Lars met her gaze only briefly before it skipped away.
“Saxon Pike is a member of the Voyagers. They’re a one-percent club,” Dutch said.
Cassidy shook her head. “Is that bad?”
“They believe that there’s two kinds of people,” Lars explained. “The ninety-nine percent, who abide by the law, and the one percent who don’t,” Lars said. “As in outlaws.” He shrugged. “You know about Hells Angels, right? They are the original one-percent club.”
“The Voyagers run a couple of clubs: L.A., Portland, San Francisco. The clubs are legit, but there’s plenty of deeds going on behind the scenes,” Dutch cut in, watching her sharply. “I’m sure you can imagine the kinds of things that go on in a club run by guys who think of themselves as outlaws,” Dutch said, swiveling his now empty cup.
“You mean like drugs?”
Lars and Dutch eyed each other. “A manager from one of their clubs was arrested last year for sex with a minor. Apparently he kept this girl drugged and locked in a room,” Dutch said.
When Cassidy didn’t look away, he pursed his lips. “Combine that kind of mindset with the power they have running those clubs, and you get a recipe for some seriously bad shit.” He stopped, his mouth pinched shut as he shook his head.
Cassidy looked at Lars, who shot her an uneasy glance. “Ugh,” she breathed. She closed her eyes and tried to connect to her surroundings: the sun on her face, the smell of the coffee, the ribbed metal bench under her legs.
“What on earth would Izzy be doing with somebody who runs with that kind of crowd?” Cassidy asked, feeling a desperate form of dread bloom in her chest. So close, she thought. She was here, safe, and now . . .
Had Izzy been easy prey for someone like that? Cassidy imagined an attentive stranger slinking out of the dark like the hero Izzy thought she needed. A charismatic outlaw. A dangerous criminal. Opportunistic, even predatory.
Like Mel.
“What’s the name of his club?” Cassidy asked.
Lars and Dutch gave her a wary look.
“C’mon,” she urged. “If Izzy took off with this guy, don’t you think that’s at least a decent starting point?”
Dutch’s lips twitched. “Saxon runs the one in the Tenderloin called Silver’s,” he finally said. “And there’s another one called The Pony Club.”
“Don’t tell me, you’ve been to these places,” Cassidy said, her curiosity acting faster than her brain, which would have told her to hold her tongue.
Dutch lifted an eyebrow. “I live there, sweetheart. I’ve been everywhere.”
Frustrated, Cassidy turned away from the table, tossing her empty cup in the trash can as she strode towards her car.
She was halfway to calling Quinn when she remembered that he was in Aspen, running his marathon.
“Hold up,” a voice behind her said.
She whirled around to see Dutch catching up to her. “What?” she spat.
“Look, what’s your plan?”
Plan? Cassidy tried to come up with a good answer. She turned and kept walking, but Dutch was quick to match her stride.
“I don’t know yet,” she admitted. “But I have a few hours to think about it, right? I’ll come up with something. I know I need to talk to this Saxon character, see if he can tell me anything.”
“Okay,” Dutch said. “Can I give you a word of advice?” he said. They had reached her car. Cassidy pulled out her keys and unlocked the doors.
“No,” Cassidy said, then saw the dark look in his eyes. “Okay, fine,” she added.
“You got a friend, someone who’ll go with you?” he asked, his eyes searching hers.
“My brother lives there,” she said.
He nodded, looking relieved. “Good. Just be honest with them but don’t tell them too much.” He crossed his arms, flexing the tattoo of the mysterious woman. “Maybe Saxon will tell you something.” His eyes studied hers with a look that made her realize how horribly under-gunned she was for this. “But probably not.”
“What are you saying?” she asked, gripping the edge of her car door.
“She sounds like a determined young woman. San Francisco was the goal and she reached it.”
“I’m still not following you,” Cassidy said, eager to get going.
“Sounds to me like someone chewed her up and spit her out.” He narrowed his eyes. “Maybe she wants to be alone to lick her wounds.”
Cassidy shook her head. “Izzy is twenty-two years old and she’s broke and last seen riding on the back of an outlaw’s motorcycle,” she said with a shiver. ”What if he . . . ” Cassidy said but had to stop because the emotion was too strong. “He could take her anywhere,” she said, and this time her voice did break.
“Hey,” Dutch said, his voice softening. “She sounds like she can handle herself pretty well,” he said. “She’s probably fine.”
“You don’t know that,” Cassidy replied as an image of Izzy cowering in the corner of a barren room flashed into her mind. “I have to go,” she said.
“What if you can’t find her?”
Cassidy paused. “I have to at least try,” she said.
With that, Dutch stepped back, as if giving her permission to proceed. Annoyed, she slid into her seat and started the engine, lowering her windows to clear the superhot air inside. “Thank you,” she forced herself to say.
He gave her that bemused smirk. “Be safe, Cassidy,” he said, and before she could back her car from her spot, he turned away and walked back toward the fairgrounds.
As she wove back through the sleepy town, she made a list of the phone calls she needed to make, the first to Richard Gorman.
“She’s in San Francisco,” Cassidy announced to his answering machine as she accelerated onto I-5 south, the broad dome of Mt. Shasta rising in her rearview. Her dashboard clock reminded her of the early hour, especially for a Sunday morning. He was probably asleep with his ringer off.
Martin was next. “I got your email,” Martin’s voice rang out, so clear he might have been sitting next to her even though from his itinerary, she knew he was starting his day
