Saved by the Outlaw: Motorcycle Club / Hitman Romance (9 page)

Now it’s my turn to rub my hand over my face, thinking quickly. “That doesn’t make any sense, though. If they’re trying to sell the land off, if there’s really somebody buried there, they’ll find them the minute they start setting up for construction. Unless…”

Cherry watches my face for a few moment, then the light of understanding sparks in her eyes, and she blanches. “Unless someone
knows
there’s a grave there.”

My eyes meet hers, and I give her a hard look before nodding curtly. “The FBI may be in town to do more than intimidate us. Come on, follow us back to the bar. I’ll get the two in the back to finish up and follow us. As soon as it’s night, we’re paying the lot a visit.

* * *

T
he grave
we find that night is plain as day. I stand over it with my arms crossed while a few patches from the club patrol around us. Cherry is pointing a few things out on the site.

“I’ve moved a few things around—it wasn’t as plainly outlined as it is here, but this is clearly disturbed dirt, about six by two, and there was brush covering it when I found it.”

The moonlight is scarce, but it casts just enough light for us to see.

“Only one way to know for sure,” I say, and Genn steps forward from behind me with a shovel in hand. Cherry looks horrified.

“Are you kidding? What do you think you’re doing? We can’t just…”

“I know, but would you rather involve the cops?” I ask, a grim look on my face. Cherry looks reluctant, but finally, she steps back and lets Genn get to work.

He’s a tough bull of a man, so it doesn’t take long before his careful digging uncovers something, and he sets the shovel aside to start parting the dirt with his hands. As he starts to uncover the body, my brow furrows, and Cherry covers her mouth with a hand.

“Oh my God…”

I was expecting whatever we exhumed to be a body I recognized—someone the mob had dealt with a while ago, or maybe some unsolved murder case locally. But no.

The face in the shallow grave was foreign; clearly someone from south of the border.

“I’ve heard of this kind of thing happening in Texas,” Cherry breathes, “but all the way up here?”

“Prez!” calls one of the men from a dozen feet or so away. “Got another one over here!”

“Here too!”

Now it’s my turn to go pale as I sweep across the field with the men to see the extent of what we’re standing on. There are over a dozen men and women buried here, all immigrants.

“What do we do, Prez?” Genn asks, kneeling over the grave after looking down on the poor man with a sorrowful look. “We can’t go to the cops with this, can we?”

“On the contrary, Genn,” I say, a stony expression on my face, “that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

“What?” Cherry asks, shocked. “After all that talk about keeping the police out of this? Land disputes are one thing, but Leon...this is serious. Really serious. A full-blown investigation could get out of hand. If you were worried about the FBI being in town, this would have them swarming all over us.”

“I don’t think they came to town to investigate this, though,” I say, crossing my arms and looking the dead man in the face. “So we’re going to play them at their own game. We’ll make this public, and we’ll kill two birds with one stone—we’ll get justice for the victims here with unmarked graves, and making this place a crime scene will shut down the NexaCo branch for so long they won’t even want it by the time they’re finished investigating.”

Cherry seems uncertain for a while, but finally, her expression softens, and she nods. “It’s risky...but these people need justice. I’ll bet there are some families that want closure over this, too.”

A smile tugs at my face as I look at her. “I agree. Alright everyone,” I say to the patches around me, “let’s clean up and head back. Come tomorrow, we’re doing something the Union Club has never done before. We’re gonna reach out to the police.”

G
oing
to the police this morning was nerve-wracking. I have been fortunate — or boring — enough to never have a real run-in with the cops. Even in the crime-laden city of New York, I managed to stay on the straight and narrow, keeping my business to myself. I’ve never had so much as a noise complaint or a parking ticket in all my years on this earth, and it’s a point of pride for me. So walking into the police station in Bayonne was terrifying. A totally unfamiliar experience.

Especially since I was there to report a murder.

Granted, the detective I spoke to was quick to assure me that the case could not definitively be labeled a homicide until a full investigation and autopsy were completed. Which is police slang for: “Okay, crazy lady, you’re the fifth person today to walk in here all wide-eyed trying to report some bizarro crime just for the attention.” The detective, who introduced herself as Maria Hanson, took down my name and details on a little chart.

“Name?” she prompted, not looking up from the clipboard.

“Uh, Cherry LaBeau.”

She immediately looked up, a flicker crossing her dark features. I waited for the usual incredulous “
Cherry? Really? Your name is actually Cherry?
” But it never came. And then I realized she was noticing my
last
name. Because my father recently died. I didn’t get a chance to ask about his case — or whether the police even had a case for him — before she reassumed her previous nonchalance and continued the interview.

Detective Hanson took all my information and nodded through my description of the shallow grave on the NexaCo plot of land. She did raise an eyebrow at my explanation of the upturned earth and shoddy attempts to cover it up. Of course, I don’t tell her that Union Club members exhumed the body themselves just to make sure. I conveniently left that part out. I had a strong inkling that the cops wouldn’t be too pleased with the prospect of civilians digging up bodies in the middle of the night. Especially civilians who happen to have a rough relationship with the authorities. I hoped she would believe me, at least enough to get a team out there to check it out.

And luckily, she did.

Now I’m standing in the field with my hands on my hips, biting my lip nervously as the forensics team starts the exhumation process. There’s a group of several guys with digging equipment, along with a couple of skeptical cops standing around shooting the breeze. I can tell they all think this is most likely a waste of time.

“You sure there’s a human body down there?” pipes up one of the cops, a fresh-faced young rookie with a name badge that says WILLIS. The older, paunchy man next to him elbows Willis in the ribs.

“Could just be some poor kid’s dead dog or something,” he adds gruffly. His badge says his name is NELSON. I want to slap both of them for joking around about this.

Detective Hanson is here, as well, instructing the forensics team and taking down information. She’s a tall, soft-spoken black woman with a graceful presence. I hope to God she’s one of the good ones, because she seems to actually have some idea of how serious this is.

“Alright, let’s get started,” she calls out, holding her clipboard under her arm. She gives me a respectful nod and goes off to chat with the two cops, likely to chastise them for being so flippant about a homicide accusation.

The team starts digging, and I bite my nails anxiously, waiting for the first body to turn up. Sure enough, before long that first body we found is uncovered. “Got one, Detective!” shouts the digger. I glance over just in time to see Willis’s face go white as a sheet before he faints. Nelson catches him in his arms before the rookie falls completely to the ground, and in any other situation the sight would have been rather funny — a dignified old cop romantically cradling the swooning body of a younger officer.

But in context of the number of dead bodies turning up in this field… I can’t exactly blame the guy for passing out, especially since he’s clearly new to the job. He can’t be more than nineteen years old. I’m sure they’ve only got him out here as a kind of hazing process, to see if he can handle the dark side of being a cop. From the looks of it, the answer is a resounding no.

“Wake up, kiddo,” Nelson says to Willis, patting the kid’s cheek and jostling his blue-suited body to jolt him back to reality. The younger cop wakes up slowly, looks around to see at least a dozen bodies have already been exhumed, and he immediately claps a hand to his mouth and runs off to vomit.

Poor kid. Nelson sighs heavily, shaking his head with embarrassment.

“Ah, yeah. Everyone reacts uniquely to their first stiff,” comments one of the forensics guys flippantly, shrugging.

“I never fainted at the sight of a corpse!” Nelson retorts, puffing out his chest indignantly.

“I did, my first time,” Detective Hanson says. “But to be fair, it was covered in blood. Really nasty scene. But these guys here are pretty clean except for, you know, the dirt and everything. He’ll be okay, though. Just give him a minute to pull his shit together.”

“I hate rookies,” Nelson mumbles, walking away to check on his unfortunate partner.

Beyond the din of digging equipment and shouting voices, I hear a distant rumble approaching. The unmistakable grumble of the motorcycle club getting closer. I hoped they would stay away from the scene, keep their noses clean for the time being. I certainly don’t want them to be dragged into this any more than necessary, and I worry that the cops will not take me as seriously if they know I’m working with the Club. But of course they can’t stay out of it. I should have expected this.

“Look who’s here!” yells Nelson from the corner of the field where he’s patting Willis on the back comfortingly. He points to the road, where the motorcycles are pulling off into the grass. A bunch of the members are here, including Leon. My heart does a little skip at the sight of him — both in concern and something like giddiness.

Calm down, Cherry. You’re literally surrounded by corpses. Try not to seem too eager to climb all over this hot guy right now.

I grit my teeth and cross my arms over my chest, trying not to look overly interested in their arrival. Detective Hanson swears under her breath and starts jogging toward them.

“You can’t come in here, people! This is a crime scene! No onlookers, please.”

“We’re here to help out,” Leon tells her, holding his hands up innocently.

“Like you ‘helped out’ Mickey Lamar the other day? I don’t think so. Come on, don’t make me call for backup, guys. Just turn around and leave,” Detective Hanson warns them.

“So there’s going to be an investigation, right?” Leon counters, changing the subject.

“Yes, yes. But you know I can’t give details. So just head on outta here and watch the evening news tonight, okay? I’m sure those media vultures will have stuck their noses all up in this case by then, anyway,” she replies, exasperated. “Speaking of which, please keep this information to yourselves, alright? The last thing we need is community panic clouding our investigation and taking up our already limited resources.”

“We really just want to help,” Genn adds earnestly.

“I swear,” Leon tells her, standing his ground. “
Obeshchayu
.”

“Thank you for your concern,” the detective begins slowly, “but we’ve got it covered.”

Just then, a big black sedan with dark windows pulls over into the grass and a tall, thin man in a suit and thin spectacles gets out. He straightens his jacket and tie and starts walking toward the scene of the crime, his face pinched and serious.

I look over to see Leon’s own expression go sour and his hands curl into fists at his sides as he watches the suit approaching. “Really? The feds got a whiff of blood and decided to send their best hound dog out to fetch a case?” he calls out bitterly.

The suited man gives him a flat, unconcerned look, even though it’s apparent to me that the two are acquainted in one way or another. I wonder to myself if this is another detective or possibly someone higher up.

Detective Hanson also looks defensive and angry. She puts her hands on her hips and purses her lips, her eyes narrowing with displeasure. “This is our jurisdiction, Agent Doyle. As I was just telling these concerned citizens here, the Bayonne precinct has this case covered. It’s ours, Agent. You can tell the FBI we don’t need a babysitter.”

“I’m sure you’re perfectly competent, Detective,” answers the suit, “but this case is under our thumb now. The Federal Bureau of Investigation fully appreciates your participation and hard work regarding this matter up until now, but we will be handling the case from here on out.”

“And what if we refuse to stand down?” Hanson rebuts, taking a step closer. I’m amazed at her ability to stay tough and collected in the face of an FBI agent. I, however, am quietly shrinking away. I’m not a fan of cops, and I am definitely in no position to tangle with the FBI.

“Then you will be forcibly removed from the case by whatever means necessary, with a reprimand to your commanding officer,” the agent answers coolly.

“Our forensics team is the one out there getting their hands dirty digging up bodies, not yours,” Hanson shoots back defiantly. “We’re the ones using our resources and time to get this done while you just conveniently show up just as all the bodies are accounted for. You don’t like to work very hard, do you, Agent? No, you much prefer to ride up on your high horse just in time to steal all the credit and tell us little guys to go home.”

“You’re crossing a line, Detective.”

“And you’re trampling on one!” she hisses.

“I’ve seen your record, Hanson. Pretty clean so far. It would be a real shame to mar such an excellent record with an insubordination mark.”

Detective Hanson bristles at this, glaring at the agent with hatred burning in her dark eyes. Then she finally looks away, shaking her head angrily. “Fine. You want it? Get your own team out here. And good luck tracking down suspects without the assistance of the local PD. We know this town like the back of our hands — its secrets, its idiosyncrasies. The people know us. They’ll never open up to an outsider in a luxury car like you,” she says.

I look over to see a fleet of more black sedans squealing to a stop on the side of the road, more agents in sunglasses and black suits approaching quickly, looking like serious business.

“Well, as our main suspects have been so considerate as to go ahead and show up to the scene of the crime, I doubt we’ll have much trouble taking them into custody,” the agent replies, gesturing toward the Club. My stomach drops. They’re going to arrest Leon! As if he really has anything to do with this gruesome scene!

“No!” I shout before I can stop myself, running over to Leon. He shakes his head at me, his beautiful green eyes wide and emphatic, telling me to stay out of it.

“Who is this?” the agent asks.

“Our informant,” Hanson answers him reluctantly. “She’s not involved.”

“Well, if she hinders our investigation in any way she will most certainly be considered ‘involved’ and I will not hesitate to arrest her for obstruction,” he says darkly.

I hate the way he talks about me as though I’m not here. I want to turn and tell the Union Club to run, to escape however possible. But they are all standing here quietly, allowing themselves to be arrested! Leon’s jaw is clenching and I know it’s hurting every fiber of his being to acquiesce so easily to the police.

I wonder why they’re not fighting it.

The men in suits start cuffing the Club members, reading them their Miranda rights and leading them away to the cars. When one of them comes up to Leon with a pair of handcuffs out, something snaps in me and I wrap my arms around Leon’s body tightly.

“Don’t take him, please! He’s innocent! They all are, I swear!” I cry.

“I thought you said she was not involved,” the agent says impatiently.

“Miss LaBeau, please step back!” Detective Hanson orders.

“I won’t let you arrest him when he’s done nothing wrong!” I retort, shaking my head. Leon gives me a panicked look.

“No, Cherry. Let me go. Don’t give them any reason to drag you in, too,” he murmurs to me gently. “I’ll be alright. It’s just for questioning, they have nothing on me.
Ne volnuytes, kroshka
. It will be okay.”

Reluctantly, I release him just as the suited guy pulls Leon’s arms behind his back to cuff him and start pulling him away. I run after them a few steps and the first agent follows after me. Leon shouts, “Leave her out of this! She’s not involved!”

“Leon!” I yell, panicking. I hate seeing him hauled off in cuffs like this. He’s a good guy! I want to turn and scream at the detective, tell her that we’re on the right side, beg her not to let the FBI take this over and cover the whole thing up.

The agent grabs my arm and I gasp at the tight grip. Leon goes ballistic, suddenly kicking and struggling to break away from the guy holding him. “Get your grimy paws off her, you piece of scum!” he shouts. “Leave her alone. Don’t touch her, Doyle!”

Agent Doyle lets me go hesitantly, leaning in to hiss at me, “Keep out of this. The FBI thanks you for your cooperation and input, but you’re no longer needed. Please leave before I’m forced to bring you in for questioning, as well.”

“They’re innocent! You’re arresting the wrong people!” I reply, my voice wavering.

“That is for the Bureau to decide, not you. Now get out of here or I will be forced to arrest you, too. Do not make me ask you again.”

We stare at each other for a long, tense moment.

Then some voice in the back of my head reminds me that I won’t be much help to the Club, to Leon, if I get locked up myself. So as much as it pains me, I walk away, storming off to my rental car with my heart pounding nearly out of my chest. I get into my car just as the black sedans are pulling away with the Club members in tow.

Starting my engine, I decide to follow them straight back to the precinct. I am
not
going to let them get away with this.