Клэр Донелли - Catch As Cat Can

Blowing his whole alibi to do it, Sunny thought.

Scab’s skinny face tightened. “Then, when I came back, this Bear guy threatened to take me apart.”

“Why would he do that?” Sunny asked.

“I dunno,” Scab whined. “I thought I’d spend some of the money I made here. When Bear found out how I got it, all of a sudden he was on my case.” His face took on the same sullen look Shadow got when someone picked him up against his will—a large human against a much smaller cat. “Yeah, big, bad Bear, with his stupid motorcycle tattoo—didn’t know how to spell Satan, had a big mother Y in the middle of it.”

Will leaned in. “Satyn’s Guard?”

“Yeah. I never heard of them. But he acted like a big man. Big Y on his arm. Stupid.”

Will stood silent for a moment, then nodded. “That’s it then. We can go.”

Val looked suddenly serious. “I guess so.”

Will turned to Scab. “And you’ll keep your mouth shut, if you know what’s good for you.”

“Yeah, right, I’m going to tell that jackass.” Scab turned back to the bar and his drink.

As she followed Val and Will to the door, Sunny said, “Y’know, I’d like to know what’s going on, too.”

“I’ll clue you in,” Will promised, glancing around. “Outside.”

When they got back into his pickup, the beer-scented interior smelled like mountain-fresh air compared to the sludge they’d been breathing in O’Dowd’s. “So what’s the story, Will?”

“It goes back a few years ago, when I first joined the state police and wound up in Troop F, up by the Canadian border. A local tattoo artist turned up nearly beaten to death. He’d annoyed some clients by making a typographical error in some tattoos. They were supposed to mark the formation of a new gang, but he’d done three guys before they caught the mistake. He inked in Satan as S-A-T-I-N.”

“Satin?” Sunny had to choke down a laugh. “Sounds like he depended on spell check.”

Will shook his head. “The three guys stuck with it didn’t think it was funny, and the beating began. The only thing that saved the guy was that his partner suggested putting wide horns on the offending I to make it a Y . So they became Satyn’s Guard. The other members got their tattoos with a regular-sized Y . But the three with the typo had to make do with, as Scab described it, ‘a big mother Y ’ in Satyn.”

Val nodded. “Of those three, one died in a shootout with federal officers, one is in jail, and the last is Yancey Kilbane, chief enforcer for the Satyn’s Guard biker gang.”

“A biker gang up by the Canadian border,” Sunny said slowly.

“You got it,” Will agreed. “A biker gang that specializes in smuggling anything from cigarettes to assault weapons. . .”

17

“So now wehave a new motive for the murder of Charlie Vane,” Sunny said. “Good, old-fashioned business get-up-and-go—in this instance, getting up and going to eliminate the competition.” She looked from Val to Will. “Is it really such a big business?”

“You heard Scab talking about people getting twice as much as they paid in Maine for guns they sold in Massachusetts,” Will told her. “In Canada, where the gun laws are even stricter, a gun can go for ten times the price you’d pay here in the States. People build special panels in the doors of cars and trucks to bring them across the border. One bunch was targeting cars with Canadian plates, sticking guns in the bumpers along with a GPS. Unsuspecting drivers would go home, bringing the contraband in for them, then they’d track down the cars for a later pickup.”

“Yipes,” Sunny muttered.

“I know.” Val frowned. “Does that count as slick or sick?”

“Actually, I was thinking I must be in the wrong business.” Sunny shook her head, echoing, “Ten times the price.”

“Sure,” Val pointed out, “if you don’t mind having the ATF after you, not to mention the customs authorities of two countries—and competitors ready to shoot you dead.”

“Yeah.” Sunny sighed. “That part of the business sounds more like our pal the shark of the fish market.”

“The biker gangs up north are way more vicious than Deke Sweeney ever was.” Will looked a little sick. “I’ve seen things—it’s nothing you’d want to talk about.”

Val shifted suddenly in her seat, her elbow digging uncomfortably into Sunny’s ribs. “You’ve got to give this scheme top marks for ingenuity,” she said. “Rather than driving into Ontario or Quebec, Vane could take his fishing vessel and make a bulk transfer to the Canadian Maritimes. I just have one question. How does a fisherman, even a somewhat shady fisherman like Charlie Vane, have the connections to start gun-running in the first place, much less become competition for an outfit like Satyn’s Guard?”

Will sat silent behind the wheel for a long moment. “We’ll have to take a serious look at his friends and associates.”

“There can’t be that many—” Sunny began. Then her voice died down. “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh,’” Will chimed in.

“Uh-huh.” Val’s voice was dry. “One associate comes to mind, with criminal connections.”

“A former mobster, in fact,” Sunny said. “Neil Garret, formerly Nick Gatto. Maybe you should be checking his associates, to see if someone wound up in Canada.”

“To hell with that,” Val said flatly, all trace of her earlier party-girl persona gone. “I vote we go up and get some answers from the horse’s mouth—or whichever end of the horse he really is.”

Will nodded, started the truck, and headed out of town.

“There are still a lot of holes in this theory,” Sunny said as they drove along quiet streets. “For instance, how did these Satyn’s Guard people know to come here to Kittery Harbor?”

“Biker gangs have been recruited as muscle by some of the old-line crime families in Canada,” Will suggested. “Maybe they were able to leverage their position with the Montreal mobsters to track down the Canadian end of the gun-running pipeline.”

“So Garret’s connection talks,” Sunny said.

“No doubt with lots of persuasion,” Val put in.

“And this Kilbane character comes to town to take care of the American end,” Will went on. “He goes to the fish market to take out Neil and finds Treibholz breaking into the place. Maybe Treibholz tries to bargain with him, maybe Yancey shoots first and asks questions later.”

“That explains one thing—why the body was left in the freezer,” Sunny said. “Jasmine said her guy came to town on a big Harley. No way would he try transporting a dead body on a motorcycle.”

That got a laugh from Will and Val. They got out on the county road that led northward to Sturgeon Springs. The town was more countrified than Kittery Harbor. Houses stood farther apart, but unlike the ritzier suburbs, most of that land was scrub forest rather than the elegantly manicured grounds of the new developments.

A graveled drive led through the trees to the place that Neil Garret rented. At least it was supposed to be graveled. Will’s pickup hit a lot of bald spots as he jounced his way to the clapboard house.

Val jumped out as soon as Will stopped the truck, strode to the door, started ringing the bell, and then swore. “Neil told me the stupid thing didn’t work.” She pounded heavily with her fist.

“All right, all right, keep your shirt on.” Neil’s voice came from the rear of the small house. A moment later, he opened the door while still tying the belt around his bathrobe.

“Oh. Val. And, uh, Will. And Sunny?” His voice went up, and so did the corners of his mouth. But Sunny saw the way Neil’s eyes darted among them, trying to figure out the reason for this late-night visit and what he might say to them.