“Because I can search where others legally can’t,” I explain.
“It’s worth a try,” Malcolm tells the group. To me, he says, “Go get your laptop and get to work finding Dirk Chekov.”
“I’ll find him,” I promise.
However, an hour later, and my frantic search hits a major roadblock.
“So, I ran into a dead end on Dirk,” I tell the group who are still sitting around the table, looking frustrated, most of them smoking while I sit on the floor with my laptop on my outstretched legs.
“You can’t find him?” the shaved head guy asks.
“Oh, no. I found him,” I explain. “He’s dead.”
“Dead?” everyone exclaims in confusion.
“He died a few weeks back. Turns out there was another ‘fire’ at a porn studio out in the middle of nowhere, about forty-five minutes from here. A few comments on the Facebook article said that they think it was an MC called the Savage Kings seeking vengeance for some kidnappings and actually praising the violence.”
“The Savage fucking Kings,” Malcolm grumbles with a slap of his palm on the table. “Let me give Torin Fury a call and see what the hell happened. If we’re lucky, maybe Dirk ratted out Nash before he died and now they’ll have to throw out the case.”
“I could try hacking into the police station,” I suggest.
“On our IP address? I don’t fucking think so,” Malcolm replies when he gets to his feet with his phone in his hand. “Give me a few minutes. Dev, make the introductions.”
The guy with long, black hair nods as Malcolm leaves the room. “I’m Devlin. The dumb blond is Fiasco, the dirty mechanic over there is Wirth, and the dude with a bad mohawk is Silas.”
“I already knew all of your names,” I admit. “But it’s nice to put faces to them.”
“How did you know our names?” Wirth asks.
“Research from when I was looking for Nash.”
“If you say a word about us to anyone, we’ll fuck you up,” Silas threatens.
“If you try to fuck me up, I’ll tell everyone what’s on each of your computers and phones.”
The guys all stare at each other uneasily for several silent seconds before Silas smirks and responds with, “Touché.”
A few moments later, Malcolm returns, and he doesn’t look happy. “Dirk wasn’t the rat,” he says. “He died before the warrants were issued. If he was the witness, they wouldn’t have bothered going after Nash.”
“So then who else could be the witness?” I ask them.
“Had to be the fucking chef!” Devlin exclaims.
“Fuck!” Malcolm shouts. “How was that bitch able to call out Nash when we don’t even know her goddamn name?”
“Jetta might have heard her name,” Dev says with a visible gulp. “I’ll call and ask her to come in.”
“Sure, let’s invite all the old ladies to the table,” Silas huffs as he lights up another cigarette. “May as well bring Naomi and Honey in here too! Bunch of pussy-whipped motherfuckers.”
“Watch it,” Malcolm warns him.
Nash
* * *
The dude, Frankie, I spoke to was right about the cramped quarters and constant noise in the general population. Sometime, around the middle of the night after I was officially charged, a bastard started singing “I’m Blue,” that idiotic old song by Eiffel 65. And instead of everyone telling him to shut up, other guys joined in, and now it’s stuck in my head on repeat and I want to blow my brains out.
I think I would pretty much do anything to get a cell all to myself.
Before I can figure out a way to do that, though, the guards come and get me.
“Let’s go, Kincaid,” one of the two uniformed men calls out.
“Where am I going?” I ask as I step out of the unlocked cell door, even though I have an inkling.
“You’ll see when you get there, won’t you?” the second guard mutters while the first slaps metal cuffs around my ankles that are connected by a chain. “Hands out.” I hold my wrists together for them to slap another pair of cuffs on them before one guard gives me a shove forward to get me moving, making me stumble thanks to the chain.
It’s hard as fuck to waddle around in the restraints, but eventually we get to a locked door with a tiny window up top. Through it, I can see a man and a woman sitting at a small table on the other side, both in nice suits. Since they’re not the club’s attorneys, I assume they must be detectives finally ready to grill me for the names of who else was at Cox’s house the night shit went down.
“I’m surprised it took you all this long,” I mutter when the guards shove me into the room.
“We wanted you to experience a full day in lockup before talking to us,” the man says with a fake smile. “I’m Detective Ashby, and this is my partner, Detective Rollins. Have a seat and get comfortable; this could take a while.”
“No, thanks,” I say, refusing to sit in the chair on the opposite side of the table. “I’d prefer to stand and make it quick. I’m not answering any questions without my attorney present. And even with my attorney, I’m not answering any questions. We’re done here.”
“Sit your ass down. We’re done when we say we’re done,” Detective Rollins grits out, appearing not too happy about my refusal.
“Make me,” I challenge her when I lean my back against the wall.
“I don’t think you’ve grasped the severity of your situation, Mr. Kincaid,” Detective Ashby tells me. “You’re looking at death row, if convicted. The only way to reduce that to life is to tell us who helped you that night.”
“I prefer death, sooner rather than later,” I reply honestly.
“So you’re admitting that you’re responsible for the murders of six men?” Detective Rollins asks.
“I’m not admitting or denying shit. I’m telling you a fact – death doesn’t scare me.”
“You should be scared,” Detective Ashby says. “We’ve got an eyewitness who heard your name, and saw you pull the trigger. They were able to ID you in the lineup and told us there were five other men with you. We know there are exactly five other men in the MC you ride with. Tell us that’s not a coincidence. We know you didn’t kill all six men yourself. Some had different sized bullets in them. Confirm what we already suspect, and we’ll reduce your charges significantly. It’s possible you could even get out in forty years with good behavior.”
A witness who heard my name. That’s what the damn face covered line-up was all about? But that’s impossible, right? Except, the sentence they made me say was one I remember…
None of the guys would’ve been stupid enough to speak a name when we took every precaution there was to hide our identities, right?
None except for possibly one, because he’s not the brightest.
Fucking Fiasco.
Thinking back, I’m pretty sure he didn’t just shout, “What the fuck,” but said, “What the fuck, Nash!” after I blasted the guard in the kitchen that was trying to sneak up on us. And I did it right in front of the fucking woman.