It looked like someone had taken down my plate number.
Chapter 76
THE HOTEL CLEARWATER was a faded blue two-story Victorian facing Main Street, with a second-floor exterior balcony supported by columns. It looked right out of the Wild West or maybe a movie featuring Sundance and Butch.
Claire and I entered the lobby, which hadn’t seen any changes since the 1920s. I took in the Victorian flock wallpaper, satin-covered armchairs, and sepia photographs of long-dead people in ornate frames on the walls.
The man behind the desk was also a relic of earlier times. Not from another century, but definitely from another time. His thinning gray ponytail and frameless specs made me think the hotel had been named for Creedence Clearwater Revival, a band I liked from the ’70s.
I signed the register and credit-card receipt and collected the keys. As Claire called home, the desk clerk told me his name was Buck Keene and that he owned the place.
We chatted about the weather and the local restaurants, and then I said, “I’m trying to look someone up. Maybe you know her? Antoinette Burgess?”
“Everyone knows everyone here. Sure, I know Toni. She’s the president of Devil Girlz — with a
“She has a friend — Sandy someone?”
The man with the gray ponytail jerked back as if he’d said too much or I’d put ammonia under his nose.
“You’re a cop,” he said. “I should have figured as much.” He opened a drawer to show me his sheriff’s badge, and I showed him my shield.
“Is Toni in trouble?” Keene asked.
“Not at all. I just want to talk with her about an ongoing investigation.”
“Then find another source,” Keene told me. “She’s had a rough time, but she’s clean. Getting her life straightened out. Being questioned by the cops …” Keene shook his head. “Checkout is at noon tomorrow.”
The bathtub in my room had claw feet. The towel rack was brass, and there was a basket of toiletries on the pedestal sink. I ran the hot water, poured some bath salts into the tub, and called Conklin.
“Antoinette Burgess is in a motorcycle gang called Devil Girlz,” I told him. “Outlaw type, I’m guessing.”
Conklin said, “Hold on,” and did a Web search while I tested the water temperature and pinned up my hair.
“I’m finding some stuff on these Girlz,” Conklin told me. “Drugs. Weapon trade. They aren’t Avon ladies, Linds. Watch your ass.”
“I’m walking on tippy-toes,” I said. “Rich. I saw evidence of a baby in the Burgess house. A baby car seat on the kitchen table. Blue one.”
“
“Yeah. Do me a favor and tell Brady.”
Joe picked up my call on the first ring. I stepped into the tub, lowered myself slowly, and sighed as the hot water covered my shoulders.
“What’s it like there?” Joe asked me.
“Sweet little town,” I told him. “Imagine
“Be careful, Blondie.”
Second guy in under ten minutes telling me to be careful. Jeez, I’ve been a cop for a decade.
“I’ve got a badge and a gun,” I said to my husband.
“I don’t like the way you sound.”
“How do I sound?”
“Blase. In a completely detached kind of way.”
“I’ve been driving all day.”
“Call for help if you need it. Promise me.”
“I promise. Now, give me a kiss.”
After I got out of the tub, I used the house phone and called the sheriff downstairs at the front desk.
“Sheriff Keene. Got a minute? I want to tell you about this case I’m working.”
Chapter 77
AT JUST AFTER EIGHT in the morning, I turned the Explorer onto Clark Lane and headed south.
“Look at that,” Claire said.
A thick knot of bikers filled the street — headlights on, engines revving — forming a wall between us and the Burgess house. As we closed in, the knot tightened, and the bikers showed no sign of parting to let us pass.
My plan had been to knock on Toni Burgess’s door. Show her my badge. I imagined going inside that house and getting the baby out. I hadn’t counted on a rumble. Freakin’ Buck Keene must’ve given Toni Burgess a heads- up.
“What now, Kemo Sabe?” Claire said.
“We’re winging it, Tonto,” I said. “Going to rely on what I’ve been told is a lot of charm.”
I braked fifteen yards from the bikers, close enough to clearly see their mannish haircuts and grungy clothes, their chains looped over their shoulders and around their waists, and their tattoos down to their fingernails.
I told Claire to lock the doors after I got out and to keep her cell phone in hand.
The moment I stepped out of the Explorer, there was no turning back. I was committed to gaining entrance to the cedar-shingled house. I made a path in my mind, saw myself sidestep the leader of the pack, walk through the gate, and approach the front door.
The biker in the lead position gunned her engine, then shut off the motor and dismounted. She closed the distance between us and stood her ground.
She looked to be in her late forties and about my height, five foot ten, but she had fifty pounds on me. Her blond-gray hair was greased back, she had gaps in her phony grin, and her nose was angled toward the right side of her face.
The patch over the breast pocket of her jacket read “Toni.”
“What do you want?” she asked me.
My hands were sweating. There were a dozen ways this could go wrong. Devil Girlz trafficked in guns. I pulled the front panels of my jacket aside, showed her the Glock on my hip and the gold badge on my belt.
“Sergeant Lindsay Boxer, SFPD. I’m here about the baby.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the biker said.
That’s when a baby’s piercing wail came from inside the house. I looked up and saw the backlit form of a woman standing at the front window with a bundle in her arms.
I turned around, went back to the Explorer and, when the lock thunked open, got inside and asked Claire for the phone.
I had Buck Keene’s number on my speed dial.
“Sheriff Keene, this is Sergeant Boxer. I need assistance on Clark Lane. If you’re not here in five minutes, I’m calling the FBI. They’ll take down anything or anybody who gets between them and that kidnapped baby.”
