Chapter 14
Nova
The crowd gets bigger and louder, all asking the same question over and over again, about what happened, did anyone save the choppers and whether or not we had insurance.
Thankfully, we do. I’m not sure if it will be enough though.
I move a little further away and stand with my phone to my ear, waiting for Cray to pick up.
The minute he does, I cover my other ear with my fingers so I can hear him.
“It’s Nova,” I say. “Someone set the chopper shop on fire, just like the trucking company. The fire marshal said someone connected a fifty-gallon drum of gasoline to the fire suppressant system and set it off.”
“That’s fuckin’ clever,” he responds. “Must have been a smart kind of fucker. That eliminates most of the dumbasses around these parts.”
I swallow thickly. “Yeah, I guess you’re right about that.”
“Where the hell are you right now? Does Mica have you covered?”
“Yeah. I’m standing in front of the shop. They’ve finally got the flames mostly put out. Mac’s here, along with Mica’s family. They’re trying to find out everything they can about what happened. Half the damn town is rubbernecking from the sidewalk.”
“That sounds about right. Everybody in this town is too nosy for their own good.”
I lower my voice. “Listen, I need a favor. My house is part of the inheritance. If they’re hitting everything Vulture left me, that might be their next target. Can you send a couple of your guys over there to sit on it until Mica can free up his people?”
“Consider it fuckin’ done,” he says without hesitation.
“Front and back. And tell them not to leave until they hear from me or Mica directly. Nobody else.”
“You got it, girl.” A pause. “Nova. You be careful. Whoever’s doing this ain’t finished.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I know. You’ve always been great, Uncle Cray. You even got me an amazing husband.”
Cray chuckles wryly, “So, you’re warming to that little Rager, are you?”
“Yeah, he’s a keeper. You did good there, Cray.”
“Look, I’m gonna come and meet you. Stay close to Mica and Mac until I get there.”
“Sure thing, Uncle Cray. I’ll be keeping an eye out for you. A couple of your crew just showed up as well.”
Just as I’m about to hang up someone taps me on the shoulder, “Excuse me, ma’am?”
I turn around to find a young cop standing right behind me.
He’s wearing a clean uniform and looks like he’s in his early twenties.
He’s got a badge on his chest that gleams in the early morning light.
This guy can’t be much older than me. He’s probably been a cop for about five minutes, and it shows in the way he speaks and carries himself.
“Hold on, Cray,” I say into the phone, then lower it slightly. “Can I help you?”
“Are you Nova Jackson? The owner of Vulture’s Custom Choppers?” This man’s voice was strangely high pitched.
“That’s me,” I tell him politely. “I inherited the business from my gramps.”
He introduces himself. “Ma’am, I’m Officer Weaver.
I’ve been asked to bring you down to the station for a statement.
We have some questions about the origin of the fire.
We’ll need you to make a list of all the employees so we can rule them out as suspects.
It’s fairly routine stuff, but they’d like to get it on record while everything’s fresh. ”
This man is polite, professional, and his request seems reasonable.
I can see his cruiser is parked down the block near an alley, which makes sense because the fire trucks have the street blocked and they need easy access to the building.
Everything about his request feels normal.
I know that Cray said to stay close to Mica and Mac, but I hesitate about refusing to cooperate with the police.
“Does it have to be right now?” I ask. “I’d like to stay and talk to the fire marshal again.”
“I understand that it’s never a good time to pull away from a crisis to talk to law enforcement, but this won’t take long. They just want to get your statement while the details are still fresh in your mind. The sooner we get the paperwork started, the sooner the investigation moves forward.”
I definitely don’t want anything to hold up the investigation, so I make the decision to go with him. I’ve been through enough with the trucking company fire to know that cooperating speeds the process along.
“Give me one second,” I say, and bring the phone back up. “Cray, I gotta go. A cop needs me down at the station to give a statement about the fire. Call me when your guys are in place at my house.”
“Will do. I’ll meet you at the police station.”
I end the call and slip my phone into my back pocket. “Alright, Officer. Lead the way.”
“Follow me. My cruiser’s near the corner of the block. I promise to get you in and out as quickly as possible.”
I glance towards the parking lot. Mica’s disappearing around the back of the building. Mac’s filming something near the barricade. Nobody’s looking this way because why would they? It’s a cop walking a property owner to his car. We’re the most boring thing happening on this street right now.
When he opens the door, I slide into the back.
It’s weird because there is a screen separating the front from the back seats.
The door closes and the locks click into place.
This is all normal, so I can’t figure out why the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up.
Maybe it’s the fact that the back doors don’t open from the inside, which means I’m trapped.
I shove that ridiculous thought aside. Law-abiding citizens can’t be trapped by law enforcement.
Right before he closes the door, he does the last thing in the world I expect. He pulls out a set of handcuffs, slaps them onto my wrists, and locks them onto a long bar attached to the back of the front seats.
I start struggling. “What are you doing? Are you arresting me?”
“It’s for your safety, ma’am.”
“Take them off me!” I demand.
“No can do,” he says mildly as he shuts the door. He’s so casual and polite that it disarms me. Weaver gets in the driver’s seat, starts the engine and eases away from the curb. I start struggling but there’s no way I can loosen them.
“Hey!” I shout, but he just ignores me. Does this man think I burned down my own business?
I nervously glance out the back window and see a familiar face staring back at me. It’s Bran, standing very near where we were just parked. I watch him get onto his bike and ride away. At first, I think he’s following us but then he accelerates, zooming around us and speeding ahead.
This whole situation is creeping me out.
I try to slip out of the cuffs again, unsure what I would even do if I somehow managed to get free.
I snatch up all my courage, kicking the back of his seat and yell, “Hey! You can’t do this!
It’s my business that burned to the ground. Why are you arresting me?”
I realize he didn’t even read me my rights. Not that I’ve been arrested before, but I’ve watched enough cop shows. I kick the back of his seat harder.
His eyes lift to the rear-view mirror meeting mine, but still he says nothing.
By this point I’m almost certain something bad is happening. This is when he takes a left on Hadley Street.
My head comes up. “You’re going the wrong way. You should have turned right.”
The police station is on Birch, three blocks in the other direction.
Weaver doesn’t glance up or answer. He just keeps driving.
“Hey,” I say more assertively, leaning forward against the partition. “You missed the turn. The station is on Birch.”
I kick the partition. “Why are you ignoring me?”
I keep yanking against the cuffs, testing how strong they are. They don’t give at all.
“Let me out of this car, right now!” I demand. My voice comes out louder and more panicked than I intend.
Weaver says without an ounce of emotion, “Sit back and relax, ma’am,” he says. “We’re almost there.”
“Almost where? This isn’t the way to the station, and you know it.”
When he doesn’t respond, helpless rage floods my mind.
This is what I get for being a good citizen.
I was trying to be a responsible business owner, one who answers questions and cooperates with law enforcement.
My gramps always said that cops weren’t for people like us.
They were there for high class folks who were far too used to having things their own way.
I thought I knew better but now I can see how right he was.
I feel so incredibly stupid that it makes my head hurt.
I don’t know where this cop is taking me but it’s not the police station.
When he takes another turn, I recognize it as the back route to an old industrial corridor.
There aren’t many houses around that area, which means less chance anyone will respond if I scream for help.
That realization is terrifying. My heart hammers in my chest so hard I can feel myself getting lightheaded.
I force myself to stop pulling against the cuffs because it’s rubbing my skin raw. I try to think of a way out of this situation. My best chance is when he stops and removes my cuffs. I can knee him in the groin and run like hell. That’s the best idea my terrified, scattered mind can come up with.
Sure enough, I look up and see him pulling into a narrow road between two falling down warehouse buildings. The pavement is cracked and we go over a pothole so deep it almost knocks me off balance. Weaver pulls down the alley about thirty yards and stops.
There’s another vehicle waiting. A dark SUV with the engine running. Bran is leaning against the driver’s side door. He’s somehow managed to trade out his motorcycle for an SUV.
Everything clicks into place with the sickening realization that this is nothing more than a good old-fashioned set up. Weaver is a dirty cop and Bran is…I don’t even know what.