Chapter Three
CHAPTER THREE
“YOU KNOW IF there is any deal to be made, it has to happen now. With every minute that passes, our generosity fades.”
As he’d been doing for the past thirty minutes, Pulse stared Detective Wallace down. He’d uttered exactly four words since being cuffed and shoved in the back of a patrol car.
I want my attorney.
That’s it.
When they first showed up at the clubhouse tossing his name around, he’d assumed they knew his history as a DEA agent. He’d been wrong. These idiots thought he was nothing more than a lowlife who’d beat a hooker on the street. They weren’t aware, but he knew every tactic in the book to get a perp to talk. Getting his lips to part would take much more than basic psychological tricks.
Another five minutes passed in a silent visual standoff. McGee hovered in the corner, arms folded across his broad chest. They’d yet to establish who’d play good cop and who’d get the role of bad, but it didn’t matter. They could threaten or sweet-talk him until he hit old age, and he wouldn’t utter a damn word without an attorney present.
A sharp rap against the interrogation room door had McGee frowning. He opened it and muttered back and forth for a few seconds before looking over his shoulder with a frown. “Wallace, step out with me for a minute.”
Her brow wrinkled, annoyance clear in her tense posture, but she listened, and a few seconds later, Pulse was alone.
He exhaled pressure from his lungs and rolled his shoulder as he stared into the two-way mirror.
Who watched on the other side of that glass? The district attorney? Police chief? Other cops? The police have had it out for the club since its inception, though Curly did a fantastic job of keeping the MC’s less-than-legal activities on the down-low.
The door opened, and his eyes narrowed as a tall, slender woman with slicked-back hair strode into the room. Her basic black pumps clicked on the linoleum. Everything about her screamed government employee, from the cheap black pantsuit to the minimal makeup to the I-don’t-get-paid-nearly-enough-for-this bland facial expression.
What the fuck was going on?
“Hi, Max,” she said as she slid into the seat Wallace vacated. “Long time no see.”
He quickly scanned his memory before recognition hit him like a ton of bricks. “Jesus,” he whispered as the woman smiled a predatory grin.
“Nah, just Agent Dixon. Jesus was busy tonight.”
He could talk all he wanted now. Dixon wouldn’t give a shit about his request for an attorney. She’d have a fancy way of justifying whatever she was about to do or say, and the law wouldn’t matter.
He knew it because he’d done it.
“You were a rookie when I left.”
“I was. Now I’m a veteran agent, and you’re a criminal. Crazy.” Her light brown eyes sparkled as she spoke. She loved every second of this, thinking she was so superior to him. She knew nothing. Understood nothing.
“How’d you find me?”
Her sharp burst of laughter made him jump. She’d been annoying as hell as a rookie. Dixon was a classic suck-up who did anything to get the approval of her superiors. Rumor had it she’d sucked more than a few dicks to make up for failing the entrance exam. At the time, he’d dismissed it as typical sexist bullshit, but then she’d offered to drop to her knees for him when she wanted a more critical role in the cartel takedown.
He shut that shit down fast.
“Oh, Max, we’ve known exactly where you’ve been every second of every day since you betrayed your country.”
He snorted. “I didn’t betray my country. I quit my low-paying government job after a traumatic undercover role. I won’t be the last to do that, and I certainly wasn’t the first.” He tilted his head and smirked. “Did it hurt your feelings? When I left, that is. I know you had a little thing for me.”
Annoyance flashed in her gaze, and Pulse bit his lip to keep from cheering. He might have left law enforcement behind him, but he still knew how to ask a question that would get under someone’s skin. After the shitty past hour, it felt good to have a few seconds of power in this fucked-up situation.
“You’re kidding yourself if you think I—”
“What the hell does the DEA want with a beat-up hooker?”
As though he’d hit her with a happiness wand, her annoyance transformed into glee. “Absolutely nothing,” she said, her grin so wide he could practically see her molars. Had she been a child, she’d have bounced in the seat and squealed in delight.
Fuck.
“But we are very interested in outlaw motorcycle clubs, Max. So interested, we now have a task force dedicated to taking all you criminals down. You’ll meet the agent in charge soon enough, but I wanted to be the one to deliver the news.”
He rolled his eyes. “Well, you’ve wasted a shitload of your time dragging your ass here. We don’t traffic drugs. If you’d done five seconds of research, you’d have learned that. Guess you better crawl on back to DC and disappoint the agent in charge.”
Good riddance.
“Not so fast, Max. This is a joint task force across alphabet agencies. I’m just the lucky one who got to pick the team.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“I’d like to make you an offer.”
“No.”
She plowed on as though he hadn’t spoken. “Funnel us information on your club, the mother charter in Tennessee, and other clubs yours works with, and we’ll—”
“Fuck off.”
Her eyes narrowed, the first crack in her arrogant armor. “Okay, fine. It’s not an offer. You give us what we need, or you spend the next chunk of your life in prison for beating Alicia Minor near to death. Poor thing. She’s just trying to make a living in any way she can. Did you know she’s a mother?” Dixon tsked. “Juries do not look kindly on men who violently assault young mothers.”
What a fucking monster.
He’d been away from federal law enforcement long enough to have forgotten how dirty they were willing to play. But not long enough to ever be willing to participate in this charade.
He stood, pressing his cuffed hands to the table. “Fuck. Off.”
Dixon grinned. “I’ll give you a little time to think. Imagine how your club will feel when they discover you were a DEA agent for a decade. If a big dude named Bubba doesn’t take you out in prison, I imagine your club’s president will. He sure seems to have a dislike of law enforcement.”
If they were anywhere else, he’d reach across the table and wrap his hands around her scrawny throat, squeezing until her face turned purple and her eyes bugged. But the camera winking at him from the corner kept him from losing his shit.
“I’ll say it one more time,” he announced in as threatening a voice as he could muster. “Fuck. Off.”
Dixon opened her mouth to speak again, but the door opened.
“Sit the fuck down!” McGee shouted as he rushed in, making Pulse shift his focus from Dixon.
The detective stood in the open doorway with his weapon drawn. A woman stood next to him, frowning.
For fuck’s sake.
Wallace appeared, shoving past her partner. “You heard the detective,” she added in a sharp tone. “Sit your ass back down.”
Pulse shifted his gaze to the woman he didn’t know. His gut tightened when their gazes met. Goddamn, she was a stunner. Call him a cliché, but a pretty woman all buttoned up in a professional outfit was sexy as hell. He’d love to mess her the fuck up, starting with that long, slick ponytail.
Whoever she was, she nodded to him once, and for some reason, he trusted her, so he sat his ass back down on the hard-as-hell metal chair. God forbid someone be remotely comfortable while being grilled by the cops.
Dixon stood. “I’ll take that as my cue to leave,” she said with a wink that let him know this wasn’t over.
“Well…” The newcomer grinned as Dixon slipped out of the room. She strode around the table and came to stand next to him. “Seems I’m late to the party. Detectives, put away your weapons. I want a few moments alone with my client.”
Pulse’s lips twitched. So, she was the club’s new attorney. She sure had spunk. He liked a woman who knew how to command a room. The club had recently changed law firms, and anyone who worked with them would need a spine of steel.
She cleared her throat, her eyes on Detective Wallace. “I wasn’t asking. Clear out. I need five minutes.”
Damn, that was hot as hell. This time, Pulse didn’t try to stop his grin.
“Keep your ass in that seat, Vargas,” Wallace said before gesturing for McGee to leave with her.
“Turn the cameras off,” his lawyer announced. She didn’t miss a trick.
They both stared at the camera in the corner of the room until the light changed, indicating they were no longer being recorded. Then she turned a pair of intelligent green eyes on him.
“What the fuck is going on?”
Pulse snorted.
She sighed. “Sorry, I haven’t even introduced myself. I just hate it when they pull shady shit, and I have a feeling whatever was going on before I walked in was shady as fuck.” She held out a hand. “Talia Davenport. I’m an attorney with Miller and Carmichael. I specialize in criminal defense and will be the main attorney for the Hell’s Handlers moving forward. I will also counsel the women staying at the shelter who might need a legal representative.”
“Pulse,” he said as he slid his hand against hers. Her palm was smooth as damn silk, but there wasn’t anything limp or weak about the way she clasped his hand. She gripped him confidently and shook, staring him straight in his eye.
Sexy.
“Have a seat,” he said, nudging the chair next to him with his foot. “Sorry you got called out in the middle of the night.”
She waved away his concern as she pulled the extra chair out and sat sideways, facing him. “Part of the job.” Smiling, she crossed her legs, a movement he had no choice but to zero in on.
He nearly swallowed his tongue.
Her legs were gorgeous.
Smooth, tanned, shapely. They’d feel amazing against his tongue as he dragged it up her thigh. Would she get wet? Would she cream herself, then let him bury his nose against her pussy and inhale the scent as it soaked her panties?
Fuck, this was not the time, and she was not the woman.
Of course, she pulled a pair of black framed glasses from her bag. Was she trying to fuck with him? He bit off a groan as she slid the frames on her face before picking up the file the cops left for her.
“Okay, from what I gather, a woman working as a prostitute in Tampa was severely physically assaulted, and the detectives claim she mentioned your name and description before losing consciousness.”
Her words squashed his inappropriate lust. He shook his head. “Such fucking bullshit.”
She raised an eyebrow. “So you deny the charges?”
His spine snapped straight. “Excuse me? Of course, I fucking deny it. Do you know a damn thing about our club? I don’t give a shit how much evidence the cops say they have, it’s bullshit. I’d be kicked out on my ass if I beat a woman.”
Her smirk had his eyes narrowing. “Oh, I know,” she said. “I did do my research on your club, and I wouldn’t be working with you if I thought you were the types of lowlifes who’d beat on women. So that leaves us with a few questions.”
“Who hurt the woman?”
“No, well yes, that is a question but one for the cops. My concern is for you and why the hell she named you if she really did.”
After speaking with Dixon, he wondered if there was an injured woman or if the entire situation was a ruse to get him to rat on his club.
God, he’d rather fucking die.
“No idea,” he said with a shrug. It felt as though he’d swallowed a pint of sawdust. Had the DEA orchestrated this whole thing to reel him in, or did they piggyback on some poor victim’s trauma? He wasn’t sure which was worse, but they’d done something to get him in their interrogation room.
And now he had to lie to his attorney to keep her from finding out he’d been a DEA agent. They might have attorney/client privilege, but the club paid the bills, so her loyalty would lie there. If she found out he’d been a fed and they wanted him back, she’d tell Curly.
As she should.
The club came first.
“Who was in here talking to you before I arrived?”
He shrugged. “Just another cop trying to get me to talk. You know how they are.” He needed the one thing he didn’t have—time. Time to think about the best response. Time to plan and process.
Talia set her papers down and narrowed her eyes at him. “Hmm.”
Could she tell he was lying? Could she see right through him? Curly wouldn’t hire a law firm without significant vetting and research. This woman had to be at the top of her field, which meant she’d be skilled at sniffing out bullshit. He’d worked alongside plenty of lawyers in his day, and the best could spot a lie from a mile away while blindfolded.
“Okay, guess we’ll come back to that.”
Pulse released the breath he’d been holding.
Picking up the file again, Talia gnawed on her lower lip. The silence allowed him to study her as she read the case notes.
Those fucking glasses.
“Victim’s name is Alicia Minor. She’s eighteen… Christ, and goes by Kitty on the streets. The poor baby,” she muttered. With a huff, she lifted her gaze and stared straight into his eyes through those pornographic glasses. “What’s your connection to the victim?”
It was Pulse’s turn to huff, but it came off as more of a grunt. “Never heard of her.”
“No?” She pulled an eight-by-ten photograph from the file and turned it his way.
He shook his head as his stomach soured. “Jesus, she looks like a child.”
“Eighteen. She basically is.”
He racked his brain. Had she been a patient at the hospital? Did she have an affiliation with one of his club’s enemies? Or the most likely question to have a big fat yes as an answer—did the DEA pressure her into implicating him by offering her an out on prostitution charges?
“I’ve never seen her before.”
She studied his face for at least thirty painful seconds before speaking. “Okay, then.”
“I work in Tampa but got off shift before three. After that, I drove straight to the clubhouse. I’ve been there all night, and everyone there can vouch for me. The whole damn club was there. And if they don’t want to take the word of a bunch of bikers they fucking hate, there are photos and videos from throughout the night. Phones timestamp that shit.”
“They do.” Talia frowned. “And they’re saying this assault occurred around eight. I know you said this already, but to clarify, you were at the clubhouse surrounded by others at eight o’clock, correct?”
He nodded. “I arrived around four and did not leave until the detectives shoved me in their car at ten something.”
“Well, I guess there’s nothing left to do but invite the detectives back in and see what garbage evidence they have on you, and why this young woman named you when you couldn’t have been there.” She tilted her head and pursed her lips before asking, “Are you the type of client who’s going to drive me batshit crazy, or are you going to listen and only open your mouth when I tell you to?”
He snorted. “I’ll be a good boy.” He’d do anything she wanted if she wore those glasses a little longer.
Talia winked. “Just how I like ‘em.”
Five minutes later, Detectives Wallace and McGee sat across from him once again. Did they know? Were they aware the DEA had their grubby hands all over this, or did they think this was a typical investigation?
“Let’s get this show on the road,” Talia said. “My client would like to get home, and I’d like to be able to grab a few hours of sleep tonight.”
Pulse’s lips twitched as the detectives frowned. Talia had a way about her, that was for sure. He liked her no-nonsense style and almost aggressive approach. No way in hell would anyone be walking all over her.
“I wouldn’t hold your breath there, Ms. Davenport. Our victim has both named and described Mr. Vargas in detail as well as exactly how he beat the absolute shit out of her. So how about you start by telling us where you were this evening between seven and ten p.m.?”
They’d be sorely disappointed if they were looking for a ‘gotcha’ moment. Pulse glanced toward Talia. Gone was the playful grin and wink. She was all business now as she gave him a single nod.
“I was at the clubhouse.”
With a background in law enforcement, he didn’t need an attorney present to tell him what to say or not, but he’d play the game to avoid arousing suspicion.
“Care to elaborate?” McGee asked with a huff of impatience.
“No.” The most straightforward answer was always the best when being interrogated.
Talia shifted beside him, and he swore she pressed her lips together to keep from grinning. “He answered the question, detectives. If you want more, you’ll have to be more specific.”
McGee’s glare would have incinerated Talia on the spot if she’d been anyone else. “What time did you arrive at the clubhouse?” he asked through clenched teeth.
“Four.”
“On the dot?”
“Give or take ten minutes.”
“And you know the exact time because?”
He glanced at Talia, who nodded again. “Because I went there straight from work. Also, I got a text from Brooke as soon as I parked. You can check my phone. She said she saw me pull in and asked if I could grab a case of beer from the back of her SUV on the way in.”
“Convenient,” McGee said, shaking his head.
Asshole.
Pulse opened his mouth, but Talia placed a hand on his forearm. Maybe he needed an attorney to keep him in check, after all.
“Convenient timing, maybe…” she said, “… but that doesn’t make it untrue.”
“Did you leave the clubhouse at all?” Wallace asked.
“No.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And I suppose your club members can vouch for you.”
“Yes.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“There are also multiple photos and videos on more than one phone taken throughout the evening. Feel free to verify,” Talia cut in. “I’m not sure what’s going on here, detectives, but it sounds like much more investigative work needed to be done before an arrest was made. We can wait while you corroborate Mr. Child’s story and check the evidence, but I don’t recommend keeping him too long. I don’t take kindly to my clients being falsely arrested.”
He’d have whistled if it wouldn’t worsen the situation. As it was, he couldn’t keep a broad grin from stretching across his face.
The temperature in the room rose as the detectives’ white-hot fury heated the air. Wallace stood stiff and frowning. “We’ll be back after we make some calls.”
“You do that,” Talia called after the retreating detectives.
All Pulse could think was how grateful he was that this firecracker was on his side.