The Seventh Sons (Sycamore Moon Series Book 1) Read online

  Still, something had been bothering him, and he refused to call it an early mid-life crisis. As gifted as he was, he hadn't managed to recover his wife after she disappeared two years earlier. Living without her created a void inside him that he was just beginning to comprehend. However easily work had come to him thus far in Sanctuary, there remained the nagging feeling that he needed to understand more. This determination, whether through carelessness or curiosity, brought him to consider the bikers an aberrant type of thorn.

  In truth, Diego had him hooked the second he mentioned disappearances.

  Trailing them downstairs, Maxim hit the ground floor, turned into the police lobby, and entered the marshal's office. It was a large room littered with desks and outdated computers and had the old kind of fluorescent bulbs that buzzed. The far wall was exposed brick, and the ceiling tiles were still stained from the years when smoking was legal in government buildings. The only two officers in the room besides the rookie were Hitchens and Cole, two veterans who were as much a relic in these times as the office itself.

  "Get out of the way, black," said Gutierrez to Hitchens as he passed him by.

  "You keep calling me black and I'm gonna file racial discrimination charges on your ass." Hitchens tried to scowl but couldn't hide his smirk. "Fucking spic."

  Maxim shook his head. If Gutierrez was an instigator, the two veterans were stock cartoon caricatures: Hitchens was heavy and bossy and loud and Cole was tall and muscled and reserved. The humorous moment did not last long.

  "Dwyer, what in the hell do you think you're doing?" Hitchens always spoke plainly. He didn't care if it got him into trouble, and it often did, but Maxim appreciated that nuance about the man. He was overweight and in his fifties but still dependable in most situations.

  This wasn't one of them.

  "The marshal is going to flip his lid when he finds MC members in our jail!"

  Barney Hitchens was the patrol sergeant, so he was accustomed to getting his way. He didn't hold rank over the Criminal Investigation Unit but the marshal certainly did, and the marshal would not be happy that Maxim had chosen to observe and interfere with the bikers at Sycamore Lodge tonight. None of the police were cleared by the brass to monitor the club, and Hitchens and Cole, perhaps concerned with their pensions, never bent that rule. The two uniforms had responded to the motorcycle accident, but they wanted no part of locking up the Seventh Sons.

  "Someone needs to account for the dead man, Hitchens. What else could I do?"

  The grizzled officer was only half sympathetic. Gutierrez escorted the prisoner to the interrogation room and Hitchens watched them with uncertain eyes. "You should have just left it alone, that's what. And on a full moon, no less."

  And there was the real reason no one interfered. Fear.

  This was a small department and the veterans could get away with just about anything—but they were flat out afraid of the motorcycle club. Hitchens was bull-headed and coarse, but his superstitious nature had those qualities beat. Too many long nights in the woods, Maxim supposed.

  Still, maybe the timing of the full moon had influenced Maxim's decision to watch the bikers on this particular night. The veterans had reasons for their beliefs; if Maxim was to be convinced as well, tonight was a promising candidate.

  Cole, ever diplomatic, attempted to ease the tension. He was a decade older than the sergeant, but that didn't stop the taller man from hitting the gym and showing up his friend. "Just make sure when the marshal reads your report that it doesn't involve us, 'cause we're not here."

  Officer Cole wasn't as abrasive as his counterpart, but his message was the same. For someone in such prime physical condition, Maxim thought it curious that he was afraid of the wolf stories too.

  "You got it," was all Maxim could get in before they marched toward the exit.

  Hitchens, without looking back, left one last piece of his mind. "Make sure you know what you're doing." The two veterans left the marshal's office for the night.

  So it was to be a skeleton crew downstairs as well, then. Their gray hair may have been evidence of wisdom or cowardice, but neither rubbed off on Maxim.

  iv.

  The detective entered the small interrogation room as Gutierrez locked Diego's left arm to the reinforced steel bar on the table.

  "And his right arm too."

  Maxim wasn't sure that he believed in werewolves, and he knew the man's right arm was bruised, but it wouldn't be said that he taunted the unknown. He gave Gutierrez his set of cuffs to keep Diego comfortable with stretching room and then slid a plastic chair across the dirty linoleum tiles to the front of the table opposite Diego. Maxim considered the empty chair for a moment.

  "Don't worry, Detective Dwyer, I won't bite." Diego spoke plainly between the thin mustache and goatee circling his lips. "I can guarantee your safety if you can guarantee mine."

  He looked calm in his seat, leaning forward on the table with his hands clasped together. For a man banged up in an accident and wearing nothing but tube socks and a hospital gown, he seemed strangely put together. He had a confident, strong jaw, a decent tan, and aside from his frazzled black hair, he was well groomed.

  The rookie grabbed a camcorder leaning against the corner wall and unfolded the tripod. "Don't tell me you buy into all this dog talk, sir." Gutierrez positioned the camera to get a good view of Diego in the limited light, putting his hands up to block out a shot like a director might frame a scene. "Although this video could make the front page of Reddit if this guy did something crazy!"

  Diego contemplated the young man with the waning patience of a father, eyes again appearing black as night. "You live in the middle of these beautiful woods, just south of the Grand Canyon, yet your computers..." he said, trailing off as if his amusement were enough explanation.

  Gutierrez raised his eyebrows. "Don't pretend like you're too good for Facebook, bro. When you take pictures of your giant hole in the ground, you gotta post them somewhere."

  The prisoner blinked slowly and said, "I don't like to carry my cell phone on me."

  The rookie scrunched his eyebrows together. "Why not? It's called a mobile phone because you're supposed to take it with you."

  It may have been the harsh yellow bulbs recessed in the low ceiling, but Maxim had no need for jokes or philosophical discussion at this late hour. He just stood there and gave Gutierrez an unwavering stare that conveyed the state of his sense of humor until the rookie retreated from the boxy room, closing the door behind him. Maxim's gaze traveled from the video camera, making sure it was on, to the suspect, seated calmly and leaning on the table, and finally to his vacant chair. With everything in place, the detective gave a heavy sigh and melted into the seat.

  "How's my bike?" Diego's slight Hispanic accent was well-integrated and hard to place.

  "It's fine," Maxim replied. He wasn't very familiar with motorcycles, but he did note the conditions of the accident vehicles for his report. "You laid it down and scratched it up but it's good to go."

  The door opened meekly and Gutierrez popped his head in. "Yo, that's another thing. Do you think I can ride that bike one day? It is dope."

  "Gutierrez!" Maxim glared and the rookie disappeared again.

  Diego could not hide his smile. "It's a beautiful machine, isn't it? A brand new Triumph Scrambler. It really stands out from the pack."

  That was something else the detective had noticed. The other club members opted for old Harleys.

  "Okay, let's start this off. This is Detective Maxim Dwyer," he recited in monotone, looking back at the camera although barely concerned if he was actually within frame, "interviewing suspect one in the Sycamore Lodge stabbing." The detective nonchalantly turned to his companion and leaned in. "Please state your name, for the record."

  The prisoner's face brightened ever so slightly, as if the game were afoot. Maxim recognized the sign as either deceptive or playful, thinking Diego didn't realize the magnitude of trouble he was in. Did he think he could just w
alk away from all of this?

  The man answered with a proud flair, exaggerating his accent as the name rolled off his tongue. "Diego de la Torre, sir." The prisoner even bowed his head slightly, like he was the star in his own play.

  Maxim rested his back against the inflexible chair and put his right foot on his knee. Where was he to start?

  "You've previously mentioned arriving at Sycamore Lodge at about ten o'clock. Is that correct?"

  "That is."

  "And what were you doing there?"

  "Oh," Diego said, shaking his head as if the reason were unclear. "I suppose the same as everybody else."

  "Meaning you were looking for trouble?"

  Diego chuckled. "Trouble, perhaps, but not the sort you're interested in."

  Maxim studied the man's body language. Diego had appeared very frayed before, and back in the clinic, he'd had an insistence about him, almost like some of the drug addicts the detective had occasionally arrested. But locked up down here, the prisoner was the perfect model of composure. Maxim hoped this change in demeanor didn't reflect a shift in the man's desire to be forthcoming.

  "According to eyewitnesses, the two we've got upstairs were drinking for hours before you showed up. They both exceeded the legal limit of alcohol in their blood, but you tested completely negative."

  "Maybe I don't drink," posited the suspect.

  "They say it's hard to trust a man who doesn't drink—"

  "Would you trust me more if I admitted to lying about it?"

  Maxim sighed as he watched the upturned corners of Diego's mouth open into a wide grin. Not only was the suspect wasting the detective's time, but he was having fun doing it. Maxim should have known this wasn't going to be an automatic confession.

  "Diego, I would trust you more if you didn't hide behind clever banter. You told me you wanted to confess. So what is it exactly that you have to say to me?"

  The suspect had no immediate answer. He looked at the bare walls, examining all four of them. Maxim closed his eyes and rubbed them as he realized what Diego was searching for. The detective reached into his jacket's breast pocket and placed his phone face up on the table. "Five minutes till three."

  "Then we still have about ten minutes."

  "Good. How about we drop the werewolf thing until then and keep talking about the case?"

  Diego's lips covered his large teeth as they closed to form an inquisitive pout. "Aren't you at all intrigued?"

  Maxim didn't blink. "If this is all you want to offer me, then I'll lock you back to your bed and head home."

  The prisoner's black eyes drilled into the detective's face. Maxim's abiding stare was all that returned. After a moment, the steadfast will of the officer proved stronger. Diego couldn't hide his agitation briefly and pulled his head down to his hands so he could brush his hair back.

  "Fine, Detective Dwyer, ask your questions."

  Now they were getting somewhere.

  "What was the fight in the bar about?"

  "Some guys were having a conversation when they were interrupted. I heard shouting over the music. The place erupted and people started punching people." Diego looked straight into Maxim's eyes earnestly. "I wasn't involved. I just wanted to get out of there."

  "Wrong place, wrong time, huh?" The detective snickered. "Listen, I'll believe the werewolf thing before I buy that story. All of you sped down the road into the woods in complete darkness to elude me. Everything that involves one Seventh Son involves them all, and you were right in the middle of it."

  "So that's it. You think I'm in their gang?"

  Maxim stopped himself before he asked his next question. He'd thought the biker would at least afford him that much. The motorcycle club wasn't allowed to wear jackets or other gang paraphernalia within Sanctuary town limits. Because of the department's operational procedures, they didn't have a definitive list of all the members.

  Still, Diego's ID was from out of state. While these bikers came from any number of places, it was possible he was telling the truth. Maxim would track the man's credit cards in the morning to be sure, but for the moment he would humor him. He saw where this was going.

  "What are you telling me, that you don't know the other bikers at all?"

  Diego flashed his hands out with a magician's flourish, as if something had disappeared. By Maxim's account, it was his leverage.

  "That is what I'm telling you, Detective. I don't live in Sanctuary. Haven't been here longer than two nights. You can check with the Motel 6."

  Maxim cocked his head to regroup his thoughts. A stranger from out of town on a different kind of motorcycle—maybe these pieces were part of the same puzzle.

  "So, if you didn't know any of the others," Maxim spoke deliberately, making sure to lay his trap perfectly, "why did you chase them out of the bar?"

  "I wasn't chasing anybody."

  "So why didn't you pull over when I lit you up?"

  "What did you expect me to do? You can't prosecute me for not stopping while being chased by two gang members!"

  "Ah!" Maxim crossed his arms over his chest in a practiced motion. "So you were involved then?"

  Diego paused, realizing he'd given more information than he had intended. He let out a measured breath and looked down at the cell phone sitting on the table. The screen was off.

  "I don't know, Detective. They thought I stabbed their friend, perhaps."

  This was the path that Maxim wanted to venture down. The fight didn't matter, the DUIs would be charged—all Maxim really cared about was finding out who stabbed the fourth biker. The lodge could keep its scofflaw clientele, but the detective was determined to prevent any more incidents from spilling into the streets.

  "Who attacked the victim?"

  "I told you I didn't see it happen, Detective." Diego's repetition of the formal title meant he was regulating his dialog, being careful about every word he revealed. "You're the Sanctuary resident. You know how petulant those bikers are. We got into words because I spilled some beer on someone. But the stabbing happened later."

  "So what are you saying, Diego? A fight breaks out, you don't see anything, but you get chased from the bar for no real reason?"

  "That's what I am saying, yes."

  "You and the two bikers?"

  Diego's eyes darted to the side as he searched for meaning to the clarification. He appeared to be aggravated by his confusion and let out a stern reply. "Yes."

  "And what about the fourth man—the one who was stabbed? Why was he chasing you?"

  Diego gawked at Maxim incredulously. "He made it outside?"

  "The stabbing victim was the last one outside. He was on his motorcycle a few hundred feet until he collapsed, leaving you three ahead. By the time I got to him, he was dead."

  "Son of a bitch."

  "That's right." Maxim reiterated the question to emphasize how ridiculous it sounded. "So this man, the victim who got stabbed, also incorrectly identified you as his attacker and gave you chase?"

  The suspect's cuffs rattled against the steel bar as he pulled his hands to lean back. Diego looked up at the ceiling and slowly shook his head in wonder. "I don't know. I didn't think that dude was getting up."

  Maxim had caught the man off guard and hoped to leave him scrambling to regain his footing. People were usually more honest when they weren't in control. A nudge here, a shove there, and Diego would slip up. He'd already practically admitted to witnessing the stabbing.

  "You see, Diego, there's something that confuses me. I keep going over it again and again in my head." Maxim stood up and flipped his chair around, holding the plastic back in front of him as he straddled it and sat down again, assuming a more aggressive posture.

  "The three of you were ahead of me when you crashed. Those two upstairs, they sustained broken bones and got cut up pretty bad.

  "But you..." Maxim stressed the words as the prisoner once again focused on him, unsure of where he was being led. Maxim thought it a good sign that he commanded the man'
s attention and let the words hang in the air for a moment longer before continuing. "Besides a few minor scrapes not even worth mentioning, you were miraculously unharmed in the accident."

  Diego leaned forward and reached for the detective's phone, fumbling to turn it on, frustration slowly marring his cool. Maxim stared into the man's eyes with a fierce intensity, enjoying the hunt. As the screen lit up and illuminated the prisoner's face with cold light, the detective didn't waver his gaze. After a moment, Maxim grabbed his phone from Diego's hands and put it back into his pocket without even looking at it.

  Maxim wouldn't be seeing any werewolves tonight. He knew what this was about now—the prisoner was stalling for time.

  "If those bikers were chasing you, then you would've been the first to hit the spikes and go down. Do you know why you didn't get hurt in the accident, Diego?"

  The man scowled as he got angry at Maxim's inference. He stood up and pushed forward against the chains defiantly. Still, despite the hostile display, Diego made no move to attack the detective. Nor, noticeably, had any words escaped his lips to defend himself.

  Not to be outdone by dramatics, Maxim jumped backwards out of his seat and kicked his chair to the side. It skipped against the tiles and bounced harmlessly off the two way mirror, ringing loudly through what Maxim knew was the entire first floor. Maxim stepped forward to meet Diego's stance.

  "The reason you didn't hit the spikes, Diego, is because you were behind the other two bikers on the road!" The man's eyes pressed into a cold stare as Maxim kept pounding on the point. "You saw them hit the strips and wipe out, so you laid your bike down to avoid the accident! You were chasing them, Diego. That's why your bike was okay! That's why the tires weren't shredded! That's why you weren't hurt!"

  Diego rocked from side to side nervously. Maxim didn't let up.

  "You stabbed the man, Diego, didn't you? And you attacked the other two. That's why they ran from you."