The next morning, after a quick stop at Iron Goddess, Shea walked into the Cortes County Sheriff’s Office Ironwood substation. Her face was still swollen and deeply bruised, but the pain was subsiding. In the light of day, the potential blowback from using the nuclear option seemed too risky. She hoped that by talking with Rios, she could get Confederate Thunder Motorcycle Club thrown in jail for the previous night’s brawl.
The desk sergeant, a woman with a weathered face and a name tag that read dvorak took one look at Shea and said, “What the hell happened to you?”
“I need to talk to Detective Rios,” said Shea, minimizing her jaw movement. Speaking, as it turned out, was still painful.
“Yeah, what about?” Caution tempered the sergeant’s tone.
“She’ll know.”
“Listen, lady, no one get
