11. Bram
eleven
Bram
The plan was to go. Ride out, hit the streets, find Julie or her ghost, bring her back from wherever the fuck the world had stashed her.
Instead, I was standing in the compound yard with Rusty and the rest of the patched crew, watching two Barstow PD cruisers crawl through the gate like they owned the hour.
The sun was coming up angry, the sky already so blue it hurt to look at.
The yard was half-shadow, half-dust. Trace and Sniper flanked me by the garage, arms folded, eyes on the cruisers like they might sprout fangs.
Rusty hadn’t moved, not even a step, just stood with his hands hooked in his belt, mouth locked in a line.
The prospect on gate duty had nearly shit himself when he saw the red-and-blues. They didn’t hit the siren, didn’t so much as blip the horn. Just rolled up slow, turned, and parked with surgical precision. First car: Detective Ruiz at the wheel. The second was a shadow—no one got out.
Ruiz stepped onto the gravel. He wore a cheap suit that fit better than it looked, and a haircut that said he’d been a cop in three counties before this one.
He didn’t look around, didn’t gawk at the dozen men in cuts, just walked up the center of the yard like he was bringing a casserole to a neighbor.
It took exactly three steps for me to recognize the flavor of the morning: no raid, no warrant, no theatrics.
This was personal, the way it always was when they wanted to make a point.
The way it was the last time I saw Ruiz—when he helped Julie clear up the mess at her mother’s house.
The same mess that should have landed Sally in prison, but somehow vanished instead.
Yeah, we had eyes most everywhere. I clocked the irony, didn’t say a word.
He stopped ten feet away. His hand hovered near the radio but never touched it.
“Bram Jackson,” he said, low and even. “We need to talk.”
My hands were open, nothing in them but the history of every bad decision I’d ever made. I didn’t move.
“What’s the charge?” I asked. I saw the twitch at the corner of his mouth. I was making him work for it.
“Questioning,” he said. “In connection with the disappearance of Julie Sparta. I need you to come with me.”
Behind me, Trace exhaled, a sound like a growl throttled down to a hum. Sniper just stared, dead-eyed. Rusty took one slow step forward.
“That’s all you got?” Rusty said. His voice could’ve rusted sheet metal. “You haul out here, no warrant, and you’re just gonna question the man?”
“That’s all I got,” Ruiz said. “For now.”
I looked at the faces around me—every patched man and every prospect, watching, waiting to see if I’d spit or swing.
I looked at Rusty. The whole weight of the club lived in his shoulders.
I could see the words forming, the old instincts, the urge to put Ruiz in the dirt and take the consequences on the chin.
I shook my head. “Okay.”
“Dad,” Sniper said.
“No, son. He knows I didn’t do anything to Julie.” I looked back at Ruiz. “You want to talk? Let’s talk. But you don’t put cuffs on me. Not unless you want to see how quick I can clear this yard.”
For a second, I thought he might argue. Instead, he nodded. “You have my word.”
I turned to Rusty. “Call Feldman,” I said. “Tell him I’m about to be railroaded.”
He nodded, jaw tight. “You want me to run a tail on you?”
“If I’m not back by dusk, you know what to do.”
Ruiz opened the rear door of the cruiser, like a butler with manners. I got in, ducked my head, sat with my hands folded on my lap. The seat was the same as all the others: vinyl, hard, designed to break your dignity down to scraps. I let it.
The cruiser started up, and backed out slow. Through the glass, I watched the yard—men standing, arms crossed, a cluster of muscle and loyalty. Rusty was already on his phone. The gate slid shut behind us, slicing the world in half.
We turned onto the main road, the engine barely above idle. I looked out at the desert, the long reach of the sky, and wondered if Julie had seen the same thing when they took her.
I leaned forward, spoke through the wire mesh. “You really think I had something to do with it?” I said. “With her?”
Ruiz didn’t look back. “I don’t think. I follow orders.”
He let that hang for a mile.
I sat back. Let him think he had the upper hand. I knew the truth—there were no hands in this world, only fists.
We rolled into town, sirens off. The sun was a glare on every window. I counted every turn, every pause, every time he checked the rearview.
By the time we hit the station, I had the whole thing mapped in my head.
Ruiz parked, killed the engine. He opened my door. I got out and looked at him dead in the face. “You tell whoever’s pulling your strings,” I said, “they better pull harder.”
He almost smiled. “Noted.”
“And that while you’re out here trying to fuck me over, we could be looking for her.”
“Damnit, Bram, I know all this shit. I’m doing what I’m told.” Translated, his bosses were being paid by the Colonel.
Inside, the walls were cinder block, the air stale with cop sweat and bad coffee. They walked me through booking, skipped the fingerprint, took me straight to a room with gray paint and a mirror so thin you could see the secrets behind it.
I sat. Folded my hands. Waited.
I’d waited before. I could wait again.
And while I waited, I thought about Julie, and about what a man would do to get her back.
The answer was simple.
Anything.
***
Ruiz didn’t come in right away. They left me alone for a half hour, maybe more, just to see if I’d sweat. I didn’t. I let my hands rest flat on the table, left the cuffs on, and stared at the spot on the wall where the paint peeled up like a scab. I let the time stretch.
When Ruiz finally entered, he did it with the same economy he used everywhere else. Sat across from me, set his phone face down, and put a legal pad on the table with exactly one page flipped up.
He didn’t open it. He didn’t need to.
“Where were you last night?” he said, voice flat.
“Here,” I said.
He cocked his head, eyes scanning for the tell. “We have witnesses who saw your bike at Julie’s. Got a plate, even. They even said they saw you through her window.”
“We fucked and talked,” I said. “We parted on good terms.”
He wrote something on the pad, looked up again. “What did you talk about?”
“Her sister. She was upset.”
He wrote that down, too. I watched his hand, the pen, the tension in his fingers. He wanted to press, but not too hard. Not yet.
He looked up. “You know she’s missing?”
I didn’t answer. I stared at the paint. He let the silence work.
“She left her car on Avenue K,” he said. “Driver’s door wide open. No sign of her.” He waited. “She ever do that before?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
He leaned in. “You and she have a thing?” He fucking hated that we did. It was clear he wanted to be the one fucking her. He knew I didn’t have her. This was his warning to stay away from the woman he loved. Typical asshole stuff.
That got a reaction from me. I smiled, small and cold. “We have a thing. A thing that’s going to last a very long fucking time, Ruiz.”
He smiled back, the kind of cop smile that meant nothing. “Are you a jealous man?”
He let that land, then wrote another note. I watched his hands, steady as mine.
“While you’re sitting here trying to prove your dick is bigger than mine, which I very much doubt, we could both be out trying to find her.” I pointed at him. “I’m jealous of no man, but I will kill any man who lays a finger on her.”
His jaws clenched, and he took a minute to calm himself. Yeah, my dick was definitely bigger
“She ever mention the Scorpions? You know she’s got a history with them?”
I shrugged again. “Everyone in this town’s got a history with someone.”
“This shit’s getting us nowhere, Bram.” He slammed a fist on the table, losing control. “Do you fucking know what happened to her or not?”
He sat back. He knew the drill: keep the questions broad, wait for the slip.
I kept my face clean.
The door creaked behind him. Feldman swept in, carrying more suit than body, eyes ringed with the kind of red you get from sleeping in your car. He didn’t say hello, didn’t look at Ruiz. Just dropped into the chair next to me, set his own legal pad on the table, and clicked his pen.
“Don’t say another word, Bram,” he said, his voice a drill sergeant’s rasp.
Ruiz spread his hands. “Just establishing timeline.”
“Timeline’s irrelevant unless you charge him,” Feldman said. “Are you charging my client?”
Ruiz stared at me, then at Feldman. “He’s not under arrest. Just a conversation.”
“Then this conversation’s over,” Feldman said. He smiled, a flash of teeth. “Unless you want to violate Miranda on the record?”
The cop and the lawyer, dance partners at a shitty wedding. They went back and forth, rules and exceptions, the kind of talk that’s supposed to make you forget the clock’s still running.
I ignored them. Let my eyes drift to the mirror. Thought about Julie.
Ruiz switched tactics. “You mind if we get your prints, Bram?”
“Depends,” Feldman said. “What for?”
“Car was wiped,” Ruiz said. “But the driver’s side has prints, partials; we think they’re his. Just need to confirm.”
Feldman shook his head. “You have a warrant?”
“Not yet.”
“Come back when you do.”
They stared at each other. It would’ve been funny if I wasn’t so tired.
After ten minutes, Ruiz stood. “We’ll be in touch.” He looked at me. “A man with your record, caught in the middle of a missing DA, doesn’t look good for anyone.”
I waited a beat. “You’re being pressured,” I said. “From above.”
He didn’t flinch. Just turned and left.
Feldman watched the door close, then leaned in. “You all right?”
I nodded.
“Anything you want to tell me?”
I shook my head. “Not in this room.”
He got up, stretched his back, and patted my shoulder. “Let’s get you out of here.”
Outside, the sun was straight overhead, frying the parking lot. The heat shimmered, making everything look blurry and false. I squinted, saw the Harley parked two blocks down, the only thing that made sense in the whole goddamn picture.
I started walking, boots crunching on the asphalt. Every step was slower than the last.
I thought about Julie, and about what was happening to her right now.
I checked the time and then headed for the Colonel.