Buried Biker (13 page)

Shaking my head, I said, “I’ve never even
talked
to Black Rose. Or Razorback.”

He ignored that. “What I’m wondering,” he said, “is did Black Rose tell him what a great lay you are? Was he jealous? Maybe took it out on Kelly? To show Black Rose what a bad ass he can be.”

This conversation was getting seriously out of control. “I didn’t tell Razorback it was okay to screw Kelly. And I never ‘did’ Black Rose.”

“You really expect me to believe that?”

I needed more time to think this whole thing out, so I tried to change the subject. “Where’s Razorback now?”

The grin was back. “That’s what we’ve been wondering. Nobody’s seen him. Not even Black Rose. She says his bike’s still in the garage. Not like a biker to take off without the bike.”

“So he’s gone off somewhere?”

“Seems like it. Not smart, though. He’ll be in trouble when they do find him.”

That was familiar territory to me. “Parole violation?” I asked.

Old Buckles shrugged. “I’m not sure about that. But he’s a registered sex offender. That means he’s got to let them know where he’s staying all the time. What with this stuff with Kelly, you
know
they’re aware that he’s not at his registered address. And he hasn’t filed for a change of address. That’d show up on the registry within a day. Rose looked it up.”

“He got any family or anything? They might know where he’s got to.”

“Nobody we know of. We’re wondering if
you
knew what happened to him.”

Shaking my head, I said, “No idea. I wouldn’t even recognize him if I saw him.”

“Him and Black Rose run a little excavating firm. Trenches for residential sewer connections and stuff like that. Although I think Black Rose does most of it. I know she runs the backhoe. And keeps the books.”

That was interesting, but I didn’t see it was particularly relevant. I nodded.

“It’s up on the same property where the clubhouse is.”

Once again, I nodded, still not quite following where this was leading.

He scratched under his braided beard. “If Razorback don’t put in an appearance one of these days, you planning to move in with her and help with the business? And even if he does, he’s gonna be locked up.”

That one took me by surprise. “I don’t even
know
Black Rose. I sure as hell ain’t gonna be moving in with some woman I don’t know. Or go stay up at where you guys got your clubhouse. Ain’t my style. And I got a good steady job I don’t want to quit. Don’t think my PO’d be happy with any of that. Not to mention me.” The idea of moving in with Kelly and the kids had occurred to me a few times. It wasn’t gonna happen any time soon, but it appealed to me on lots of levels. But hitching up like that with Black Rose? No way.

“I’m still trying to figure this out,” he said. “So don’t you be putting me on. If you’re gonna be doing that, I want to know. My little girl, she been hurt enough. More than enough. Don’t see it myself, but I know she used to have a soft spot for you. I think she still might. Don’t you be playing with her feelings if you don’t want to answer to me.”

Could he be right about Kelly still caring? I turned away from him again to hide the tears that began to gather in my eyes and confusion that must be evident on my face. The brief glints of sunlight that managed to peek through the clouds glinted off the worn railroad tracks. If Kelly really thought I’d made some kind of deal with Razorback, it was no wonder she was mad at me.

But she hadn’t
asked
me or anything. Just assumed what Black Rose told her was the truth. What kind of relationship could we have if she was willing to believe any sordid story anybody told her about me? Most of the time, I expected people to believe the worst of me. It went with the territory. But until all this came down, I’d thought Kelly thought different.

A siren sounded in the distance. I swiped my sleeve across my eyes and glanced at the other bikers. They’d all heard it, too, and were tossing beer cans and cigarette butts into the scraggly weeds around the pavement. The roaches got pinched out and slipped into pockets.

A puke-green car pulled up to the curb. Carissa got out of the driver’s seat, camera in her hand.

Old Buckles glowered in her direction. “Who the hell’s that bitch?”

“A reporter from the newspaper,” I said.

She raised the camera and appeared to be taking pictures. I turned sideways, hoping I could avoid a repeat of last Sunday’s front page story.

“I ought to grab that camera and shove it down her throat,” Old Buckles said, starting to swing off the trike.

The siren grew louder. The Predators who had dismounted climbed back on their bikes. Old Buckles paused and then settled back in his seat.

“Bitch,” he muttered under his breath. Then he turned to me. “You wanna get out of here with us?”

I considered. Somebody must have called the cops about the unsavory group hanging out in the park. Or more unsavory than the usual drug dealers and hookers. And Carissa, monitoring the police calls, had picked it up. I didn’t want to be here when the cops arrived.

On the other hand, I didn’t want to be riding with the Predators if they were stopped. Or have a picture show up in the paper with me on the back of a known felon’s chopped trike. Talk about associating with convicted felons.

“No, thanks,” I said. “I’ll walk.”

“Okay.” He gunned the engine and lifted his feet to the rests. “But we ain’t done here. I’m gonna get to the bottom of this. And somebody’s gonna pay.”

If I could talk to Kelly, maybe we could straighten this out some. Or at least maybe I could find out how come she wouldn’t come out and talk to me about it.

“How’s Kelly doing?” I hollered over the roar of the bikes. “Where is she now?”

“Okay,” he shouted back. “But they’ve decided she’s got to go get some physical rehab for a little while.”

“Her shoulder?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are the kids?”

“With somebody called Aunt Louise. Or a name like that.”

They roared off.

I’d met Aunt Louise. She was the older sister or aunt or something of Kelly’s ex. The kids would be okay with her. A lot better than with their father, who drank, or with Old Buckles and his buddies. Or in foster care.

I’d spent much of my childhood in foster care. I knew there were some really good foster families out there—I’d spent some time with the Colemans, a deeply religious couple who were not demonstrative but who cared and gave me a solid home while I was there—but they weren’t the norm. I wouldn’t wish the uncertainty and fear that went with emergency foster care on anybody, much less kids I really liked. Carissa was busy snapping pictures of the departing bikers. Her fur-trimmed suede coat hung open, revealing a tiny scrap of sparkly red fabric I supposed must have been a dress.

The sirens were just down the street. Time for me to make myself scarce. I headed toward the sidewalk that ran past the front of the park, hoping to cross the tracks and dodge down an alley or something.

“Oh, Jesse, can I talk to you?” Carissa called.

Damn.
Of course she recognized me.

If she hadn’t known me right away, my jacket with its red and black buffalo plaid was a dead giveaway. One of these days I’d have to save up a little money and get myself down to the Goodwill thrift shop and find another one, something less conspicuous.

I debated turning and going the other way back through the park, although I suspected I’d end up against the chain-link fence that surrounded the open area on three sides. I could always climb it. But I wasn’t fast enough. She hurried across the sidewalk toward me and grabbed the front of my jacket. I didn’t understand how anyone could have moved so fast on those spike heels, but she’d done it.

If I wanted to continue on my way, I’d have had to pry her fingers with the long scarlet nails off my jacket and shove her aside. I stopped.

Smiling, she flipped her hair back. She smelled amazing. “I’m so glad I found you,” she said. “You left so fast yesterday! I had to throw out all those breakfast burritos.”

That
had
been a loss. But getting away from her was well worth it.

“Why don’t we go out to breakfast somewhere now?” she cooed.

“No way.” Did she really think I was going to let myself get caught up in a situation like that twice?

“Expense account again,” She said, and stuck the tip of her tongue out between her bright pink lips.

I reached up to loosen her grip on my jacket, but she smiled and leaned in close to me.

A patrol car, the source of the siren, pulled up at the curb, and the window rolled down. “What’s going on here?” the cop demanded.

“Oooo, officer.” Carissa turned to focus her simpering charm on him instead of me. “No problems! We were just talking.”

Her charm wasn’t working. “Yeah? I got a report of some loud motorcycles in the park.”

“There
were
some,” Carissa agreed. “But they’re gone.”

I winced as I realized what this must look like to the two cops in the car. Carissa was dressed like a classy hooker. I was in my oil and grime streaked work clothes. I probably looked like a john. If Carissa wasn’t going to be too fussy about who she accepted as a client.

The cop who’d been driving got out of the car and sized us up. He looked like he was coming to exactly the conclusion I was afraid he would.

“What are you doing here?” he asked her. “It’s a little early in the morning for a working girl to be out.”

“That’s not true,” Carissa said, tossing her head. “I don’t have set hours. I work whenever I need to.”

Inwardly, I cringed. Carissa apparently had no idea what he was getting at.

“We were just leaving, officer,” I said, desperate to have him stop before he arrested both of us for solicitation. “Just having a little discussion. We were gonna continue it over breakfast.”

She beamed up at me. “Yes. We’re going to the coffee shop up the street.”

“Lover’s quarrel?” he asked, his hand resting on his holster.

“Not really,” I said. “We don’t know each other that well.”

The cop smirked. “That’s no surprise.”

I winced. I’d said exactly the wrong thing.

“Got some ID?” he asked.

I pulled out my wallet and handed him my work ID, which had a picture. “Don’t got a driver’s license,” I said. I did also have my old prison ID, but I wasn’t about to bring that out if I didn’t have to.

Carissa got an indignant look on her carefully made up face. “Why do you need to see identification?” she demanded.

How could she be so clueless? “
Just give it to him, Carissa,” I said, hoping she’d cooperate.

“Well.” She flipped her hair and dug into her purse, coming up with her wallet. She took two cards out and handed them over. “That one’s my driver’s license,” she said. “And the other’s my press card.”

The cop raised his eyebrows but took the cards. He handed the cards through the car window to his partner, who had remained in the passenger seat. “You know the guys with the motorcycles?” he asked.

“Some of them,” I conceded.

“What did they want?”

“Just wanted to know if I’d seen one of their buddies.”

“Yeah? Not trying to sell you some meth or something?”

“No, sir.”

“Hey, Barry, come see this,” the partner in the car called, opening the door and stepping out. He unsnapped his holster and kept his eyes on me.

“What?” Barry bent down to look at the screen of the computer mounted on the dashboard. He straightened up and looked back at me. “You who I think you are?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Probably.”

“You know your name’s come up at a lot of pre-shift briefings?”

I had no good answer to that, so I didn’t say anything. But I wasn’t particularly surprised.

“Put your hands on top of your head and interlace your fingers,” he said.

Still clutching my wallet, I did so.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Carissa demanded.

“Let him be,” I said to her. “He’s just doing his job.”

Barry said, “Listen to him. He’s right.” He reached up and put one hand over mine. To me, he said, “You got anything on you I should know about?”

“No, sir.”

“Nothing that’s gonna stick me or hurt me?”

“No.”

He quickly frisked me, running his hand under my jacket and over my pants. He patted my pockets but didn’t remove the keychain. He took the wallet from my hand and looked in it.

“I know what rights we citizens have,” Carissa said. “You can search him for weapons, but you need a warrant or probable cause to look in his wallet.”

“It’s
okay
, Carissa,” I said. “I’m on parole. He don’t need no reason to search me.”