Race With The Devil_A Motorcycle Club Romance Page 13

“I guess low-budget ghetto people do. They bet on the fights. See, there are little metal spurs he puts on the birds, and he injects them with steroids. They can’t be rehabbed. Hurts me to look at them. I say they should be put out of their misery. There’s a beaten-up pit bull too living in filth.”

  I hated Tutti Morgan even more now, if such a thing was possible. “Well. Maybe a quick call to the SPCA would do the trick. A felon like Tutti might actually get slapped with a couple years.”

  “How’s he ever going to get out of this illegal game? He’s in it for life,” said Unity. “If it’s too hot to make fentanyl, he just turns to K2.”

  I agreed. “He’s a fucking goner, all right. He’s too flush to ever give up this game.”

  An enormous lake-shaped swimming pool was lit up, as was the rocky waterfall. The colonial style house with pillars was around the next bend. Tutti was on the front portico to meet us. Made sense he wouldn’t even want us—or the body—inside.

  “You stay here,” I told Unity, and I got out of the car. I doubted she would stay there, and I was right. Within thirty seconds she was at my side.

  Much as it repelled me, I shook Tutti Morgan’s hand genially. It still behooved us to make him think we were on his side, searching for his beloved wife’s murderer.

  I explained, “He broke into Unity’s apartment, dope-sick. He seemed to be acting in accordance with an ingestion of K2, and we found a package in his pocket.” Showing Tutti the packet of Scooby Bites we’d taken from Corey, he predictably ripped it from my hand, examining it every which way as if he’d never seen it before.

  Unity, at my side, was a bit less tactful. “Are you behind these Scooby Bites?”

  I added, “The company is called Oshkosh Gosh, and you’re from Oshkosh.” Wolf had just texted that the owners of the fake cannabis company were listed as Chino and Daddy Gee, obvious although inventive fake names to anyone over the age of forty.

  Tutti sighed, apparently deeply depressed at the sight of the foil packet. “Yes, that’s me, all right. Scooby Bites. Named after my dear departed Great Dane.”

  I lifted my upper lip. “Scooby?” I asked skeptically.

  “No, Bite. He used to love eating weed, so I had to give him treats to keep him away from it.” He sighed thoroughly again. “Well. Let my men get Corey out of your car. I appreciate you not calling the cops. Someone breaks into my house and dies, well, I call the cops.”

  Two beefy guys I had pegged as former military were lifting the rolled-up rug from my rental car. I lied, “Well, I didn’t want you to get in trouble when they inevitably did an autopsy and realized he OD’d on your fake weed. What do you put in there, anyway?”

  Tutti waxed proud. “Oh, all sorts of ethnobotanicals, such as Blue Lotus, Dwarf Skullcap, and Siberian Motherwort.”

  Unity sneered. “I’m sure it’s all on the up and up. Very ‘woo woo’.”

  “Not really,” Tutti admitted. “There are also synthetic cannabinoids in here. Some have pronounceable names like Mepirapim and Nabilone, but most just go by alphanumeric monikers such as FDU-PB-22 and HU-308 CAS.”

  “Where do you get these chemicals?” I asked.

  Tutti shrugged, unconcerned. “Mainly China.”

  “So, they’re illegal here, then?”

  He got where I was drifting. K2 wasn’t regulated, so they could put whatever fake poison in there they wanted. If someone had a murderous bent, as I was beginning to suspect The Fentanyl King of Flagstaff did, he could purposefully concoct a lethal strain. “You’re not going to report Corey’s death, are you?” He didn’t even look at Corey’s face. The henchmen had unrolled the upper half of the body to make a proper ID, but Tutti didn’t even glance its way.

  “No, that’s why I brought you his body. I presume you’ll inform his next of kin.”

  “Oh, he didn’t like his family. They didn’t like him.”

  After Unity told Tutti he could keep the rug, we got the hell out of there. We were driving past a little cement shed near the cockfighting cages when I pulled over. I knew there were most likely security cameras out there too, but I really did have to take a leak. Behind the cement shed, I discovered it was a shelter for garbage cans. Opening one, I dug beneath the first dead rooster and found what could have been a wedding dress. At least, it was once white, and made of satin.

  Digging deeper, I found a pile of folded-up paper. “Dearest King Tut, I’ve been waiting the livelong day to cast my eyes upon your sunshine face once more,” one began. Figuring they were love letters tossed aside like so many parking tickets, I stuffed them in my hoodie pocket.

  The can was a treasure trove of unwanted rubbish from Lavinia’s life. Cards depicting abundant flowers were signed by Lavinia. The saddest sight of all must’ve been a teddy bear wearing a bib that declared I LOVE YOU THIS MUCH. And, as if to confirm the possible wedding dress, at the bottom of the can a wedding veil sat marinating in barbecue sauce.

  I took all that crap and tossed it into my trunk. If Corey had done the actual offing of Lavinia, Tutti Morgan had definitely ordered it, possibly because she was pregnant. Or maybe he simply didn’t want to be married. Then why the fuck had he married her? No one was twisting his arm. Why did people do that—lead people on with false hope? Tutti may have been a brilliant chemist, but he was no criminal mastermind. The chucked love mementos, thrown in the trash a week after his “beloved” vanished, was a plain statement where Tutti stood on the issue.

  “He threw away her wedding dress and veil,” I explained as I got back into the driver’s seat after tossing the smelly offal into my trunk.

  “Jesus. Look at this. Lytton just texted both of us.”

  I looked at my phone.

  Lytton: Scooby Bites is composed of the usual synthetic cannabinoids, with one twist. It contains a high amount of zinc phosphide. In other words, rat poison. It seems to be the exact same stuff that was in the fentanyl the sideshow kids died from. Call me when you can.

  “Jesus,” Unity intoned again. “Let’s get the fuck out of here. This place is giving me the creeps.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Unity

  Smoky Mountain Bud & Breakfast

  “Holy freaking shit, Tanner!” cried Duji, peeking through the blinds of the conference room. “Wolf went and did it. He got a sidecar for that dog you gave him!”

  All the businesslike, gruff men sitting around the oval table went rushing as one body to the window. Tanner didn’t even get a visual on the sight that was no doubt as cute as a little red wagon. My maternal instincts tweaked during times like this, and depression stabbed my heart. I hated when people showed photos of their babies around. It was God’s way of kicking me when I was down. Buddha said, “Love the whole world as a mother loves her only child.” I would not be given that chance . . .

  The half-brothers Ford and Lytton even shoved each other in the shoulder to get a better view. “The dog has goggles!” chuckled Ford.

  “Just like Bellamy’s dog,” pointed out Knoxie. Bellamy tooled around Pure and Easy with her Husky in his sidecar. Bellamy couldn’t have children after some cult surgery up in Merry-go-Round Canyon. It knocked seven bells out of her, another reason I felt close to her. And now she was adopting my half-sister.

  Wolf left the goggles on Beetle to make a grander entrance. “Behold,” he bellowed, grinning ear to ear. His eyes sought out Tanner. “See? His training is coming along. He absolutely won’t jump out of that sidecar, not even if he sees a cat.”

  “You’re sure about that?” asked Tanner, gesturing for Wolf to take a seat—on the other side of the table, that is. Tanner was trying to separate himself from Beetle as much as possible, and the dog barely glanced at Tanner as he walked by, head high. “You could test him by tossing some cats in your path.”

  “Good idea,” said Wolf, putting his dome of obedience on the table, although he could’ve left it out on his bike. Smoky Mountain Bud and Breakfast was just like it sounded. Founded by Fox’s wife Pippa, it had be
en doing, shall I say, a smoking hot business with people coming from all around the world to mellow out with Leaves of Grass products lounging on their docks on Mormon Lake. Knoxie came up to ink the bud enthusiasts, and Fox brought his raptors and flew them over the lake like kites. Fox’s wife Bee was a master gardener and I loved watching her create formal pathways or benches by the water ensconced in azaleas, and, well, other flowering bushes. I wished I knew more about it, but my little apartment didn’t give me much chance. I’d modeled some ads for the Smoky Mountain. That was my talent, I guessed, but when would that grow cold and stale too?

  “Beetle, sit!” commanded Wolf, and the dog sat next to him. Beetle was a floofy good boy, his puffy ears peeking above the expanse of table. Wolf’s immense pride was almost obnoxious, and Tanner said,

  “Good. Now what news did you bring us from Goodfella Ranch?”

  Wolf drew an imaginary X with both palms facing the table. “Wiped out. I mean, as far as the cockfighting biz goes. Our Friends of Distinction made a total and utter raid that was an absolute success.” The Friends of Distinction was an MC based in Vegas that we—I mean the Bare Bones—did business with.

  Ford asked, “Like, did they seize or kill the poor birds?”

  Wolf reported, “Well, Fox, like you said, they were unsalvageable. When the Friends tried to grab birds, they’d shred their arms to smithereens. They were meaner than, uh, cockfighting birds.”

  Fox rubbed his face. “I wish I could’ve been there.”

  “Remember,” said Tanner, “we didn’t want anyone recognizable as a Bare Boner. We want to keep our relationship with Tutti cordial until we find that damned body.”

  “I know,” moaned Fox, “but I don’t think I want to know what you did with the birds.”

  “No,” said Wolf, texting furiously, “you don’t.”

  Since this wasn’t an official chapel sit-down—Tanner or I couldn’t have been present for that—we still retained our cellphones, and everyone’s dinged at the same time. Except for Fox, we all read in tandem:

  Birds thrown into big pit and doused with gasoline. Burned while making “aaaaaggggh” noise.

  Emotionless, we all put down our phones while Fox sighed deeply.

  “OK,” said Ford. “What else? Was Tutti present during the raid?”

  “Hell to the yeah he was present,” barked Wolf. “He came rampaging down from his McMansion, all ‘what the fuck is this,’ you know, ‘what the fuck is going on with my birds,’ and Maitland Quitmyer, you know, he’s the Friends’ sergeant-at-arms, he gets in Tutti’s face and goes, ‘This is what you get for torturing animals, you fucking animal torturer.’”

  “Or something like that,” Tanner added.

  “Or something like that. I wasn’t there. I’d be recognized in a hot minute. Guess what happened at that exact second? Someone found Lavinia’s dog Diesel in a cage next to the beaten-up pit bull, I guess they’d been using them as bait dogs in dog fights. Diesel was battered almost beyond recognition, so the Friends grabbed their cages and ran. What could Tutti do? He was just lucky no pigs were involved.” Bare Boners would never involve pigs. Aside from that pigs bumbled everything they got their hands on.

  “What happened to the dogs?”

  “Well, Quitmyer brought them to me, so I took them to Dr. Bornstein downtown.”

  “He’s a good vet,” I said.

  “They’re still there getting tested and treated, but I had to come out here and give my report to you guys. The pit bull might be put down, but I think Diesel will make it. Half of one ear was torn off, half his tail is gone, deep tooth puncture wounds in his belly.”

  “Jesus, what a fucktard,” I said. “That guy is sick on so many levels. I don’t care what a brilliant chemist he is. He’s purposefully trying to kill people and animals and has to be stopped by whatever means possible.”

  Bare Boners nodded soberly at me, “by any means possible” being their motto.

  Tanner backed me up. “Yeah. Any guy who tosses his new bride’s wedding gear into the trash then uses her dog as a bait critter, well, I couldn’t agree more. He needs to be buried.”

  Duji said, “But we need a body first. Remember that old rule, Ford? ‘Body first, retribution second.’”

  Ford grinned. “Man, that was a long time ago, in the Riker days. Hey, speaking of old, wasn’t Santiago Slayer supposed to be here?”

  “Yeah,” said Tanner, giving me some healthy, skeptical side-eye. Not being familiar with Santiago Slayer like the rest were, we had no idea how reliable he was. “He said he’d be here at the bud and breakfast at eleven.”

  Everyone glanced at their watches. Eleven-fourteen.

  “Are you going to that Christopher Guest retrospective?” Duji asked Faux Pas, to make small talk.

  “That’s Tuesday, isn’t it? That’s our thirtieth wedding anniversary. I promised Sapphire I’d get some Shiraz and we could spin some Charlie Parker. Then we may go for a midnight swim.”

  “Way too cold for that,” sniffed Gollywow.

  “Perhaps,” conceded Faux Pas. “I wish I had a fireplace.”

  A new car crunched the gravel out front. I reminded Tanner, “Slayer really seemed to think we might find Lavinia in the Grand Canyon, on that bench Tutti mentioned.”

  Ford overheard me. “He’s rarely wrong. I know he comes across like a nancy boy with his pants around his ankles, but Slayer really sells it. I don’t know what we’re going to fucking do when he retires from the biz.”

  “He’ll never retire,” proclaimed Knoxie. “Being a sicario is his life blood.”

  The front desk gal was at the door to announce someone, but Santiago Slayer busted on past her, shoving her aside like he was Donald Trump at a NATO summit.

  “I have made it!” he announced, waving an imaginary hat of some sort. I have to admit, it warmed my heart to see the handsome sicario again. Not that there was much chance of danger or mayhem trying to seduce a park ranger. “You must say something to those pendejo cops around here. I am only late because one of them on a motorcycle stopped me for going too slow!”

  Everyone guffawed. Knoxie explained to me, “Slayer is notorious for going too slow in his Fiat. He never wants to draw attention to himself by getting a Fast Riding Award.”

  “But,” I said, “now a cop saw you coming up to this bud and breakfast.”

  “It is okay,” said Slayer, taking a seat and waving a limp hand at me. “I promised him I would get him the autograph of William Levy, and he did not write me a ticket.”

  “Who’s William Levy?” I asked, puzzled.

  Slayer shrugged. “No one big. Just a telenovela actor from Cuba. And now to business! I must report my success at discovering exactly where Lavinia Dock and Tutti Morgan were at four-oh-five in the afternoon of Monday the nineteenth. According to my luscious new friend Ranger Vera, that is when they entered the park at the South Entrance station.”

  Ford asked the question on everyone’s minds. “How can we be sure it was them?”

  Slayer produced a CDROM in a case from inside his wide-lapeled polyester jacket. “From this! Vera was kind enough to give me a copy of the evidence after I assured her Lavinia was my half-sister and a Navajo native. Vera gets very sappy over the possible murder of natives, as she studied the culture in college at William and Mary.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Ford said dismissively, capturing the CDROM when Slayer whisked it across the table. Someone had written on the case in blue Sharpie MORGAN. “Tell me what the camera showed.”

  Slayer pointed at the ceiling. “The camera showed plainly Morgan’s face as he leaned out the window of his red ’13 Ferrari Italia, license plate BTK3762, to pay his entry fee. That is easy enough to verify with the DMV. True, from that angle it was difficult to see who was in the passenger seat. So, Ranger Vera proceeded down Desert View Drive to Grandview Point, the place Tutti Morgan wanted to visit with Lavinia in that cornball text he sent her.”

  “Speaking of cornball,” said Goll
ywow, “wouldn’t it be more believable if you were Lavinia’s father and not her half-brother?”

  Slayer drew himself up proudly, looking down his nose at Gollywow. It was as though he clutched a silk shawl about his precious shoulders. “I am ageless, and half-brothers can be any age.” Again, rapidly exchanging his mood and personality, he instructed Ford, “Go to the eighteen-fifty-one point on the tape. You will see what I mean about Grandview Point.”

  Slayer turned pleasantly toward me. “I saw your Instagram profile. Extremely sexy. You have half as many followers as me, which is through the roof! I could retweet you and give you vast exposure.”

  “She has enough exposure,” said Tanner, reaching a protective “mom arm” across the table.

  “No, I don’t,” I said, going to Slayer’s Instagram account on my phone. The last thing he’d posted was a selfie on a very long selfie stick of him standing next to a short, wide woman wearing a ranger’s uniform. Slayer was a contrast in style next to her, bending toward her ingratiatingly in his polyester shirt with airplane collar and undone buttons, gold chains displayed. Oddly, it looked like the sun was rising across the impressive canyon behind them, and their hair did look kind of mussed. The caption read, “Nothing beats coffee with a ranger at the Grand Canyon” and it had two point something million likes!

  “I sure wish I had your numbers,” I murmured. But should he really be posting to two million people that he’d been at the Grand Canyon that morning? Maybe the aim was to scare Tutti.

  Down the table, Ford was yelling. “What the fuck, Slayer?”

  Everyone looked at Ford—rather, at his laptop where he’d inserted the MORGAN disc. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the volume turned up, but the video camera was focused on a couch. A couch where Santiago Slayer, giant boner visibly swelling his already-tight white pants, felt the pendulous boobs of Ranger Vera.

  “That is not the right spot!” cried Slayer, half-standing from his chair. “Is that eighteen-fifty-one?”

  Ford guffawed. “Nope! It’s eleven-thirteen. Man, this is classic!”