The Lord of Near and Nigh: Shifter MC Novel (Pureblood Predator MC Book 2) (3 page)

“You know what I’m smelling?” Kusch says, jerking his thumb at the boats. “A fucking goose chase. The first girl we found behind a dumpster a few blocks from the stroll. I bet you dollars to donuts the hooker we found on the beach ran from her john’s car. He chased her down. Bam! End of story. We should be downtown. Canvassing the esteemed street-walking citizens of our fair city.” Kusch looks me right in the eye and says, “You have any other tips you want to waste our time with? No? Good. Cuz we caught another body. Lieutenant Roberts handed it to us. Gangland. Takes priority over a couple dead whores. I’ll be waiting in the car.”
 

Kusch shakes his head and storms down the dock.

Detective Bernard sidles close. Too close. Something about her doesn’t sit right. She has her hands stuffed in her bomber jacket and her face into the ocean wind.
 

It’s a cool wind. Damp. The morning clouds have retreated further across the ocean, a rolling wall of grey hemming us in. I shiver again, more in memory of being bound and gagged in the ship’s engine room than from the cold. And that memory leads to
him
, which leads…nowhere.
 

Nowhere at all.
 

“You look like piss,” Bernard says. “You get any sleep since we found those girls?”

“Not much.”

“Yeah. Early days in homicide are tough. It gets easier.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Bernard nods. “Its amazing. The horror the human spirit grows accustomed to.”

“You accustomed?”

“Some days I think yes. Then we catch a body like those girls. And then I know I’m not.”

“They look like hookers to you?”

Bernard shrugs. “Who knows? Hookers come in all kinds. High and low class. Junkies and single mothers and rich prep school girls feeding a secret meth habit. But I guess you know all about that? About working the street?”

Bitch.
 

“I never sold myself.”

Bernard flicks me a thin smile like I’m splitting hairs. “No. That’s right. You were a thief. And a drug dealer.”

She’s gunna feast on my past the entire time I’m under her.
 

“Let’s go,” Bernard says. “Kuschy might be right. This is a dead end.”

We walk down the dock, and against my better judgement I say, “So what happens now? We catch a gangland body and these girls get forgotten?”

“They’re already forgotten.”

Maybe
, I think. Or maybe someone doesn’t want us sniffing around.
 

We’re halfway down the dock when Bernard says, “We’ll find your boy.”

My boy. Lachlan. I didn’t even get a chance to name him, and I’m tempted to correct her, say he isn’t mine. But we both know that’s bullshit. “Tell me,” I say quietly.

“Team’s been through the house. Found the bodies of the…adoptive parents. But no sign of Lachlan. He must’ve run off. He’ll turn up.”

Lachlan didn’t run off. He was taken. Like I was.
 

Bernard’s giving me a funny look. “You’ll be questioned today, I imagine. Where you were. Standard procedure. Also anyone might have a grudge against the…what was the family’s name?”

“Wright. Donald and Susan Wright.”

“Yeah. And Lachlan Wright.”

I bristle slightly. Bernard catches it and says very quietly, “Odd, your apartment going up in flames on the same night as your biological son’s house. Makes a person think whoever did it had a grudge against the Wrights and you. Or maybe just
you
. I expect the detectives will ask you about that as well.”

“I expect they will.” My voice is hard, cool. Is she prepping me for the interview? What’s your game, Sandra?

Bernard takes a step, then whirls on her boot and asks me quickly, “You ever hear of a group called the Guardians?”

My mouth drops, only for a second, but she sees. Fuck. I
really
have to work on my poker face. “No. Why?”

Bernard shrugs. “Brought a girl in last night. Japanese. Young. No ID. No family. No history. Just a scared, half fucking crazy Japanese girl who emerged from the ocean in the middle of a storm and went on a killing spree. Like a fucking horror movie.”

Shiori. Shiori Hayashi. The name floats through my mind like a leaf in the wind. I have no idea how I know her. But I do. “What about these…Guardians?”

Bernard picks at her front tooth with her index finger, then says, “You hear anything about anyone called the Guardians, or a ship named the Arc, you tell me. Understand?”
 

 
I nod, thinking she has it wrong. The ship wasn’t called the Arc. It was called the
Guardian
. And I was tied up inside. I shudder, wondering if there were more girls tied up in those rooms. But it could be there’s no connection. Could be two different ships. Could be this Shiori chick really is out of her mind. Half the people we pull into the station are.
 

But I’m becoming more careful about labeling people insane.
 

We reach the end of the dock, push through a gate in a chain-link fence. Bernard pauses. “This locked when you came by last night?”

“No.”
 

“Huh.”
 

We walk a few steps into the parking lot. “Come to think of it, the firebugs were having a fucking blow-out last night. Your apartment. The Wright’s house. And that biker bar. What’s it called? The Wilds. Owned by the local chapter of the Pureblood Predators MC and its douchebag Prez Aaron ‘One-Eight-Seven’ Arud.”

“Wait a second…Arud?”

Bernard raises an eyebrow. Fuck.

“Yeah. Arud. Mean something?”

“No.”

Except I didn’t even know his last name. Didn’t bother asking. And the biker Prez
does
have an AKA. One-Eight-Seven. The police scanner code for homicide. That’s real cute, Aaron.
 

So the shithead bastard lied.
 

Shocker.
 

I twist my hands together as my throat tightens.
 

What a fool I am. A blind, naive little fool.
 

“Struck me as an odd surname, too,” Bernard says. “So I looked it up. Norwegian. Old origins. Means a river running through a mountain valley.”

“All three places…burned last night?” My voice is halting and heavy and I know Bernard’s soaking it all in, connecting dots—
 

“Yeah. Mr. Arud’s knee-deep in shit. First that shooting at his bar, which then gets conveniently burned down before we can take a good look around. Found most of his MC cut near in half on a property he owns, and a good portion of the Chinese Ah Hong Syndicate along with them. Casings from a fucking anti-aircraft machine gun everywhere. These dudes are rolling heavy firepower.”
 

“Just a guy who likes to ride a bike,” I say, trying to joke.

Bernard doesn’t smile. “He’s a looker, though, isn’t he?”

“What? I don’t—”

“Oh, damn. You never seen him? Check his mugshot some time. Dude could charm the panties off an old dyke like me.”

“I doubt that.”

Bernard gives me a wry smile. “You’re right to. But listen, Officer Thompson. Shit’s everywhere. And from where I stand it looks like you’re stepping in it. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re wrong.”

“You never met Aaron Arud?”

“Never.”

“Huh.” Bernard takes a few more steps to the car, then turns, studying the ground. “Huh,” she says again, a sound I’m beginning to learn can mean anything from
you’re full of shit
to
take a look at this.

“Tire tracks,” I say, following Bernard’s gaze.

“
Motorbike
tire tracks,” she corrects, standing and walking along the black burned rubber etched in the pavement. “Two bikes. The first one came in hard and hit the brakes…here.” She points to the ground, then walks toward a concrete barrier at the edge of the parking lot. “Looks like he dumped the bike,” she picks up a few flakes of chrome from the ground. “See? The pavement’s all gouged out. The bike slid straight into this fucking barrier.” She points to more chrome flakes and a tiny puddle of glistening fluid, oil or transmission, beside the barrier. Bernard stands, staring out at the dock. “He comes in fast and dumps the bike. But I don’t think he dumped it by accident. I think he leapt off while it was still moving.”

“What? That’s pretty—”

“Evel Knievel? Yeah. Damned skilled as well. Only someone who knows how to ride could pull a stunt like that and not end up in ER.”

“He was in one hell of a hurry.”
 

“No shit. Question is: why?” Bernard reaches in her pocket, pulls a latex glove onto her right hand, leans down again, runs her fingers across the pavement and says, “Maybe this is why.” She shows her fingers to me. They’re stained with blood. “Did it rain last night? When you were out canvassing the dock?”

Bernard shoots me a hard stare.

“I’m not…I’m not certain.”

“No? Huh. You need to pay more attention to your surroundings, Thompson. The ground is damp, but it’s mostly mist. It poured in East Seattle and in the mountains, but here, down by the water, it hasn’t rained since yesterday afternoon.”

“So you think…maybe the dock? And the boat? And now this biker—”

“I don’t think anything yet. Thinking’s for later. Right now I’m just observing.”

“We should get a team down here. Get a sample of that blood—”

“I’m going to do just that.” Bernard motions to her partner, Kusch. “But Kuschy doesn’t need to know.”

“What? Why?”

Bernard sighs. “Kuschy’s a good cop. But he likes things black and white. You work one case at a time, close it up, file it away. That’s procedure. He’s a stickler for it. We’ve been ordered on a new body. I don’t want Kuschy getting confused and being all pissy for the rest of the week.”

“Fine,” I say, turning to look at Detective Kusch.
 

Then I see something that makes my blood chill. I see
him
. The real Detective Al Kusch. He’s sitting in the ghost car, his black trench coat pulled close around his collar, his finger’s tapping on the wheel, looking straight at me. He drops a hand out the open window. There’s a small, toothed mouth on the palm of his hand, snapping and spitting.
 

I gasp, then cover my mouth and pretend to cough.
 

“You all right, Thompson?”

“I’m fine,” I say, looking away from Kusch and pinching my eyes closed. “Just…coming down with a cold. Maybe the flu.”
 

A horn sounds and there’s normal-looking Al Kusch, looking impatient, motioning us to the car.

“I don’t think so,” Bernard mutters. “I don’t think you’re fine at all.”

***

Kusch throws a spinning red and blue light on the roof and speeds into downtown Seattle. I latch my seatbelt, trying to hide my fear and anxiety. Not for a second do I believe Kusch is actually some sort of creature. Just like I don’t believe I fought a dog-headed beast last night, or watched a woman leap into the air and transform into a golden eagle.
 

No. I know what this is. Psychosis.
 

The same kind that gripped my father after he saw my mother being murdered. Babbling on about animals disguised in human skin. At first the doctors blames it on trauma and withdrawal. DT. Bottle ache. Shit does awful things to a mind. But good old Will kept on with it long enough he earned himself an intensive-care bed in the psychiatric facility in Monroe Correctional Complex. And no end in sight.

There are shrinks employed by Seattle PD, of course. I could book an appointment to see someone. Supposed to be confidential. But that’s bullshit. A young officer comes into a shrink’s office and starts ranting about man-beasts, what’s going to happen? She gets her badge and gun pulled right quick. So I grit my teeth and try not to stare at the back of Kush’s head and imagine what he
really
is.
 

I dig in my purse for an Adderol or two.
 

Fuck. I forgot I’m all out.
 

This is going to be a long day.

“When were you at the docks?”
 

Bernard. Still pressing. I stare out the window. “What?”

“At the docks. Last night. What time?”

“Between one and two in the morning.”

Kusch fires me a glance in the rear-view. “Seems an odd time.”

“Yeah. Guess I was hoping to catch…I dunno. Maybe see something going down.”

Kusch chuckles. “Catch ‘em red handed? You watch too much TV.”

“Maybe. I was planning to canvas again this morning.”

“How many people you talk to?” Bernard asks.

“Just Allen. He was the only one around.”

“Huh. What uni’s you bring?”

There’s a long silence, then I say, “I went alone.”

Kusch whistles through his teeth. “That’s a dumb thing to do, girl. A very dumb thing to do.”

Bernard turns around in her seat and nods to say she agrees with her partner.
 

“I know. It was a long day. And those murdered girls…I knew I couldn’t sleep. I had to do something.”

Kusch speeds through an intersection, scattering pedestrians. “Out of the fucking way, Skins,” he growls.
 

“Easy Kuschy,” Bernard warns.
 

“What was that?” I ask, staring at Kusch in the rear-view.

“Huh?”

“What you just called those people? Skins?”

Kusch fires me a nasty glare. “Yeah. Military slang. Still use it from time to time.”

We ride in silence for a while, then Kusch says in a cold, sneering tone, “This whole town’s going up in flames.”

Bernard groans, covers her eyes and shakes her head.

“What?” Kusch says. “You know I’m right. Only a matter of time. People aren’t meant to live crammed in cities. Brings out our natural hostility. Our…” Kusch glances in the rear-view at me, “…ugly side.”

“World’s going to hell in a hand-basket,” Bernard cries, waving her hands in front of her face like a panicked schoolgirl.
 

I laugh.

“Yeah, you two keep on laughin’.” Kusch hits the brakes in front of a luxury condominium tower named The Rosewood. “You paying attention? Cuz I am. Signs are all there if you know how to see ‘em. Big government clamping down. That raghead Commie faggot in the White House.” Kush taps his firearm. “Next they’ll be trying to take our guns—”