Snitch

Chapter 6-1

6

Shea peered through her welding goggles at the join between the pieces of aluminum that were coming together to form the frame of a new custom motorcycle. Who cares if our last show bike didn’t sell well? We’re building a reputation here. It’s an investment. Why doesn’t Terrance see that?

She pulled the trigger on the TIG welder. The aroma of ozone and carbon filled the air. Sparks exploded from the welder tip with an angry sizzle as aluminum glowed and softened, two pieces of metal melding into one.

Shea flipped up the mask and inspected her work. Her finger drew a line across the warm surface, brainstorming ideas for creating an agile bike with a Gothic biomechanical style. Despite the nagging ache in her collarbone, she was pleased she could still do the work she was so passionate about.

Her phone’s old-fashioned ringtone interrupted her inspection of the work in progress.

“Iron Goddess Custom Cycles. This is Shea.”

“Miss Stevens, this is Detective Rios with the Cortes County Sheriff’s Office.”

Shea tensed. She was never fond of talking to cops, least of all Detective Rios, who had forced her to sign a confidential informant agreement months after she was shot. “What do you want?”

“How’s your recovery going?” The compassion in the detective’s voice almost sounded genuine.

“My recovery?” She scoffed as bile burned her throat. “You mean after your f*****g boss gunned down my sister in the street after he kidn*pped her daughter?”

“Shea, I—”

“Or you talking about the broken collarbone I got when he ran me off the road?” It felt good to let it out after three months of simmering.

“Listen—”

“No, wait, you must mean my recovery from when your asshole of a partner shot me in the back.”

“I saved your life, Shea. I think a little gratitude is in order.”

“f**k gratitude. I risked my neck to save my niece from you d**g-trafficking cops. And that’s the thanks I got. A dead sister, a broken collarbone, and a goddamned bullet in the back. And since you asked, it all still f*****g hurts!”

“Sergeant Foster and Detective Edelman were bad apples. I grant you that. And I am truly sorry for what you went through. I know how painful it is to lose a sister.”

“Bullshit, you ain’t lost no sister.”

A moment of silence passed and Shea hoped the call had dropped. No such luck.

“Shea, I need your help with a case.”

“I ain’t got time to help you, Rios. You’re the detective. Solve your own damn cases. I build bikes for a living, in case you forgot.”

“You also signed an agreement to be a confidential informant in exchange for us dropping those weapons charges. In case you’d forgotten.”

“Those weapons charges were bogus, and you know it. So, you can stick that agreement where the sun don’t shine.”

“I would really hate to send you back to prison. But if you refuse to—”

“Do what you gotta do, lady. I ain’t gonna be your snitch.”

“People are dying, Shea. Women are dying.”

Shea stopped for a second, processing what Rios had said. “What the hell you talking about?”

“I don’t want to discuss it over the phone. You know where the Black Rock Mine is?”

“’Bout halfway between Ironwood and Bradshaw City. What the hell’s that got to do with anything?”

“Meet me there in an hour.”

“The mine’s closed.”

“Yes, the county seized it a while back for safety violations and unpaid taxes.”

“Yeah, right. Sounds like Buzzkill wanted his own gold mine,” Shea said, referring to Sheriff Buzz Keeler.

“Half an hour, Shea. The gate will be unlocked.”

“And if I don’t go?”

“I’ll have Deputy Aguilar pick you up. You’re at Iron Goddess, judging by the sounds in the background. Am I right?”

“f**k,” Shea whispered under her breath.

“What’ll it be, Ms. Stevens?”

“Fine. I’ll meet you at the goddamn mine.”

Shea hung up and tossed the welding torch onto the rack. She felt like pounding something with a hammer. “As if I ain’t got enough s**t to deal with.”

She traipsed into the office and snatched her hoodie off the coatrack so hard it fell over with a loud clang. “Goddamn fuckity fuck.”

Terrance glanced up at her. “Everything all right?”

“Everything’s f*****g fine.”

“’Cause you just assaulted a perfectly innocent coatrack.”

“Detective Rios wants me to meet with her about something.”

“Uh-oh. What trouble you get yourself into now? You doing burnouts in front of the Tastee-Freez again?” He grinned, no doubt attempting to lighten her mood. It wasn’t working.

“Funny. It’s that f*****g confidential informant agreement she forced me to sign when I was in the hospital doped up on painkillers.”

“What does she want you to do?”

“No idea.”

“Maybe she just wants you to keep your ears open for illegal activity.”

“I doubt it. She wants to meet with me at the old Black Rock Mine.”

“Really? Why there?”

“Prolly so nobody sees me meeting with her. Such bullshit. I’ll be back in a while.”

She stormed out to the back parking lot, slipped on her Shoei helmet, and threw a leg over Sweet Betsy, a black cruiser, low and mean, with a high performance 750cc engine that could outrun a Harley twice its size.

The motorcycle peeled out of the Iron Goddess parking lot and turned north onto Sycamore Springs’ Main Street. The quaint, tourist-driven shops of Olde Towne Sycamore Springs blurred past, replaced by rolling hills of prairie grass dotted with juniper.

The crisp morning air and bright blue sky took the edge off her anger. Wind therapy, Shea called it.