GATOR: Wolves MC (Riding With Wolves Book 2) (4 page)

Summer/Fall 2003 – New Orleans, Louisiana

After that night out by Lady Tanya’s, Gator and J.T. fell madly in love with each other and spent every moment they could together. By the end of the summer, they were so enamored that they decided to take things to the next level and got engaged—and one year later, on the anniversary of their meeting and “first time,” they were married.

Exactly forty weeks—or, in other measures, nine months—later, they became proud parents of a baby boy named something super-cute like Tyler. Then, less than two and a half years later, they welcomed their second child into this world—a daughter with a four-syllable name…like Elizabeth or Alexandra.

Gator, J.T., Tyler, and Elizabeth/Alexandra were a perfect family, and they lived perfectly in perfect harmony. The kids got straight A’s on their report cards
every
semester, and Gator and J.T. never fought, never ran late on a utility bill or payment, and
never
missed church on Sunday.

Yeah… fucking… right!

This
is
the point in Gator and J.T.’s story where anyone hearing or reading it would like to learn that Gator and J.T. went on to live happily ever after. But their lives were their lives, not a novel, fairytale, or movie. What happened after that night out by Lady Tanya’s was nothing like what’s described above, but, their lives went as follows.

Once the afterglow of their passion faded, Gator and J.T. left Lady Tanya’s and headed back to town. They caught up with Courtney, Henry, and Raymond along the way when J.T. spotted Henry’s car outside of a diner.

The teens all talked over coffee and pie—though Gator, who was still “Carl” to the rest of them, didn’t talk much—and agreed
not
to tell their parents—or anyone—about what happened out by the marsh. No one wanted to get in trouble for cutting out on the prom to go party, and no one wanted to be even harder pressed under their parents’ thumbs for having a brush with a gator. So mum was the word.

To keep up appearances, everyone returned to their original couplings, so Henry drove his cousin J.T. home, Gator drove Courtney back to her place, and Raymond left solo.

The next day, J.T. called Henry and asked him to get Carl’s phone number from his school directory—and once she had Carl’s number, she called him. They had your typical, cutesy-wutesy phone conversation, which involved a lot of mumbled words and giggling, and they arranged to “hang out” later that night.

Of course, J.T.’s parents were respectable folk, so they had to meet her daughter’s suitor before granting her permission to see him. Gator was a little nervous, but nonetheless, all on-board. Given J.T.’s nature, he felt optimistic and enlivened.

But alas, when Gator arrived at J.T.’s house, J.T.’s parents excused themselves and J.T. to the kitchen and left poor Gator standing there, he experienced an altogether new yet inherently familiar feeling…
déjà vu
.

“You don’t actually expect us to allow you to go anywhere with
him
, do you?” J.T.’s father huffed at her.

“I mean
look
at him,” her mother added. “We’d never live it down. We’d be the laughing stock of all of Louisiana if we let our daughter traipse around with
that
.”

“He looks like Frankenstein,” Mr. Taylor commented.

“He’s got to be at least a foot taller than you…and a hundred pounds heavier,” his wife followed. “People will think you’re his daughter, not his girlfriend.”

Okay, maybe the words weren’t
exactly
the same—but you get the picture. And suffice it to say, adults can be just as cruel as teenagers…if not crueler.

The things said against Gator were said by people who were at an age where they should have known better, and their age made what they said the final word on the matter. J.T’s parents told her that she wasn’t going anywhere with Gator, and they meant it—which meant that J.T. wasn’t going anywhere with Gator, and she had to face it… and face Gator.

After exchanging a few more select words with her parents—none as select as, “I hate you,” however—J.T. collected herself and walked back into the living room.

“Carl,” she said. (She didn’t want her parents to hear her call him “Gator” after what they’d just said and done.) “I can’t go out with you tonight.”

“Or ever?” Gator asked, cocking his head to the side and widening his eyes in a way that anyone—except maybe Courtney and the Taylors—would find endearing. “Couldn’t help but hear what your parents said, and I know they don’t like me.”

“I’m sorry you heard all that,” J.T. said. Her response was calm and soothing, like their prior night’s post-coital silence. “And I’m sorry my parents are such assholes.”

“It’s alright,” Gator replied, feeling weak in the knees—as if his self-treated wounds from the gator attack hadn’t made him weak enough already. “Can’t blame
you
for
them
, now can I?”

Mr. and Mrs. Taylor were still
technically
in the other room, but they were peeping around the corner of the wall, like children keeping watch for Santa—only they were waiting for “the big guy” to leave, not show up.

“I’ll try to find a way—” J.T. began.

“Jessica,” J.T.’s father interrupted, walking into the room with his chest puffed out, “that’s enough. Call it a night.”

“But, Daddy, just give me a few more—” she tried to continue.

“No buts,” Mr. Taylor interrupted again as J.T.’s eyes filled with tears. “Please see your friend out, or I will.”

“No bother, sir,” Gator said, finding his way into the conversation and setting up his exit. “I’ll see myself out.”

Gator nodded his head at Mr. Taylor, then at J.T., who was unabashedly crying. He turned and walked out of the door, which remained slightly ajar behind him, and never looked back.

J.T. tried to run after him, whether he knew it or not, but of course, her father stopped her. He literally had to hold her back—and she did everything to fight him, but to no avail.

After that night at the Taylor house, Gator and J.T. never saw each other again, and nothing ever came of the strong feelings and bond that had developed between them. At the end of summer, J.T. went off to college—and before the end of the year, Gator went off to do his own thing, too. They both lived their own lives, independently and apart from each other, and moved forward into their futures.

But…
There’s a catch. If you’re wondering
why
Gator and J.T. never saw each other again after that night at the Taylor house, keep wondering. There are
two
answers to that question.

September 2015–San Francisco, California

“Carl Struthers?” I asked. “Are you sure?”

“Yep,” Ramirez answered. “Carl Struthers, age thirty-one; county of residence, Los Angeles, California; arrested for—”

“I’m not asking about the rap sheet,” I interrupted. “I’m asking about the name… Carl Struthers?”

“Yes,” Ramirez replied, looking at me curiously. “
Caaaarrl Sssttrruuuuthhers
,” he annunciated slowly.

“Run the prints again!” I demanded.

“No need to,” Ramirez said, walking over to me with the tablet. He held it up to me and shoved the digital image of the side-by-side print comparison in my face. “We got three full prints off of the switchblade, and they match up, point for point, with Struthers’ prints.”

“Were there any other prints on the blade?” I asked frantically. “Any partials? Any smudges or marks on Struthers’ prints? Anything else on the blade?” My questions were all over the place, and Ramirez was having a hard time following them.

“Sheesh, Knowles,” he said, raising an eyebrow at me. “Why you trying to clear Struthers so bad? You know this guy or something?”

“No,” I said, shrugging Ramirez’s question off with a snide chuckle. “Just being thorough.”

“Alright,” Ramirez said. “But the prints are a dead-on match. There’s no question they’re Struthers’. The only thing more damning would’ve been to find him with the blade in his hand.”

I nodded my head, took a deep breath, and looked down at the body again.

If life had taught me anything, it’s that the world isn’t black and white. There are plenty of gray areas, and I’d just found myself in one of them.

When Ramirez asked me the last of his two questions, I wasn’t entirely forthright with my answer, but I certainly wasn’t lying. I was telling the truth—I just wasn’t telling the
whole
truth.

Ramirez asked me if I knew “this guy”—and the fact of the matter was, I didn’t.

The person who murdered this junkie was a slow-acting, spiteful sociopath with a cold heart and a complete disregard for human life and morality. He had to have no compassion, no decency, and no respect for others. He had to be a monster.

And if the man whose prints were on the switchblade was responsible for the junkie’s murder, it meant that “this guy,”
this
Carl Struthers, was all of these things. So no, I didn’t know “this guy.”

But yes, I did know
a
Carl Struthers. And he was none of these things. He was a man—not a monster.

The Carl Struthers I knew was more prone to save a life than to take one. He had compassion, decency, and respect for others. He wasn’t slow-acting or spiteful. He was kind, self-sacrificing, and altruistic—and despite whatever some would say, or call him, he definitely wasn’t cold-blooded.

But…he wasn’t perfect either. The Carl Struthers I knew may not have been capable of a murder like this, or of any murder, but he was still capable of some pretty questionable things. I knew, for a fact, that he was
at least
susceptible to bribery. Who knew what else he was susceptible to? He still could have been involved in this murder somehow—and if he was, it was my job to find out how and why. And in the process, I hoped to also get answers to some other—more personal—questions.

But to do
any
of that—to get
any
answers, related to this murder or anything else—I first had to get to Carl Struthers. And I would’ve never been able to get to Carl Struthers had I admitted to knowing him when Ramirez asked me. It would have been a conflict of interest, and I would’ve been pulled from the case immediately. But if that fact didn’t come out later—until, say, after we already had Struthers in custody—I would have already bought myself some time, some leeway, and—maybe—some answers.

“Other than his rap, do we have anything else on this Carl Struthers character?” I asked Ramirez, slipping back into sleuth mode. “We got a current address? DMV records? Do we even know if he’s still in L.A., or if he’s out here in San Fran?”

“Jones is working on it right now,” Ramirez replied. “He should be able to give us a precursory report in just a few minutes. Then he’ll keep digging after that—and if there’s
anything
out there on this guy, he’ll find it.”

“Good,” I said, smiling with mixed emotions. “I’m gonna go make a call, and when I get back, have Jones brief me.”

“Will do,” Ramirez responded with a nod. He put his hand on his holster and began to slowly march around the crime scene perimeter, eyeing the surrounding area as I’d done when I first got there.

I pulled my phone from my bag as I made my way back toward my car. I took another deep breath, then dialed the station.

“San Francisco Police Department front desk,” Barnes answered.

“It’s Knowles,” I replied. “I’m down here at the scene of this junkie murder, and we got a set of prints off of the suspected murder weapon. They match up to an L.A. biker named Carl Struthers. I need you to put an A.P.B. out on him. I’ll have Ramirez send you his rap.”

“Yes, ma’am, Detective Knowles,” Barnes responded humbly. I could almost hear his pen scribbling. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Patch me through to L.A.P.D.’s central office.”

“Sure thing,” Barnes assured me right before the phone went silent.

“LAPD, central office,” a firm, yet friendly woman’s voice said a few seconds later. “How may I direct your call?”

“This is Detective Knowles, San Francisco P.D.,” I answered. “We have a murder out here in San Fran. Vic’s last known residence was L.A. and prints found on a weapon on the scene lead back to an L.A. biker named Carl Struthers. We have an A.P.B. out on him here—but we need to get one out on him
there
too… So put me through to someone who can do that.”

“I’ll put you through to one of our desk officers,” the operator responded.

“Thanks,” I replied.

I was on hold for about a minute before the line picked up again.

“Detective?” the same firm yet friendly voice asked. “Are you still there?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“I’m sorry,” she went on. “But we’re short-staffed today—and every other day… All of our desk officers are on other calls right now, but if you’d like to leave a message, one of them will get back to you as soon as possible.”

I sighed, rolled my eyes, and bit my lower lip, discontented by yet another kink in our criminal justice system.

“Alright,” I said, defeated, and I proceeded to repeat the basic reason for my call and give the operator my phone number.

“And, your name again, Detective?” she asked once I’d recited the aforesaid info.

“Detective Knowles,” I answered. “Detective J.T. Knowles.”