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“It makes me wonder if she was running or hiding from someone,” Colton says, his eyes locked on something in the distance as we exit the home. “Maybe they tracked her down.”
“Maybe,” I agree, even though I don’t believe what he’s saying.
If that were the case, then it decreases the likelihood that Maddox was involved, and I have a feeling deep in my gut that he was.
“I’m going to head to the bar and ask around about her. Maybe she had friends there or struck up a conversation with someone,” I tell Colton.
“I’m heading home, but I’m available if you need me.”
Translation—call me before you fuck up royally again.
“Appreciate it,” I tell him, waiting for him to secure the door with a hinge and padlock to deter looting.
It’s like a waking nightmare to pull up outside the bar and see an even longer row of motorcycles than the one at Elizabeth’s house earlier. Rather than the sight of them making me want to turn around and leave, they fuel the fire burning inside of me.
I know it’s unrealistic to think people’s lives need to stop moving forward when someone dies, especially when someone wants others to believe there was never a real connection between them and the victim. But it seems a little soon, considering one of their members was in an interrogation room earlier today being questioned about the rape and murder of a young woman.
I climb out of my car, knowing this endeavor will more than likely be just as fruitless as the search of her home was. The only swipe of Elizabeth’s card at Jake’s was from the night she was murdered. I have to work off the assumption that she’s been here before and someone else paid for her drinks. It’s bad police work to take what’s in front of you at face-value and move on.
Elle was murdered because of face-value evidence. A deeper dive would’ve revealed the smoke and mirrors.
With my head held even higher than it was when I left the office earlier, I pull open the door to the bar and stride in like I own it. I don’t have to look over in the far corner to know they clock me right away. I can feel his eyes on me specifically, but I still refuse to look in that direction. I tell myself that I’d never give them the satisfaction, but I know deep inside that acknowledging him would also be akin to confessing I made a mistake. Despite my forced apology, I’m not certain I did anything wrong other than moving a little too quickly.
I nod at Rochelle when she locks eyes with me, but she holds her finger up as she makes another drink. The bar is busy tonight, meaning there might be a chance of patrol being called if it gets too rowdy. I also know from experience that those phone calls usually only come during nights when the MC members aren’t here. People seem to behave better when that group of folks are sitting there. No doubt people are terrified of them.
I know of at least one instance, not long ago, that a perp was brought in after drugging a woman’s drink. Cerberus got to him first but insisted that he fell down. The bruises and cuts all over his body told a different story, but no one argued. Hard to throw up a flag and talk about the problem with vigilante justice when the guy was quickly connected to several other drugged victims and sexual assaults. Whispers in the breakroom were actually in favor of what went down, and at the time, I mentally agreed as well. They only did what every cop on the force wanted to do but couldn’t. Now, however, it makes me wonder how many other times one of them crossed the line. Do some of them fight for justice in the light only to hurt others in the darkness?
I speak briefly with Rochelle before spending a little time questioning the kitchen staff, but no alarm bells go up. Other than Rochelle, no one remembers seeing Elizabeth there that night nor any other night.
On my way back out of the bar, I unconsciously look over in the direction I know Cerberus like to congregate, but Maddox isn’t in the mix. Maybe I had it wrong. Maybe he wasn’t here to begin with.
I realize my error in thinking when I walk outside and find him standing by my car. I know for a fact from scouring the video provided by Jake’s that I managed to park right in the same damn blind spot Elizabeth did the night she died.
Chapter 8
Ugly
God she’s pretty. It’s clear from looking at her that the darkness under her eyes is more than just shadows cast from the low light in the parking lot. Her jaw clenches as she approaches, the fingers on her right hand twitching as if she’s deciding whether to pull her service weapon or not.
