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.”
Ricky rolled his eyes.
“Olivia,” I said, shaking his hand. “Don’t worry. I’ve been ordered to stay in the car.”
“What?” the bearded biker said. “We aren’t good enough for Gabe’s old lady? Son of a bitch.”
The other older guy grumbled something under his breath. Even Ricky’s lips compressed in a tight line.
“I’m not Gabriel’s girlfriend,” I said quickly. “I’m his client. That’s one ethical line he wouldn’t cross. It doesn’t pay well enough.”
A whoop of laughter from the bearded biker. “Got a point there.”
“He told me to stay out because I’m only a client. He said it would be disrespectful if he brought me in.”
Ricky nodded. “But if I say it’s cool, it’s cool. Come on.”
I got out and let him lead me down the lane. Ahead was what looked like a cottage, complete with a front porch and chairs. It sprawled off to the rear, making it larger than it appeared from this angle.
“I’ll warn you, it might be a disappointment,” Ricky said, waving at the clubhouse.
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.”
Ricky rolled his eyes.
“Olivia,” I said, shaking his hand. “Don’t worry. I’ve been ordered to stay in the car.”
“What?” the bearded biker said. “We aren’t good enough for Gabe’s old lady? Son of a bitch.”
The other older guy grumbled something under his breath. Even Ricky’s lips compressed in a tight line.
“I’m not Gabriel’s girlfriend,” I said quickly. “I’m his client. That’s one ethical line he wouldn’t cross. It doesn’t pay well enough.”
A whoop of laughter from the bearded biker. “Got a point there.”
“He told me to stay out because I’m only a client. He said it would be disrespectful if he brought me in.”
Ricky nodded. “But if I say it’s cool, it’s cool. Come on.”
I got out and let him lead me down the lane. Ahead was what looked like a cottage, complete with a front porch and chairs. It sprawled off to the rear, making it larger than it appeared from this angle.
“I’ll warn you, it might be a disappointment,” Ricky said, waving at the clubhouse.
