The Seventh Sons (Sycamore Moon Series Book 1) (3 page)

Maxim didn't blink. "If this is all you want to offer me, then I'll lock you back to your bed and head home."

The prisoner's black eyes drilled into the detective's face. Maxim's abiding stare was all that returned. After a moment, the steadfast will of the officer proved stronger. Diego couldn't hide his agitation briefly and pulled his head down to his hands so he could brush his hair back.

"Fine, Detective Dwyer, ask your questions."

Now they were getting somewhere.

"What was the fight in the bar about?"

"Some guys were having a conversation when they were interrupted. I heard shouting over the music. The place erupted and people started punching people." Diego looked straight into Maxim's eyes earnestly. "I wasn't involved. I just wanted to get out of there."

"Wrong place, wrong time, huh?" The detective snickered. "Listen, I'll believe the werewolf thing before I buy that story. All of you sped down the road into the woods in complete darkness to elude me. Everything that involves one Seventh Son involves them all, and you were right in the middle of it."

"So that's it. You think I'm in their gang?"

Maxim stopped himself before he asked his next question. He'd thought the biker would at least afford him that much. The motorcycle club wasn't allowed to wear jackets or other gang paraphernalia within Sanctuary town limits. Because of the department's operational procedures, they didn't have a definitive list of all the members.

Still, Diego's ID was from out of state. While these bikers came from any number of places, it was possible he was telling the truth. Maxim would track the man's credit cards in the morning to be sure, but for the moment he would humor him. He saw where this was going.

"What are you telling me, that you don't know the other bikers at all?"

Diego flashed his hands out with a magician's flourish, as if something had disappeared. By Maxim's account, it was his leverage.

"That is what I'm telling you, Detective. I don't live in Sanctuary. Haven't been here longer than two nights. You can check with the Motel 6."

Maxim cocked his head to regroup his thoughts. A stranger from out of town on a different kind of motorcycle—maybe these pieces were part of the same puzzle.

"So, if you didn't know any of the others," Maxim spoke deliberately, making sure to lay his trap perfectly, "why did you chase them out of the bar?"

"I wasn't chasing anybody."

"So why didn't you pull over when I lit you up?"

"What did you expect me to do? You can't prosecute me for not stopping while being chased by two gang members!"

"Ah!" Maxim crossed his arms over his chest in a practiced motion. "So you were involved then?"

Diego paused, realizing he'd given more information than he had intended. He let out a measured breath and looked down at the cell phone sitting on the table. The screen was off.

"I don't know, Detective. They thought I stabbed their friend, perhaps."

This was the path that Maxim wanted to venture down. The fight didn't matter, the DUIs would be charged—all Maxim really cared about was finding out who stabbed the fourth biker. The lodge could keep its scofflaw clientele, but the detective was determined to prevent any more incidents from spilling into the streets.

"Who attacked the victim?"

"I told you I didn't see it happen, Detective." Diego's repetition of the formal title meant he was regulating his dialog, being careful about every word he revealed. "You're the Sanctuary resident. You know how petulant those bikers are. We got into words because I spilled some beer on someone. But the stabbing happened later."

"So what are you saying, Diego? A fight breaks out, you don't see anything, but you get chased from the bar for no real reason?"

"That's what I am saying, yes."

"You and the two bikers?"

Diego's eyes darted to the side as he searched for meaning to the clarification. He appeared to be aggravated by his confusion and let out a stern reply. "Yes."

"And what about the fourth man—the one who was stabbed? Why was he chasing you?"

Diego gawked at Maxim incredulously. "He made it outside?"

"The stabbing victim was the last one outside. He was on his motorcycle a few hundred feet until he collapsed, leaving you three ahead. By the time I got to him, he was dead."

"Son of a bitch."

"That's right." Maxim reiterated the question to emphasize how ridiculous it sounded. "So this man, the victim who got stabbed, also incorrectly identified you as his attacker and gave you chase?"

The suspect's cuffs rattled against the steel bar as he pulled his hands to lean back. Diego looked up at the ceiling and slowly shook his head in wonder. "I don't know. I didn't think that dude was getting up."

Maxim had caught the man off guard and hoped to leave him scrambling to regain his footing. People were usually more honest when they weren't in control. A nudge here, a shove there, and Diego would slip up. He'd already practically admitted to witnessing the stabbing.

"You see, Diego, there's something that confuses me. I keep going over it again and again in my head." Maxim stood up and flipped his chair around, holding the plastic back in front of him as he straddled it and sat down again, assuming a more aggressive posture.

"The three of you were ahead of me when you crashed. Those two upstairs, they sustained broken bones and got cut up pretty bad.

"But you..." Maxim stressed the words as the prisoner once again focused on him, unsure of where he was being led. Maxim thought it a good sign that he commanded the man's attention and let the words hang in the air for a moment longer before continuing. "Besides a few minor scrapes not even worth mentioning, you were miraculously unharmed in the accident."

Diego leaned forward and reached for the detective's phone, fumbling to turn it on, frustration slowly marring his cool. Maxim stared into the man's eyes with a fierce intensity, enjoying the hunt. As the screen lit up and illuminated the prisoner's face with cold light, the detective didn't waver his gaze. After a moment, Maxim grabbed his phone from Diego's hands and put it back into his pocket without even looking at it.

Maxim wouldn't be seeing any werewolves tonight. He knew what this was about now—the prisoner was stalling for time.

"If those bikers were chasing you, then you would've been the first to hit the spikes and go down. Do you know why you didn't get hurt in the accident, Diego?"

The man scowled as he got angry at Maxim's inference. He stood up and pushed forward against the chains defiantly. Still, despite the hostile display, Diego made no move to attack the detective. Nor, noticeably, had any words escaped his lips to defend himself.

Not to be outdone by dramatics, Maxim jumped backwards out of his seat and kicked his chair to the side. It skipped against the tiles and bounced harmlessly off the two way mirror, ringing loudly through what Maxim knew was the entire first floor. Maxim stepped forward to meet Diego's stance.

"The reason you didn't hit the spikes, Diego, is because you were behind the other two bikers on the road!" The man's eyes pressed into a cold stare as Maxim kept pounding on the point. "You saw them hit the strips and wipe out, so you laid your bike down to avoid the accident! You were chasing them, Diego. That's why your bike was okay! That's why the tires weren't shredded! That's why you weren't hurt!"

Diego rocked from side to side nervously. Maxim didn't let up.

"You stabbed the man, Diego, didn't you? And you attacked the other two. That's why they ran from you."

"Damn it, Maxim!" Diego lashed out as if he was familiar, even comfortable, with conflict. "What do you think is going on here?" The man's shoulders heaved up and down as he panted hard. He was getting worked up again, either because of the adrenaline of the interrogation or because all the events of the night were finally catching up with him. "What do you think is happening in Sycamore?"

The two men stared at each other in silence. Maxim was unsure how to respond, but he was done with the supernatural theories. Seeing was believing—not stories, not talk.

The detective thought he heard some murmuring on the other side of the window, but he threw his hand up to signal them to stop any interference. Maxim was a little more heated than he wanted to be but he was still in control. He didn't want any interruptions now.

Instead, he slowly walked to the door and leaned his back against it to hold it closed. With a sly smile on his lips, Maxim simply stared at the harried prisoner.

For some time Diego de la Torre, in his hospital gown and tube socks, was a figure of resolute determination. But Maxim waited and the man's heaving slowed, his posture softened, and he eventually sucked his lips into his mouth and shook his head.

"Maxim," he said in a muzzled voice, "we're going about this the wrong way." Diego reclaimed his seat and ended the standoff. The resigned man touched the tips of his fingers together as he pondered his next words. Maxim stood up straight, off the door, eager for what came next.

"You might have your theories about what went down tonight, but you need to understand that these people, all of them, are very dangerous."

Maxim brushed his wedding band with his other hand. "Now you've finally said something I do believe."

Diego continued in a somber tone. "How can a man judge what actions are appropriate without knowing the truth?"

The detective put his hands on his hips and sighed sympathetically. "Our actions come back to haunt us, Diego." Although Maxim was trying to gain the man's trust, he almost believed in what he said. "In a way, all I really do is make sure karma holds up. We need to, all of us, be accountable for the things we do."

Diego stared down at the table, subdued. This was the moment, Maxim thought, for the truth to come out. The prisoner opened his mouth and stopped midway through, mulling over his next words carefully. He wiped the hair on his lips and swallowed hard. Maxim began pacing around the room in a circle as he watched the man come to terms with his current situation.

"What do you know of the supernatural, Maxim?"

The detective rolled his eyes as he stepped around the table. He expected a confession. "I don't."

Diego raised his head and said, "Sycamore has a problem with werewolves."

Maxim slowed to a stop behind the sitting prisoner. He leaned his head down and whispered into Diego's ears, "You're the one with the werewolf problem."

Diego blinked. "And what does that mean?"

Already prepared for the question, Maxim had his cell phone in his hand. He turned the screen on and gently placed it on the table in front of the suspect. Diego glanced down as 3:19 a.m. illuminated the glass for several seconds before reverting to black.

"It looks to me like we've gone far over your twenty minutes. If there was a shred of sincerity in you, shouldn't you be transformed by now?"

Diego appeared slightly confused, scrutinizing the blank screen. "It should have been now," he stuttered, "but planetary alignment varies from—"

"Enough with the stalling! I haven't seen a werewolf in thirty-two years, and that's not changing tonight."

Maxim hovered over Diego's back and the man turned his head awkwardly to face him. "If you don't believe me, then what are we doing here?"

The detective's open hand quickly struck the table, his silver ring making a loud thump on the cheap wood. "The confession, Diego! You said if I took you down to the interrogation room you would give me a confession!"

The suspect turned to face forward again, leaning back comfortably in his chair. "Yeah, I said that," Diego started slowly, "but if I admitted to committing a crime, then you'd put me in prison."

"That," said Maxim as he circled the table, standing where his chair used to be, "is precisely the point."

Diego pressed his closed fist into the table softly to stress the matter. "Unless I'm not guilty of anything."

Maxim crossed his arms. "Then why say you're going to confess?"

 

Suddenly, muffled gunshots shattered the peace of the night.

Maxim instinctively squatted down for cover, looking left to right, but it was hard to pinpoint the source of the shots. The interrogation room was sound resistant and at the end of a hallway, so most noise funneled from that direction anyway.

As the startled detective reached for his firearm, he backed into the corner and got an encompassing view of the door, the window, and Diego de la Torre all at once. The prisoner sat quietly stern, hands in fists, looking both calm yet ready to strike at any instant.

The detective pointed his Glock 22 at Diego.

"Those were police discharges," Maxim said. "What are they firing at?"

The prisoner did not waver under the gun but his voice did ease up to sound more soothing. "Do not shoot me, Maxim."

A cacophony of metal thrashed above and wild footsteps scampered overhead. Maxim's experienced hands did not falter.

"If anyone comes for you, to try to break you out, I will make sure you don't step a single foot outside this room." The barrel of his pistol aimed squarely at the prisoner's center mass.

Diego raised both of his arms carefully, empty palms facing the detective. This time there was no magic trick. The prisoner was still calm under pressure but at least appeared to be taking the threat seriously.

"Maxim."

Suddenly the door swung open with a heavy urgency. Both men quickly turned to face the intruder. It was Gutierrez, except instead of his usual lackadaisical grin, he wore an expression of pure panic.

"Sir! The prisoners upstairs, they're escaping!"

"Shit!" Maxim quickly stood up straight, pointed his gun at the ground, and tried to regain his composure. A sideways glance at Diego confirmed he was sitting attentively in his chair, still safely chained to the table.