Page 3 of Making His Bones

“Aha,” said McGill, narrowing his eyes at me. “The FBI. Was he a fugitive from justice?”

Again I nodded. What am I doing? First I looked at penis sizes, then I noted a biker as being attractive. Now I was trying to draw intel out of the MC’s lawyer, but he was drawing more intel out of me.

“I,” I stuttered, “I’m from around here. Mr. McGill, do you know the town of Seeker, near Munds Park?”

“Call me Slushy. Indeed, I do. They have a bitchin’ annual downhill tricycle race. Is that what brings you here, analyzing my client’s DNA? You thought you’d just stop in on your way to purchase some LPs in Seeker?”

How did he know that Seeker had an actual record store? This guy was two steps ahead of me. My mind was already muddled by the tragedy that had led me to leave Seeker ten years ago. “I . . . I thought I’d take a couple weeks off and visit with old friends in Seeker.”

Slushy stood. “Well. I understand if you’re just a lowly FBI technician and have no great intel to impart. What was the name of your superior, Special Agent Booker Mercury?”

“Maverick.”

The door behind me opened, and I practically fell into the arms of that sandy-haired biker. And, I mean, what arms. Under his vest, he wore only an immaculate white wifebeater, and his silken, tanned biceps flexed as he reached up to catch my shoulders.

We looked with shock at one another, and then he smiled. “There,” he growled, setting me back against the doorjamb. I held my throat. Damn. I need to get out of the lab more.

“Slushy, my man,” said the biker, shaking hands with the lawyer. “Ford said I’m going to replace Kneecap until we get this shit sorted out. I know a bit about archery.”

“Yes indeed, Gray. This fine FBI technician just told me DNA has implicated Kneecap in something, but she won’t tell me what. I’m just going to go out on a limb here and say due to the amount of custom .308 cal Winchester sniper rifles stomping on the roof of A Joint System and The Bum Steer, Kneecap was not just flashing a schoolyard.”

Gray smiled at me brilliantly, as though I had no hand in arresting a fellow biker of his. “Well,” he said warmly, “I’m sure there was a reason for it. Maybe he finally fucked the wrong guy’s wife.”

Was it just me? But standing two feet from Gray as he said “fucked” was making me knock-kneed. I had to get the hell out of there before I completely spilled the beans.

I reeled out of Slushy’s office. Kneecap was famous for humping wives? Was I the only one who would never do it with that clown-bewigged adult toddler? I saw and heard the oddest things in my job, part of why I loved it. Well, hopefully Marnie was the only one he’d offed. I’d kept a photo of her on my office wall for years just because the murder bugged me. I had recently gone back to the cold case and ran the DNA from the jeans they’d taken at the time from Kneecap’s washing machine. With a new update to my public genealogy database, I’d hit on him, Elmore Ruxton of Pure and Easy, Arizona. Rude, screwed, and tattooed just because he’d spit into a tube, wanting to know about penis size in Ireland. Or his assassin relations. Or something like that.

Almost everyone had left the archery range by now. I sort of leaned against a glass case full of arrows and wrist releases, a little weak. Maybe it was fate, which I didn’t believe in, but seeing a pink wrist release reminded me of how much I used to love archery. I glanced up at the wall behind the counter where compound bows of various axle-to-axle lengths hung, my eyes instantly selecting a pink camo bow. Would I be able to draw one again? I hadn’t exactly been working out every night in my condo in Downers Grove. I stayed trim by not eating much. I was too obsessed with my work to eat, and in a lab, you couldn’t exactly eat at your desk.

“Elektra,” Booker said grandly, approaching me from behind.

I hoped he didn’t see me jump as I twirled to face him. “Booker, thanks so much for the chance to witness an actual takedown.”

“No problem, Elektra. Once the DNA you extracted matched with the Hot Pocket we got the other day from the back alley, it was a slam dunk. Strange guy, though. You wouldn’t have him pegged as such a ladies’ man. Listen, we’re all going to the Olive Garden tonight at seven to celebrate. It’s right by the hotel in Flag.” Booker liked calling Flagstaff “Flag,” even though he was from Chicago. “You up for it?”

I frowned. “Will Susan Underhill be there? Never mind. I’ve decided to spend a couple weeks around here.”

Booker became sober. “Oh, right. Your daughter, over in Seeker.” He put his hands in the pockets of his windbreaker and looked aside.

People didn’t need to feel so uncomfortable around me. I was the one who had to live with my own failure every day. “Yes. Go back and see some old friends.”

Booker nodded. “I understand. You’re so close, you might as well take advantage. Excuse me?”

He alerted me to the presence of the combover lawyer standing right behind me. I stepped aside.

“Special Agent Mercury. I’m Aaron McGill and I represent Elmore Ruxton. I need to have a conference with him immediately.”

“You might as well start calling him by his real name, Mr. McGill. Rufus Cole.”

Slushy scrunched his face. “I don’t care who he is or what his name is. He has a right to representation before you guys extort false confessions from him.”

Booker chuckled. “It’s pretty hard to argue with DNA.” Slushy shot me an ungrateful look. “But you’re right, you should go see him. He’ll be in our field office in Flag.” Whipping out a business card, Booker scribbled on the back of it atop the glass archery case, then handed it to Slushy.

“May I enquire what the charge is?”

“Murder one. His wife in Illinois fifteen years ago.”

Slushy’s face was blank. Then in an instant, he burst into a gut-wrenching guffaw. “Murder?” he squeaked, pointing at Booker. “That’s a good one. I could see a bunch of our other guys who already have the Filthy Few patch, but Kneecap? His thing is a bit of the old in-out, in-out, if you know what I mean.”