Chapter One
ZERO
Suffocating is the only way to describe what waking up in a jail cell feels like. The smell. The noise. The lack of privacy. Every bit of it might as well be a hand around my neck choking the fuck out of me.
How is it that the exact moment when the pieces of my life seem to be falling together, something plows right into it, sending everything spiraling out of control?
Murphy groans above me, slowly sitting up and dangling his legs over the edge of the top bunk and jumping down. “You get any sleep?”
“How am I supposed to sleep here?”
He blinks and ignores my foul mood. “You need to be sharp when they question you.”
Cops had already questioned me well into the night. I hadn’t said a word. Much to their irritation.
I played the part of stubborn asshole well.
Today, I’ll take a different approach.
“Frazier, let’s go.” One of the guards taps the bars and unlocks the door. “Don’t give me any shit,” he warns.
I hold out my hands so he can cuff me and barely resist mocking him for acting like a scared little girl. What am I going to do, beat him to death with my jail-issued canvas slip-on sneaker?
I’m still furious about the whole situation, but I padlock those emotions down tight. Once the police have you on their radar, this sort of shit ha
ppens all the time. Yet one more reason Rock and I have worked so hard to forge good relationships with law enforcement in our territory whenever possible.
I’m brought into an interrogation room not much different than the one where I spent most of last night. The guard guides me to a hard metal chair. I plop down and stretch my legs out in front of me.
The officer who steps inside had arrived last night after I’d been handcuffed. Plainclothes. Older. Quiet. Thoughtful. Bad sign? Probably.
Another officer steps inside and stands against the back wall.
Hard to tell which one is in charge.
“Who was the woman with you at the clubhouse last night?” the officer seated in front of me asks almost too casually.
Strange way to open up the conversation. Shit. I hadn’t expected them to give Lilly a second thought.
I absolutely cannot afford to have her dragged into any of this. I squint and scratch my chin as if I’ve never seen a woman in my life.
“The one with your kid,” he prompts. “That was your kid, right?”
The mention of Chance is a blade through my guts. His screams as I was handcuffed in the parking lot echoed in my head all night long. “Anything is possible.” It takes everything I have to give him a cocky smirk. “You never know.”
“Hot piece for a random baby momma,” the one holding up the wall says. “Real nice juicy ass on that one.”
The immediate rush of anger spikes my blood pressure. Under the table, I clasp my hands tighter. The comment was meant to piss me off so I’d do or say something stupid. But I’m too old and have lived through too much to ever give them the satisfaction.
I shrug again.
He’s a persistent asshole. “She got a name?”
“Not that I remember. You know how it is.”
“Whores willing to fuck your low-life ass because you’re a ‘bad boy’. Yeah. Women are stupid that way.”
I swallow down my rage and sit up. “Don’t sound so bitter, man. Thought cops had badge bunnies willing to ride their dicks all the time?”
He groans and I try not to laugh.
I pull a phony sympathetic grin. “Maybe go easier on the donuts and they’ll come flocking to you.”
Might have gone one too far there.
The officer in front of me scowls and flips through a small notepad in front of him. “Let’s move on,” he says, signaling to his buddy that fucking around time is over.
I guess this one’s in charge.
The questions he fires off are all over the place, but he keeps circling back to the night Malone’s burned down. More specifically, where was I when the match was lit?
That’s a relief.
I have to be careful here. Anything I say will just be used against me later. Or they’ll leverage it to push for more information. Either from me or from Murphy when he gets pulled in here later. I need to be strategic in what bread crumbs I drop. Only say things that will lead the cops where I want them to go. It’s not easy on zero sleep.
Flashing my I’m-seriously-trying-to-help-you-here face, I rest my hands on the table. The handcuffs make a soft scratch-clink as they land on the cheap metal. “I really don’t remember where I was that night. Do you remember where you were some random day a couple weeks ago? Does anyone?”
He pauses.
“Listen,” I continue before he says anything else, “I was either upstate at our clubhouse or the business we run—”
“Crystal Ball.”
“Right.” I’m not surprised or concerned that he came up with that name so easily. That we manage the place hasn’t been a secret for years. “Or I was down here helping out. I’ve been back and forth between both clubs since our brother got shot. Haven’t had much time for anything else.”
“Because you took over as president.”
I roll my eyes. “I didn’t ‘take over’. I’d much rather be home.”
“So, someone forced you into the position?”
Ah, yes. Law enforcement’s always trying to get some insight into how motorcycle clubs operate. So they can write it up in some handy-dandy booklet to pass out at cop school, I guess. Unfortunately for them, every single club I’ve run into operates differently. And no true outlaw is eager to divulge their secrets with anyone they don’t share a patch with.
Sure, most MCs have the same basic principles. Motorcycles, freedom from society’s rules, brotherhood. All in varying degrees depending on the club. None of those values are of interest to law enforcement though. It’s all about the crimes some clubs commit to achieve those goals.
“I’m helping out my brothers.”
“Brothers.” He scoffs. “Right.” He flips to another page in his notebook. “You happen to know where James Simon is? We’ve had trouble locating him.”
I bet you have.
Good ol’ Jimmy “Shadow” Simon. Forgot the fucker even had another name for a minute.
Interesting they want to find him at all. Is he a person of interest in whatever the fuck they’re busting my balls about? Is he a snitch? Or are they just trying to prove they know something about my club?
No matter what the reason for their interest in Shadow, I keep my mask of indifference in place.
“Told me he wanted to go Nomad for a while and took off. I haven’t heard from him since.”
“Isn’t that unusual for a vice president?”
I pretend like I’m carefully considering the question even though the answer is pretty simple. I even toss a look over my shoulder as if I’m about to share something that would get my ass kicked if my club ever found out. Cops love drama.
Leaning in and keeping my voice low, I explain, “Yes and no. It’s inconvenient for him to take off when we have a brother in the hospital. But as I’m sure you’re aware, that’s what we’re all about—being able to do what we want, when we want.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m aware.”
“You should give it a try.”
“No, thanks.” He stares at his notebook. Just some pages of chicken scratch but it seems important to him. “So you don’t know who burned down Malone’s Bowling Alley?”
“That’s what this is about?”
“Why? Committed so many crimes, you weren’t sure which one we arrested you for?”
Actually, yes. “I never got to read the supposed warrant your guy shoved in my face. Don’t worry, I’m sure my lawyer will enjoy that one.”
His face pales slightly and he has trouble concealing the fact that he didn’t know I never read the warrant. Still, he collects himself quickly and resumes his questioning.
“How well did you know Malone?”
“Not at all. I met him, maybe one or two times.” I pause. “What do you mean, did? He go down with the bowling alley?”
“No and be thankful for that, or we would’ve added felony murder.”
“Give me a break.”
He stares at me for a second or two before giving me a huge piece of information. “No bodies were found.”
Fucking weird. I could’ve sworn there were a bunch of people in the place. Hell, I was almost in the place when the fire started. I’m glad no one was killed. Not because I give a fuck about Malone, but because I don’t want to go down for a murder I didn’t commit.
I sit quietly, waiting for him to add some details.
“We got a witness who saw you on your big, black Harley near the place that night.”
Hah. That’s a fucking lie. I was driving a truck that night. I can’t exactly say that, but I‘m feeling better about my situation if I’m sitting here because of a phony witness.
Although why anyone would tell such a specific lie, is a cause for concern.
Of course, the cops themselves could always be lying to get me to admit that I was there.
Gee, this is fun.
“That’s impossible, since I wasn’t there on my bike that night.” Truth. “You know how many fucking black Harleys are in this county alone?”
He ignores the que
stion and continues to study me like I’m his favorite bug under a microscope. “We might need to bring it in to run some tests.”
The last time I was in Malone’s parking lot with my bike was months ago. No way there’s any evidence still around. I shrug. “Knock yourself out.”
“Change your tires recently?”
“Nope.”
He stares at me.
“Why you more worried about a building than my brother who’s still sitting in the hospital with a bullet in his skull?”
“We’re still working that case.”
“Like fuck you are.”
“Why do you want us to catch the shooter? Thought all you outlaws liked to hand out your own justice?”
If only he knew. “Nah, figure my tax dollars oughta be good for something.”
He ignores that an opens up a new folder. “How well do you know Anatoly DeLova?”
Motherfucker. If I’m in this mess because of that ancient mafia boss, I’m gonna bury him.