Baited (7 page)

“I trust your judgment, Julie. It’s my nature to be skeptical. So I tell you what, if you’re serious about wanting female companionship, I can introduce you to a couple of the guy’s old ladies at the clubhouse.”

God. I hated that term “old lady” even if it was the only respected term for women on the periphery of the motorcycle club. “You’d be willing to take me to the clubhouse?” For being the big bad leader of the Hombres, Martinez was all about the business and not the social aspect of the club. Ever since he’d handled the situation with Jackal, the former enforcer, very publicly, very personally, very violently, I don’t think his biker brothers-in-arms missed him hanging around, passing down judgment. Cal might be the enforcer now, but everyone knew who the real muscle was—El Presidente.

“Yeah. Margie, Gunner’s old lady is a tough bitch. As is Annie, Bucket’s old lady. You’d get along with both of them fine.”

I bit his pectoral and he laughed.

“Think about it.”

“I am thinking about Bucket having an old lady. It’s surprising.”

“Why?”

“Because Bucket is scary as fuck. He never talks about her.” Then again, Bucket didn’t talk a whole lot around anyone, not just me. “I know the name Gunner. He’s...?”

“Sergeant at Arms. You don’t see him because he deals exclusively with Hombres business.”

Meaning illegal business. Tony and I had maintained a dividing line: no discussing each other’s work, which is why our relationship worked.

It also made zero sense that Tony would think Lisa was trying to get close to me. Because even if she was, say a DEA agent masquerading as an office drone, I knew nothing about Martinez’ or the Hombres’ business. Nothing. But that might change if I started hanging out in the clubhouse. So I understood what a big gesture he’d just made to me by inviting me even deeper into his world.

I scooted up and kissed him. “Thank you.”

“It’s been mentioned in passing that I need to spend more time with the members anyway. There’s a cookout thing this weekend. It won’t be such a chore to attend if you’re by my side.” He cocked his head in challenge. “Especially if you’re wearing—”

“No fucking way, Martinez.” I pushed onto my knees. “I’ll never wear one of those.”

His smirk softened the challenge in his eyes. “Rules are rules, blondie. If you’re there under my protection, everyone’s gotta know it.”

“You’ve already got one of those ‘Property of’ vests made for me, don’t you?”

“Yep.”
 

Hard to be indignant while also being naked, but I pulled it off.
 

Or thought I did until Tony wrapped his hands around my hips and pulled me on top of him. “It’s just a vest. I’m not requiring you to get a ‘Property of’ tattoo.”

“But even if did get a tat I’d still have to wear the damn vest.”

“Unless you got the tat on your ass and opted to wear chaps so everyone could see it.” He laughed—a real gut buster at my look of horror.

“Not even remotely funny, Martinez.”
 

“Just wear the vest, okay?” His bout of hilarity fled when he framed my face in his hands. “You’re the first and only woman who’s ever worn my patch. That means something to me, even if it doesn’t to you.”

That’s when I knew, despite my misgivings, despite my inner feminist howling at the very idea of being considered a man’s
property
, that I would wear the vest. If not with pride, at least with the knowledge that Martinez belonged to me as much as I belonged to him.

I leaned closer. “Fine. I’ll wear it. But only to club events and only if you also buy me a pair of killer leather pants. And kick ass boots.”

His smile was a thing of beauty. “Done.”

“So should we get dressed and go home?”

“Let’s stay here tonight.” He pressed a kiss on the top of my breast. “I like you naked. And close by me.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t kick you out of bed either.”

“Good to know.” Tony reached for the remote on the nightstand and tucked me into his side. “You wanna watch TV?”

“As long as it’s not something on
The History Channel
.”

He flipped through the five million sports channels and paused briefly on one where guys wearing stupid-looking camo/safari clothing were casting a line. “Why’d you grill Big Mike about fishing tonight?”

Of course Big Mike reported everything we discussed to him. “Has to do with a case I am—or was—working on. Just wondered if you were secretly into some type of fishing.”

“Only if I hit a fish with my ski when I’m waterskiing.”

“So you waterski?”

“I haven’t for a while. But after seeing you in a bikini I’m thinking about buying a boat.”

I smiled.

The rough tips of Martinez’ fingers glided up and down my spine. We’d had pockets of this normalcy in our relationship in the last six months and after all we’d been through to be together, I’d never take it for granted.

I’d started to drift off; the sounds of a ballgame had lulled me into a peaceful state.

Martinez kissed the top of my head and murmured, “You have friends, Julie. Maybe they won’t go shoe shopping with you, but they’d kill for you and bleed for you. But more than that, they’ll be there for you without question. Without you even having to ask.”

If I wasn’t so sleepy, I might’ve gotten teary eyed at Martinez’ reminder of what I already had, and that I shouldn’t take it for granted either.
 

Chapter Three ~
reeling in the catch

After treating me to the best wake up ever—morning shower sex revs me up better than a triple shot of espresso—Martinez bought me breakfast before we went our separate ways.

I stopped at the office first to get Rich’s home address since I’d forgotten to put it the information in my phone. I’ll admit I was hoping to see Kevin, our communication was sporadic when he was on assignment. But I noticed he’d dumped his bag of tricks for dealing with a skip trace: arm and leg restraints, cloth and ball gags, a bottle of Febreze, several containers of pepper spray, a pair of sweatpants for those perps he picked up in their birthday suits—that happened more often than one might think—a Taser and a stun gun. After being away for a week, he’d probably just gone home and crashed. But I saw he’d signed off on my weekly case update memo. It reminded me that I hadn’t updated case information for Rich Barber and the only thing in his file was the contract. Now that I was dropping the case, I could fill in all the blanks after I spoke to him.

While I was in my office I took the time to do a little online research. For shits and giggles I ran a check on Lisa Morgan. She was exactly who she said she was.
 

In your face, Martinez.

Maybe I
would
call her for lunch.

I killed time creating invoices listing billable hours for our two biggest clients. And then, not able to put it off any longer I got in the car and drove over to talk to Rich Barber.

Rich lived on the north side of Rapid, in an area of town heavily populated by transients and Native Americans, an area seriously lacking a Neighborhood Watch program.
 

So when I pulled up in front of his place, the well-kept lawn surprised me, as did the bright red geraniums in the window boxes. I’d run a check on him and knew he didn’t have a wife, or a live-in or a roommate, so the spiffed up house with the new paintjob was all his doing. The six-foot high privacy fence surrounding the cracker box house didn’t surprise me either.
 

I wandered up to the front door and rang the doorbell and waited patiently.

No answer.
 

The morning newspaper spilled out as I opened the screen to knock on the door. I waited a minute or so and then rapped more insistently. No response. Finally, I stood on tiptoe and peeked in the small window inset in the door, but I couldn’t see anything through the plastic blinds.

Rich had mentioned he worked the four to midnight shift as a janitor, so I knew he wasn’t at work. Maybe he’d picked up an extra shift? I’d peek in his garage windows and see if his car was gone.

Just leave, Julie. Call him and explain. There’s no reason you have to do this in person.

But of course, I told the voice of reason to take a hike.

A cracked sidewalk snaked around the backside of the house beneath a row of scraggly lilac bushes. I followed the buckled concrete to the gate between the fence and the garage. I pushed the latch and stepped into the backyard.

 
I froze.
 

The back door to the house stood wide open.
 

In this neighborhood? Not a good sign.
 

A chill swept up my spine despite the heat of the late morning.
 

I glanced past the neatly mown yard to the oversized, detached garage. No lights shone and the door was firmly shut and padlocked. So why would Rich have left the house wide open?

He wouldn’t have.
 

My heart rate tripled as I approached the back door.

“Rich?” I yelled over the threshold. “It’s Julie Collins. Can I come in?”
 

No answer.

The door squeaked as I pushed it open another few inches. “Rich?”

I debated about whether to walk in, but when I heard the determined buzzing of flies—hundreds of flies—I forced my feet to move.
 

Probably should’ve called the police first; I’d been in a situation like this before. But I followed my instincts, wending my way through the trash-packed house that could’ve been featured on the TV show
Hoarders.

Maybe the flies were due to the stacks of garbage. Maybe it’s not what you think.

That’s when the putrid smell hit me.
 

I followed my nose and ended up in the bathroom.

It was exactly what I’d thought. My bad feelings had been justified.

Rich was in the tub. Unseeing eyes staring blankly at the yellowed ceiling, his mouth open in a silent scream, flies buzzing in and around his body.

I pinched my nose against the stench and covered my mouth against the bile rising in my throat.

The water in the tub had turned the hideous color of raspberry Kool-Aid. Rich’s once lanky frame was bloated. His left arm hung limply on the faded yellow bathmat next to an empty bottle of Everclear. Deep gouges ran from his wrist to his elbow. My gaze moved up to the left side of his neck, caked in rivulets of dried black blood. His carotid artery had been sliced too.

I looked away, not wanting to bear witness to Rich’s final indignity, but the glint of steel perched on the edge of the tub caught my attention.
 

I guess Rich had found his knife after all.

Or someone else had.

 
****

After puking in the lilac bushes and then pulling myself together, I called the police.

Didn’t take long for them to arrive—six cop cars with sirens screaming pulled up less than ten minutes later.

I’d specifically requested Detective Mitch Jones, even though I’d hoped to never see him again—I was sure he felt the same way about me—but he was first one on scene.
 

Perched on the curb, I smoked several cigarettes while the cops did their thing inside. A fire truck showed up—for what I had no clue. I played the waiting game, lost in a fog of shock that was all too familiar to me, waiting for my anger to arise, but all I could feel now was sorrow.
 

My cell phone remained in my hand—unused as per the detective’s orders although I had managed to send Kevin a quick text about what’d gone down—and a cop kept watch on me, and the neighbors gathering in the street.

“Miz Collins?” a male voice said behind me.

“Yes?”

“Detective Jones wants to speak to you.”

I stood and followed the cop to the backyard. I glanced briefly at the house and shivered. Since I could see the ambulance backed up in the alley, I knew Rich’s body was still inside. The horror of that scene would stay with me forever.

Mitch Jones approached me, his mouth set in a firm line. We’d crossed paths several times. While he didn’t treat me like a suspect, he didn’t ask if I was all right after discovering someone dead and puffed up like a marshmallow. Without preamble he launched in with, “Let’s start from the top.”
 

I gave him the basics and awaited his response.

He finished writing in his tiny notebook and looked at me. “Did he seem depressed or suicidal that last time you spoke to him?”

“Not at all.” My gaze flitted over his shoulder to the cops milling around the back door. “Are you calling this a suicide?”

Detective Jones sent me a sharp look. “We’re not commenting on the manner of death. That’s the ME’s job.”

“Right.” I didn’t believe Rich had committed suicide.

At my vague response, I had to suffer through the Detective Jones’ lengthy lecture about the job responsibility of private detectives versus cops...blah, blah, blah. I tuned him out and my mind raced to other matters.