Wednesday 15 June, 1.45 P.M.
Gwyn’s mood was dark as Thorne parked their borrowed SUV in front of the crab shack that acted as the Circus Freaks’ front office. It was really old. Paint peeled, shutters were missing, and windows had been boarded up. Perched on the banks of the Patapsco River down by the docks, the place was definitely ramshackle. But not abandoned. Twenty motorcycles were parked outside. And amazing scents wafted through the SUV’s air vents.
Steamed crabs with Old Bay seasoning, one of the few pleasant memories of Gwyn’s childhood. It was almost enough to make her sigh happily. Except she wasn’t happy. At all.
‘I want to say again that this is a stupid idea, Thorne.’
He glanced over at her, his expression equally dark. ‘So noted, but it’s too late for you to change your mind. I don’t have time to take you somewhere safe, and there is no fucking way that I’m leaving you in the SUV.’
‘I didn’t say I’d changed my mind,’ she said tersely. She was going in with him, no matter what. Didn’t mean she had to like it.
His reply was equally terse. ‘Good.’
They sat in silence for a full minute before he blew out an angry breath and voiced what was worrying them even more than their meeting with the leader of the Circus Freaks. ‘How did we miss this thing with Laura? I thought she was happy and honest.’
Gwyn pinched the bridge of her nose. Their missing bartender had proved to be an even bigger issue than they’d feared. Not only had she quit, but she’d cleaned out her apartment. And not only had she done that, but her neighbors hadn’t seen her in a month, and none of them had seen her with a baby. Ever.
The woman they’d hired and nurtured and treated as one of their own had truly gotten one by them. A big one. How big was not yet known.
Gwyn did not have a good feeling about any of this. ‘I don’t know. We put her through the same hiring process we’ve used for years. The same background check. I mean, I didn’t do it, but you did.’
‘No, I didn’t,’ Thorne murmured. ‘I was busy with a case. Anne did it.’
Anne Poulin, Thorne’s beautiful, tall, willowy French receptionist who Gwyn had disliked on sight. Well, French Canadian anyway. Didn’t matter. The woman still oozed sex.
Gwyn frowned. ‘Why didn’t you ask me to . . .’ She let the question trail off, because she knew the answer. She’d always done Thorne’s hiring at the firm. Until four years ago. But Laura had been hired six months ago. ‘I was better when we hired Laura. Why didn’t you ask me?’
‘You might have known you were getting better,’ he said wearily. ‘I didn’t know any such thing and I didn’t want to push you.’
‘Next time, push me,’ she said.
‘So noted,’ he replied once again, and she sighed.
‘I’m sorry, Thorne. I shouldn’t have questioned you on that one. I’m upset.’
‘I know.’ Taking her hand, he pulled it to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. ‘In hindsight I probably should have pushed you. I let you stew too long.’
‘I told you that you were more patient with me than I am with you.’
‘Well, that’s true.’ He checked his phone. ‘I left a voicemail for Anne, asking her about Laura’s background check, but she’s never called me back. You?’
‘She wouldn’t call me. She doesn’t like me.’
She thought he’d deny that, but he shrugged lightly. ‘She’s jealous. Everyone compared her to you and it annoyed her.’ He squared his shoulders. ‘We should go inside and talk to Alistair.’
‘Who is that?’
Thorne’s smile was wry. ‘The boss of the Circus Freaks.’
‘And his name is Alistair? Why didn’t he change it to Rocco or something?’
‘Rocco was taken. Plus . . .’ He hesitated. ‘Nobody ever makes fun of him. Let’s just leave it at that.’
‘Lovely.’ She patted her stomach, comforted to feel the handgun holstered in the girdle she wore. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
Gripping his hand tightly, she entered the shack, blinking to get used to the darkness. It was a familiar sight, picnic tables covered with newspaper and piles of crab shells – the only way to truly enjoy blue crabs.
Thorne bent down to whisper in her ear. ‘If we don’t die, let’s get a bushel to go.’
That made her laugh, so when they came face to face with the biggest, burliest man she’d ever seen, she was still smiling. The smile faded away as she craned her head back to see his face.
‘Holy motherfuck,’ she muttered under her breath. Alistair was enormous. He towered over Thorne, for God’s sake, with a bald head and a handlebar mustache that would have made him look comical had it not been for the wicked scar that ran from his left eye to disappear beneath the facial hair. His eyes were blue. And cold. His leather vest was covered in gang patches, his skin in tattoos. It was only the steady pressure of Thorne’s hand on the small of her back that kept her from turning to run for her life.
Keeping a firm hold on her, Thorne stuck his free hand out for the gang leader to shake. ‘Alistair. It’s good to see you again.’
The man shook Thorne’s hand. ‘Likewise,’ he said in a voice that was more growly than any one of the motorcycles out there. He eyed Gwyn. ‘I didn’t know you were bringing your lady friend. I’m afraid these benches are the only seats we’ve got.’
‘It’s all right,’ Gwyn said. ‘I grew up on a crab boat. I’ve sat on much worse.’
He tilted his bald head, studying her. ‘You’re Gwyn Weaver. You manage Thorne’s club.’
‘I am.’ She lifted her chin, meeting his eyes. ‘It’s my club too. You’re Alistair. I’m afraid I don’t know your last name.’
His mustache twitched. ‘Nobody does. Let’s sit down.’ He waited until they were seated – Alistair on one side of the table, Thorne and Gwyn on the other – before leaning forward. ‘Where was your crab boat?’ he asked, his tone challenging.
‘A little nothing town called Anderson Ferry on the Eastern Shore.’
‘I’ve been there.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she replied without missing a beat. She’d run away at sixteen and had only been back once. And that had ended very poorly.
His mustache twitched again. ‘Crabs were good,’ was all he said, then sat back, his palms flat on the newspaper. ‘So, Thorne. You’ve got yourself a situation.’
‘That I know. Do you know anything else? Something that would be news to me perhaps?’
Cold blue eyes regarded them. ‘I owe you a debt,’ Alistair said. ‘That is the only reason you’re still breathing.’
Gwyn drew a breath and let it out slowly.
Thorne was as steady as he’d been with that douchebag Chandler Nystrom just hours before. ‘I didn’t have anything to do with your boys getting killed. I hope you know that.’
‘I do. But it wouldn’t have mattered. If I hadn’t owed you anything, I would have been . . . remiss had I not avenged my brothers. But I do owe you. Because of you, my son has a life. Avery’s doing well, by the way.’
Ah, Gwyn thought. Avery was the young man that Thorne had represented in court – and the one he’d encouraged to testify against Tavilla’s son, Colin. Now a few things made more sense.
Thorne’s lips curved. ‘I know. I get a card every Christmas.’
‘His mama raised him right.’ Alistair drummed his fingers on the table briefly, then stilled them. ‘Once we’re done here, my debt is paid.’
‘Understood. And thank you for not killing us,’ Thorne added dryly.
Another mustache twitch. ‘You’re welcome. Your bartender was a plant.’
Gwyn blinked, stunned. A quick glance up showed Thorne doing the same.
‘What do you know about our bartender?’ she asked, because Thorne was still blinking. ‘We’re talking about Laura, right?’
A single nod. ‘She didn’t go by that name when she tried to infiltrate the Freaks. She introduced herself to us as Bianca. She attached herself to Bart and for a while she fooled us. Luckily for us, Bart was a jealous bastard and followed her one night because he suspected her of cheating.’