“Talk to me.”
“I’m at the Vault.” His voice was low and clipped as he announced, “Some cops just showed up here, and they’re asking questions about the girl.”
“What girl?”
“The one from the other night.” My back stiffened the second he said, “The one the two assholes tried to get a hold of.”
“What about her?”
“They wanted to know if we’d seen or heard anything. When I told him no, he asked about checking our surveillance.”
“Damn.”
“He said it’s routine, but I don’t know, brother. The asshole’s pretty pushy. Got that ‘I-know-I’m-not-welcome-but-don’t-care’ energy.”
“Got it.” I ground my teeth. “He got a warrant?”
“No.”
“Then don’t show them shit. Tell him the system’s down. Tell him the manager isn’t here. Hell, I don’t care what the fuck you tell him. Just stall until I get there.”
“You got it.”
I ended the call and turned my attention to Shep.
“Clear the footage at the Vault from that night,” I said, turning for the door.
He gave me a nod. “Already on it.”
I didn’t wait for him to tell me it was done. I had a pissed-off cop to deal with, and the last thing we needed was him sniffinginto our dealings at the club. I had to make sure that shit stayed under wraps, or we were all fucked.
As soon as I was out to my bike, I swung my leg over the seat, slipped on my helmet, and fired it up. I eased through the gate and sped towards the Vault. That tight, gnawing feeling in my gut hadn’t let up, and I had a bad fucking feeling it wasn’t going to anytime soon.
When I got to the Vault, I rolled up slow and scanned the lot before I killed the engine. There were two men standing out front. One was in full uniform, while the other was in jeans and a navy sports coat, but the jeans didn’t make him look any less like a prick.
He was older, broad-shouldered, and sharp-eyed. He had his hand near his belt, no doubt close to his weapon, and he was watching me like a fucking hawk.
I parked, kicked the stand down, and stepped off the bike, moving in a way that showed I wasn’t in any rush. Skid was standing off to the side and pretending to talk on his phone. He gave me a brief nod, and there was no missing the relief in his eyes as he shoved his phone in his back pocket.
I approached the two officers and kept my voice low and steady as I asked, “Can I help you gentlemen with something?”
The guy in the sports coat stepped forward and tilted his head like he was trying to place me. “You work here?”
“I do.”
“You got a name?”
“Creed.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Gonna need your official name.”
I didn’t respond right away.
I just stood there glaring at him. His face was familiar, but I couldn’t place him. Eventually, I told him, “Jameson Jones. And your official name?”
“Detective Brian Maddox.”
The name hit like a punch to the ribs.
