Death Takes a Ride (The Cate Kinkaid Files Book #3): A Novel (25 page)

Cate shook off the stab of apprehension. She got out the barbecue grill, and Mitch went to the store for steaks. They grilled T-bones and potato slices while the pleasant spring dusk gathered around them. Afterward they settled in lounge chairs on the patio and sipped iced tea.

It was a peaceful evening but rich with impressions on Cate’s senses. Scent of freshly turned earth, croak of unseen frogs, lingering aromas of steak, rustles and chirps, faint wail of siren somewhere in the distance.

Cate felt a little dreamy now as she leaned back in her lounge chair. “I think I hear our seeds waking up,” she said. “They know they’re in the ground and are free to grow now.”

“Could be.” Mitch didn’t sound dreamy. “I’ve been thinking.”

Cate didn’t feel like thinking, but she refrained from making some derogatory remark about his doing so.

“About this Zig guy,” Mitch said. “You’d like to talk to him, right? Try to find out if he had any connection with the threat on Halliday.”

Cate had a somewhat different perspective on stodgy, all-
work-and-no-play Matt Halliday after talking to Marilee. Marilee hadn’t openly answered Cate’s question about abuse by her husband, but her wary attitude and determination to put that era of her life behind her had been answer enough. Yet that didn’t change Cate’s job as a PI, which was to find a potential killer before he nailed a client.

“Apparently Zig was a friend of Mace Jackson’s. He could be the one who sent the threatening note to Halliday. Or know something,” Cate said. “Yes, I’d like to talk to him.”

“Your friend Lily said someone at this bar outside Lorane might know him. It’s Saturday night. He might even be there.”

Cate straightened slowly in the chair. “So you’re saying . . . ?”

“I’ll get the bike and we’ll take a ride down there.”

“To a biker bar?”

“We don’t have to drink anything just because it’s a bar,” Mitch pointed out.

Cate had thought about driving down and trying to locate the bar on a weekday to ask questions about Zig. She hadn’t thought about trying to hit it when the bikers were there doing whatever bikers did in a bar on Saturday night. But that would undoubtedly be the prime time to do it . . .

She lifted her arm to look at her watch in the faint glow of moonlight filtering through a riffle of clouds. “Mitch, it’s already past 9:00.”

“So? Do you turn into a PI pumpkin at midnight? Even if you do, we’ve still got three hours. It shouldn’t be more than an hour’s ride down there. C’mon, let’s go!”

27

They zoomed out of Eugene on I-5 heading south. Light traffic, half-moon high in the sky, dark forests on either side of the highway. Those marvelous spots of warmer air mixed with the cool of night that passengers in a car passed through unnoticed, but on a bike hit like a tropical surprise.

Okay, even if they didn’t find out anything about Zig, it was still an awesome night for a bike ride. Cate felt as if they could zoom right up into the sky, silhouetted against the moon, like those bicycles in that old E.T. movie.

The bar was easy enough to find, even in the rural area between Cottage Grove and Lorane. The oversized figure of a neon logger looming over the log building was visible from a half mile away, the blade of his axe blinking red against the sky. Closer up, another sign over the double doors spelled out The Midnight Logger in blue neon.

Nothing specifically announced that this was a biker bar, including the name, but the jungle of motorcycles in the parking area said that was what it was, at least on this Saturday night.

Mitch parked the Purple Rocket at the edge of the jungle. The bikes were in an orderly lineup close to the railed walk
way along the front of the building, but farther back, the order deteriorated into an every-bike-for-itself arrangement. Some of the motorcycles were chromed up, double seated, complete with trunks and saddlebags. Others were low-slung and mud-spattered, with minimal accessories. Lots of choppers and ape-hanger-style high handlebars. A few colored streamers and flags, which Cate hoped didn’t indicate biker gang connections. Although the only real requirement to fit in here seemed to be that a bike be
big
.

The Purple Rocket fulfilled that requirement.

Cate slid off and uneasily unfastened her helmet. One door of the double-doored main entrance to the bar stood open, and rowdy country and western music blasted into the parking lot. She couldn’t see much through the opening, but she couldn’t tell if that was because the lights were so dim or if a blue-smoke haze engulfed everything. Maybe both. Moving shadows inside suggested a dance or a brawl. Maybe both.

Off to the side, a low, metal-roofed building held the restaurant Lily had mentioned, its windows lit. An extension of that building was dark, apparently the grocery store she’d also mentioned. Gas pumps stood out front of it.

Cate clutched her helmet, reluctant to set it aside and commit herself to entering the bar. She didn’t have a basic aversion to loud music, although it wasn’t the noise-level setting she’d choose for gathering information.

“Are we sure this is a good idea?” she asked.

“No,” Mitch admitted.

“How can we possibly find out anything in there? It’s dark, noisy—” Even a little scary. “We won’t even be able to find each other if we get separated.”

“We go up to the bar and order a couple of 7UPs. Then we ask the bartender if he’s seen Zig around tonight.”

“And if he has?”

“We take our 7UPs and go find Zig. I’ll hang on to you all the time.”

Cate found that assurance both comforting and dismaying. Should a licensed private investigator need to be hung on to?

“And what if the bartender takes umbrage at the question, like we’re being too nosy about customers? Like maybe we’re undercover cops or something?”

Mitch tilted his head as if that were a possibility. “Okay, we say we heard this Zig might have a Harley for sale. It could be true.” He surveyed the sea of chrome and leather overhung with scents of exhaust and dust. “Surely some of these bikes are for sale.”

Cate didn’t feel any burst of enthusiasm, but she nodded. “So, we find Zig. How do we start a conversation with him? If we mention Andy or Mace, we may scare him off immediately. Or all his friends will instantly gang up on us, like piranhas in a puddle.”

“We can start by saying something about a good crowd here tonight. Or good music. You know, small-talk stuff.”

“You sure that’s what bikers talk about in bars?”

Mitch’s scrunch of eyebrows confirmed what Cate already knew. He had no idea what bikers talked about in bars. But he had an answer. “We could ask him about that Harley we heard he has for sale. Or if he knows someone else who has one.”

“What if the bartender says he hasn’t seen Zig? Or he’s never heard of him?”

“Cate, I don’t have a script figured out for every alternate universe possibility.” Mitch was just short of an eye roll of exasperation. “We’ll just have to play it by ear.”

Yeah, right. If they still had eardrums after two minutes inside the Midnight Logger.

Most helmets were hanging on handlebars or plunked casually on seats, but Mitch and Cate stashed theirs in the trunk of the Purple Rocket. She was rummaging in the trunk for her purse when an “oh no!” thought hit her.

They’d taken Clancy back to Mitch’s condo when they went to get the Purple Rocket, but he’d sensed right away that he was about to be shut out of an adventure. He made such a mournful objection to being left alone in the condo that they finally took him back out to the SUV where he was content to wait, as he often waited for Mitch.

But in the confusion of doing that, Cate now realized her purse was still sitting on the counter in Mitch’s condo. Everything from driver’s license to PI identification card to money and lipstick was in it.

Okay, no problem. She could get along without all that. Mitch could pay for their 7UPs.

Music twanged louder with every step they took toward the bar. Three guys burst out the door and one yelled something distinctly uncomplimentary at the other two before heading across the parking lot. Cate’s steak and potatoes square-danced in her stomach. She saw no way this scheme could work, and this place practically screamed “in over your head!”

She stopped short, another dismaying thought hitting her.

“Mitch, did you suggest coming here tonight on purpose to make me see that I’m no way qualified to be a private investigator, with or without a license?”

“
That’s
what you think?”

“Is it?”

Mitch grabbed her shoulders and yanked her around to face him. “Cate, I have serious concerns about your
being
a PI, that’s true. It doesn’t strike me as the safest of occupations.”

Cate couldn’t argue that. She might intend to do mundane,
everyday investigative work, but killers seemed to gravitate to her. Like bikers to a biker bar.

“But I suggested coming here tonight because I wanted to help out. Now I’m beginning to think I should have settled down with Clancy in front of the TV and watched an old Garfield DVD. He likes Garfield.”

“Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be unappreciative. Maybe I asked that because sometimes
I
have serious doubts about my PI abilities.”

Mitch dotted a kiss on her forehead. “You’ll do fine.”

“It would be nice if all investigations could be conducted with nice people in cozy little tea shops or toy stores.”

Mitch grinned at her. “Cate, with your luck, one of the tea drinkers would drop dead from arsenic in her tea. Or there’d be a murderous clown in the toy store.”

They’d reached the two steps leading up to the main entrance. The wave of music pounded into Cate’s eardrums and skin. Her teeth sizzled. She took a steadying breath before they stepped into the blue haze.

And came up against a plaid-shirted wall of muscle.

A big man, as tall as Mitch, forty pounds heavier. Marine haircut. Blue plaid shirt. Something like a miniature baseball bat hanging from his belt.

“I’ll need to see some ID, please.” He spoke loudly enough that Cate had no trouble hearing him in spite of the drums and guitars and voice of a singer doing a stomping version of “White Lightning.”

“What difference does it make who we are?” Cate asked, half-indignant about an invasion of privacy, half-embarrassed at being here. She could see now that the shadowy movement was dancing, not brawling, but her nerves were into tornado mode anyway.

“Not
who
you are. How
old
you are.”

“Oh.” Cate was momentarily uncertain whether to be pleased or indignant. She wasn’t in the habit of frequenting places with an age minimum, and she hadn’t even thought about this. But she was certainly old enough. “I’m thirty.”

“Great.” He pushed them outside, where the music was a fraction below ear-shattering level. “But I need to see ID. We ID everyone who looks under forty. We got busted last year when the cops found two underage kids here. It isn’t going to happen again.”

“Just show him your ID,” Mitch muttered. He’d already pulled out his wallet and was offering his driver’s license.

“I don’t have it. I left my purse on the counter in your condo.”

The man used a small flashlight to check Mitch’s driver’s license, nodded, and handed it back to him.

“I can vouch for her,” Mitch said. “She
is
thirty.”

“The big three-oh,” Cate said. “Some women won’t even admit it when they get past twenty-nine.”

“No ID, no admittance,” the wall of muscle said.

“But we don’t intend to drink anything.” Cate could hear herself sounding a little desperate now. “We’re just looking for a guy. Zig is his name. Short, heavyset, bald—”

“Look, I don’t care if you came to look for your swingin’ grandma or your lost dog. No ID, no admittance. Would you step aside, please. There’s someone behind you.”

The man let the couple behind them in without checking ID. Cate was briefly indignant. How come she and Mitch were being singled out? Then she realized that, although the couple might be wearing black leather and have helmets tucked under their arms, they were in at least their sixties. Bikers came in all shapes, sizes, and ages.

The man turned back to Cate and slightly less sternly said, “The restaurant’s open. If your friend wants to come in and look for someone, you can go over there and get a cup of coffee or a burger or something.”

Mitch nudged her arm. “That okay with you?”

It wasn’t okay, but Cate didn’t see that she had any other choice. “Okay. But I
am
thirty. I had a birthday three months ago.”

“Congratulations.”

“I’ll walk her over to the restaurant and be right back,” Mitch told the doorkeeper, or whatever he was. He grabbed Cate’s elbow and turned her away as if afraid she might do something that would earn them both a whack with that weapon dangling from the doorkeeper’s belt.

At the door to the restaurant, Mitch gave her another kiss on the forehead. “Calm down. I’ll go play detective for you.”

Cate went inside. Music from the bar was piped into here too. Not bad music, she decided grudgingly. The singer was into a good version of the old “Tennessee Waltz” classic now. A few people sat on stools at the counter, but only a couple of the booths were occupied. Cate slid into an empty one.

She had first been un-eager to go into the blue haze of the Midnight Logger, but now that she
couldn’t
go in, she felt let down. Left out. What kind of a PI couldn’t even get into a bar to check out shady characters?

A waitress came over with a glass of ice water. Cate asked for coffee. As the waitress was leaving, she thought of something else. She had no money to pay for coffee. Great. What now? Arrest for defrauding a place of business?

She thought about slipping out before the coffee arrived, but she wasn’t eager to be out there wandering around in the jungle of motorcycles. She wasn’t, in fact, even sure she
could locate the Purple Rocket alone. Was there another way, a back way maybe, into the bar, so she could get in and look for Zig herself? Hey, there must be! A delivery entrance or fire exit. She could slip inside—

She booted that thought before it got any farther. If Mr. Marine or a clone caught her, he might do something more drastic than simply escort her outside. Maybe he’d call her parents. Or pastor. Or the police. The dreaded Three Ps of teenagerhood come back to haunt her from high school days.

The coffee arrived, thankfully without a demand for immediate payment, and she sipped it morosely. Not even midnight yet, and already she’d turned into a PI pumpkin.