Iron Goddess (6 page)

Half an hour later, Shea and Justin walked out of the police station.

“I guess your meeting with that Reyes fella must've slipped your mind,” he said with a sour expression on his face as they approached his car.

“Look, I didn't think it was relevant. Thought he might know who broke into Iron Goddess. Things got a little heated.”

He opened the passenger door for her. “Do yourself a favor, kiddo. Stay away from the Jaguars.”

“Trust me, I intend to. Where's my sister?”

He climbed into the car. “I didn't see her in there. They probably questioned her and let her go. Want me to make some phone calls and find out?”

“Naw, I'm more worried about her daughter, Annie. Hunter's a violent son of a bitch.”

“The Sheriff's Office put out an AMBER Alert. I'm sure they'll do everything they can to get her back to your sister safe and sound.”

“You think they'll try to pin this murder on me?”

“They don't have much of a case. Hunter is the more likely suspect, anyway. All they have on you is wrong place/wrong time.”

“I wouldn't put it past Buzzkill to frame me. He's still bitter about the time I boosted three of his patrol cars.”

Justin laughed while he drove them back to the shop. “That was eighteen years ago. Not even Sheriff Keeler holds a grudge that long. He just wants to see justice served. As long as you don't do anything further to incriminate yourself, you should be fine.”

She wasn't convinced, but let it go and stared out the window. A billboard advertising the new sushi restaurant caught her eye. “Oh shit, Jessica!”

On her phone, Jess had left sixteen voicemail messages. Shea dialed. It rang four times and went to voicemail. Maybe she's in another room and didn't hear it. She redialed. On the third ring, Jessica picked up.

“I don't want to talk to you,” said Jessica before the line went dead.

“Crap.”

“What's wrong?” asked Justin.

“My girlfriend's pissed.”

Justin chuckled. “Guess it don't matter whether you're straight or gay. Relationships are hard work.”

“Ain't that the truth.”

When they reached Iron Goddess, Justin pulled around back next to her bike. Terrance's truck was still there.
What was he doing here so late?

“Thanks for your help.” Shea got out, closed the door, and poked her head back through the open window.

“Stay out of trouble, ya hear?” He waved and drove off.

Fatigue hung on her like a bag of wet sand. Her body ached from the day's excitement. More than anything, Shea wanted to crawl into bed. But first she wanted to make sure Terrance was all right and not lying dead on the showroom floor. Maybe she could also clear the air between them.

Terrance sat staring at his computer when she poked her head in the door.

“Still here?” she asked.

“Just about to lock up.” He looked up from his work. “Where've you been? Jessica's freaking out. Been calling every thirty minutes wondering where you are. I thought you'd be back in an hour.”

Shea sighed. “That was the plan, till I got picked up by Willie and the boys.”

“You got arrested?” He shook his head. “Dammit, I told you that stunt with Oscar would come back and bite us.”

“This wasn't about Oscar. Wendy's friend Margaret—the one watching her daughter—someone murdered her.”

“Oh no. That's horrible.”

“Happened right before we got there. Door was all busted up, so I told Wendy to stay outside while I went in. That's when the cops showed up.”

“Tell me you weren't armed.”

“I had the Beretta I'd taken off Hunter earlier.” Shea grimaced. “After all the shit that went down today, I wasn't taking any chances.”

“Dammit, Shea! I can't believe you.”

“You're the one who wanted me to drive her. This is the kinda drama I was hoping to avoid.”

“They're not charging you, are they?”

“They wanted to, but Justin got me clear of it for now.”

“At least there's that. Where's Wendy's little girl?”

“Dunno. Most likely with Wendy's old man. My guess is he figured out where Wendy was staying, grabbed his daughter, and shot her friend.”

“Poor kid.” Terrance shook his head. “And Wendy?”

“Don't know, don't care. I'd hoped she could tell me if the Thunder shot Derek, but…” Shea shook her head. “Last thing I want now is to get pulled into any more of her drama. I feel sorry for the kid being caught in the middle of her parents' shit.”

She sat down at her desk, took the Glock out, and tucked it into her waistband, mulling over the situation. “What're you doing here so late?”

“Figuring out how to pay for the new inventory until the insurance money comes in.”

“Days like this, I miss boosting cars. Cash money, no overhead.”

“Prison.”

“No job's perfect.”

The shop phone rang. The caller ID showed it was Wicked, lead singer for the Pink Trinkets. Shea picked it up. “Wicked, what's going on?”

“Not too late to call is it? We're in London. I can never figure out the time zones back in the States.” Music blared in the background.

“No, it's cool.”
Shoulda let it go to voicemail,
she thought.

“I wanted to see how the bikes are coming.”

Her stomach knotted. “Finished 'em last night. They look great. Ride like a dream.”

Terrance glared at her and mouthed, “Tell them.”

“Awesome! Send pics. I can't wait to see them. Vicious and Nasty are excited, too.”

“Pics? Sure, I'll email some tomorrow.”

“Excellent! Our publicity gal is mentioning the bikes in all the radio and Web promos. Maybe after the concert, we can take them for a test ride. You can show us the sights.” She sounded excited as only a twenty-something rock star can be.

“Sounds like a blast,” Shea said, ignoring Terrance's glare.

“See you in a couple weeks.” Wicked hung up.

“Dammit, Shea.”

“What?” she asked, feigning innocence.

Terrance looked ready to spit nails. “You need to tell them the bikes are gone.”

“T, we can't. The Trinks are already promoting the bikes. I'll find the bikes.”

“How?”

“You know me. I got a gift for finding lost objects. Just last week I found Switch's socket wrench that Derek had borrowed and not put back. And before that I located that receipt you couldn't find. I'll find the bikes, too.”

“It's not as if you misplaced the bikes in the workshop. They were stolen. If you don't want to tell Wicked they're gone, then I'm calling in help to build replacements.”

“We ain't got enough time, nor can we afford to pay someone else to build 'em. I don't wanna give credit to another shop for bikes we already built once. That's just wrong.”

“Well, we need to do something.”

She resisted the urge to say something snarky. “I don't want to discuss this right now.”

“Smartest thing you said all night. Go home and rest. We'll figure this out in the morning.”

She slapped him on the back as she walked out. “See ya.”

She found Jessica asleep on the couch, dressed in her knee-length, midnight-blue silk robe. Shea sat beside her and kissed her on the cheek. “Hey, I'm home.”

Jessica opened her eyes, which were bloodshot and puffy. “Where were you? I called your cell, the shop, even the hospital. I was afraid you'd killed yourself on that motorcycle.” Her voice cracked as a tear ran down her cheek.

Shea hugged her. “Sheriff's deputies picked me up for questioning.”

Jessica sat up. “You got arrested? For what?”

“Not arrested. Questioned. My sister's old man grabbed their daughter and killed the friend she was staying with. I found the body.”

“Oh God.” She covered her mouth with her hand.

“Right now I just want to sleep,” Shea said, touching her forehead to Jessica's.

“Oh honey.” Jessica kissed her. “I'm glad you're okay.”

They groped and kissed their way to the bedroom. Shea kicked off her boots and jeans as Jessica's robe fell away. Jessica said something, but the cool sheets of the bed pulled Shea into the oblivion of sleep like a drug.

Shea's phone rang a few hours later. She tried to ignore it until Jessica started shaking her. “Shea, your phone is ringing. Please, make it stop.”

Shea picked it up. “If this is the alarm company, call the fucking cops.”

“Shea? It's me.” It wasn't the alarm company. But the voice was familiar.

Her half-asleep mind tried to put a name to the voice. “Mama?”

“What? No, it's Wendy.”

She sat up and looked at the clock. It was four in the morning. “Wendy.” It took a moment to recall the previous day's events. “You find Annie?”

“No.” Wendy sounded like a wounded puppy. “Can you come over? I need your help.”

Shea groaned in frustration.
How do I tell her no without being a self-centered bitch?

“This is between you and your old man. After what happened yesterday, I think it's best if I stay out of it. I got my own shit to deal with.” She sighed, knowing she sounded cold and selfish. “Isn't the Sheriff's Office looking for Annie?”

“Buzzkill and his doughnut-eating storm troopers couldn't find shit in a horse trailer. They don't give a damn about anyone affiliated with the MC. I need
you,
Shea.”

“Call the FBI. They handle missing kids, don't they?” Guilt tugged at her. She steeled her resolve. There were the problems at the shop to worry about.

“Trust some suit to rescue my little girl? Are you nuts? You're the one who was always good at finding things.”

“I ain't no bounty hunter. I'm a bike builder. Besides, I'm already in enough trouble over this. The damn cops think I shot your friend.”

“If you help me get Annie back from Hunter, she can tell Buzzkill you didn't kill Margaret.”

“I can't. Sorry.” Shea hung up.

“Was that your sister?” Jessica's voice was raspy with sleep.

“Yeah.” Shea cuddled up with Jessica, ashamed of her refusal to help. “I guess her old man still has their kid somewhere.”

“Maybe you should go help her.”

“And risk getting my head blown off again by that maniac? I got a better idea.” Shea nuzzled Jessica's neck. “How 'bout I stay here in bed with you and make amends for missing our date last night.”

Jessica pulled away. “If some asshole had
our
kid, would you want your sister to blow you off?”

“Don't say that. It's Wendy's mess. She married that fucker. I'm sure she can figure out how to get her kid back from him.”

“If he's crazy enough to kill a babysitter, what'll he do with his own daughter?”

Shea lay there stewing in her guilt. She could hear their mother in Wendy's voice, pleading with her, reaching out. The memory of blood filled her nostrils. “Fuck.”

She called Wendy back. “Fine. I'll help. Where the hell are you?”

“At the Getaway Motel in Bradshaw City. Room 213. It's on the second floor.” Her voice was so choked with tears Shea could barely understand her.

“I'll be there as soon as I can.” She rubbed her face, trying to wake up.

Wendy whimpered a thank-you and hung up.

Shea pulled off the covers and stood, admiring the curves of her girlfriend's cocoa-colored skin. “If I get killed doing this, you're gonna feel bad. Just sayin'.”

Jessica smiled. “You're a good person.”

“No, just too tired to argue with the women in my life.”

Shea peeled the bandages off her chest and took a cold shower to wake herself up. Jessica handed her a cup of coffee when she got out. After putting on some clean clothes, she geared up, slipped her Glock into her waistband, and drove north on her bike to Bradshaw City.

The Getaway Motel was a popular spot for hookups and illicit affairs. Desk clerks never checked IDs. Rooms were often paid in cash. A yellow sign illuminated the motel's parking lot, advertising their extensive selection of porn channels. Shea wondered why Wendy'd gotten a room at a dump like the Getaway.

Shea parked her bike, climbed the outdoor stairs, and knocked on the door to room 213. Wendy opened it a moment later, her eyes swollen and lifeless. She let Shea into the dim room without a word and sat down on a queen-sized bed covered with a stained polyester bedspread. The room stank of mildew and sex. The only light came from a small lamp on the nightstand. Shea opted to remain standing for fear of catching something.

“I don't know what I can do to help. The cops are already looking for Annie.”

“Cops don't know shit. They think you took her. How stupid's that?” Her voice sounded distant and detached, eyes half lidded. Shea wondered if she was high or only sleep deprived.

“So what now?”

“It's all my fault.” Wendy began to sob.

Shea felt sympathy tugging at her and tried to ignore it. “Don't be stupid. It ain't your fault. You figure Hunter's got her?”

“I thought so. But why would he kill Margaret?”

“Gee, lemme think—because he's a psycho?”

“He's not a psycho. He just has anger-management issues sometimes.”

Shea decided not to argue the point. “Where would he take her? The Church?” she asked, referring to the Confederate Thunder's clubhouse.

“Most likely.”

“How do we get her back?”

Wendy's phone dinged. She picked it up, touched the screen, then dropped it as if burned. “Noooooo…”

Shea picked up the phone. A video of a blindfolded girl played on the screen. She whimpered despite the duct tape covering her mouth. Her wrists and ankles were bound with duct tape.

A man's deep voice with a thick Latino accent said, “I have your daughter. You give me four million dollars in nonsequential twenty-dollar bills delivered to me in two duffel bags within forty-eight hours. No marked bills. No tracking devices. No cops. You don't pay or you break my rules, I gut the girl and hang her from a bridge. I contact you again soon.”

Acid burned the back of Shea's throat. Her hand shook with anger and disgust as she held the phone. “Where'd this video come from?”

Wendy lay curled in a fetal position on the bed, sobbing, hands covering her head.

Shea waited a moment for Wendy to respond, but the crying intensified. Shea shook her sister's shoulder. “Wendy, listen to me. Where'd this video come from?”

“From a link in an email.”

Shea found the email. The subject read, “I Have Your Daughter.” The sender's email address looked like a random jumble of letters. There was nothing in the body of the email but the hyperlink with a Mexican Web address.

“It wasn't supposed to happen like this,” Wendy wailed. “What do I do? What do I do?”

Shea tried to focus. “It's gotta be the Jaguars. It's the only thing that makes sense.”

“No, please. Why would they take Annie? What did I ever do to them?”

“Think about it. How better to hurt the club than to go after the president's kid? And then there's the video—Mexican accent, threatening to hang her from a bridge. It's the Jaguars all right.”

Wendy shook her head back and forth. Her hands cupped her ears. “Oh God, this is all my fault. I never should've tried to leave.”

“This ain't about you, Wen. The Jags are using Annie to get at the MC.”

“No. Please, not my baby. Can't we convince them to let her go? She's only a little girl.” Her eyes pleaded with Shea.

Shea's resentment toward Wendy softened, loosening the tightness in her chest. She wiped the damp hair from Wendy's face. “We're in over our heads.”

Shea thought about calling Terrance, but didn't want to put him at any further risk. “Much as I hate to say it, I think we should tell the Sheriff's Office about the ransom demand.”

“No! You heard what the kidnapper said. They'll kill her.”

“Kidnappers always say that. But we're out of our league here. The Sheriff's Office has experience with these things.”

“I am
not
trusting those assholes with my daughter's life.”

“Fine, but that doesn't leave us with many options.” Shea sighed, considering alternatives. “Maybe we need to call Hunter.”

A mix of emotions played across Wendy's face. “Why?”

“Because the only way we're getting her back is with four million dollars.”

“Who you think Hunter is? Donald Trump?”

“Cut the bullshit. We both know the Thundermen are the biggest crystal meth dealers in the state. The Jags know it, too, which is probably why they took Annie. We either come up with the money, or…” Shea held out the phone. “Call Hunter.”

Wendy pushed it away, closing her eyes. “You call him. I can't talk to him.” Wendy turned away from her and sobbed.

An amber pill bottle on the nightstand caught Shea's eye. “What's this?” She picked it up. The label identified it as an OxyContin prescription for someone named Bertha Daniels. “Jesus, Wendy. Just when I thought you couldn't be more pathetic. Where the hell'd you get this?”

“Hunter got it for me to help with stress. Took some a little while ago, trying to sleep.”

“Goddammit, your daughter gets kidnapped, and you go poppin' Oxy? Shit.” Shea looked up Hunter's number in the directory on Wendy's phone and dialed it.

“Where's my daughter, bitch?” he bellowed.

“We ain't got her.”

“Who the fuck is this?”

“Shea, Wendy's sister. Annie's been kidnapped.”

“Bullshit, kidnapped! Put Wendy on the phone.”

“Wendy's fucked up on that hillbilly heroin you gave her. You're dealing with me now.”

“Goddamn cunt.”

Shea wasn't sure if he was talking about her or Wendy.

“Where the fuck's my daughter? And don't give me that kidnapped crap. I know she's got her.”

“Listen, asshole, Wendy left your daughter with her friend Margaret. When we got to the house, someone'd killed Margaret and took Annie.”

“You better not be lying to me. I already owe you for what went down at the bike shop.”

“I ain't lying. Wendy got an email a few minutes ago with a video of Annie all tied up. Kidnapper wants four million dollars within forty-eight hours or he'll gut her and hang her body from a bridge. Didn't see his face but he had a Mexican accent.”

“Muthafuckin' Jaguars!”

“My thoughts exactly. You got the four million?”

“Hell no, I ain't got four million dollars! Do you?”

“No, but then I don't deal crystal like you do.”

“You don't know shit.”

“Look, I don't care if you earn selling stolen tricycles. You need to come up with the four mill or find a way to rescue her. Otherwise, those Mexican gangbangers are gonna kill your daughter.”

“Fuck!” He went quiet for a few moments.

“You there, Hunter?”

“Yeah, I'm here.” He sounded choked up.
“
Goddamn beaners! I'm gonna fuck them up.”

“That's the spirit. Why don't we meet up and figure out how to handle this.”

“Fuck you, bitch. This ain't your business. This is between me, Wendy, and the club.”

“You ain't the only one with a score to settle with these guys. The Jaguars shot one of my employees and stole a dozen of our bikes. You wanna get Annie back safe. I want my motorcycles. Maybe if we work together, we can both get what we want.”

He didn't say anything for about a minute. “Fine. Meet me at Bradshaw City Diner in half an hour.”