“First you buy me a mocha. Then you let me help you hide a body. Now you take me to a biker clubhouse. Best. Day. Ever.”
His lips tightened. “You’re staying in the car.”
“Hell, no. This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”
I reached for the door handle. He smacked down the automatic locks. “This isn’t a game, Olivia.”
“I’m kidding. But I did just move a corpse. I think I can handle this.”
“I’m their lawyer. It’s a relationship based on mutual respect. I cannot waltz in there with another client.”
Damn. Why did he have to make such a good point?
I sighed. “All right.”
He hesitated.
“I said all right. Go. I’ll wait.”
Cleanup Duty
The man looked at the spot where he was supposed to find Josh Gray’s body. It was gone.
He peered up and down the alley. Then he walked from one end to the other and checked the GPS coordinates on his phone. This was definitely the place.
He made a call.
“It’s not here,” he said when his boss answered.
Silence.
“The body,” he said. “Gray’s—”
“Are you actually telling me this on an unsecured cell line?”
Yeah, because I don’t have a secured one, he wanted to snap back. He didn’t. He apologized. Then he asked what the boss wanted him to do.
“Find it, of course. She didn’t drag him out of there.”
The line went dead. The man sucked in breath. This was stupid. If you want someone dead, you just kill them. All these layers of complication. First the old man. Now this. He didn’t understand it.
The boss said Gunderson’s death was a precaution, in case he decided to help the Larsen girl. Which was bullshit—from what he’d read in the paper, there was no way in hell Gunderson was helping the Larsen girl. And how would he anyway? He didn’t know anything.
It was just a lame excuse to test the latest “upgrade” to the boss’s invention. Now he’d tested it a second time, which left his loyal employee here, trying to move a body that appeared to have…
His gaze caught on the Dumpster. He shook his head. No way. The boss was right—the meth-head chick couldn’t drag a two-hundred-pound guy, let alone lift him into a bin, which is why he’d been called on cleanup.
And yet … well, there wasn’t anywhere else to take him, was there?
He put his gloves back on and climbed onto the base of the Dumpster. Then he lifted the lid, peered in, and…
Holy shit. How the hell had she done that?
She hadn’t. It wasn’t possible.
Then who had?
As he took out his phone, a shadow passed overhead and he toppled off the bin, landing on his ass. He fumbled his .45 out and swung it up at…
A damned bird. A crow, it looked like. A huge one sitting on the side of the bin.
Had it smelled the body? That was all he needed.
But the bird wasn’t looking in at the feast below. It was staring at him.
When he rose, the bird lifted off, almost lazily, but only flew onto a balcony overhead. Then it perched there.
“You think you’re getting some of that?” he gestured at the bin. “Not a chance, birdie.”
He started to turn back to the bin. That’s when he saw the dog. A massive dog, black, with strange reddish-brown eyes. He swallowed and gripped his gun. The dog stared at him a moment, then snorted, turned, and disappeared into the shadows.
Gun raised, he carefully walked over to where he’d seen the dog. It was gone. He peered down the alley. No sign of it. A sigh of relief. He holstered the gun, but kept his jacket open, in case it came back.
He climbed back up and closed the bin. He took out his phone again, then stopped and peered up at the bird. It was still staring at him. He fought a shiver and looked around.
The boss told him not to use the phone. So he shouldn’t. He should just leave. Go tell the boss what he’d found. With any luck, he’d decide Mr. Gray could stay right where he was.
One last furtive look at the bird, and the man hurried off.
Chapter Fifty-two
I eyed the forest surrounding the biker clubhouse. I’d been jogging daily since buying sweats, but I’d skipped this morning, which made sitting here even worse. Maybe if I just went for a walk and stayed away from the clubhouse…
Yeah. I’d probably step into a bear trap. Gabriel would be pissed if I bled out in his car.
I’d just flipped open my notebook when I heard the rumble of motorcycles. Three were coming up the road. One was that kind with the front wheel that sticks out. Yes, I know nothing about motorcycles. Never met a biker, either. I just hoped Gabriel’s window tint was dark enough to hide my gaping.
One wore a full helmet. The second had none. The third wore a small black one without a visor. I’m sure that has a name, too.
The guy with the small helmet looked like a construction worker. Big and burly, but clean shaven with short brown hair. He was dressed in a leather jacket, jeans, and work boots. The helmetless guy riding the bike with the extended front wheel was more what I expected, with shit-kicker boots, a chain looping from his pants, a long graying beard, and a ponytail hanging over the Satan’s Saints patch on his jacket.
I cracked down my window as they parked in the row of bikes.
“No, I’m serious,” the bearded one said. “Gabe’s got a girl in the car.”
“Don’t call him Gabe,” said the guy in the full helmet, his voice muffled. “You know he hates it, which means it’s disrespectful.”
“Yeah? Well, so is bringing his bitch to the clubhouse.”
A sigh. “Gabriel wouldn’t do that.”
“So who’s the blonde in his car?”
Heavy footfalls came closer. A shadow crossed the passenger’s window. The guy with the beard peered in.
“Yeah, it’s a girl.” He shaded his eyes and squinted at me. “Gotta admit, guy has taste. Hot cars. Hot pussy.”
“Jesus,” muttered the guy who’d defended Gabriel. He had his helmet off, but I couldn’t see him behind the others.
When he reached to tug the bearded biker back from the window, I powered it all the way down. Seemed rude not to.
As I did, I got a look at him and…
If the guy with the beard and stringy ponytail matched my vision of a biker, this one matched Hollywood’s. He couldn’t be much older than me. Hazel eyes. Tousled blond hair curling over his collar. A few days of stubble on a chin that I was sure had a cleft when he shaved.
His boots were low-profile Docs, and his leather jacket only had the gang patch on one sleeve. He wore snug, faded jeans and a white T-shirt under his jacket. A blond Marlon Brando, without the broody angst. I’m not normally given to drooling over hot guys— Oh, hell, who am I kidding?
“I’m a client of Gabriel’s,” I said. “He had to stop by on business and he was stuck with me.”
“Holy shit,” the bearded biker said, staring at me. “Holy fucking shit!”
The young biker shot him a glare.
Bearded guy waved at me. “Didn’t you see the article? The photos? That’s Gabe’s new client. Todd and Pam Larsen’s kid.”
He shot me a big smile, but the older one who hadn’t spoken eyed me and eased back before stopping himself.
The bearded biker said. “It’s an honor to meet you, Miss Larsen.”
“Which isn’t the name she uses, I’m sure.” The young guy extended a hand to me. “Rick.”
“Ricky,” the bearded biker said, reaching up to ruffle Rick’s hair. “Everyone calls him Ricky.”