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“Can’t talk about it right now – just do it.”
I hung up.
Sixty seconds later, a group text came in: Lou says emergency meeting at the Roadhouse 3PM.
I sat there in the car and waited.
Two minutes later, somebody walked out of the house’s front door.
Eddie Deacon.
Then he got on his Harley and drove away.
142
Eddie fuckin’ Deacon?!
This was a misunderstanding. Had to be.
Eddie had been patched in for almost three years now. He was a good soldier. Not in my inner group, exactly, but he was one of the guys I trusted to get shit done.
What the fuck was he doing with Roach’s cell phone at his house?
Time to find out.
I got out of the car and walked over to the house. Nobody else was on the street, so I snuck around to the rear.
I tried the back door – locked. Tried all the windows, too. Same.
Now wasn’t the time for subtlety, so I rammed my elbow through a pane of glass in the back door, reached my hand through, and unlocked it from the inside.
Place was fairly neat and clean – unusual for a biker pad. Old, too. Creaky hardwood floors that had been painted white to cover up their age. Hanging on the wall was one of those spiral cord telephones you never see anymore. The refrigerator and gas stove looked like they’d come with the house when it was built.
I cased all the rooms, didn’t find anything. No cell phone, that was for damn sure.
I went to the bedroom and started searching – under the bed, between the mattress and the box spring, in the dresser drawers. Found a shotgun and a Beretta with several boxes of shells and bullets – but that was about it.
I looked under the tables to see if anything was taped there, but came up clean.
I did the same search in the kitchen, the den, the spare bedroom, the bathroom. Nothing.
Fuck.
I thought for a second. I could try calling Roach. It would be a long shot if the phone was still on, but I tried it anyway.
Went right to voicemail. No sound from the house, though.
I thought about calling Dan Peters back and telling him the address was bullshit, but my gut was telling me otherwise.
It was too big of a coincidence for the police to accidentally guess the house of one of my club members.
I got to thinking.
Say he is DEA…
Was he the one Venus was talking to?
I remembered something: the fake bust I’d set up that Venus called in, the one she found on the post-it note.
