Iron Goddess

Iron Goddess
is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

An Alibi Ebook Original

Copyright © 2016 by Dharma Kelleher

Excerpt from
The Athena Sisterhood
by Dharma Kelleher copyright © 2016 by Dharma Kelleher

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Alibi, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

A
LIBI
is a registered trademark and the
A
LIBI
colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book
The Athena Sisterhood
by Dharma Kelleher. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

ebook ISBN 9780425285305

Cover design: Tatiana Sayig

Cover illustration: Shutterstock

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Sparks exploded from the left footpeg of Shea Stevens' motorcycle as it scraped against the pavement. She was going too fast through the curves that twisted up the south side of Sycamore Mountain. The road was dark—daybreak still an hour away. Getting up close and personal with an elk at sixty miles an hour would be disastrous. But Shea was in a hurry.

She tried to convince herself the call from the security company was another false alarm—a rat looking for a crumb, or maybe a glitch in the sensors. But she couldn't shake the fear that someone had broken into the shop. If the three custom motorcycles they'd finished the night before were stolen, it would be a quarter-million-dollar loss.

Please, God, let it be another false alarm.

The cold air blasting through the vents in her jacket caused her teeth to chatter. In her rush to alleviate her paranoia, she'd thrown on her jeans and T-shirt from the night before. Didn't bother with a bra. Her only precaution had been the .40-caliber Glock she'd slipped into a pancake holster at the small of her back.

Fifteen minutes later, her bike crested the hill and reached what the residents of Sycamore Springs, Arizona, call Olde Towne—a mile-long strip of locally owned shops including a café, a pharmacy, an antiques shop, and Iron Goddess Custom Cycles—her destination.

She screeched to a stop in front of the cycle shop, killed the engine, and ripped off her helmet. The pungent scent of creosote mixed with dead skunk made her nose crinkle. Moonlight reflected off the desert dust on the plate glass window, obscuring the Iron Goddess logo. Her gaze shifted left to the shop's front door. Shards of glass clung to the doorframe like broken teeth.

“Fuck.” Her hands tightened into fists. She wanted to beat someone.

She climbed off the bike and scanned the street, hoping to spot the intruder skulking through Olde Towne. Fifty feet away at the Kokopelli Café, a Coca-Cola sign flickered on and off. Across the street, a security gate sliced the blue light of a fifties-era jukebox glowing from within the antiques shop. The rest of Olde Towne's shops slumbered in darkness.

She dug a flashlight out of her tank bag and drew the Glock, turning her attention back to Iron Goddess. She crept onto the cement porch, paused outside the door, and listened for anyone who might be inside. Somewhere in the darkness, a pack of coyotes performed a predawn symphony of yips and high-pitched howls over a recent kill. Two delivery trucks roared past three minutes apart. But no voices or sounds of crunching glass came from inside Iron Goddess. If anyone was in there, they may have hunkered down when they heard her motorcycle. She had to find out for sure.

Drops of a dark liquid on the concrete caught her attention. Was it oil or blood? She brushed it with a finger, creating a crimson smear.
Blood
. Her pulse quickened.

She pulled on the door handle. It was unlocked. Thief must've reached in and unlocked it after breaking the glass. She scolded herself for not getting a double-cylinder lock.

After slipping in through the door, she scanned the place with her flashlight. Tiny bits of glass sparkled like jewels across the floor. A bowling ball–sized rock lay near the front sales counter. The familiar industrial smell of the showroom mixed with the organic tang of blood. Her fist tightened on the grip of the gun.

More drops of blood led off to the right. She considered turning on the lights, but didn't want to blow what little stealth she had left. Broken glass crunched under her boots with each step. Moving slower didn't make it any quieter.

She followed the trail of blood around the counter to where three custom-ordered bikes and several production bikes had been parked hours earlier; they were now gone.

Clothing racks for motorcycle jackets and pants had been cleared. Empty hangers lay scattered on the floor. Shelves that once displayed helmets, boots, and other gear had been stripped bare.

Shea felt sucker-punched. Her mind kept telling her it was a dream.

Her heart leapt into her throat when someone coughed and moaned. She ducked down until she heard it again. Her finger slipped onto the trigger. She swung the flashlight around and found a man lying on the floor in the motor oil aisle. She approached cautiously, ignoring the pulse pounding in her ears.

With the light on the man's face, she recognized him as Derek Williams, one of her employees.

She slapped on the overhead lights. Derek was a scrawny guy, just shy of his twentieth birthday. His stubbly face was pale and clammy. Blood covered his shirt, pooling on the floor around his chest.

“Aw shit, Derek!” She holstered her gun and knelt down next to him.

He opened his eyes for a moment. “They made me,” he wheezed before coughing up blood.

“Who? Who did this to you?”

His eyes lost focus and closed.

She checked his pulse. Her own heart beat so fast she couldn't tell if he had a pulse or not. She pulled out her phone.

“Cortes County 911—what's your emergency?”

“I need an ambulance at Iron Goddess Custom Cycles, 8234 South Sycamore Highway. My friend is bleeding.”

“How is he injured, ma'am?”

“I…I don't know. I just found him. He's got blood all over his chest. I think someone shot him.”

“Is he breathing?”

“Uh…let me check.” She put her ear to his mouth and could hear shallow, gurgling breaths. “He's breathing, but barely.”

“We've dispatched an ambulance. It'll be there momentarily.”

Shea hung up the phone and checked his pulse again. It was there, but weak. Then it stopped. She struggled to remember the lessons from a CPR course two years earlier. She clasped her hands and compressed in the center of his chest. Blood gushed from his wounds. That wasn't in the course.

She lifted up his shirt. His chest was smeared with blood. She wiped away as much as she could. Dark liquid oozed from two dime-sized wounds, one right above his heart, the other closer to his left shoulder.

“Shit!”

His shirt was soaked. Wouldn't work to stop the blood, even if she could get it off him. Shea looked for something else to use. The nearby shelves were stocked with bottles of motor oil, industrial cleaners, and cans of chain lube. No shop cloths or clothing.

She scrambled out of her jacket, pulled off her shirt, and twisted it into a tight wad. She pressed it over the wounds and compressed his chest again. The T-shirt kept the bleeding to a minimum. She continued pumping his chest. “Come on, Derek. Gimme a heartbeat.”

After fifty compressions, she checked again. Still no pulse. She continued pounding on his chest, desperately trying to minimize the bleeding and hoping the EMTs would arrive before she ran out of energy.

Her back was beginning to cramp up when the silver bell on the front door jingled.

“Over here!” she yelled.

Two deputies rushed in, guns pointed at her.

“Sheriff's Office! Get on the floor. Hands behind your head.”

Shea looked up at a deputy with a shaved head looming over her, his service pistol drawn. The aspiring commando's muscular frame blocked the aisle. His partner, who looked more frat boy than cop, penned her in from the other side.

She wanted to cover her exposed breasts, but was too busy with the chest compressions. “I'm the owner, Shea Stevens. I can't lay down. I'm trying to save my friend.”

“Get on the floor,” said Deputy Commando. “Hands behind your head. Now!”

“My friend has two chest wounds and his heart stopped. If you don't want me to continue CPR, come over and do it yourself.”

“Winslow, get down there and take over for her.”

“Roger that.” Deputy Frat Boy holstered his weapon, knelt down, and replaced Shea's hands on the blood-soaked T-shirt covering Derek's wounds.

Deputy Commando turned back to her. “You! Get on the floor, now!”

“There's broken glass everywhere.”

“Do it now!”

She brushed away the glass in front of her and lay down. Shards that she missed bit into her breasts and belly. She winced, but didn't want to give Deputy Commando the satisfaction of hearing her cry out in pain.

Boots crunched next to her ear. She felt him pull her Glock from its holster. “Are you carrying any other weapons?”

“No.”

“Is there anything sharp or otherwise dangerous in your pants pockets?”

“No. My ID's in my back pocket.”

“What are you doing here?” Deputy Commando's hand fumbled into her back pocket and pulled out her wallet.

“Holster your weapon, Deputy Aguilar. She owns the place.”

That voice she knew. Shea turned her head. Sergeant Willie Foster stood beside her. They'd known each other since they were kids, and despite her previous run-ins with the law, the two of them had maintained a cordial relationship.

“Need a hand up?” He grabbed her elbow and helped her off the floor. “You all right?” He stood five nine, had put on weight since she'd seen him last, but still wore the same horseshoe mustache and horn-rimmed glasses.

Shea felt awkward with him seeing her topless and covered her breasts with one arm. “I'm all right, aside from some cuts. I ain't so sure about Derek.” She wanted to pick the bits of glass out of her chest, but her hands were sticky with Derek's blood. He was an ex-junkie; using her blood-covered fingers to dig out slivers could be risky.

The EMTs arrived moments later and went to work on Derek. Willie waved over another EMT, a gal with dark hair tied up into a bun, caramel skin, and large, mahogany eyes.

“Jackie, can you help this woman?” Willie asked her. “She's got bits of glass in her chest.”

“Sure,” she said. “Is there a place where we can sit down?”

“Follow me.”

Shea led Willie and Jackie the EMT to the customer waiting area—a half dozen stackable padded chairs upholstered in burnt orange tweed that had gone out of style about the time
Chico and the Man
went off the air. A small TV sat silent on its platform mounted near the ceiling. In the corner, a water dispenser stood next to a double-burner coffeemaker.

Shea gritted her teeth and tried not to wince while Jackie dug out the slivers of glass with a pair of tweezers and a penlight. Shea trembled, partly from adrenaline, partly from cold, partly from anger, thinking of the nastiest things she could do to whoever shot Derek. At the same time, a question haunted her.
Why'd Derek come back after everyone left?

“How is he?” She craned her neck to see the EMTs working on Derek.

“I don't know.” Willie pulled out a pad and pen and sat down. “The EMTs will do everything they can. Why don't you tell me what happened?”

Shea gasped as Jackie dug at an elusive shard of glass.

“Sorry.” Jackie adjusted the angle of her penlight. “This one doesn't want to come out.”

“Gotta call from the alarm company about four o'clock,” said Shea as she glanced up at Willie. “Found the door smashed and a lot of our inventory gone, including three custom bikes for the Pink Trinkets.”

“The Pink Trinkets? That all-girl punk band?”

“Yeah, they commissioned three bikes. Supposed to unveil them down in Phoenix in a couple weeks to kick off their latest concert tour.”

“What about Derek?”

“Found him on the floor bleeding. That's when I called 911.” She looked at her hands covered in his blood. A wave of sadness mixed with anger overwhelmed her. The kid could be a smart-ass sometimes, but she liked him. Maybe because he reminded her of herself.

“He say anything when you found him?”

“Yeah, he said, ‘They made me.' ”

Willie's eyes narrowed. “ ‘They made me'? What'd he mean by that?”

“No idea. Maybe someone set him up.”

“Did he say who?”

“No.”

“Any idea who woulda done this?” Willie asked.

She shook her head. “Naw.”

“Maybe one of your other employees?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why would one of my employees do this?”

He shrugged. “You do tend to hire criminals.”

She looked him square in the eye. “I hire ex-cons, just as Lenny Slater hired me when I got out. Keeps us from ending up back in the system.”

“Yeah, you're doing society a great service.” His voice dripped with condescension. She resisted the urge to tell him to kiss her ass. “That said, this place is the cycle shop of misfit toys. Anyone here have a beef with Derek? Any arguments? He owe anybody money?”

She glared at him. “None of my guys were involved, Willie.”

“Whatever you say.” He made a few more notes in his notebook. “Any suspicious people hanging around recently? Other than your employees, I mean.”

She rolled her eyes. “No.”

“Has Iron Goddess received any threats?”

“Nope.”

“Was Derek working late last night?”

“We all were. Me, Derek, Terrance, Lakota, and Switch.” Terrance was the co-owner of Iron Goddess and their business manager. Lakota was their engineer, Switch their electrician. “We were finishing up a bike till midnight.”

“Was Derek the last to leave?”

“No, I was.”

“Why would he come back?”

“Hell, I don't know.” She shrugged. “Maybe he forgot his house keys. He had his own key to the shop. He wouldn't have broken the front door. I figure someone must've jumped him as he was leaving.”

“He's a crystal meth addict, right?”

“Was. He's been clean two years.”

“Maybe he's using again.”

“If he is, I ain't seen no evidence of it.”

“He been missing work or showing up late?”

“No.” It wasn't the complete truth. He'd been coming in an hour or so late the past week. But considering he was at death's door, she wasn't going to trash-talk him to the law. If he'd relapsed, she'd deal with him later. If there was a later.

“Any problems with customers?”

“We had an old veteran rider complain about our imported helmets, but aside from that, no.”

“Do you know what all they took?”

“Several bikes. They got a lot of our gear, too—helmets, jackets, boots. I can give you a complete inventory once we get this place cleaned up.”

When Jackie finished bandaging her wounds, there was more gauze than skin showing. Shea looked like a mummy. “You'll want to change the dressing and put antibiotic ointment on the wounds three times a day,” Jackie said. “You might also consider getting a tetanus shot from your doctor.”

“Thanks.”

Jackie smiled and joined her comrades working on Derek.

“Willie, there's a box of Iron Goddess T-shirts in the office. Mind grabbing me one while I wash the blood off my hands?”

Shea walked into the women's restroom, still shaking. She wasn't normally emotional. Yet memories of her mother's death kept bleeding into the more recent images of Derek lying on the floor in the dark. She scrubbed the blood off her hands, arms, and a spot embedded in one of the deep scars on her cheek.

Willie met her outside the restroom and handed her a black T-shirt. “Wasn't sure what size.”

The label said it was a men's XL, several sizes too big for her medium frame and small chest, but it slipped over the bandages.

Across the room, the EMTs lifted Derek onto a gurney with a metallic clang. “They taking him to Cortes General?”

“Yep.” Willie looked up from his notes. “Now, Shea, promise me something.”

“What?”

“You'll leave solving this case to me and the boys. We'll find out who shot Derek.” He held out her Glock. She reached for it but he pulled it away. “Promise me.”

She sighed. “Yeah. I'll leave it to you.” He offered her gun again and she took it. “And if it ain't too much trouble, find my stolen bikes and other merchandise.”

“Shea, those bikes are halfway to Mexico by now.”

“Let's hope not.” She holstered her gun as the crime scene folks walked in. “I don't deliver those Pink Trinket bikes in two weeks, I'm up shit creek.”

“You'll need to leave the premises while we process the scene.” He pulled out a business card and handed it to her. “Call me if you think of something that might be relevant to the case.”

“Fine.” She ambled out the door and called her business partner, Terrance Douglas. It rang three times before he answered.

“Geez, Shea. You know what time it is? Somebody better be bleeding or on fire.”

“Derek's been shot.”

“What? Derek? Is he okay?”

“No, definitely not. Somebody broke into the shop and shot him twice in the chest. He lost a lotta blood.”

“Geez! Where are you?”

“Still at Iron Goddess, but I'm gonna follow the ambulance over to Cortes General.” She took a breath, stilling the emotion out of her voice. “Look, man, I know you scheduled the day off to spend with your family, but I need you here to help clean up the mess. No need to rush. The cops gotta do the whole crime scene thing.”

“No, it's cool. My mom can take Elon to his soccer game.”

“Oh, and, T?”

“Yeah?”

“They stole the Pink Trinkets' bikes.”

“Please tell me you're kidding.”

“Don't worry. You know me—I'm good at finding things.”

“Don't do anything stupid, Shea. Let the cops handle it.”

“No worries, T. Got it all under control.” She didn't. But no way in hell was she leaving this to the cops.