Cowboy Bikers MC Lawmen by Esther E. Schmidt
CHAPTER FIVE
Four days later
– FRANKIE –
“Hey, Yuma.” I give the man who is sitting on his bike in the parking lot of the clubhouse a smile as I get out of my car.
I’ve been coming to the clubhouse for the last four days and I’ve been getting to know each and every biker in this MC. Atticus the most since the man won’t leave my side when I’m here and Fisher is always with us when we’re working the case as well.
We’ve gone over everything and are working on a few angles to explore when it comes to my father’s accident and how it might be connected to the case he was working on. Brainstorming is what mostly keeps us busy in an effort to find new leads.
In the last four days Atticus has made sure to persuade me to end the day with a ride around the property. I do have to admit, I absolutely adore these special moments to ruminate about the case while enjoying the scenery of the sun going down.
“Frankie,” Yuma grunts but then shifts his upper body to face me. “Hey, do you happen to know a female agent who can help me persuade a woman to leave her man?”
I raise one of my eyebrows. “A bit of an unusual question when a female agent is standing right in front of you don’t you think?”
Yuma shrugs. “I need one and it can’t be you since you’re working with Prez on a case. Besides, he’d have my balls if I took you along with me for the day.”
“You’re getting weirder by the second. Let me know what you need a female agent for specifically and I’ll rack my brain to see who works best for you,” I offer, ignoring the “have my balls” statement.
He releases a deep sigh and his eyes go to the clubhouse. I follow his gaze and notice Atticus is standing in the doorway with his arms crossed in front of his chest, glaring at us.
“See? The fucker is jealous with me just talking to you, and here you say I’m getting weirder by the second.”
Feeling the need to deal with one thing at a time, I focus on Yuma’s issue. “What’s the case you’re working on?”
“A woman in an arranged marriage. Fucker is wealthy, old money just like her parents. Her husband is abusive and the woman is the niece of a senator. The senator is the one who requested for us to intervene but the woman won’t leave the marriage, something about saving face for her family’s sake. A cop already tried to talk to her but she denies the abuse. I thought if I took someone with me, maybe we could make her understand she has options and choices.”
I reach for my phone and ask, “When did you want the intervention to take place?”
“As soon as possible,” Yuma replies.
I thumb through my list. I find the number I need and press the call button, she picks up on the second ring. “Hey Huxley, it’s Frankie. Listen, I have a favor to ask.”
Luxley chuckles. “No more beer pong. I’m not getting stuck with a major hangover proving to you I can beat your ass.”
Now I’m the one chuckling. Huxley is a contact I’ve met through work parties and whenever I suspect abuse, I always give them her number. She’s a good soul who has the ability to reach out and make you taste sunshine with one touch.
“You most certainly can’t,” I firmly state. “Listen, I’m here with a friend of mine who is stepping into a case involving abuse and the woman doesn’t want to fail her family so she has stayed in an abusive marriage. He wants to have a chat with her but would like to have a woman present.”
“Text me his number or give him mine so we can get our heads together. You know I’m always happy to help, especially in these situations.”
“Thanks, Huxley, will do.” We say our goodbyes and I keep my phone in hand when I tell him, “Grab your phone so I can give you Huxley’s info. She owns a women’s shelter and support center. No one is more qualified to accompany you to talk with the woman and get through to her.”
Yuma pulls out his phone and I rattle off Huxley’s number while he programs it into his.
“Thanks, Frankie, appreciate it,” Yuma says, sincerity carrying a heavy undertone. “And just so you know? I think you’d fit right in if Prez would take you as his old lady.”
I’m stunned into silence but even if I could form any words, they would have been evaporated by the roar of his bike when Yuma fires it up and rides off. My attention slides to Atticus but before I can either take a step toward him or say something, Fisher bursts through the door behind him.
“We need to roll, now. Call just came in about a homicide matching the MO of RedBorder,” Fisher says as he heads for his bike.
“I’ll follow you guys,” I bellow over the roaring of Fisher’s bike as Atticus straddles his.
He lifts his chin and I jump into my car to follow them. Once we arrive at the scene, I park my car and stroll over to where Atticus is waiting for me.
“Where’s Fisher?” I question.
Atticus places his hand on my lower back and guides me toward the house. The lawn is filled with several officers and one is busy with tape to keep the curious neighbors at a safe distance. A homicide detective I recognize nods in our direction and strolls over.
He holds out his hand to Atticus to shake and then me. “Thanks for coming, I called as soon as I stepped onto the scene. The officer who was sent to the house to investigate a complaint about a smell didn’t touch anything except kicking in the door when he noticed the body through the window at the back of the house.”
He rattles off some more details until Atticus finally says, “Appreciate it, Tom,” and guides me past Tom so we can enter the house.
We find Fisher squatting down near the body. A body that’s clearly been lying there for a while since decomposition has already set in. I’d say it’s been at least several weeks since the hair and nails have fallen out and the body is starting to liquify.
Stepping closer to Fisher I mutter, “I guess that rules out my father as a suspect.”
“This one was murdered after Frank died,” Fisher grunts.
It kinda stings how he doesn’t acknowledge my father isn’t a killer. He did express his reasoning the first time I returned to the clubhouse and we all sat together in church to go over the case. Though, Fisher also has a theory how RedBorder might have accomplices or loyal friends who share a mutual darkness.
It’s not uncommon for serial killers to work in pairs but it does complicate things. Though, I’ve pointed out–and Fisher fully agreed–how the stabbing and torture were all done by the same person. It’s all about the force used, the depth, the angle of the wounds, and its consistency. But we can’t rule out the fact that this killer has managed to stay under the radar.
I glance around and take in how the body is posed. The broom lying beside her, the apron, the bucket lying on its side with the cleaning stuff in it; everything screams cleaner. The red border around the body is made from dried blood and has rooted itself in the hardwood floors along with the rest of the fluids of the body.
This is also where the complaint about the smell came from but I’m surprised it took this long. The officer gave us details about the owner of the house and the woman in question was twenty-six years old.
I’m a bit shocked the woman didn’t have friends or family who reported her as missing or came by the house to check on her. However, I don’t have any friends or family either but I do know my partner, Jessy, or my neighbor, Mysti, would come check if they didn’t hear from me in a few days.
“If this was a woman who was a cleaner in her normal life, she would have had colleagues. Why didn’t anyone swing by or check?” I muse, mainly to myself and start to roam around the living room. “Did she schedule a vacation alone? Quit her job or whatever?”
I glance at the wall and it’s littered with framed photographs. Most are sunrise or sunset snapshots but there are a few with a cat in the center. I glance around and walk into the kitchen, finding washed dishes from a cat neatly stacked on the counter. When I check the litterbox it’s also empty and clean. Strolling to the bedroom, I check the closets and a thought strikes.
Walking back into the hallway, I notice her car keys in the ashtray on a little table. I snatch a latex glove from one of the officers and put it on before grabbing the keys. When we arrived at the house, I didn’t notice a car in the driveway but she could have parked along the curb.
Though, my mind screams she put her car in the garage to get her suitcases into the trunk. Both Fisher and Atticus follow me into the garage when I unlock the car and glance inside. Popping the trunk I find what I was expecting; two suitcases.
“She was going on vacation, it’s why no one noticed she was missing for weeks and instead was lying dead on her living room floor. I also think she brought her pet to either a boarding place or a pet sitter since she cleaned the bowls and the litterbox. I also don’t think this was random. The killer knew she wouldn’t be missed. He somehow made all the other victims easy to find or authorities to be alerted to the scene. Why do I get the feeling he hid this one or didn’t want it to be found soon?”
Fisher has a shit-eating grin on his face.
He points at me but addresses Atticus when he says, “Perceptive. That’s why I like her.” His head swings my way. “I thought the same thing. Why the hell did it take so long for us to find this one? I’m also thinking we need to explore who she was in contact with in the weeks before she died.”
“Church in two hours. I want to get the others up to speed so we can work,” Atticus states. “Are you going to stay here and go through her house and oversee everything else?”
Fisher gives him a tight nod.
I’m still thinking about the cat when it suddenly clicks. I stalk past Atticus and Fisher and head for the kitchen where I saw the woman’s calendar.
Noticing the date marked, I point at it and see both guys coming into the kitchen. “According to this I’m thinking we have a timeline. The name of the pet boarding place written on here is something we can check to see when she dropped her cat off. She might have done so on the day she died or the day before but I’m fairly sure she brought her furry friend away first, already had the suitcases in her car, and then came back to run a final check on the house but the killer must have been waiting for her.”
“Makes sense. There’s no sign of a struggle either so either she knew her attacker or she was caught by surprise and couldn’t do shit,” Atticus agrees.
We keep bouncing our thoughts back and forth and make another round through the crime scene before Atticus and I head back to the clubhouse. As soon as Atticus steps foot inside he starts to bark out orders.
Every biker rushes off to get on the task handed to him and I take place beside Leland who has his laptop in front of him. He’s going over the details of the victim and is gathering all the information he can. Her bank account doesn’t show anything about going on vacation, which is weird.
Atticus is talking to one of the prospects and I stand to move toward him.
Waiting patiently till his gaze hits mine, I ask, “I want to swing by the victim’s boss, maybe talk to a few colleagues.”
“We’ll take my bike.” He doesn’t wait for my answer or say one word to the prospect but simply turns and stalks to the door.
The prospect’s lips twitch with amusement and he shrugs. I shake my head and follow Atticus. I do have to say, being on the back of his bike–my arms wrapped tight around him–is almost as amazing as riding the horses in full speed.
Though, I get to enjoy this a little more because I can hand responsibilities over to Atticus. I can close my eyes, feel the wind on my face, his strong back against my front, and the vibration of the bike underneath me as he lets us fly over the asphalt as if we own the world.
I could have spent hours on the back of his bike but I regretfully dismount when he parks in front of a small office right next to a coffee shop. Atticus gently removes the helmet he put on himself when I got on his bike earlier.
“You’re glowing.” The husky chuckle flowing from him ignites a flock of butterflies inside my body.
“I think I liked the ride more than I should have,” I honestly admit.
He hangs the helmet on the handle and reaches out to cup the side of my face.
Stepping closer he murmurs, “Anytime you want a ride, just ask and I’ll make it happen. But your ass is only going to be on the back of my bike.”
“Bossy,” I whisper on what feels like my last breath.
Dammit. His closeness is affecting me in so many ways, letting my mind slip into a cloud of lust.
“Bossy is when I drag you to my bed, strip you naked, and demand you get on your hands and knees before me so I can lick your pussy from behind before I fill it with my cock and fuck you hard so you feel me for days.”
“Wow.” That’s all my foggy brain can come up with as I press my legs together in an effort to release some of the pleasure building there.
I swear I hear him curse in the distance but it’s faint and irrelevant when his lips brush over mine. Heat explodes when he swoops his tongue inside and starts a slow and sensual dance with mine. My eyes fall shut and my fingers slide over his chest, feeling the leather of his cut where I dig into the fabric to pull him close.
In this moment I want to climb his body, knock the Stetson off his head and slide my fingers through his hair to guide his head as I kiss the hell out of him. Then I’ll rip off his clothes, lick every inch of his tattoos and muscles.
I’ll take my time exploring his body, wrap my fingers around his cock and maybe explore some more with my mouth until I take him inside my body. We’re on fire, ready to merge every inch of ourselves. Yes. Oh, holy hell I’m so turned on right now, I could dry hump this man on the sidewalk and feel no shame as long as he gives me an orgasm right freaking now.
“Fuck, woman,” Atticus growls as he rips his mouth from mine and guides my head into the crook of his neck. “I knew you’d be liquid fire sliding right through my fingers and licking my skin to brand yourself into my fucking soul.”
I’m stunned by his words and yet they make perfect sense because I felt it too all throughout our kiss.
“Come on, there’s work to be done.” He pulls me from the comfortable hiding place in the crook of his neck to pierce me with his gaze when he adds, “But tonight? You’re in my bed.”
I swallow at the dryness in my throat and quickly nod in agreement. Because what sane woman would pass up being in this man’s bed? He releases another string of curses and practically drags me into the building.
A woman is sitting behind a counter and she gives us a brilliant smile. “Hello, welcome to Blue Shiny Drops. I’m Jenny, how may I help you?”
I decide to take lead and give her a soft smile. “I’m Special Agent Frankie Brennan and this here is my colleague Atticus Wolffield. I’m sorry to say we’re here because of Dawn Richards.”
“Oh, she’s on vacation,” Jenny instantly replies.
“I’m sorry to say she’s not. She was murdered a few weeks ago,” Atticus bluntly states.
Jenny covers her hand with her mouth and mutters a muted, “Oh, God.”
She seems genuinely affected and I tell her, “I’m sorry for your loss but I do have a few simple questions if you don’t mind.”
Nodding she croaks, “Of course.”
“When did her vacation start and how long was she supposed to be gone?”
“She never took a day off.” Jenny sniffs. “Dawn was always working and saving her money. But then she suddenly wanted to go away and said her boyfriend booked them a vacation to Hawaii for four weeks and she took five weeks off I believe. I have to check with the boss, Harry would know for sure. But I talked to her before she left, she was really excited to go. Oh, this is horrible.”
My interest was spiked as soon as she said boyfriend and it would explain why she didn’t have anything on her financial record about booked tickets or reservations and so on.
Atticus beats me to the punch when he asks, “Do you know who she might have gone on vacation with? Who her boyfriend was?”
“I don’t know his full name. She only mentioned Sam or Sammy, no last name and she never so much as showed a picture, brought him here, or picked her up. Heck, I thought she made him up because she never goes out and has been working here full shifts for years. I don’t even know how she met him. One day she just started to rave about how she met this Sam and how he makes her feel special and overflows her with attention and gifts and how he’s thoughtful.” Jenny shakes her head and looks from me to Atticus. “He killed her right? Is that how she died? You mentioned she was murdered: it must have been him.”
“You never met this Sam? Neither did any of the other employees? Your boss maybe?” I question.
She shakes her head and offers to get her boss. We spend another handful of minutes questioning him but it’s obvious this boyfriend Dawn was talking about seems like a ghost. My mind is still going over everything when we walk out and Atticus hands me the helmet back.
“I get the feeling the so-called boyfriend is the killer. Easy access into the house and unaware of the danger she’s facing. Is he playing with his victims first? Gaining their trust? Is there a chance there are two killers, working as a pair? One to lure them in, the other to finish it off? Or just one guy who thinks of everything and is so smooth he’s slipping underneath everyone’s radar?” I question.
He nods. “Sure sounds like you’re right. Batshit crazy on the double if you ask me.”
I nod and try to shake the insanity of this case out from my mind. I need a clear head to be able to keep focused and not dwell on the crazy side or let my emotions affect my judgement. Time to put a pin in it and let it go until we’re back at the clubhouse where we can go over it together.
Atticus straddles his bike and waits for me to get on. This time when I wrap my arms around him, I let my hands fall to the front of his jeans, below his belt buckle. Screw it. If the man says I’m in his bed tonight, I might as well go all in and show him I’m on the same level.
But I’m pretty sure he already knows.
