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  “Yeah, he’s already en route.”

  “Who called it in?”

  “Missus Sharp, the school teacher that lives next to the garage. She heard shots, then saw a pick up pull away, squealing tires. Couldn’t make out a plate, though.”

  She got the rest of her clothes on as the toilet flushed in the next room and the door opened. “Okay, Troy, listen to me. We’re going to confirm the identity, photograph the body and let the coroner take him. Then you and I go talk to Jolene. All right?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “Call in whoever’s on duty to come help. Shit, what time is it?”

  “Eight twenty-six.”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes. I promise.” She hung up without another word, turning to Hogan. He was pulling on his shorts as well.

  “What’s happened?”

  “I got a homicide. Local. Mickey Grainger.” Shit, it hurt to say that, like passing a lump through her throat just to get the words out. “I ... I gotta go.”

  He nodded, face serious, which she appreciated. “You need any help on this one?”

  Sharon shook her head, grabbing her small purse and pulling the long strap across her body. “Nah. I got this one. It’s Markham’s. It’s mine.”

  Not even waiting to see if he accepted that, she dashed out of the door and ran for her car, getting inside and in gear in record time. The hotel was three blocks from Grainger’s, and she didn’t think she let up on the gas for one second. A cruiser sat outside, blocking the fenced parking lot on the side. The garage itself was all lit up.

  Troy met her as she approached the building. “What’s going on?”

  He swallowed, took off his cap and ran his hand over his forehead. “He’s inside. I think he got jumped.”

  She had the terrible feeling he was about to start crying.

  “Okay. Stay out here, watch the gate. Okay?”

  He nodded, sniffling, and she gave his arm a squeeze as she circled around him. She didn’t want to go in, didn’t want to see, but she had to at the same time. It was disrespectful to be scared of this.

  The front office light wasn’t on. A florescent glow was coming from the room behind, which she knew was a staff room of sorts. It was also the door that the employees came through, closest to the few employee parking spots the garage had. The front door was for paying customers.

  At the doorway to the break room she paused, then had to take a deep breath. This was where it had happened. There was blood splatter on the walls, slip marks on the floor made in blood. She could smell spent gunpowder.

  And blood. So much blood.

  One look at the face and she was done. A handsome man with a charming gap between his teeth; Mickey Grainger had a cocky charm that was at once gripping and endearing. At heart he was even a bit of a goofball.

  She could tell he’d taken a beating. His face was puffy but he hadn’t lived long enough for it to really swell up. Blood smeared his lower face, his nose busted. It looked as though his teeth had been broken. His blue-grey eyes were staring at the wall next to her.

  He’d fallen on his side, legs bent. His arms were splayed out in front of him. Sharon saw the Jolene tattoo and lost the fight against her tears.

  Shit, not this. Please, Christ. Not this.

  If only she’d wake up. But it didn’t happen.

  He was wearing a button down over his undershirt and jeans. The chain attached to his wallet was in place, they hadn’t bothered trying to make this look like a robbery. He wore no colors, so he’d been working, not stopping in.

  The shop would have closed at six. She had no idea when the shots would have been heard, but she wanted to know why he was here. Had they called him in to them, setting a trap somehow? She doubted it. He was too smart for that. He wouldn’t have been alone, either.

  No, he was the last one here for some reason. They waited until someone was here alone.

  Crouching down she swallowed hard and wiped at her eyes. His hands were beat to shit. She had to attempt a smile. “You gave a few licks, didn’t you?”

  The only sound was the ticking of the clock on the wall. His eyes were pinned right on her in this position. Just the two of them.

  “I’ll let them handle this, get their vengeance. I promise.”

  No answer, of course. Just open, unseeing eyes. Not even a hint of a twinkle anymore.

  “Fuck, Mickey,” she whispered, lip quivering again. “What happened here? Who got you?”

  The muffled sound of a car door shutting could be heard, and she assumed the coroner had arrived. It was obvious what the cause of death had been. The back half of his head was gone, his hair looking as though it was bed-headed but in actuality it was from busted skull, the blood hidden by the darkness of his hair.

  “Sheriff?”

  She looked up, wiping her eyes again now that Chad McTavish was in the room. The Markham County coroner was short, round, balding, wore round glasses, and looked as though he hadn’t had a complete night’s sleep in three months. And that wasn’t too far from the truth.

  “Jesus,” Chad muttered, stepping forward with an ancient doctor’s bag gripped in one hand. “It’s different when it’s someone you know.”

  She nodded and stood, wiping at her nose. “Yeah, it is.”

  “Shot in the head, I see?”

  “Yeah. He took a beating but I think he put up a better fight than they expected. His knuckles are pretty busted up.”

  “Tough for a skinny guy.”

  Sharon just nodded. She knew just talking normally was a way to keep things professional, but given the victim it felt grossly inappropriate.

  “All right, Sheriff. I’ll work quickly so we can remove the body.”

  “Thanks, Chad,” she said, straightening. On the small chipped dinette table behind Mickey sat a pair of work gloves. She grabbed them, just as the coroner gave a cry of protest. “Listen,” she said, hearing how numb she sounded as she pulled the gloves on. “I need to do something to keep outsiders from getting too interested in this case. I want this one for us. Do you have a problem with that?” She wasn’t being snarky. It was expressed simply and emotionless.

  He pushed his glasses up, a fidgety gesture, but after a moment he nodded. “We got a few moments before anyone else will come in.”

  Off the staff room were two doors. One joined up with the shop which wrapped the side and back of the building, and that’s the one she took. Out here drawers had been pulled from tall tool chests, which made no sense. The contents were scattered over the floor, some of the fixtures knocked right over.

  After a short search she found a crow bar and a rubber mallet. She brought them through the staff room where Chad was moving around, poking and prodding, and exited through the other door. It led to an office-come-storage room, mostly for office and washroom supplies. There was a desk, filing cabinets, and a big old safe. Nothing in here was touched. Her confusion grew.

  The lights had been off so she’d had to turn them on. She’d have to remember that.

  Making too much noise given the fact she was committing a grievous offense and tampering with a crime scene she legitimately set about trying to bust into the safe, knowing it wouldn’t work. Then she dropped the tools where she stood, turned off the light, and replaced the gloves on the table as Chad was removing his latex gloves.

  “Okay,” she continued, her tone still not thawing. “Let’s get the body to the morgue.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Fritter groaned as he hauled his tired ass up to the second floor of the motel. They were close to the California-Oregon border and it was past dark. The delivery to a private airstrip inside the Oregon side of that border had been beautifully executed, no worries. He hadn’t once had to worry about Spaz riding in Mickey’s place on this run, which was only happening because his miles were starting to really lag behind.

  A bed; that was all he wanted. He didn’t even give a shit if he was sharing it with roaches and bed bugs. He was too tired
to give a fuck. They were all beat. Not a single man was even considering heading down to the roadhouse a few blocks over to see if any female hospitality could be had.

  The room was standard seventies spectacular: plastic-coated fabric lampshade on a big brass chain hanging over a vinyl two-person dinette set. Bedspread in charming shades of pumpkin and walnut. Wall panels such a dark color they were damn near back in style. But it smelled like fresh dry cleaning and the air conditioner had been running, but not too much. Just enough to feel refreshing.

  It was the fucking Hyatt, he was so tired.

  With one foot he kicked the door shut and threw the deadbolt, shut the curtains, and crossed to the bed before flopping right down on his stomach.

  Clean bedding, he knew the difference thanks to the voice of experience he’d grown up with.

  He had passed out, slipping right under with the lights still on, when frantic knocking startled him so much he bellowed and pushed himself upright, hand going to the small of his back for his piece before he so much as got his eyes open.

  “Fritter? You up? Come on, man. Open up.”

  Rubbing his face he stumbled to the door and tried to open it three times before remembering the dead bolt. By the time he got it sorted he expected Tank to be fuming, but the big guy wasn’t. He look ashen, and behind him Knuckles and Tiny looked the same.

  “Shit, what is it? Is it Rose? Is everything okay?”

  The three pushed inside and Fritter shut the door, as sober and awake as a priest on Sunday. Something was going down.

  “We just got a call from Jayce,” Tank said slowly, obviously in shock. No one was even sitting.

  “Is Trinny okay?” He sounded like an idiot, making guesses. But fuck, someone had better say something soon.

  “Trinny and Rose are fine.” Even Knuckles sounded alarmed; no trace of joking or his usual insane humor. “There was an attempted robbery at the garage. And ... Mickey’s dead.”

  There was no sound. Fritter looked from Knuckles to Tank to Tiny, and not a single man could look at him. Tiny was stark white, his eyes wide. Tank was breathing hard through his nose, blinking too fast. Too rapidly. And Knuckles was giving a thousand-yard stare that wasn’t directed at a single person or object in the room.

  “Wait. How do we know that?”

  “The Sheriff’s Department showed up to tell Jolene. She called Jayce, he called us.” That was Tank, and his deep voice was thick and wet with emotion. “They think someone broke in, assuming no one was there since it was at about 7:30. He’d been doing shit in the office. Sent Jolene home without him ‘cause she had a headache. He surprised them, there were more of them than him. They didn’t even get in the safe. Left with nothing, as far as we can tell.”

  “But he’s at the hospital or something, right?”

  Knuckles shook his head, eyes finally meeting Fritter’s. “He was dead when they got there. These pricks shot him in the head.”

  The room suddenly wasn’t cool enough and his vision swam. He actually stumbled back, ass hitting the edge of the bed. “Wait, no. That can’t be right.”

  “It’s true. And we gotta get back there, right now.”

  Fritter was nodding as Tank spoke. “Of course. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  It was like someone had fucked with his settings. His vision was narrowed, making everything seem farther away, out of touch. His hearing was more of a whine, and when people spoke it seemed as though they were in a cavernous room while not speaking loud enough to be heard.

  The sound of his bike starting was the first thing to cut through at normal volume. The plan was to haul ass and get into Markham within four hours or less, which would be at about 4am. He wasn’t tired anymore. He was an automaton, set on getting home as soon as possible.

  The highways were blissfully quiet, not a patrolman in sight. Tiny’s rig was pushing itself to its limit, but still the riders had to remind each other to ease off and let him catch up.

  The horizon was starting to lighten by the time they got home. The Grainger home was lit up, with Gertie’s SUV parked at the curb. That’s when Fritter remembered that Buck had stayed behind too, because of the baby.

  Jayce met them on the lawn. He fit right in with the rest of them; he look bedraggled, exhausted and drawn. Fritter had never seen the man with bags under his eyes, but there they were.

  “How’s she doing?” Tank asked, stopping in front of Jayce on the grass. The rest of them fell in line behind Tank to be filled in.

  “Not good, man. Fox brought her something to calm her down but,” Jayce looked over his shoulder at the house like he was scared to be overheard. “She’s hysterical, man. No one can calm her down. Only holding Davie makes her quiet, and when they’re nearly asleep Gertie tries to take him back which wakes the both of them up so they’re both screaming.”

  “Any word from the Sheriff’s?” He had to ask. He had to know how soon they could go hunting for assholes.

  “Not yet. They came here to tell Jolene, it was that Troy pipsqueak and Downey. Jolene lost it on them and threw them out of the house, then called me. I want to go see what’s happening but I’m worried about Gertie.”

  “Where’s Buck?” This from Knuckles.

  “At the morgue, watching over Mickey.”

  The air took on a chill quite suddenly. It was silent and cold and far too fucking vivid.

  “We’re here now. We can go to the Sheriff’s,” Tank spoke, nodding to the rest of the group. “You all stay here, I’ll call Rose and get her here, too.”

  “She’s already on her way,” Jayce assured him. “She got into town at midnight and went to bed. I was calling and calling.”

  Tank cursed. “That’s right. I forgot she went to Bakersfield.”

  “She wasn’t alone,” Jayce said. “Her and three of the girls all went together, otherwise I would’ve had a prospect on her, too.”

  Tank shook his head. “She’s carrying. But no more fucking day trips.”

  “No kidding.”

  It was too much talking and his blood was humming. Fritter wanted to hunt, find something to kill. Emotion was clawing its way out of his chest and if he didn’t find something to do immediately it would kill him.

  “What do we do?” he cut through the convo between VP and Prez rudely. “We know this is Mazaris. How the fuck we finding them?”

  “We gotta tread careful,” Jayce reminded him. “There’s a lot of heat in Markham right now. We can’t go shooting at everyone.”

  “I can’t just fucking stand around talking, dammit!” he shouted.

  Knuckles grabbed him by both shoulders. “Let’s go check on Jolene, Fritter. It’s okay.”

  He let himself be led. Honestly, it was easier than thinking.

  Inside the lights were all on, making the world outside seem pitch black. Gertie was on the sofa, Davie half-covered by a blanket while she fed him. He gave her a nod, all he was capable of, then took a deep breath as Knuckles stepped around him and led the way into the kitchen.

  Jolene was sitting on the counter, staring at the front of the fridge. She had a flannel shirt on over a tank top, jeans, and she didn’t look herself. Her hair was a bit ruffled, out of place, whereas she usually had huge rockabilly curls going on. Even in a ponytail she had some swoopy thing with her bangs, but not now. And her make-up was gone, too. He’d never seen her without it.

  A bottle of beer was on one knee, the hand not holding it picking at the label without her supervision. She just stared, and Fritter felt the walls closing in more.

  “Jolene?” Knuckles moved closer, hand out to squeeze her arm. At his touch she started like she just realized they’d arrived, and maybe they had. The edges of her eyes were pink and swollen, even the skin around her nose looked inflamed. “Knuckles,” she greeted him, then her eyes darted over to him. “Fritter.”

  “Hey darlin’,” he said softly. “Anythin’ you need?”

  She shook her head and her lip quivered. “No. No, I’m f
ine.”

  “They give you something to help you sleep?”

  She shook her head at Knuckles. “Yeah, but it didn’t work. I don’t want to sleep anyway.”

  “You should try, though, babe.”

  “Don’t want to. What’s the point?”

  Fritter looked at the floor. There was a tight ache growing in his chest that made the air in this little room even more rare.

  “Worried about you, babe.”

  She shook her head and hopped down, swigging beer the whole way. Knuckles caught her by the hips as she swayed one way, and he took the bottle. She let him, and Fritter realized it was empty.

  “I’m fine,” she whined, pushing Knuckles’ hands off of her. “Everyone needs to leave me the fuck alone.”

  “Jolene, come on. You seem a little high right now.”

  “Fuck you. You’d know, wouldn’t you? Just like Gertie can tell!”

  “Hey,” Knuckles barked out. “Don’t be pissed people care about you.”

  Her mouth was pursed tight and she looked furious. For one scary moment Fritter was sure she was going to take a swing at Knuckles, but then right in the face of whatever expression Knuckles had she crumpled, face all but caving in as loud, painful-sounding sobs shook her entire body and she bent at the waist as though she was in agony. Because she was.

  “I love him ... so much!”

  “Me too, honey.”

  “And it’s my birthday next week. How the fuck do I have a birthday without him?”

  Knuckles brought her into a hug, giving Fritter a look over his shoulder. “Go get her room ready. Water by the bed, covers back. She can’t walk.”

  Fritter nodded, moving down the hall to the main bedroom. The bedside lamp was easy to find in the half-dark and the room was humid and stuffy. He turned the window A/C unit on low just to freshen the place up. There was a glass by the bed, so after turning down the bedding he took that to the washroom and ran some cold water then filled the tumbler.

  Knuckles carried Jolene into the bedroom and set her down. She was still weeping, and once she was free of his hold she curled up on her side. Knuckles covered her up, sat next to her and pushed her hair behind her ear.