The Blood of Brothers: A Sycamore Moon Novel (Sycamore Moon Series Book 2) (18 page)

"Stay with him," Gaston commanded. The president marched to the middle of the clearing and stood tall, boldly daring anyone to make another move. He watched Maxim clearing the scene, taking control. For once, Gaston was glad the cop was here.

Then he picked up movement closer to the street and noticed Kelan slumped in the dirt. The Yavapai cautiously rose to his feet.

Gaston's anger took control. His adrenaline surged as he stomped towards the Yavapai. "You did this!"

"What? No!" said Kelan, the fire gone from his eyes.

"Leave him alone," cried Kayda, somewhere behind him, but Gaston wasn't listening anymore. Seeing his friend on the ground like that was game-changing. Politics was best suited for influence and debate. This? This was wartime. And that required soldiers.

The president took a menacing step toward the smaller wolf.

Another gunshot rang through the air, clearer than the others, stronger because it stood alone.

"Goddamn it, Gaston," spat the detective. "Enough!"

The big man's breathing was coarse. He didn't want to comply. He didn't want to behave. The sound of sirens in the distance was perhaps the only thing that swayed him. His grave eyes focused on Maxim as he approached Kelan with his gun drawn.

Once Gaston had decided to let go, backing down was easy. That's when the world softened, when exhaustion from the last two days' events began to set in.

The Yavapai girl brushed past him as Maxim produced handcuffs. "What did he do?" she cried.

"At the very least," said Maxim, "it's for his own safety." For the first time, Gaston noticed that West was standing right behind him, Diego in tow. Curtis and Trent glared from their post across the yard.

Kelan, while shaken, seemed oblivious or callous to the danger. After his initial surprise, he ignored his sister and spat at Maxim's feet.

"You're the one who killed Skah."

"My reputation precedes me," said Maxim in a mocking voice. "That's right. I killed him. With silver bullets. You wanna guess what I'm packing now?" Maxim casually waved his Glock in the air.

Kayda contemplated the detective with horror. Apparently she hadn't been privy to the events surrounding the Paradise Killings. "I thought you came out to help us," she said.

"I am."

"You're with them," she spat, pointing at Gaston.

Maxim twisted his face, but all Gaston could think about was the presence of the Yavapai. Inside Sycamore Lodge. Outside. The men in the van had retreated in the face of inferior firepower. It wasn't simply Maxim's celebrity that did that. Gaston recalled the fear the silver knife had instilled in him. Then he imagined what a magazine of silver bullets would do.

"The men in the van," hissed Gaston. "They were Yavapai."

Kelan's eyes narrowed and he denied the charge. He was a wolf, but he saw that he was surrounded by another pack. He put his hands behind his back and accepted the cuffs.

An unquenchable rage built within Gaston's head. This man, Kelan, was the architect of this. Was Gaston just gonna let the cops take him away?

But a cruiser parked on the side of the road. Cole and the rookie jumped out.

Gaston gritted his teeth. One more wolf not on his team.

He turned at the whimpering of the girl. The bitch.

Kelan's sister stood shaking next to them wearing her false surprise like a mask. She was a part of this. This entire thing was a scheme to kill a second MC member.

The big man regarded his men. They all realized the gravity of what he had said. Of what accusing the tribe meant. The Seventh Sons were at war with the Yavapai.

The two officers converged on their detective.

"Better late than never," said Cole. Maxim nodded gratefully.

"Holy shit," exclaimed Gutierrez.

They turned and followed the rookie's gaze. An elderly woman silently sobbed around the side of the building. Her husband was slumped over the hood of the car where he had been sitting, his head still leaking from the hole torn open by the bullet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The day started with a hangover.

Maxim often had hangovers. But this time, alcohol was absent from the equation. His headache was due to sleep deprivation and pounding his head on a rapidly accumulating caseload. Before he could make headway in one, another would present itself. Three dead bodies in as many days. And even though Roger Gladwell had been an old man, in many ways his death was the worst—because he was the only one who hadn't asked for it.

Maxim made sure to get to the station nice and early, before Marshal Boyd or Agent Garcia were around. Dr. Medina had thankfully shown up but it would be hours before the autopsy was complete. Since the man didn't appreciate being rushed, Maxim decided to pick on the new kid.

Damian answered the phone with his usual chipper attitude. Although he was awake early, Maxim guessed that he had gotten a full night's sleep.

"You didn't tell me you had FBI backing," said the kid. "The Flagstaff RA called and put a rush on the ballistics."

The resident agency was a local field office for the Bureau. No doubt Garcia had checked in with them. Maxim had to admit that jumping the Coconino forensic queue might be worth putting up with the agent. "Are the tests done then?"

"The basics. The agency wanted the victim's revolver run down. I emailed them the preliminaries, but I figured you'd appreciate a call."

"You figured right. This is still my case. Tell me what you have."

"The three .22 slugs in the entryway are a match to the gun. The spent metal jackets left in the revolver were the same used by the three unfired bullets so we could get a perfect test with those."

Maxim nodded. "Get to the good stuff."

"I'm building up to that. Okay, so you know how the serial number was scratched off? Well, we can do microscopic analysis of the underlying metal after applying a chemical reagent. Because the metal under the number stamp is more compressed than the surrounding metal, we can effectively raise the serial number."

"You got it?"

"Yup. Ran it through the system. Goes back to the registered owner of a pawn shop in Bernalillo, New Mexico. A Joseph Chapman, I think. I'll send it your way."

Maxim winced. He had no idea who Joseph Chapman was, but Clint James lived in Bernalillo. That wasn't a coincidence. More likely than not, Clint was the source of the weapon found in the hands of a fellow Seventh Son. That's why he had been so uncooperative at the start.

"That's not all," said Damian. "You're gonna love this next part."

Not if it was anything like the first, thought Maxim. It wasn't that the kid wasn't helping. It was that Maxim didn't like what the evidence was saying. "Go ahead."

"Okay. I missed it at the scene with all the fresh blood, but there was back spatter on the revolver we recovered."

"Blood?"

"Yes. Of course it was dry by the time I discovered it. And some of the fresh blood had pooled onto the bottom of the weapon. But it got me thinking: Why would a pistol that didn't hit anyone have back spatter on it? Three shots, three misses, remember? So I talked to Brody, the Coconino ME. He's your friend, right? We were comparing notes since he had analyzed evidence from your last homicide."

"Doka," whispered Maxim.

"You're good. It was a double match. The blood on the revolver was his, and all four bullets in evidence have the same striations. That revolver fired the bullet that killed your first victim."

"Son of a bitch," exclaimed Maxim. "That's impossible."

"Wha—I thought you'd be happy."

Damian probably thought he was handing Maxim the keys to the Doka case. Maybe he was, but for Maxim, his headache was just growing stronger.

"You sent this to the FBI?"

The kid stuttered on the other line for a moment. "Yes. It's conclusive. The science doesn't lie. But I'm waiting on GSR tests. I'll have more to tell you soon. In the meantime, I have a bit of bad news."

"You're making my day, kid."

"Hey, I can only solve one case at a time. We hit a snag on the victim at the clubhouse. You know the stray patent boot prints you asked me to check out?"

"Yeah." The few scuffs and prints in Omar's blood had been photographed. It wasn't uncommon in crime scenes with heavy traffic.

"One of them displays similarities to Diego de la Torre. It lines up with his statement about accidentally stepping in the blood. The other one is a mystery. It was imprinted in the blood pool at a wide diameter, away from the body, just like Diego's. That means the blood was undisturbed for a while when it happened."

Maxim nodded. He'd figured as much. "That means someone at the crime scene was sloppy."

"Not exactly. Blood dries from the outside in. If you look at the pictures, you'll see what I'm talking about. The edges of the pool began to dry and contract. They cracked a little bit. You can see that Diego's boot crushed the dried blood."

"What's the significance?"

"This mystery boot print didn't crack that edge."

Maxim furrowed his brow. "The boot stepped in the blood before Diego's did, when it was still partially wet."

"Mostly wet, yes," said Damian. "Tacky. Definitely not dry. And then you asked me to catalog all the boots at the scene, like I normally do for fingerprints. There were no matches."

"You made sure to get the police officers as well? What was his name... Diaz was wandering around inside there."

"I got their boots as well. They were all negative."

Maxim processed the information. "You're saying that this boot print came from the killer?"

"No," said Damian impatiently. "Remember that the blood had pooled before this patent print occurred. This boot print was impressed a significant time after the victim had been killed but before he was found by Diego."

Maxim leaned forward and put his face into his open hand. He didn't know what the boot print meant except that Omar Rivera's death was more complicated than it appeared. Maybe the autopsy would yield more information. For now, they were lucky to have a usable patent print to test against.

"Detective? Are you there?"

"Yeah, Damian. I'm trying to figure my next move with this print. I'm assuming it's a dead end for now?"

"Correct. I haven't been able to identify the make or size of the boot yet."

"That's okay," said Maxim, suddenly realizing his opportunity. "I'm gonna scan and email you one more boot print. Let me know if it's a match?"

"That's what I'm here for," said Damian. "Anything you want. I'm in this for the long haul."

Maxim thanked the eager forensic tech and hung up the phone. Just in time too, because his early morning peace was over.

Marshal Boyd and Agent Garcia burst into the office locked in debate. While they had some minor quibbles between them, they were united in their anger at the detective. Really, it was the situation that was upsetting, not Maxim specifically, but they couldn't easily yell at obscure concepts like "gang war" and "civilian death." It turned out that having a living, breathing punching bag was much more effective for venting stress, and for the moment, as the three of them crowded into Boyd's small office, Maxim Dwyer was that punching bag.

"I'm here in response to an anti-Native American hate crime," started Raymond Garcia, "and the only person you take into custody last night is a Yavapai who was witnessed as not being part of the attack? The brother of the original victim?"

Maxim stared at Boyd in a useless appeal. "Oh come on, Marshal. Are you more worried about the PR nightmare or stopping a gang war?"

Boyd tagged himself in. "It looks like I need to be worried about both."

"Look, that's fine, but dragging Kelan Doka in here prevented more violence."

Boyd drew his head back and turned to Garcia. Maxim knew his boss didn't mind the fact that Kelan had been detained. Boyd had a nasty habit of always playing devil's advocate. Always trying to play both sides of an issue. It was the politician in him. And when the feds came around, Maxim was sure to feel some opposing pressure.

Although he had already made his point, Maxim decided to add on. "If I left Kelan out there to be ripped apart by the Sons, the FBI would only keep spreading rumors of us being in their pocket."

Garcia furrowed his brow. "And are you? Because nothing else could explain your complete confidence that they aren't involved in either of these deaths. You're willing to accuse a California gang that you know nothing about without looking in your own backyard."

Maxim didn't want to dignify that with a response, but things would be so much easier if the FBI was on his side. On top of that, Maxim feared he was starting to lose the marshal. The detective validated Garcia's concern with a nod. "I still like the Pistolas for Omar, but—"

"You know the MO of those guys?" he interrupted, crossing his arms. "They don't go to war. They cozy up to their vics. Get them close. Then shoot them in the back. It's a sign of disrespect."

"The Pistolas were making deals with the Sons. Besides, they can change their MO to disguise their involvement. What if this was a planned hit? What if they knew Omar was alone in that house? Or what if Omar was just a side effect of a bigger play?"

"Let me tell you something," said Raymond Garcia. "Nine times out of ten, when something like this goes down, it's exactly what it looks like. The Seventh Sons killed a Yavapai rival, and the mercenary outfit struck back. Now that's a solid theory. There's no deep conspiracy with an elaborate timetable. No ancillary gang involvement. The Pistolas are an outfit out of the Imperial Valley—California's dustbowl. You're giving them too much credit."

"You just told me they weren't the type to shoot first," reasoned the detective. "That means they're not entirely stupid. Look, you're federal. You've worked with gangs before. I could use your authority to augment my case in California."

Both men looked away from Maxim awkwardly after his request. They traded a glance. An understanding. He was missing something.

Garcia lowered his arms to his hips. "Marshal?"

Boyd squared his small shoulders. He was preparing for a fight. "Detective Dwyer, in light of last night's events, we simply must do everything in our power to end this war. Our department doesn't have the resources—"

"Boyd," warned Maxim. He was getting a really bad feeling.

The marshal swallowed and continued his prepared speech. "Our department doesn't have the resources to handle something of this scope. I've decided to allow the FBI to take the lead on this matter."

Maxim swiped at the air as if this exchange of power was something he could beat down. He felt like ripping the little marshal's head off. This boy who was younger than him but happened to have a mayor for a father was taking his case away. The little prick.

"This is uncalled for," he protested.

"Is it?" asked Garcia. "I'm sure you've gotten the ballistics from Omar Rivera's gun too. The weapon was traced to Joseph Chapman from Bernalillo, a childhood friend of Clint James, who you just released from custody yesterday."

"I didn't..."

"I'm aware Marshal Boyd was the one who kicked him. And I'm aware that he was in this building when Rivera was killed. But we can't ignore that two Seventh Sons are already involved, and if we consider that the only other club member not in custody at the time was your friend, Diego de la Torre, I have a hard time not seeing a conflict of interests here. The FBI has made its case to the marshal and it is clear that this investigation must be driven from the outside. You're too close to it."

While Garcia spouted out the rationale for taking over, Maxim balled his fists again until his knuckles were white. The mention of Diego had almost set him off, but he stopped himself before doing something that couldn't be taken back. He spun around and stared at the door, half considering just storming out and continuing the case on his own.

Going rogue.

But once again, Maxim controlled himself. Over the years as an officer, and especially as a detective, he'd learned to be as deliberate as possible. His outburst had already exposed too much; pushing any further would reek of teenage angst.

"You may have your theories," said Raymond Garcia softly, respecting the detective's anguish, "but I came down to stop the fighting between the Yavapai and the Seventh Sons. I'm ordering you to stop with this Pistolas nonsense. If it's any comfort to you, I will look into them, but I doubt they're involved."

Maxim tried to peer through the blurred glass of the door's window pane. His back was all these men deserved, but he needed to allow the case to proceed. Whether the Seventh Sons were guilty was still an open question in his mind. He had different feelings about the tribe.

"I admit that I don't think the Pistolas were responsible for the attack on Sycamore Lodge."

"The Yavapai," stated the marshal plainly. Even without proof, it made the most sense.

"They're a small paramilitary pack," agreed Maxim. "Very dogmatic. The appearance of structure more than actual structure, but they have commonalities, like all armies. Those ACRs are their standard issue—the same ones Carlos and Skah used last year. The wolf masks, camo pants—it's like they were uniformed."

"Good," said Garcia, his voice taking a firm tone. "Then that's the next place this investigation will go. Believe me, just because I'm with the Civil Rights Program doesn't mean I'll let the Yavapai commit blatant crimes. As for Clint James, he is currently hospitalized in Flagstaff under a twenty-four hour watch. I've supplemented the Coconino deputies with a special agent."

"You gotta keep the locals honest," said Maxim sarcastically.

"That is exactly right, so you shouldn't feel persecuted by my oversight either. But Clint and the Seventh Sons are going to be investigated here, and you need to be okay with that." Garcia was affirming his rank, but it was clear he wanted cooperation. "By your own admission, the war has already begun. Whether it was the bullet in Carlos Doka's head or the one in Roger Gladwell's, the first shots have been fired. Now it's up to us to disarm and divide. We need order in the streets."