Chapter Sixteen
Givon’s personal cell phone vibrated at his hip and he reached absently for it, glancing quickly at the caller ID.
“Hey,” he greeted.
“I have an anonymous tip for you,” North told him.
“The whole purpose of anonymity is that I don’t fucking know you,” Givon stated.
North chuckled. “You want this tip or not?”
“Sure.”
“Have you interviewed the Devils yet?”
“No,” Givon said. “I’ve been waiting for this damn Cheyenne detective to call me so I don’t go in blind, but no one’s heard from him.”
“Sounds like there’s a lot going on in your jurisdiction that you don’t know about.”
“Fuck you,” Givon grumbled.
“You wish. Listen, you’ll want to talk to Gray Dog. He’s the president of the Demon Devils.”
“I know who he is. Why him specifically?”
“There’s a rumor he gave the order to burn the car.”
“And how did you happen to get this piece of gossip?”
“Now I can’t reveal my sources, Sheriff. It’s anonymous.”
“And I also know there’s a bitter feud between the Wolves and the Devils. How do I know this isn’t just a pissing contest?”
North snorted. “Come on, Giv. Those assholes moved into our territory. This is Wolf land.”
“Actually, this is my land,” Givon said sharply. “You break the fucking law, North, and I’ll be on your ass like flies on shit. Hear me?”
“I hear you. We’re cool, Sheriff. And the tip is good. Talk to Gray Dog—aptly named. He’s got a long gray beard and he smells like a dog. You can’t miss him.”
The call went dead and Givon slowly replaced his phone. He sat for a moment thinking, contemplating what to do, when he decided to go with his gut. He rose and headed out of his office to Jack’s desk.
The office was large enough that he was able to give each of his deputies a desk. The jail was an extension of the office. There weren’t many crimes committed in Destiny to warrant a bigger jail somewhere else. There was one general cell and a smaller one with actual walls for isolation. Presently, only Jack was in, since Givon had one deputy following up on a robbery and another directing traffic because of a downed light.
“I’m going to interview the Demon Devils,” he told the deputy.
“You want me to go with you?” Jack asked eagerly.
Givon shook his head. “Man the phones. When Sandy gets back, you can head to lunch.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. See you later.”
* * * *
When Givon stepped into the dark interior of the Demon Devil’s bar, he felt twenty pairs of eyes zero in on him and all of them hostile. The two prospects holding court at the door followed him in, standing silent as he looked at each man, showing he wouldn’t be intimidated nor would he back down from anyone. Finally, his gaze landed on the president of the club, Gray Dog, who stood behind the bar with hands spread on the countertop.
“What can I do for you, Sheriff?” Gray Dog boomed through the darkened, hazy interior of bar.
Givon continued forward but kept his hand near his revolver. It was like entering into a nest of vipers and he prepared for any one of them to strike.
“Just here to ask a question or two about a burned-out car that was found at the county line,” Givon replied smoothly. He kept his gaze on Gray Dog’s eyes, to see if he showed any flicker of recognition or response of any kind.
“I don’t own a car,” Gray Dog replied. “In fact, I don’t think anyone here owns a car. Does anyone own a car?”
A chorus of “no” echoed through the room.
“The car belonged to a woman named Merrie Walden. Does that name ring any bells?”
Gray Dog shook his head. “Nope.” Again, he looked around to his men. “Do any of you know this woman?”
And like before, a chorus of negative responses sounded—not that it surprised Givon. Bikers were a tight knit group of people, thick as thieves, which was more than apropos in this situation.
“Well, Sheriff,” Gray Dog said. “Looks like we don’t know nothing, so why don’t you get back to your comfy sheriff’s chair?”
Givon looked around once more. “And you have an alibi for two Friday’s ago?”
“I’ve got about fifty,” he said smugly, gesturing around the room. “I serve the drinks and Friday is one of our busiest nights.”
Givon decided to play a little bluff. “I’ve got a witness who places Merrie Walden here.”
Gray Dog narrowed his eyes. “I’d be mighty interested in meeting this so-called witness because he or she is a lying fuck.”
“You’re just a law-abiding citizen, eh, Mr. Lester?”
“I even pay my taxes, Sheriff.”
“Of course,” Givon murmured. “Well, if you hear of anything, please to let me know.”
“Sure thing,” Gray Dog replied. “You’ll be the first person I think of.”
Givon heard the insincerity in the man’s words and the mocking laughs of the club members just verified the president’s pretense. He nodded, turned on his heel and proceeded toward the door. One of the prospects opened it for him and all but booted him outside as it banged shut behind him.
* * * *
Givon stomped through his office, his boot heels loud on the wooden floor. Jack filled out a report and Sandy worked at her desk. The woman kept his office running with military precision. Occupied with a phone call, she reasoned with someone on the other end of the line so he didn’t wait, just headed into his office and closed the door. As he approached his desk, a few small details seemed out of place. Some papers had been disturbed. A folder lay crooked. He eased into his chair, scanning all around. The side drawer on his desk sat cracked open. Not much, just a little, but it was enough to let Givon know someone had been searching through his stuff.
He opened the drawer and saw that his report notebook was there. He knew exactly what was inside, random notes he’d jotted down after speaking to Braden McClintock and Leo Cloud Dancer.
Givon got up from his desk and marched back into the lobby. Sandy finished her call and Jack looked at him.
“How long have you both been back?” he questioned.
“Um…twenty minutes?” Sandy answered, looking at Jack, who nodded. “As soon as I got back, Jack ran to get a sandwich but he ate at his desk.”
“Did anyone go into my office?”
She shook her head. “Not that I know of. Jack?”
“No,” Jack said quickly. “Why?”
“Someone went through my desk.”
Their eyes widened.
“Wait a minute,” Jack said. “I went to the restroom right before Sandy returned and when I got back, a man was here.”
“What did he want?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “He seemed high or stupid or something. Said his neighbor killed one of his chickens but that was as far as I got. When I asked the man who he was, he called me a dumb shit and stormed out of here.”
“And you didn’t recognize him?”
Jack shook his head. “I’ve never seen him before. If he was messing around your desk, he was probably looking for money.”
Something about that statement just didn’t sit right with Givon. He didn’t want to believe that his office was corrupt but he couldn’t ignore his gut tightening as he stared at Jack’s innocent baby face.
All he could do was nod as if he believed him, making sure to keep his face blank.
“Okay. If you see him around town, you let me know.”
Damn it! He hadn’t believed anyone in his office was on the take. But he’d learned over the years to listen to his gut instinct when it started honking like a damn trumpet. He made a mental note to do a more thorough background check on Jack when his phone rang.
“Sheriff Halloran,” he answered.
“Sheriff, this is Detective Clark Christianson,” the man greeted. “I believe you’ve been trying to contact me.”
“Ah, yes,” Givon replied. “I was surprised when I discovered you’d been organizing an investigation in my jurisdiction without the courtesy of a call.”
“Part of the report, Sheriff, is an accusation that your department might not be as law abiding as possible.”
Indignation burned through Givon but he held back on voicing his anger. Then he thought about a way to verify the whereabouts of Merrie Walden.
“Miss Walden was perfectly fine talking with me,” Givon replied blandly.
A slight pause followed.
“You’ve…talked with her?” Detective Christianson asked.
“I did. How else do you think I got your number?”
“I must say, that’s surprising to hear. I was adamant with her and Mr. McClintock to call me if you came by.”
A sliver of satisfaction coursed through him. “Because I might be untrustworthy?”
“To keep her safe.”
“If that’s true, then what are you planning to do with the Demon Devils?”
“Shit,” the detective muttered. “How much do you know?”
“Not everything. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have had to call your captain to hunt you down.”
“Stay out of this, Sheriff, or I’m going to have to place a call to Division of Criminal Investigation. Wouldn’t want the DCI breathing down your neck, would you?”
“Is that a threat, Detective?”
“It’s a reminder that you’re not being portrayed as squeaky clean in this mess, okay?”
He clicked off, leaving Givon obsessing over that last sentence. Why would a detective from Cheyenne call Merrie Walden’s case a mess?