Page 77 of The Candle Palace (Jamison Valley 6)
“You know, I never can tell if that’s a happy smile or an irritated smile when I come here.”
“That depends.” His eyes narrowed on my purse, his bushy gray eyebrows coming together.
I reached inside the handbag and retrieved a pack of licorice. “How’d I do?”
He shrugged, staring at the Twizzlers as I set them on his desk and took one of the guest chairs. In my previous visits, I’d brought along Twix, Snickers and M&M’s. He’d been lukewarm toward my treats at best. So today, I’d gone out on a limb at the Gas ’N’ Go and picked up something fruity.
“It looks like a happy smile, but with the mustache, it’s hard to tell.”
He chuckled and ripped the package open while I did an inner fist pump. “I knew you’d figure it out eventually.”
“You could have just told me.”
“What’s the fun in that?” Chief Wagner stuck the candy in his mouth and chomped a huge bite.
“Are you going to make me work this hard for all my information?”
“Nope,” he said. “We put out a weekly press sheet. All you have to do is download it. Easy peasy.”
“Ah, yes. The weekly press sheet. As truly riveting as those reports are, I was talking about information a bit more . . . in depth.”
The chief steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “I don’t have anything for you. Just like I didn’t have anything for you two weeks ago. Or the week before that. Or the week before that.”
“Nothing? Not even a tiny morsel you may have forgotten to put in the press sheet?”
“I’ve got nothing. Clifton Forge is a fairly boring place these days. Sorry.”
I frowned. “No, you’re not.”
He chuckled and took another piece of licorice. “You’re right. I’m not sorry. I’m too busy enjoying the peace.”
Chief Wagner was overjoyed that his press sheets only included infrequent 911 calls, random Saturday-night drunk and disorderlies and the occasional petty theft from a misguided teenager. This town had seen more than its share of murder and mayhem over the years—thanks to the Tin Gypsies. The motorcycle club was likely responsible for the streaks of gray in Marcus’s hair.
Yet from what I’d been able to dig up in the news archives, the former Tin Gypsy members had spent little to no time in jail cells. Either the chief had overlooked their crimes or the Gypsies were damn good at covering their tracks.
In their glory days, the Tin Gypsies had been led by Draven Slater. I’d seen him around town, and he carried himself with the same air of ruthless confidence he’d passed down to his son, Dash. And neither man struck me as a fool.
My theory was that Police Chief Marcus Wagner was a damn good cop. But Draven, Dash and their Gypsies were always one step ahead.
If I was going to get a story, I’d have to be at the top of my game. Draven had taken a backseat at the garage, which meant I’d be up against Dash. I’d seen the man around town—I’d been watching.
Dash rode his black motorcycle along Central Avenue like he owned Clifton Forge, flashing a straight, white smile that was blinding. He was the quintessential bad boy. His sexy smirk, chiseled jaw and day-old stubble made all the ladies swoon.
Every lady except for me.
The other women in town could have fun with his amazing body. What I wanted from Dash were his secrets.
And I’d need the chief’s help to get them.
In my previous visits here, I hadn’t uttered a word about the Gypsies. I’d only come in to meet the chief and build a rapport. But if I was going to start my investigation, then it was time to go for broke.
“Do you know why the Tin Gypsies closed down so suddenly?”
His jaw stopped midchew and he narrowed his gaze. “No.”
Wrong move. He was going to clam up.
“Okay.” I held up my hands. “I was just curious.”
