“You mean the bikers who broke in?” He didn’t answer that, and I took a step closer, getting in his face. “You saw the guys who broke in?”
“I…” He choked and shut right up.
I took out my phone and pulled up an image of the West Coast Kings’ insignia, turning it to him: the notorious, skeletal king of spades. “Were they wearing this?”
His already pale face blanched. “I already told the guy,” he said quickly. “I said I’d call him if Sanchuk came back.”
“What guy?”
“He gave me a number to call.”
I stared at him. Was this guy a fucking moron, or was he that scared of the Kings?
Both, maybe.
“How about you give it to me,” I said slowly, so he could follow, “and I don’t call into the Vancouver Police Department to report the half-dozen obvious violations you’ve got going on in this dump. Beginning with the fact that you scrubbed down that apartment after the Kings broke in because you didn’t want the police, if they came by, to know you’d been in there yourself, poking around.”
It was a shot, but it seemed to land. He turned an even more sickly shade of pale.
“Let me guess,” I went on. “They missed something of interest to you, and you took it?”
He shook his head but said nothing.
“Or maybe you got to it first?”
He started to breathe too loudly.
“You don’t have to tell me. I know. It was meth, right? Or was it money?”
He swallowed, but maybe he wasn’t as slow as I thought. Because he muttered, “Come,” and headed back into the building.
I followed him back to his apartment. I held the door open with my boot while he went inside, and he returned seconds later with a business card and a wad of tinfoil. He held both out to me.
I eyed the tinfoil.
“I swear, I didn’t know it was yours,” he said.
I just stared at him.
I took the business card. It was blank and cheap, with a hand-written phone number scrawled on it. “This is it? No name?”
“He said his name was Brando.”
“Brando?”
“That’s what he said.”
I considered that. “What did he look like? Blond hair?”
“It was dark,” he said, trying to back into his apartment, but I was still holding the door. “That’s all I know.” He was still holding out the wad of tinfoil to me.
I stared him down for a minute, reading his fear. I could smell it beneath the stench of sweat and musty carpets. I really didn’t want to spend one second longer than I needed to in this place, talking to this waste of air.
“That,” I informed him, nodding at the shit in his hand, “is not mine.”
I turned and headed up the hall.
“So, you’re not gonna call the cops, right?” he called after me.
“If you don’t get rid of that stash,” I told him, “the cops are gonna be the least of your problems.”
I pushed through the exit door and stalked back up the street to where my bike was parked. I glanced at the card in my hand.
Brando.
What was it with Piper Grayson and biker movies? He had some serious delusions of grandeur or something.
Although… he was pretty much living the dream, I’d give him that.
His dream, anyway.
As I reached my bike, I pulled out my phone and called the number on the card.
“Talk,” a gruff voice answered.
“Brando?” I said. “As in Marlon Brando? The Wild One? Really?”
“Sterling.” Piper chuckled a little. “How the fuck did you get this number?”
“Our mutual friend, the caretaker of scumville.”
“You tossed Sanchuk’s place? Hate to see you wasting your time like that. My boys were pretty thorough.”
“I saw that. They put the fear of God into slumlord.”
“They do make me proud.”
“You scared Sanchuk off, too,” I said, because I was gonna assume that was the case. “I’m getting concerned that you and your boys may have done your job just a little too well on this one.”
“We do set the bar real high.”
“Yeah. Well, you lost him. You better fucking find him.”
I could practically hear the cold-as-death look that came over his face when I spoke to him like that.
“It’s not my job to babysit that piece of shit,” he informed me. “And I’m not sure who you think you’re talkin’ to, but you’d better check your attitude at the fuckin’ door.”
“I never knew you were so sensitive, Jeremy.” I swung a leg over my bike. “I’ll be gentle next time I tell you you’ve fucked up.”
There was a silent pause, and I almost regretted the attitude I was giving him.
Almost.
“You know, we really should catch up like this more often,” he said. “Why don’t you come on by for dinner sometime? I really don’t cook much, but we can drink. You can bring your wife. What’s-her-name?”
Right. This again.
“We can play some Twister or somethin’. Maybe you can bring Summer, too. Wouldn’t that be cozy?”
Okay. What the fuck did that mean?
“When you send the transcript of this conversation to Jude,” I told him, “make sure you say hi for me, huh?” Then I hung up on him.
Motherfucking bikers.
They’d been talking about me, for fucking sure. Comparing notes.
Playing me like I was some idiot prospect in their club, doing their bidding for them. Giving me fucking orders.
Sure, Jude was my client.
Piper was nothing but a pain in my ass. And he and his boys were fucking up this whole situation.
And now Jude had told him I was involved with Summer or something?
Since when was that information on the table?
It had to be Jude. How would Piper know that I had feelings for Summer, other than Jude’s fucking opinion on the matter? If it was that obvious to Naveen… maybe it was obvious to Jude, too…
Unless, of course, Piper was having me watched. Or having Summer watched?
In case Sanchuk showed up?
Did the Kings want him that bad?
Yeah. They wanted him. I was pretty sure Piper wouldn’t be putting up with my attitude otherwise.
Fuck.
I started up my bike and headed for Summer’s, watching my back. Wondering if I was
