Two dozen motorcycles lined the street surrounding the entrance at Bootlegger Bob’s. Normally, at nine o’clock in the morning the place would be all but deserted. But now a crowd of Thundermen, old ladies, and hangarounds stood vigil, pressing against the police barricades under low clouds that threatened rain.
“You really think the Sisterhood burned down the Thunder’s bar?” asked Johnson, gazing out the window. “They’d have to be suicidal.”
“So far, that’s what it’s looking like.”
Rios inched her car into the driveway past faces filled with anger and violence. Deputy Graham was standing guard at the crime scene, as he had at the Genette Abrams crime scene. Dressed in rain gear, he stood with a wary eye scanning the leather-clad crowd, his hand resting on his service weapon.
Rios rolle
