Gypsy King (Tin Gypsy, #1)(10)

“Future wide receiver.” I grinned. Draven, my nephew and Dad’s namesake, was the spitting image of Nick. And he was Nick’s constant companion. “You working today?”

“Yeah. Draven’s hanging with me at the garage for a few hours. Emmy’s taking Nora to get her ears pierced.”

“Uh . . . isn’t she a little young?” Nora had recently turned four.

“Don’t get me fucking started,” Nick muttered. “But I’m not arguing with Emmy at the moment.”

“Why not? Did she piss you off?”

“No, she’s . . .” He blew out a long breath. “We were waiting to tell everyone but Emmy’s pregnant. Or, she was pregnant. She miscarried last week.”

“Hell, brother.” My hand flew to my heart. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too. Emmy’s having a hard time. So if she wants to get Nora’s ears pierced and have a mommy-daughter day in Bozeman, I’m not going to say a damn thing.”

“Can I help?”

“No, we’ll get through it. What’s up?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. The last thing I wanted was to add this to Nick’s burdens, but he had to know. “Got some bad news. Wish it could wait.”

“Tell me.”

“Someone was murdered last night. And either Dad did it, he knows who did it, or someone’s trying to frame him for it. They arrested him about thirty minutes ago.”

“Fuck,” Nick spat. “What else do you know?”

“Nothing. The cops aren’t talking.” I wasn’t going to admit that the only reason I knew half of what I did was because of a sexy, devious reporter. “Dad lawyered up. Once Jim meets with him, I’ll learn more.”

“Let me call Emmy. We’ll get there as soon as we can.”

“No, don’t,” I told him. “There’s nothing you can do here. Just wanted you to be aware.”

“Dash, we’re talking about a murder here.”

“Exactly. You, Emmeline, the kids. You don’t need to be anywhere near this shit.” He needed to stay in Prescott, playing catch with his son, kissing his daughter and holding tight to his wife.

“Fine.” Nick blew out a long breath. “But if you need me, I’m there.”

“I know. I’ll keep you posted.”

“It’s always something,” he muttered.

“Hasn’t been for a while.”

“True. Did he . . . do you think he did it?”

I stared at the gray siding of the police station, picturing Dad inside those walls in an interrogation room. His hands cuffed and resting on a cheap-ass table as he sat in an uncomfortable chair.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe. If he did, there was a reason. And if he didn’t, then Clifton Forge is definitely not a place I want you bringing those kids.”

Because if someone was after Dad, they could be after us all.

“Watch your back,” I said.

“You too.”

I ended the call and started my bike. The feel of the engine, the vibration and noise, was a comfort as I sped through town. I’d spent long hours in this seat, driven hundreds of miles, thinking through club strategies.

Except the last year, there hadn’t been club business. There were no squabbles to settle. No crimes to hide. No enemies to outsmart. My time behind the handlebars had been spent simply enjoying the open road. To think about the garage and how we could increase our custom jobs and sock away a pile of money for a rainy day.

When it came to dealing with a murder arrest, my mind felt sluggish and rusty. It surprised me how quickly I’d forgotten the old ways. Though we’d been tapering things off for years, the Tin Gypsies had only disbanded a year ago. The last arrest I’d had to deal with had been nearly four years ago, and even then, it had been for one of Leo’s drunken bar fights.

I pulled into the parking lot, walking my bike back into its space. As I walked to the office, I glanced down the lot toward the clubhouse.

The yard was overgrown, and I needed to find an hour to mow. The inside was no doubt musty and covered in dust. The last time I’d been inside had been during winter when a raccoon had snuck inside and tripped the motion sensors.

On a day like today, when I needed information and answers, I’d give anything to walk inside the clubhouse, call everyone to the meeting room table and get to the bottom of this.

Instead, I’d have to settle for the garage’s office and a few people who were just as loyal to us now as they had been when we’d worn the same patch.

Presley was on the phone when I opened the office door. She held up one finger for me to be quiet. “Okay, thanks. Call me back if you hear anything else.”

I went to the row of chairs on the wall beneath the front window. Presley’s desk was the only one in the waiting area, and though Dad and I had our two offices along the far wall, we normally congregated around hers.

Presley’s official title was office manager, but she did a lot more than we’d put in her original job description. She made sure bills got paid and customers were happy. She shuffled paperwork to my desk or Dad’s for signatures. She ran payroll and forced us all to talk about retirement plans once a year.

She was the heart of the garage. She set the rhythm and the rest of us followed suit.