Solo (10 page)

Eric turned and headed for the living room when a hard-core gangsta rap song began to play. “Phone?” he asked one of the technicians.

The thirty-something woman gestured to a bagged cell phone on the kitchen table.

“Can I answer it?” Eric asked.

“Keep your gloves on.”

The ringtone cut off before Eric reached the phone. “Fuck.” He doubted he’d get any information from the caller anyway, but at least he now had a record of the person’s phone number. With luck, the call hadn’t originated from a burner or public phone. After shaking the phone from the bag, he noticed Harold had five messages, which made sense since the guy’d been dead for a while. Unfortunately, Harold’s piece of crap wasn’t a smart phone, which made sense given the fuckwad who’d owned it, but it meant he had to put in a four-digit pin number before he could retrieve the messages. There were tech guys at the station who could probably bypass the pin, but he wasn’t one of them. He settled for scrolling down the list of recent calls and wrote down several numbers, noticing most of the incoming calls had originated from three different numbers.

Using his own phone, he called the station. “Yeah, this is Detective Eric James.” He rattled off his badge number. “I need names and addresses to go with three phone numbers ASAP.”

A beep sounded in his ear, and he pulled the phone away long enough to see Solo’s burner number appear on the display. He gave the officer the numbers in a rush. “Call me back at this number when you have something for me.”

By the time he ended the call with the station, Solo had hung up without leaving a message. His day just kept getting better and better. He retreated to the bedroom and called Solo.

“Hey,” Solo answered, his voice deep and sexy.

“Sorry. I was on the phone with the station. They’re checking out three numbers I found on Harold’s cell.” Eric held back the information about the money and drugs for the moment.

“Rowdy and I are on our way to see Stevie Boy. Hopefully, we’ll get Easy’s address. If not, maybe we’ll get lucky and one of the numbers you’re tracing will lead us to him.”

For some reason, Solo’s assumption that Eric would just hand over information bugged him. Eric stared at the cash and drugs still sitting on top of the bedside table. “Depends on what I find. I can’t allow you to fuck up a police investigation, or both our asses will be in a sling.”

Eric was met by complete silence for several heartbeats.

“Sorry to bother you. I was under the impression we were working together. My mistake.” Solo hung up without giving Eric a chance to say anything.

Eric tried to call Solo back twice with no answer. On his third attempt, his call went straight to voicemail. Before shoving his phone back into his pocket, he took a few photos of the drugs and money. Satisfied, he returned to the living room. “When you finish up in here, there are a couple of items on the bedside table I need you to bag and tag.”

The same woman he’d spoken to earlier rose from her position on the floor. “We’ll process that room next.”

Eric nodded. “I’ll need to know as soon as possible what the white powder is.” He left the house and headed to his car to write up his notes. The only time he wished he had a partner was when it came to paperwork.

By the time his phone rang, he’d finished typing his statement. “James,” he answered.

“Where’d you get those phone numbers?” Captain Wallace asked.

“In my murder victim’s phone.” Eric set his laptop in the passenger seat. He could tell by his captain’s tone of voice that something was seriously wrong. “Why?”

“One of the numbers is registered to Jim Sparks. I did some digging and discovered the phone itself is Andy’s.” Wallace made a disgusted noise. “The chief wants us to bury the number. I know it goes against everything we believe in, but unless we both want to land in the middle of an Internal Affairs investigation, we’re going to have to do what we’re told.”

“That’s bullshit!” Eric screamed, slamming his fist against the steering wheel.

“I hear ya, but for now, concentrate on the other two, an Edward Sterling, the victim’s brother, I assume, and a Steven Boyd.”

“Shit. I’ve heard of those guys. Can you text me their addresses?” Eric started his police-issued sedan. Before Solo had hung up on him, he’d mentioned that he and Rowdy were going to visit Stevie Boy. Eric would bet his badge that Stevie Boy and Steven Boyd were the same person.

“Yeah, coming to you now,” Wallace said. “Want backup?”

Eric couldn’t ask for backup if Rowdy and Solo were already at Stevie’s place. “Let me check it out first. If it looks like he has company, I’ll call it in.”

Eric prayed his captain would agree with his plan because he had no doubt there’d be nothing but trouble if anyone else found two outlaw bikers in the home of a drug dealer, especially one with ties to a murder victim. Despite what he told his captain, Eric had no intention of calling for backup, at least not from the police department.

“Check in,” Wallace ordered.

“I will.” Eric ended the call and immediately tried Solo. When he was told to leave a message without the phone ringing, he knew Solo had the damn thing turned off. “It’s me,” he said when he was prompted to leave a message. “I’m on my way to Stevie Boy’s on official business. If you’re there, you need to leave before I get there.”

* * * *

Solo couldn’t help but grin at the makeshift repair to Stevie Boy’s front door. He knocked even though it was perfectly obvious he could open the door on his own with only the slightest push.

“Come in,” a voice called from the ground floor apartment.

Solo exchanged glances with Rowdy. “You think his lazy ass’s still in bed?”

Rowdy shrugged. “You did work him over pretty good.”

Solo opened the door and stepped into the darkened interior. The smell was worse than the last time they’d visited. “Jesus Christ! Open a fucking window or something,” he said, waving his hand in front of his face.

Stevie sat in a recliner with his legs stretched out in front of him, covered in a blanket. “I don’t have anything to say to you.”

“Well, see, that’s where you’re wrong,” Solo began. He needed answers from Stevie, and the last time he’d threatened the weasel, he’d been lied to. Instead of intimidation, Solo decided to play it cool. He took a seat on the ratty couch. “I need to talk to you about Roach.”

“Roach?” Stevie wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “What about him?”

“Where’s he buying his stuff?” Solo asked, hoping to trick Stevie.

“Easy. Everyone’s been buying from Easy lately,” Stevie groused.

“I thought you said Roach was one of the big dealers. If that’s the case, why would he buy from Easy? Why not cut out the middle man?” Solo glanced at Rowdy, who’d taken up position on the arm of the sofa. “You have any ideas on why that would happen?” he asked his friend.

“Nope,” Rowdy replied.

Solo returned his attention to Stevie Boy. “Did you tell me a fib?” He rubbed his jaw. “Why would you do that?”

“What the hell’re you doing here? If it’s about Harold, I don’t know shit.” Stevie said, shifting nervously.

Solo stilled. “Now how would you know about Harold? Seeing as how his body was discovered less than two hours ago, I don’t see how that’d be possible.”

The unmistakable sound of a gun safety being released filled the small space.

“You plannin’ to kill us?” Solo asked. Although he had a small knife tucked into the back of his jeans, he doubted he could get to it and take Stevie out before the dickhead pulled the trigger.

“I’m sure as hell not gonna let you touch me again,” Stevie answered. He threw back the blanket, uncovering a Glock 9mm handgun. “I assume you’re here to do Easy’s dirty work, and I just can’t let that happen.”

“I haven’t even talked to Easy,” Solo said, hoping to distract Stevie enough for Rowdy to reach the Smith & Wesson he wore in a shoulder harness under his vest. “I was hoping to get Easy’s address from you.”

“He’s fucking crazy, man,” Stevie said. “Killed his own fucking brother and sent me pictures of it.”

“Why would he do that?” Solo asked as he slowly inched away from Rowdy.

Stevie broke eye contact, shifting his gaze to the window beside the front door.

Solo lunged off the sofa toward Stevie just as the front door exploded inward. There, silhouetted in the doorway, was the outline of the only person Solo had ever loved. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the gun in Stevie’s hand swing toward Blue.

“No!” Solo screamed, throwing himself at Stevie. Too late, he heard the sound of a gunshot ringing in his ears as his body collided with Stevie. The recliner tipped onto its side at the impact, throwing both Solo and Stevie to the floor.

The Glock pressed against Solo’s forehead hard enough to split the skin. Despite his ringing ears, he stared into Stevie’s crazed eyes, knowing he was about to die. All he could think about was Blue, and whether or not the shot had ripped through his perfect body.

Solo heard someone yell his name a split second before his face was splattered with blood and tissue as Stevie’s head exploded. Solo reared back in an attempt to get away from the gruesome sight.

Blue dropped to the floor beside Stevie’s lifeless body. “You need to get out of here before the cops are called,” he panted, holding his hand over a bloody patch on his shirt. “Wipe your fingerprints off everything you’ve touched and go.”

Solo shook his head and reached for Blue. “I’m not leaving you. You’ve been shot.”

“Help will get here in time, but they can’t catch you here.” Blue looked over his shoulder at Rowdy. “Get him out of here.”

“Come on,” Rowdy said, holding his hand out to Solo. “He’s right. The cops won’t believe we’re innocent in all this.”

Solo stared at Blue. He knew what lying to the police would mean for Blue if it was ever discovered. Knowing Blue was willing to sacrifice his career to keep him and Rowdy out of trouble meant everything. “I love you,” he whispered as Rowdy pulled him to his feet.

Blue grimaced and started to unbutton his shirt. “Love you. Now clean your fingerprints and go.” He tore his shirt off and balled it up to press against the gunshot wound on his side. “Forget the cleaning. Just go,” he panted, moving to rest his back against the wall.

Solo started toward the door, hating himself. “Easy killed Harold. There should be a picture of it on Stevie’s phone,” he told Blue before wiping the doorknob with the bottom of his T-shirt.

Blue nodded but didn’t say anything.

Sirens in the distance caught Solo’s attention. “Shit.” With one final look at Blue, he raced out the front door and across the parking lot to his Nova. He tossed the keys to Rowdy. “You drive.”

Rowdy pulled out of the parking lot. “Easy’s?”

“No. Blue’s earned that arrest. Take me to the clubhouse.” Solo leaned his head against the back of the seat. He had no doubt someone had spotted them leaving Stevie’s apartment. Hopefully, the fear of retaliation by the Grave Diggers would keep their mouths shut.

* * * *

By the time Rowdy parked the Nova in its normal spot outside the club, Solo was out of his mind with worry. “We should just go to the hospital.”

Rowdy quickly pocketed the keys as he climbed out of the car. “Not gonna happen.”

Solo got out and slammed the passenger door. “We just left him.” He’d never forget the gut wrenching fear that swallowed him whole when he heard Stevie’s gun go off. He began to pace the parking lot, yanking handfuls of his hair. “Christ! Blue saved both our asses, and we just fucking left him!”

“Oh, shit,” Rowdy said.

Solo turned just in time to see Switch walk toward them from the open garage bay.
Fuck.
The last thing he needed was to go up against his Prez. He moved to the opposite side of the Nova, trying his best to keep his back to Switch.

“What the hell’s got you so fired up?” Switch asked. “I heard you over Zeppelin, and that’s saying something.”

“We ran into some trouble at Stevie Boy’s,” Rowdy replied.

Solo curled his hand into a fist and pounded it against the hood of the Nova. “Rowdy!”

Rowdy narrowed his eyes and held his palm up. “We went to talk to Stevie like you asked, but he pulled a gun on Solo. We weren’t prepared, and couldn’t draw our weapons without one of us dying. Luckily, a cop busted the door in. Stevie shot the cop.”

“Oh fuck!” Switch growled.

Rowdy shook his head and continued. “I was reaching for my gun when Stevie pressed his against Solo’s forehead.” He glanced at Solo. “The cop was shot in the side but still managed to blow Stevie’s fucking head off before he could shoot Solo. He then told us to wipe down our fingerprints and get the hell out before other cops came.”

“Why the hell would he do that?” Switch asked, moving around the car to stare at Solo. “Fuck, you’re covered in blood.”

“That’s what happens when a man’s head explodes right in front of you,” Solo said, hoping Switch would forget about Blue. He didn’t understand why Rowdy was spilling his guts to the Prez, knowing the truth would get Solo killed.

“The cop’s a good guy. Hell, the only decent one I’ve ever met. He’s after the dealer who put that kid in the hospital, too, and has fed us information along the way.” Rowdy looked at Solo. “My brother is standing next to you right now because of that cop.”