Page 39 of Chaos Bound
She sucked in a sharp breath. “Are you a police detective?”
Michael pulled out his wallet and flashed his ID. Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives (ATF). Everyone in the biker world knew and hated the ATF. No one could take down an MC faster, and if they were in the area, looking into Leo’s death, it wasn’t just a simple shooting between rival biker gangs; it was a very big deal.
“Usually the local police would handle the case,” he said into the silence, “But they were from one of the biggest outlaw clubs in the state, and there has been a lot of unusual biker activity in the area, so they called us in.”
“Oh.” She lifted the drink to her lips and forced down the sickly sweet liquid. Her heart thudded to the bass of Black Sabbath’s, “Paranoid.” “So… do you have any leads?”
“Curiously, no.” He cocked his head, stared at her. “Whoever did it knew how to cover their tracks. All we know is that the shooter took the high-profile victim’s motorcycle. We were able to identify the make and model from the tires, and we’re trying to ID the body. Bikers wear their road name on their leather vests, but when we contacted his club, they weren’t minded to tell us his real name.”
“I guess not.” She forced a laugh. “And are you supposed to be telling me all this? Won’t people be afraid if they know there’s a killer on the loose and you have no leads?”
“Won’t be for long,” Michael said. “I have a nickname at the ATF. They call me the Bloodhound. I can sniff out clues in the most unlikely places. I haven’t had one unsolved case yet.”
“I’ll rest easy tonight then, knowing you’re on the case.” She tipped her glass to him and drank the rest of her cocktail in one gulp.
“Actually, I came over here because of your shirt.” Michael gestured to her sweatshirt. “There were reports of outlaw bikers in Bolton. They shot up a couple of rooms in a motel. One was rented out under a fake name. Just wondered if you were there at the time. Maybe you saw something…” He sipped his water, watching her over the rim of the glass and it was all she could do to stay in her seat.
“Um… no.” She curled her hand around her empty glass, her knuckles whitening. “I haven’t been there for a long time. This is an… old shirt. But it’s comfortable, so I wear it when I travel.”
“Ah.” He nodded, but his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, and the skin on the back of Naiya’s neck crawled.
“I should get going.” She glanced up at the clock, desperate to get away from Michael and his searching gaze.
“Where are you headed?”
“Um… Idaho Springs.” She blurted out the name of the first Colorado town that came to mind since the bus was headed that way.
He waved to the bartender and pointed to Naiya’s glass, gesturing for a refill. “You have lots of time then. The next bus doesn’t leave for an hour. I’ll buy you another drink.”
Damn. She faked a smile and glanced over her shoulder. The bar had quieted down since Michael walked in the door, no doubt because most of the customers were the kind of people who could smell a cop a mile away. So what had happened to her well-honed senses? Probably the same thing that happened the night Viper had lured her to his office at the back of the Black Jack clubhouse. She’d let her guard down. Time to get the walls back up and go on the offensive or the next thing she knew, he’d be carting her off to jail.
“So are you on duty twenty-four seven, or do they give you time off for good behavior?” She tapped her foot to Bon Jovi’s, “Livin’ on a Prayer” and tilted her head to the side in her best imitation of Ally when she was at a bar trawling for fun. A woman with something to hide wasn’t going to hit on the man who could cuff her for real. Or so she hoped.
Michael startled at her sudden change in demeanor, and his brow creased in a frown. “Well I’m pretty much on duty all the time.” He lifted his glass. “Hence the water.”
Hence. Who talked like that? She couldn’t imagine Holt ever saying hence. She couldn’t imagine him in a suit. Although he’d looked damn sexy in that Black Jack cut. And even more sexy without it.
She gave herself a mental shake. Holt was gone and he wouldn’t be coming back. She’d burned that bridge twice over.
“Are you going to buy yourself an Idaho Springs shirt when you get there?” He gestured to her shirt again. “Seems tourist shirts are gaining in popularity. The owner of the gas station near the crime scene saw a man and a woman wearing Bolton Beaver shirts and riding a motorcycle not long after what we estimate to be the time of death.”
Run. Run. Run.
“Popular place, I guess.” Sweat trickled down her back, but she knew better than to give into her instincts. There was nothing that excited a predator more than fleeing prey. Not that she’d done anything wrong. Well, maybe she had. She’d been an accomplice to murder, an accessory after the fact, and she’d stolen a motorcycle, money, and weapons. This entire situation had thrown her carefully ordered life into chaos, and she couldn’t see a way out. “I’m sure there are lots of people riding motorcycles around here. I can imagine bikers would like the windy roads.”
Michael sighed and rimmed his water glass with his finger. “We’ll never know. Another biker showed up after they left, held a gun to the owner’s head, and took the video surveillance tapes.”
This time her surprise was genuine. “Why would he do that?”
“I thought at first they were working together, but the couple weren’t wearing biker cuts, and I don’t know any outlaw biker who would be seen dead without his cut.” He hesitated, his smile fading. “The owner of the gas station had a good memory for details, though. I have to say, you match his description right down to the shirt.”
Naiya’s heart pounded so hard she thought she would break a rib, and not just from fear. He was toying with her. Like a cat with a mouse. Or a Viper with a fifteen-year-old girl who was flattered by his attention. Well she wasn’t fifteen any more, and she was damn tired of his game. During her internship, she’d hung around with plenty of police and detectives. She’d partied with them, listened to them talk. If he had any evidence other than the vague recollection of a gas station owner, she would be cuffed and in his car already. But since he was clearly fishing, maybe she could turn the situation to her advantage.
“You still owe me a drink.” She patted his knee. “How about you order it while I freshen up?”
He covered her hand with his, trapping it against his leg. “How about you tell me what you were doing at that gas station and where your friend with the motorcycle has gone?”
Game over.
