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“Detective Larry McCrae. I don’t mean to intervene in your private time. I just have a few questions to ask about the night the Dillon family was murdered.”
I feigned concern and bit down on my fist. “It’s a blow to the rider world. Ozzy Dillon was a good guy. I can only give my condolences.” The detective only seemed mildly concerned, judging by his stoic demeanor. He was all business and apparently didn’t know how to be sympathetic.
“It is appreciated. Were you at the residence between two and four in the afternoon?”
I fumbled with the pen on my desk, to give my hand something to do as opposed to planting it in the middle of the dick’s nose. “Yeah, we were invited over for a bar-b-cue.” I grinned, “I can’t say no to smoked ribs and potato salad.”
“Are you sure you didn’t eat mole? That’s what Mrs. Dillon had simmering on the stove.”
I glared in his direction while more lies ran through my head. “Oh, yeah, it must have slipped my mind. High on morphine!” I did an exploding gesture with my hands around my head and laughed. “I can’t even remember what I did five minutes ago.”
Detective what’s his face didn’t respond and wrote something on a notepad. “Are you coherent enough to tell me what happened the moment the Dillon family was killed?”
His snarky attitude made my blood boil, and this asshole was coming dangerously close to getting a bullet in his head. However, I had to play along with the hopes my sob story would take me off the suspect list. It was the story of my life. I was always the first on a suspect list. Public enemy number one. I couldn’t care less, really. I was proud of being the most feared and hated man in the entire state of California.
“We were all in the kitchen, drinking, eating mole and having a good time until Jensen Grimes snapped. You know, it was almost like he had multiple personalities and the mental Grimes emerged.” I paused and poured a shot of whiskey, offering a shot to the detective, though not surprised when he declined. “Anyway. The teenage girl, Sarah.”
“Her name was Selena.”
“Whatever.” I didn’t make a practice of remembering my victims’ names. “She was mouthing off to one of my guys and suddenly, Jensen pulled out both of his revolvers.”
“What guns were they?” The detective asked, still writing shit down on his notepad.
“I don’t know. Glocks? Smith and Wesson? Who cares? The point is, he opened fire on everyone in the dining room. The poor family fared the worst. I had to save myself and my men and shot him in the head. We are lucky to be alive.” I shot back my freshly poured whiskey and poured another shot.
“Yes, you are. Has Jensen Grimes snapped like this before?” The detective asked with a condescending tone, like he didn’t believe me or knew something I didn’t.
“No way, man. He was always quiet and kept to himself. So, I’m not sure what set him off.”
The detective wrote nothing else. He slipped his notepad into his coat pocket and reached around and pulled something out of his back pocket, tossing it onto the desk. “Look at that,” the dick smirked.
Hesitantly, I reached for the bi-fold wallet and slid it toward me, never taking my eyes off the detective. He gave me a single nod, urging me to open the wallet and I will be damned. It was a star-shaped badge reading, Kern County Sheriff’s Department - Deputy Sheriff.
The detective cleared his throat, “You better hope your bullshit story pans out, and that you killed a Deputy Sheriff in self-defense.”
“You can’t base your opinion on who you suspect. I’m telling you the truth. Grimes killed the family and one of my men, while maiming at least five of us.”
The man stood up and snatched the badge from my hand. “I will see myself out, Shields. I just have one thing to tell you. You better hope there’s a god somewhere watching out for you, because you’ve worn out your welcome on this planet.”
The moment he closed the door behind him, I tossed the half-empty whiskey bottle at the door and yelled out. I was fucked if I couldn’t get the men to back up my story. We never huddled to make up a solid story of what happened at the Dillon house, so fuck knows what those weasels told the dick.
No sooner was the detective gone, there was another knock on the door, not allowing me anytime to grieve my impending doom. “What in the hell do you want now?”
A man opened the door, looking behind him to make certain the other dick didn’t see him come to my office. Brent Sherman, aka Chubs, the vice president of the Akicita Antelope, risked being caught by McCrae by paying me a visit. I don’t think he cared, really; he was even more jaded than I was.
He kicked aside the broken glass before he squeezed his fat ass into the seat in front of my desk. I asked while laughing, “Does Detective McCrae know you’re not a detective?”
Chubs laughed. “Of course, he doesn’t. Eh- the dickhead doesn’t seem too impressed with my detective skills. Oh, bro, thanks for getting your guy to make those fake docs, they worked like a dream.” The grin he wore seconds ago faded and there was no emotion on his face. “With that being said, I told you where the money was. I was with him when he stuffed it under a floorboard in the basement. I didn’t tell you to go into the Dillon home and slaughter every single person and, on top of that, a cop?”
“How in the hell was I supposed to get the money?Oh, Ozzy, I am not really here to have a beer and shoot shit with you. I came here to get my $450 grand.” I opened the bottom desk drawer and pulled out a fresh bottle of Jack. “You know what would have happened? Ozzy would have shot me and my men. So, it wasmy life or theirs.” I took a swig and leaned back, with outstretched arms. “I'm ready to take the bullet so you can kill melike Ozzy was supposed to.”
Chubs jumped to his feet, “Ah, fuck it. It’s not even worth it. But know this, if that detective finds out who I am. Not only are you screwed, so am I.”
“Yeah, dilligaf, Fat Ass? Get the fuck out of my office, you sorry piece of horseshit.” He left the office with his middle finger in the air. It was an act of defiance, but not worth shooting his head off for it.
SIX
JENSEN
