these boys are good, they’re
good.”

Lynch tempered his anger. He couldn't get caught up in his
suspicion of the VP. If he did, he’d never find out anything. “So what’s this
mother-fucking sweet deal?”

Grunge shifted in his chair. “Can’t tell you, bro.”

Lynch’s jaw dropped. “Why the hell not? Don’t you trust me?
I thought we were brothers.”

“We are, man. We are. If it were up to me, you’d be read in
on the whole operation, but it ain’t up to me. It’s Rolo’s call. Sorry.”

“So you’re saying Rolo has a problem with me?”

“No.” Grunge scrubbed a hand down his face. “Shit…it’s just
that since Flyer split, everyone’s been on edge. You can understand that,
right?”

“Except I’m not Flyer, am I?” Lynch countered. “I’d never do
anything to hurt this club.” And he wouldn’t. His current actions were designed
to
help
his crew…

“I know, brother.” Grunge blew out a sigh. “But if anyone
found out I told you—”

“Nobody’s gonna find out shit.”

Grunge pinched his lips together, giving Lynch a gimlet
stare. “If this blows back on me…”

“It won’t. You have my word.”

“Fine,” Grunge grunted. He took a swallow of Patrón, glanced
around then sat forward. Lynch matched his posture.

“The deal is…pharmaceuticals.”

Lynch arched an eyebrow. “Pharmaceuticals?”

Grunge nodded.

“All this…” Lynch waved his hand. “…is because of some
pills?”

“Not just pills. Grade-A pharms, man. Everything from
antibiotics to morphine to beta blockers, whatever the hell those are.”
Grunge’s eyes gleamed brightly in the muted light. “Junkyard’s got an inside
guy at a drug manufacturing plant up in Canada who puts together little…care
packages for us. Junkyard and a few of his guys ride up there and bring back a
non-descript van. Then a different team of brothers accompany it to Vegas. From
there, another crew takes the product south.”

“South? To where? Mexico?”

“Sometimes, but mostly the stuff goes to whoever will pay
the most. The black market on this shit is huge, man. Fucking huge.”

“But don’t drug companies have super intense security?”

“Yeah, they do, which is the beauty of this scheme. Because
Junkyard’s guy is on the in-inside, he can pull the shit before it gets on a
truck. If nothing’s logged, then nothing can go missing.”

“And the Streeters are the distributors?”

Grunge shook his head. “We’re just an escort service. The
distribution—and most of the risk—is on others. It’s the perfect system.” He
knocked down his tequila then poured another. “Perfect, I tell ya. Just fucking
perfect.”

Lynch fingered stack of money, his lips pursed. “So how’d I
earn this cash? I've been gone for seven years. Won’t Junkyard get pissed I’m
mooching off his score?”

“If Junkyard don’t like it, he can take it up with Rolo. He
said to cut you in. ’Sides, there’s more than plenty more where that came
from.”

That piqued Lynch’s curiosity. “How much more?”

“Average of five grand.” Grunge’s face split into a grin. “Per
brother.”

Lynch felt his eyes bulge. “Five Gs…
each
?”

Grunge settled into his chair. “Did I not say one sweet,
motherfucking deal?”

Lifting his tumbler back to his lips, Lynch took a moment to
collect his jumbled thoughts.

No way could the black market trade in pharmaceuticals pull
in this kind of money. Not even if every country south of the Rio Grande bought
the illicit drugs, which most couldn’t even afford. No. The true source of this
newfound wealth was from the trafficking of young girls. Just like Jarvis and
Newman claimed. Lynch needed no further proof of Streeter involvement. But just
how many of his true brothers knew the facts about
where
all the money
came from?

Lynch set his glass down and glanced at Grunge. “Where’s
Rolo? I suddenly feel the urge to give him a big hug. Maybe even a kiss. On the
lips.”

Grunge threw back his head with a hearty laugh. “I’d pay to
see that. Too bad Rolo ain’t back yet.”

“But he said he’d be home on Monday.”

“Business in Henderson is taking longer.” Grunge shrugged.
“No big thing.”

Lynch gently swirled his drink, mentally cataloging all this
new information for the FBI. If he could find out the schedule for the next
run, that’d be even better…

He again took in the surroundings. “All we do is play escort
for these pharms? No more protection money or selling weed?”

“Some, but not much.” Grunge stretched in his chair.
“Junkyard also has connections in the gun and smack trade, but the Vancouver
boys handle most of that. Leaving the pharm angle, which is way safer, easier
and cleaner, to us.” He nodded his head to the money on the table. “As you can
see, this setup is very profitable.”

Lynch picked up the roll of bills and turned it over in his
hand. “So why are Junkyard and his guys the only ones who go to Vancouver?”

“It’s Junkyard’s guy, and he only wants to deal with him.”

“How often do these runs happen?”

“Depends. Couple times a month.”

“Rolo on a run this past weekend?”

“Nah. Other business.”

“What other business?”

“Dunno. I wasn’t on the need-to-know list.”

Lynch heard the suspicion in Grunge’s voice and sat back,
his ankle perched on the opposite knee. “So when’s the next run?” Silence
answered his question. He met the other man’s guarded gaze and hitched his
shoulder with a self-deprecating grin. “If I make this…” He held up the wad.
“…for just breathing, I gotta wonder how much I’ll get for being an active
participant.”

Grunge relaxed. “We’re not read into the details until the
night before. Rolo and Junkyard keep all that info tight to the vest. And they
keep the route under wraps till the last minute, too. Don’t want anyone getting
ideas about doin’ something stupid, like trying to rip off the club.”

Lynch nodded sagely. “Smart.” He downed the rest of his
tequila. It burned his gullet.

So Rolo knew about the shipments in advance. Did that mean
he also knew what the cargo actually contained? God…that thought made him sick.
He stood. “Well, I gotta jam, brother. Gotta meet my fucking lawyer.”

Grunge grinned up at him. “That lady lawyer of yours
definitely is fuckable, ain’t she?”

With a wink, Lynch offered a tight smile.
Oh, brother…if
only you knew the truth about my fuckable lady lawyer
.

He turned, and came face-to-face with Junkyard and Bowyer.

Junkyard glowered, almost like he didn’t think Lynch had the
right to be in the clubhouse. Lynch loosely hooked his thumbs in his belt loops
and glared right back.

The VP looked down at Grunge. “What’s going on?”

The treasurer straightened his posture at the terse
question. “Nothing. We’re just catchin’ up.”

Junkyard’s gaze slashed back to Lynch. “Catchin’ up with
what?” He stepped forward.

Lynch held his ground. “Stuff. Something wrong with that?”

One corner of Junkyard’s eye twitched. “Maybe.”

“Which is…?”

The unfinished question hung in the air like a rattlesnake
ready to strike. Everything seemed to stop…

Finally Grunge cleared his throat and clumsily got to his
feet to stand between Lynch and Junkyard. “Hey now…let’s remember we’re all
brothers.”

After another tense moment, the VP eased away as a smile
curved up his mouth. A mean, threatening smile. “Sorry, man Grunge is right. We
are brothers. Let me buy you a drink as an apology. Go grab some new glasses,
will ya Grunge?”

“Uh…” Grunge seemed unsure if he should leave. “Okay.”

Junkyard settled into the chair Lynch vacated while Bowyer
took up Grunge’s.

Lynch extracted his Harley key. “Thanks, but I gotta get
going. Lawyer shit.”

Junkyard nodded. “Speaking of shit, what you wanna do about
Albright taking you in?”

“What can we do?”

“Oh…all kinds of things.”

Lynch tugged his ear. “You know, if anything happens to
Albright, I’ll be the first one the cops come looking for.”

“What’s the matter?” Bowyer mocked. “Scared you’ll end up
back in the joint? Wuss.”

Lynch snorted. “Spoken like someone who doesn’t know what
the fuck he’s talking about.”

Bowyer pulled back his lips, baring his teeth. He stood, but
Grunge returned with fresh glasses and Junkyard rested his hand on Bowyer’s
arm. The pit bull sat down.

Junkyard poured a shot. “There’s more than one way to get
back at the sheriff.” He lifted his glass and glared at Lynch over the rim.
“But don’t worry your pretty head. You just go off and have fun with your
lawyer. We’ll take care of everything.”

A shiver chased up Lynch’s spine at the menacing tone, but
he turned and left, a lead ball of dread settling in his gut. He needed to tell
Jarvis and Newman about Junkyard’s threat to Albright so they could warn the
good sheriff. Lynch didn’t know what the VP planned to do, but he knew it
wouldn’t be at all pleasant.

Chapter Ten

SHASTA
PAUSED AS
the words and numbers blurred before her eyes.

Since her brother and husband continued to be paranoid about
her safety, her part-time job had turned fulltime. But on an average day, she
barely had enough clerical work at the stationhouse to keep her busy. So her
darling brother had “volunteered” her to input years of hand-written police
files into the new computer database. The work made tedium sound thrilling. But
at least it
was
work versus doing nothing. Because, like it or not, she
was stuck here for the foreseeable future. And she did not like it one bit.

She stretched her neck then went back to her mundane chore.

“Mrs. Dupree?”

The female voice brought up Shasta’s head, and her insides
chilled. Lynch’s lawyer. Dressed in beige pants and a white blouse with just
the right hint of lipstick and blush, she looked elegant yet professional.

Shasta sat straighter, painfully aware of her drab t-shirt
and lack of makeup. “Yes?”

The woman smiled, but the amiable gesture didn’t reach her
green eyes, and extended her hand. “Emma Jarvis. I’m representing Lynch Callan
in his bid for a new trial.”

Shasta shook her hand, unsure if she should admit she
already knew Ms. Jarvis, and her mission in Stardust. “How can I help you?”

“Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“Um…sure.” Shasta pushed away from her desk. “We can use the
conference room—”

“What the hell is going on?”

Her brother’s voice pivoted her. “Oh…Dell…this is—”

“I know who she is.” He shifted his weight, trying not to
lean on his cane, and aimed a glare at Jarvis. “What do you want?”

The corners of the lawyer’s eyes squinted slightly. “To ask
Mrs. Dupree a few questions on behalf of my client.”

“My sister doesn’t know anything about your client.”
Contempt dripped from Dell’s words.

Jarvis arched one perfect eyebrow. “I’d like to decide that
for myself, if you don’t mind, Sheriff.”

“I do mind. Counselor.” The last word sounded like a sneer.
“You’re not asking my sister anything unless Adam Murphy is present.”

“This isn’t a deposition so it’s not necessary to involve DA
Murphy.”

“I beg to differ. My sister isn’t talking to you without
legal counsel.”

Jarvis’s expression hardened. She placed her black briefcase
on the desk with a thud. “All right. I had hoped to keep things off the record,
but if not, I’ll arrange for a court stenographer to be in attendance. That way
everything will be official, and on the record.”

Animosity zinged between Dell and Lynch’s lawyer like static
electricity. Shasta gripped her brother’s arm. “Adam said she wanted to talk to
me so let’s just get it over with. Okay?”

He slid his gaze to her then back to the attorney. “Not
without me in the room with you.”

Jarvis gave a tight smile. “Fine. That way, I can interview
you after your sister.”

Shasta led the way to the conference room. She took a seat,
with Dell beside her. Jarvis sat across from them.

Several edgy moments passed while Jarvis retrieved a file, a
legal pad and a pen from her briefcase. After slipping on black-framed glasses,
she peered at Shasta over the rim, her hand poised over the paper. “Mrs.
Dupree, do you know my client, Lynch Callan?”

Shasta’s heart dropped into her stomach. How to answer that
question with Dell sitting right next to her? She twisted her wedding band with
a hopefully casual shrug. “I know
of
him.”

Jarvis’s mouth twitched. “Let me rephrase the question. Have
you ever
met
my client, Lynch Callan?”

The hawkish glint in the other woman’s eyes indicated she
already knew the answer. Shasta weighed the option of lying. As Jarvis said,
this wasn’t a deposition so she wouldn’t face any perjury charges. But if Lynch
had already told his lawyer about their…relationship…things could get sticky if
she lied, especially with her brother present. She swallowed the tightness in
her throat. “Yes. We’ve met.”

Dell whipped his head around to stare at her. “What? When?”

Jarvis saved Shasta the embarrassment of having to reply.
“Sheriff, please.” The attorney frowned. “I’ll ask the questions.” She
redirected her gaze to Shasta. “What were the circumstances of you meeting my
client?”

“He…uh…helped me out of a…situation. Once.”

“And the particulars of this…situation?”

Shasta wet her lips. “I don’t see how any of that can be
helpful.”

“I’ll be the judge of what’s relevant to my client’s case.
Now when did you two meet?”

Shasta twined her fingers. She didn’t understand how her
meeting Lynch could be of any use to Jarvis. But if the chance existed that it
could
help, she had to go for it, Dell’s reaction be damned…

“It was about seven years ago.” She studied her hands in her
lap, feeling her brother’s hot stare boring into her. “I was still in high
school at the time.”

Silence ballooned in the room.

“And, Mrs. Dupree?” Jarvis prompted.

Shasta blew out a breath. “And I got into a minor traffic
accident.” She boosted her shoulder. “Your client helped me.”

Jarvis scribbled on the pad. “Were you injured in this
accident?”

“Oh, no nothing like that.” Shasta heaved another sigh. “I
backed into his motorcycle with my brother’s truck,” she blurted.

“
You
what
?”

Shasta flinched at Dell’s shout. She turned to him. “It
happened a long time ago. Just a couple of months after Daddy died. You
remember what a mess I was then.” She covered her brother’s hand with hers. “It
was Ditch Day my junior year. You’d grounded me from my car and I retaliated by
taking your truck. I accidentally backed it into Lynch…I mean…” She glanced at
Jarvis who seemed enthralled with the story. “…your client’s motorcycle.”

She looked back at Dell, but he stared at the table, the
muscle in his cheek repeatedly popping. She tightened her hold on his hand.
“Please say something.”

His gaze snared hers. “I remember that day. My truck was
found on the far east side of town.
You
took it?”

She briefly closed her eyes with a small nod.

“But the window and steering column were busted. Did you do
that too?”

“No. That was Lynch. Since I took your spare key, he said
you needed to be…convinced someone stole it.”

Dell’s mouth hung open. “Why that motherfu—”

“Why did my client help you, Mrs. Dupree?” Amusement tinged
Jarvis’s voice. “Did he know you were the sheriff’s sister?”

“Oh yeah. He knew.” Shasta rolled her lips together. “He
said he wished he could’ve seen Dell’s face when he realized his truck was
gone. Making sure he never found out who took it would be the next best thing.”
She gripped her brother’s hand with both of hers. “Please don’t be mad. Like I
said, it happened a long time ago.”

Shaking his head, he scoffed a small laugh.

“After that initial meeting, Mrs. Dupree,” Jarvis said.
“Were there any other occasions when you met my client?”

Shasta held the lawyer’s gaze and willed starch into her
spine. No way would she reveal—in front of her brother—how much her world
changed that fateful day. How she stopped being so reckless because of Lynch’s
friendship. How he altered her perspective on everything from school to her
father’s death. How he helped her gain control over herself and her emotions.
How she fell in love with him.

Dell could never know the truth because if he did, it
wouldn’t take long before he realized the truth about Wyatt. And she wouldn’t
risk that. “No.”

Jarvis cocked one eyebrow and Shasta held her breath. If
Lynch had confessed all to his attorney, she prayed the good lawyer wouldn’t
out her. That she understood the dire consequences if she did…

Stars swam in Shasta’s vision, but she didn’t look away.

Finally Jarvis nodded once and closed the folder. “Thank you
for your time, Mrs. Dupree. I won’t keep you any longer.” She handed a business
card to Shasta. “If I have any other questions, I’ll be in touch.”

Shasta slowly released the air in her lungs and fought to
keep from slumping in relief. Somehow she managed to stand on watery legs and
walk from the conference room, leaving Dell to be interviewed next. At her
desk, she sank into her chair and studied Jarvis’s business card.

The simple yet graceful design mirrored the attorney. Emma
Jarvis seemed like an excellent lawyer—a good thing. Lynch would need a
first-rate one to clear his name. And it probably wasn’t a bad idea for Shasta
to know a high-quality lawyer too. For what, she didn’t know. But she slipped
the business card into her wallet anyway, then resumed her task of entering the
police files into the computer.

~*~

A
t two in the afternoon,
Lynch sat hunched over a cup of coffee in the back booth of the local diner,
waiting for his “lawyer.”

Immediately after leaving the clubhouse that morning, he
texted her about needing to meet. Funny thing, Jarvis pushed him off until now.
He lifted the warm brew to his lips. After all her bullshit pressure, he
would’ve thought she’d be more interested in what he had to say. Guess not.

The bell over the door tinkled. He looked up, hoping to see
Jarvis, but an elderly couple walked to the counter and sat. He exhaled an
irritated sigh and switched his gaze out the window.

Mert’s Diner stood at the far end of Main Street and across
from Stardust’s only park. Since it was mid-afternoon on a workday, no one took
advantage of the nice day other than a few moms with young kids in strollers.
That’s why the man in the business suit reading a newspaper caught his
attention.

He looked familiar, but it took a moment for Lynch to
recognize him. Adam Murphy. Why would the DA be sitting alone on a park bench
at this time of day? Some kind of weird stress relief therapy?

The answer came when Sam Newman ambled up and parked his ass
at the opposite end of the bench. A few moments later, Murphy folded the paper
and placed it on the bench. He then stood and sauntered off.

Lynch sipped more coffee and watched as Newman rose, scooped
up the paper and headed in the opposite direction.

Not a very clandestine handoff. But then how many people
would actually take notice? A small town like Stardust didn’t fit the profile
for a lot of cloak and dagger shit. Still, he wondered what Murphy had passed
to Newman…

His musings were interrupted when Jarvis slid into the seat
across from him. He set his cup down. “Glad you could make it, counselor.”

She frowned as she put on her glasses.

The waitress stopped at their booth. “What can I get you?”
she asked Jarvis.

Jarvis pulled a pad of paper and a pen from her bag. “Coffee
with cream please.”

The waitress nodded while warming up the contents of Lynch’s
mug and walked away.

He rested his arm on the back of the seat. “Where’s Newman?”

“Reno. Been there the past couple of days.”

Lynch glanced back out the window to the now empty bench.
Had Jarvis seen Newman? Did she know he’d met with Murphy? Was something going
on that they weren’t telling him? Suspicion danced along his neck.

“So, Callan, tell me what you found out.”

Clearing his throat, he
e’HH

eased forward. Despite his misgivings the agents might not
be on the up-and-up about everything, they were still his best bet for finding
out the truth about Flyer’s murder, and ultimately for helping his crew. “I’m
not sure, but something’s definitely hinky with the Streeters.” He paused as
the waitress placed a cup and saucer in front of Jarvis and poured coffee into
it. Again alone with Jarvis, he canted closer to the agent. “I went to the
clubhouse and spent some time with Grunge, the treasurer. It appears that
there’s been a huge influx of money into the club.”

“What makes you say that?” she jotted on the paper.

“There’s all this new, fancy furniture and primo booze. Real
top-shelf shit. There’s also a butt-load of new members…all brought in curtsey
of Junkyard Taylor.”

Jarvis squinted. “Is that all you’ve got? A few new bodies
and some liquor and furniture?” Shaking her head, she pulled off her glasses.

“No, that’s not all I got. I was also given a wad of cash
that wouldn’t choke a horse, but it’d do damage to a Great Dane.”

“How much?”

“Three grand.”

Jarvis tapped her pen. “And that’s not a typical payout for
the Streeters?”

Lynch scoffed. “Are you kidding? You and Newman had it
right—we’re a nickel and dime outfit. Or at least we used to be. A couple of
times a year we’d get a big score selling weed in the Bay area that would tie
us over, but nothing that would dole out three thousand to a brother just
getting released from prison.”

Interest sparkled in Jarvis’s eyes. “Did this Grunge say
where the money was coming from?”

“Black market pharmaceuticals.”

“Pharmaceuticals?”

Lynch nodded. “Supposedly Junkyard has an inside guy at a
drug company in Vancouver. The story is, he and a couple of his guys go pick up
the drugs—using vans—then escort the vehicles to Reno. Some of the brothers
then usher the vans to Vegas where yet another crew takes over and takes the
cargo south of the border.”

“And you’re thinking those vans don’t contain drugs, but
young girls?”

“Makes sense, right?”

“Yes, it does. How often do these shipments happen?”

“Usually a couple of times a month.”

“When’s the next one?”

“I don’t know. Only Rolo and Junkyard know the when, where
and route until the night before.”

She stared at him over the rim of her glasses. “Rolo Pruett?
Guess this means your friend is involved after all.”

“Not necessarily. Rolo could be as duped as anyone else.”