Chapter eighteen
CASH OUT
SABAN
Stretching out all the kinks and knots from the light, I give myself a moment to take an inventory of my body in the aftermath of the intensity of Snake’s loving.
My kittykat is sore, though that is not a surprise, and neither are the bruises I see reflected in the mirror when I go to shower.
After I moisturize, make my coffee and go over my schedule for the day. Three appointments that I had the good sense to schedule three hours apart.
Hisashi Takeda is coming in to have work done as well as his brother. Seems like their mother passed away, and they want to have work done.
I’m not versed in the traditions of tebori — Japanese tattooing, but they were fine with me using my tattooing machine instead of having it done with bamboo in their cultural tradition.
Finishing my coffee, I head downstairs. I still have an hour before the first appointment, so I decide to set up and grab a quick breakfast from the Kandie Shoppe — which started serving breakfast for the overnight and morning shift for those working at the Creative Chaos tech plant.
One thing about that business, since it came to town, other businesses in Shelby-Love have boomed. I wouldn’t be surprised if Kandie wouldn’t be hiring help to help her expedite the orders she’s swimming in.
“H-Hi,” I stutter nearly slamming into the chest of Ulysses Shelby, our town sheriff, who Kandie loves calling a dirty-ass cop. Though it seems he’s not — at least about the folks being trafficked by el Diablo.
“Saban.” He says my name with no heat, only harsh determination.
“Sheriff.” Hedging unsure of what he wants.
I’m not used to dealing with the law. Nothing good has ever turned out well with el Diablo and the local law enforcement in the past. They were often targeted, especially after Angel freed them from the oppressive circumstances of working in the fields of Mathias Shelby Sr., the local billionaire sugarcane baron.
He died right before Easy and I left. His son chose not to continue the family tradition or the one of marrying a socialite.
Instead, he recently married a Love girl, Nikki, Kandie’s baby sister, and is running for senate.
The campaign is one of the dirtiest in the state’s history, with his opponent, Fitch, bringing up Nikki’s parents’ past like that has any bearing on the race.
“I need your help with something down at the sheriff’s office.” He says, his gaze as cold as glaciers.
Trepidation makes dread sit in my tummy like a bad meal.
“Sure, let me lock up.” Pulling the keys out of my pocket, I never would have bothered with my plan to go down to the Kandie Shoppe Bakery had not been interrupted. I lock the doors and follow him over to his cruiser.
“How’s things been since you got back to town?” Acting like he’s not aware that his partner in crime hasn’t had me locked away for the last couple months does nothing to endear trust in this endeavor down to the Sheriff’s office.
“You know good and well how it’s been. Your buddy had me locked away in his hidden mansion.” Scoffing, I roll my eyes at him.
“You want to file a complaint?” Daring me to do it, he quirks a blond brow in my direction.
“Whatever,” I grumble, looking out at the bright sunny day that lights the town.
For a place that has seen so much conflict at the hands of its founding families, it’s certainly the epitome of small-town quaintness.
If no one was the wiser, they would never believe there had been a literal war raging here just a few months ago.
“Aight we’re here.” He comes to my side, opens my door and helps me down from the county cruiser.
With as many storms as we have around here, there is no point in their having regular cars.
They need to off-road more often than not — whether it’s getting a cow out of the mire or hauling fallen trees and debris like the ones that caused Easy’s crash off Highway Seventeen.
“This way.” Tilting his head, Ulysses leads me to the elevator, his face set with stern determination.
The atmosphere is oppressive in the elevator as we enter and all the way down. He’s as big as Snake. I don’t know what it is in the water or the food consumed ‘round these parts, but they just seem to make them big in Shelby-Love.
The elevator opens onto the bottom level. Apprehension makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I’m pretty sure this is where the morgue is. Swing my face to Ulysses’s I stare at him in horror. “What’s going on?” my voice sounds tremulous and afraid.
“I just need you to look at something.” He doesn’t break stride.
I want to bolt, but this is his domain. He’d catch me. I have no power here, and that is made apparent by the fact he feels no compunction to tell me what is going on.
Something switches inside me then. This is not Kandie’s — whatever they’re currently denying they are. No, this is the law.
As we stand on the threshold of a room reeking of antiseptic and something unnamable, el Diablo rules drilled into me from the time I first came to belong as part of the MC ring in my mind. “Never talk to policia.”
“Here.” Handing me the mask, he watches as I set it in place, following with his own.
Stepping ahead of me, he opens the door, moving back to allow me to pass.
Even with my face covered, the smell of death nearly takes me to my knees.
“You’re okay. I got you.” A strong from hand steadies me. Still, I have to breathe out of my mouth in shallow bursts, so I won’t pass out.
There’s another person in the room clothed in medical attire. I noticed then it’s a petite Black woman with a fair complexion.
“This is Dr. Anàis Spencer,” Ulyssess nods to the woman.
“She’s come down from the Birmingham FBI office to help us with this case.
” Her name gives me pause. The Spencers are notorious for their corruption.
I take an involuntary step back when the woman steps forward in an aggressive manner, eyeing me with cold, glass like-green eyes.
“We understand you are the local tattoo artist.” Approaching the covered form that looks to be that of a child or a small woman.
Pulling back the sheet that is thankfully on that of an arm — a very thin arm.
The nails are gel tipped, showing those of a female, by the whimsical design that could be any age.
I have seen my share of bad people put down.
This gives none of that. Nothing about this is giving a deserved death.
“We need you to confirm whether this is your design.” Her gaze narrows on me with a dagger-like focus. But I’m already shaking my head in denial.
“I don’t do any work on kids.” I say not even wanting to look. Betrayal slices through me, and I shoot Ulysses an accusing look. “You know I’d never do work on a kid.” He knows I wouldn’t be part of anything involving kids.
“We just need you to take a look.” Dr. Spencr insists as Ulysses ushers me closer.
The heavy hand on my back allows me no escape. Seeing the gloved hand wrapped around the tiny wrist makes icy dread seep deep within the recesses of my soul.
Looking down at the tattoo, I lean closer, taking in the emblem of the phoenix rising from the flames of a crown. It’s not mine, but for some reason it feels familiar.
Shaking my head, I step back. “I didn’t do this.” I stop running into Ulysses hard from that makes me jump like a jackrabbit dodging a fox.
Dr. Spencer’s screws me with a skeptical sweep of her lashes. Her regard is so intense there is no doubt about why she has chosen this profession. Ever so slowly and with great care, she covers the wrist and places it beside the body.
Sighing, she turns back to me her gaze pitiless and filled this disdain.
“Sabine Tousaint, early twenties, undocumented, of Haitian descent, tattoo artist, last known as an associate of the el Diablo Cartel and the Savalle Syndicate. Last known residence was a little apartment above a little tattoo shop in Dakkar, Senegal, where she was seen in the frequent company of a local drug dealer, Bennie, and a fish merchant, Amadou. Current residence is also above a tattoo shop after being presumed missing for months at the hands of the el Diablo Cartel. Presumed deceased until she resurfaced right along the time that fifteen-year-old Shasta Cortez-Marquez, of Blount County, was found floating in the Tombigbee. All indications are she drowned in as escape attempt. However, her body gives indications of severe sexual and physical trauma.” Snapping her gloves off with cold finality, she looks at me. The disgust is apparent.
“What kills me about folks like you. Is how you go along with this type of bullshit.”
Turning, I look at Ulysses. “I don’t know what she’s talking about. I didn’t tattoo her. I don’t tattoo anyone under the age of eighteen.”
Ulysses’ gaze is just as hard. He saw my reaction to the tattoo.
A harsh chuckle comes from Dr. Spencer. “Little girl, one thing the Sheriff didn’t mention was exactly what kind of doctors I am.
Doctors plural as in doctor of forensic psychology, medicine and pathology.
” She tsks like it means little to her. “Of all the things I loved studying, was of human mind. How people have these little tells when they lie. I’ve met some amazing liars, Sabine. ”
I really hate the condescending way she says my name. I know it’s on purpose. She wants me mad. I do my best not the react. Still, she turns an amused glance to Ulysses as though they are sharing a joke — on me.