The Blood of Brothers: A Sycamore Moon Novel (Sycamore Moon Series Book 2) (13 page)

 

 

 

 

The Coconino County deputy leaned against the wooden beam of the clubhouse porch. It was a disinterested pose, a guard at a post. He nodded as Maxim Dwyer identified himself.

"You guys got here fast," said Maxim.

Most of Greater Sycamore was unincorporated; the Seventh Sons weren't technically based in Sanctuary. It was wild land, both its appeal and its fault. While the clubhouse resided in the county's jurisdiction, because of Sanctuary's proximity and working relationship with the club (and Maxim thought because of the mayor's pull as well), Coconino often handed off Seventh Sons cases to the Sanctuary Marshal's Office. Boyd had already confirmed it with their sheriff.

For Coconino, it was an easy deal: no negative headlines and no crimes on their books. But for Maxim, he was now two murders in the hole.

"We were in the area," said the deputy. Then he nodded towards the other car of backup deputies. "They're from the Bellemont substation."

That was the closest town to Sanctuary. He was still surprised they had beaten him to the scene. Next time he would take longer to notify them.

"Who's the detective on site?" he asked.

The Coconino deputy shook his bald head. He wasn't an old guy. It looked more like he was beating the inevitable to the punch. "No one's en route. I was advised that you were heading this up. We're just here to secure the scene."

Maxim nodded and peeked through the open front door. The body was hard to miss. Besides the deputy at the door and the two standing by their SUV, another uniform was inside. Two motorcycles were outside. A Harley lying on its side, which Maxim assumed belonged to the victim, and Diego's shiny Scrambler, which was hard to miss. There was also another vehicle outside that Maxim hadn't seen before: a gold Lexus minivan.

"You have a tech inside?"

"Thought you boys did that yourself up here," said the patrolman. He started at the approach of another vehicle. His hand went from his hip and pointed to the dirt road. Maxim turned and saw a Coconino van pulling up behind his TT. "Looks like he didn't hear we were punting the call. I can send him back."

"Actually, I don't mind the help."

The Coconino County Sheriff's Office was a larger department: more personnel to cover a more expansive area. They had civilian technicians on staff to assist with forensics. Maxim watched the young crime scene tech jump out of the van with a little too much enthusiasm. He was too bright-eyed to have been on the job for a long time, but the extra manpower wasn't unwelcome.

"What about me and Diaz? You need us too?"

"Diaz is your man inside?"

The deputy nodded.

"How about this? You can send the other car back but you two can stick around if you want."

"Sure. I could use the overtime. I'll go let them know."

Before the officer was able to take off, Maxim stopped him. "Who else is inside?" The detective nodded towards the minivan parked out front.

"Bitch from hell. But don't tell her I said that."

Maxim immediately knew who it was and let the deputy go. "Diaz!" he yelled. The clump of heavy boots came from deeper inside until the Coconino uniform appeared at the door.

"You the detective?" asked the patrolman.

"I sure am. You mind staying outside while the tech and I take a look?"

"I didn't touch anything."

"Good job, Diaz."

Each man waited for the other to say something. It was sort of a standoff until a light bulb went off in the deputy's head.

"Okay, sir. I'll be outside if you need me." Diaz stepped around the detective and out into the yard just in time for the young tech to arrive. He was an Asian kid who looked twelve. He wore a brand new T-shirt that read "I see dead people" across the front. Maxim introduced himself and explained to him that he would be assisting the marshal's office.

"I know you," said the kid. "You're the one who cracked the Paradise Killings. You know, when I was first hired, I just missed those bodies in the morgue by four weeks. I got to do some related follow-up analysis, but the big stuff was over."

"It's never really over, kid."

"Damian." Maxim nodded and the tech got right to work inside.

Maxim followed him in. He had stood in this room not twenty-four hours ago. It was a sparse entryway—the motorcycle club wasn't well known for its interior design sensibilities—but what little possibility for disarray the room afforded was actualized. An array of micro-clues spread out before the detective, lots of little hints that alone told only part of the story. Overall, there was a narrative to build. This little room may have only been a foyer, but for two to three minutes, it was the Wild West.

The Seventh Sons clubhouse was in the middle of the Sycamore forest. It sat in a large clearing of wild white grass, with a single dirt road leading to it. The Coconino deputies had been wise enough to park away from the house, but the Lexus had trampled over any possible track marks. Not that it mattered much; there wasn't anything outside, besides the downed Harley, that caught the detective's eye.

Starting, then, at the front door. Maxim pulled out his cell phone and opened a note-taking app. He noted the damage to the front door frame. The wood where the handle clicked into place was cracked as if the door had been forced in. Interestingly, the dead-bolt wasn't extended, and judging by the damage, it hadn't been when the door was breached.

Maxim sank to his knees. Without touching the handle, he took several pictures of the damage pattern.

"What's your name, Deputy?" asked Maxim, just as the bald officer returned to his post on the porch.

"Anderson," he replied.

"Detective Dwyer." Maxim stood up and offered his hand. Anderson shook it. "You and Diaz were first on the scene?"

"Yes, sir. The woman and the civ who called it in were already here."

"And who else went inside?"

"Just me and Diaz, sir. Jackson and Renteria didn't even peek in."

Maxim nodded. Anderson wasn't overly interested in the crime scene. The detective had a bead on the two partners immediately.

Some cops were like Diaz. He wanted to poke his nose into everything, maybe play detective, or just get the most out of what the job threw his way. Maybe he was excited to see dead bodies. Maybe he wanted to look around a motorcycle club's inner sanctum. Then there were the guys like Anderson. He came in, did what he was supposed to do, and didn't get in anybody's way. Faults could be found in both attitudes, of course, but in this instance, Anderson was what Maxim needed. He didn't want to have to keep his eye on Diaz, wonder what he was doing inside. Immediately, Maxim felt he could rely on Anderson.

"Was this door open like this when you arrived?"

"Yes it was, untouched by police. The two inside think they touched it, though."

Maxim twisted his mouth in disappointment. There probably wouldn't have been usable fingerprints on the doorknob anyway. It was likely whoever did this wore gloves.

The detective approached the body. It was Omar. Maxim had first met him when Gaston took over the club the year before. The kid had been playing pool with Clint, generally acting tough and backing up their new president. He was the first of the club to be so young, but not the first to die.

"Someone must have been packing silver," said Diego solemnly. Damian looked up from the body momentarily at the odd announcement. Maxim glanced over and saw Diego brooding in the connected living room. Maxim walked over to shake his hand.

"What happened here?"

"Omar was a good kid. He wasn't cutthroat like some of the others. This is the last thing I wanted to happen."

Maxim kept a harsh edge in his voice. "You're just realizing that club business isn't a vacation?" When Diego didn't answer, Maxim returned his gaze to the body. "Who did this?"

The biker shook his head. "Who could have?"

"Where is everybody?"

"Most of the MC is locked up with the New Mexico State Police."

Maxim raised an eyebrow. The fact would have been humorous under less tragic circumstances. Before he could ask a follow-up question, they were interrupted by a woman walking into the room from the back. It was Teresa Banks, the lawyer who represented Clint.

"Not another word, Mr. Torre. This incident had nothing to do with club business. The Seventh Sons were all out of state when this occurred."

"This isn't a deposition, Ms. Banks. I'm just questioning the first witness on the scene. He called us, remember?"

"Well, I'd like to be present when you do."

Maxim turned to Diego. "You believe this shit?"

The biker was resigned. He weakly shrugged. "This
is
club property."

"This is a crime scene."

Teresa Banks interjected herself between the two men. Her metal bracelets jingled as she pointed to the dead body. Maxim noticed her eyes avoided the gruesome scene. "As far as that goes, Detective, you are free to search this open area as part of your duties, but the rest of the house is off-limits."

The detective shot the lawyer a grave stare. She didn't notice.

"I just got off the phone with your marshal after speaking to the magistrate and you're going to need a search warrant to get any deeper into the house."

Maxim couldn't believe what he was hearing. The judge would never approve a search warrant for this clubhouse. They hadn't been able to do it for the Paradise Killings, and they wouldn't now. The motorcycle club must have had the judge on their payroll.

"Anderson!" yelled Maxim, not taking his eyes off the lawyer. In a moment, the deputy popped his head around the corner.

"Yes, sir?"

"Please escort Ms. Banks from the crime scene."

The woman stared at him defiantly.

"Certainly," said Anderson with a smirk on his face.

Teresa's face burned red until it looked as if it would explode. "This is preposterous!" she cried. Anderson took her by the arm but she tore free. "The Sanctuary Marshal's Office has already agreed to these terms."

"Anderson," said Maxim, turning to the deputy. "Which office do you work for?"

"Coconino County. Ma'am, I'm only gonna ask you one time to come outside." Anderson took a step back and put both hands on his belt. Teresa shifted her gaze back and forth between the two.

"You have no authority to remove me from the premises."

"Lady," said Maxim, "I am the authority."

With a gentle push from the deputy, Teresa Banks begrudgingly went outside. If the lawyer was as good at her job as he'd heard, then Maxim would hear about this again, but he could always explain that he was trying to preserve the evidence on the scene from being contaminated.

Maxim turned to Diego, hoping to get more cooperation from him without her present. "You know Doka's dead, right?"

"What?"

"The vic we found without skin at Sanctuary High. It was Carlos Doka." Maxim watched as Diego struggled to absorb the news. Diego was the one who had stabbed the man last year. When he didn't respond, Maxim said, "In any case, the Yavapai are out for revenge."

"The Sons didn't have anything to do with that."

Maxim raised his voice. "Would you listen to yourself? You used to be a military man, on the right side of the law."

Diego scoffed. "Killing—"

He stopped as Damian studied them again. Diego was going to say "killing werewolves." This wasn't something they could talk openly about.

The biker continued, in a lower voice. "It wasn't exactly as noble a calling as homicide detective." No sarcasm flavored his sentiment.

"Great. So you throw in with criminals?" The biker turned away, but Maxim caught his troubled eyes. They bared his conscience clearly. The detective wondered how far that guilt went. Was he responsible for Omar's death? "Why was the club arrested in New Mexico?"

"They're just being held for questioning. There was a thing. A delivery on the way to El Paso."

Maxim put his hand up. He didn't want to hear it. He had been told by the feds to keep out of interstate drug enforcement, that they were building a bigger case, except most of him thought that was just more cover. More club connections. One thing was sure: Maxim didn't need to hear about illegal activities, as long as they were outside his jurisdiction.

"It's bullshit," complained Diego. "The MC isn't on the hook for anything. They'll be back here before sundown."

The detective shook his head sadly.

"Look," said the biker. "I didn't want this, okay? It just happened. I was helping the MC out as a show of force because you took Clint away. We were meeting the Pistolas. All hands on deck."

"The who?"

Diego shook his head. "They're a Mexi outfit based in SoCal."

"So the Sons are warring with the Yavapai, fronting for the Pistolas, and in hot water with NMSP. Bang up position you've landed yourself in."

Maxim stormed away. He didn't understand how the man, his friend, had made such bad decisions. Having an understanding with the club was one thing. To use friendship as a means of enforcement. To keep them out of trouble and the citizens safe. Hell, Maxim had even had fun hanging out with some of the bikers at times. But to take part in illicit activity wasn't just crossing the line—it was also stupid.

Maxim Dwyer knelt beside Omar's corpse. This kid had learned that the hard way.

 

 

 

 

Kayda didn't know how long she lay motionless by the side of the road. She figured her perception was warped—it seemed to be hours and hours, but the sun was still high in the sky. Huddled against the concrete barrier, the dust storm went through waves, sometimes fierce and then gentle. Several cars had passed her by, unable to see her behind the roadside wall.

She didn't call out to the cars. She didn't attempt to stand up. Kayda just lay still, wondering what to do, wondering how she could have possibly found herself back in Chino Valley, dying.

It was hot out and she was thirsty. The lack of lubrication in her throat was physically painful. It felt like her tongue had expanded and filled the space in her neck, making it difficult to so much as breathe.

A quick death, Kayda thought. That's what she deserved. Not to lie here baking in the sun, drying up like a dead leaf that had fallen away from its tree. Another vehicle, this one a large truck, blazed by in a spirited rage. How Kayda wished to have been in the middle of the road beneath that overbearing juggernaut. To have caught an end with finality. A quick death.

Heavy breaths slowed as she calmed her thoughts. Kayda wasn't going crazy. She wasn't truly thinking of death. At least she told herself that. She had been in shock. Adrenaline had pumped through her body until it was spent. Death wasn't what she needed. Only sleep. Peace.

All she required was a reprieve.

And then she heard a cat's meow. On the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, Kayda considered that maybe she actually was going crazy. The meow repeated itself, and after having not moved for what seemed like hours, the girl decided to turn her head.

A house cat stood next to her, a slight purr vibrating through his body. He had a beautiful black coat, but it was uneven and scratched up, and further marred by the red sand of the blowing storm. The cat watched her intently with wide green eyes that never blinked. Then it opened its mouth wide in a yawn, meowing before it finished, and turned its tail as if it was bored. The cat slinked into an open pipe under the road.

It was a drainage pipe. It carried water from the higher ground on the west side, under the road, and swept it off into the canyon below. The pipe was open at the end, only wide enough for the cat. As the wind spiked and whipped the grit more aggressively, Kayda dug her fingers into the dirt and heaved herself closer.

Dragging her body, she discovered, wasn't that difficult. Most of the trouble was the inertia, just getting started. Once she began, she moved quickly, and before she knew it she was at the pipe opening. The cat pressed deeper into the small tunnel, and Kayda stuck her head in.

Gentle air caressed her face. It was cool inside. Dark. Lying in the dirt below the barricade with only her head inside, Kayda closed her eyes and allowed the breeze to work its magic. It was damp. Although stagnant, the humidity excited the girl beyond description. Kayda opened her eyes and adjusted to the dim light, looking for water.

It was bone-dry, unfortunately. An illusion created by the breeze. Kayda had only been in town for a day and she had no idea when the last rain had been, but it couldn't have been very recent. She still managed a smile. The lack of water wasn't a setback. She had found shelter at least. She had found a chance.

Kayda wanted to be home. In bed. She wanted to be back in New York, with her friends. With her comforts. Yet she couldn't get over how soothing a single breeze was. It made her look at her struggles differently.

She had a few choices. Staying here to die was no longer one of them. Moving had proved she wasn't as weak as she thought. She was hurt, but only superficially. She had been parking the motorcycle when it flipped. She had the helmet on. She would be okay, she told herself. She stressed it to herself. Again and again, like a chant with healing power.

Kayda could go back to the reservation. Recover. Although the idea pleased her body, she shuddered at the thought. The last thing she wanted was to face her people empty-handed. She had meant to show them she was strong. Was she to return a few hours later with nothing to show for it but a wrecked motorcycle?

Then again, what else could she do? Maybe it displayed true strength to thrust away the worries about her reputation. She would prove her strength. Prove her worth. But first, she needed to recover.

Kayda waited huddled against the drain pipe while the dust storm slowly subsided. The entire time, her eyes watched the dirty cat. He didn't clean himself or sleep or do any of the usual things cats did. He just sat upright, staring right back at her, incessantly out of reach.

Something absorbing resided in those eyes. A wariness, but a confidence, as if the cat didn't trust the world, but trusted that he could navigate it. Kayda thought about that, and what it meant, and found it inspiring.

Once the wind abated, Kayda smiled at her little friend. She didn't try to speak, not again, but she gave the animal a nod of thanks. She pulled her head out of the pipe and shut her eyes at the assault of the bright sun. Working with determination, and unwilling to let it evaporate in the heat, Kayda slid her tennis shoes beneath her and hauled herself up.

Her entire right torso twisted with electricity. It shot straight one way, and then threw her the other. The painful reaction emphasized how physically hurt Kayda really was. One of her ribs was likely broken.

As her body bent away from the pain, Kayda thrust a foot out to counter the momentum. She found herself leaning towards the steep slope of the hill. Her heel drove into the dirt. The rocks crumbled away underneath. Her foot slipped forward and sent her body careening down the decline.

Kayda wouldn't exactly call what happened a fall. It was more of a slide. The slope was steep and peppered with jagged rocks and bunches of grass, but her body ripped along the dirt in a controlled fashion that mostly avoided danger. Panic threatened, but she stuffed it down deep under her stomach. The ground of the canyon came rushing up to meet her, and Kayda simply gritted her teeth and steadied her feet as she skied down the dirt.

She was strong. A hillside didn't scare her. She welcomed the rush.

Her descent picked up speed. Her body hopped a couple of times, momentarily losing purchase with the dirt. Nearer the bottom, her body wiggled, and she felt her control slip away.

When the bottom did come, Kayda was unprepared for it. Her feet were not far enough ahead of her and she toppled forward, rolling into the ground and feeling more beaten up than ever. But she didn't let herself think. She didn't let herself despair. Kayda Garnett propped herself on her elbows and knees, and rose to meet the sun.

Above her, high in the sky, was State Route 89. At the bottom of the hill, she was lost among the dirt and rocks. Beside her was her brother's dented motorcycle.