Gypsy King (Tin Gypsy, #1)(2)

“I, uh . . .” Shit. I’d asked Art to pull some from the archives, and I guess he’d told Dad, even though I’d brought him Tums and homemade cinnamon rolls to keep quiet. Traitor.

“Stay away from them, Bryce.”

“But there’s a story there. Don’t tell me you can’t feel it. This could be huge for us.”

“Huge?” He shook his head. “If you want huge, you’d better go back to Seattle. I thought you came here to slow down. To enjoy life. Weren’t those your words?”

“Yes, they were. And I am slowing down.” I wasn’t waking up at three a.m. to make it to the TV station for the morning show. I wasn’t cutting my hair to appease my producer or constantly watching my diet. I wasn’t reporting someone else’s stories on camera. Instead, I was writing my own.

It was wonderful, but after two months of small-town Montana life, I was going a bit stir-crazy. Calling the hospital for birth announcements and the funeral home for obituaries wasn’t enough of a mental challenge. I needed some excitement. I needed a decent story.

And the Clifton Forge Garage had story written all over it.

About a year ago, the Tin Gypsy Motorcycle Club had disbanded. They’d been one of the more prominent and lucrative gangs in Montana and had closed down without an explanation.

The former members claimed they were focusing on running the garage here in town. Their shop had become renowned in certain wealthy and celebrity circles for classic car restorations and custom motorcycle builds.

But men like them—men like Kingston “Dash” Slater with his striking good looks, cocky swagger and devilish grin—thrived on power. They craved danger and a life on the edge, without limits. As a gang, the Gypsies had power and money in spades.

So why had they given it up?

No one knew. And if they did, they weren’t talking.

“Doesn’t it strike you as odd that in the past year, there hasn’t been any news about them? And no explanation as to why they shut down their ‘club’? They went from notorious gang members to upstanding citizens overnight. I don’t buy it. It’s too quiet. Too clean.”

“That’s because they are clean,” Dad said.

“Sure. Squeaky,” I deadpanned.

“You make it sound like we’re all covering things up for them.” He frowned. “Come on. Don’t you think if there were a story there, I’d tell it? Or do you think so little of me as a reporter?”

“That’s not what I’m saying. Of course you’d tell the story.”

But would he dig for it? I didn’t doubt Dad’s ability to investigate. He’d been a star reporter in his prime. But since he and Mom had moved to Clifton Forge and bought the Tribune years ago, he’d slowed down. He wasn’t as eager as he’d once been. He wasn’t as hungry.

Me? I was starved.

“If there’s no story, there’s no story,” I said. “The only thing I’m out is my time, right?”

“I’m going on the record as your father and your partner: I don’t like it. They might not be a gang anymore, but those guys have an edge. I don’t want you crossing them.”

“Understood. I’ll ask my questions and stay away.” Or away-ish.

“Bryce,” he warned.

I held up my hands, feigning innocence. “What?”

“Be. Careful.”

“I’m careful. Always.” Okay, sometimes. Dad’s definition of careful was a little different than mine.

I stood on my toes to kiss his cheek, then I waved and hurried out of the pressroom before he assigned me something that would keep me trapped at my desk all day.

The police station was on the opposite end of town from the newspaper. It sat on the banks of the Missouri River along a busy street crowded with restaurants and offices. The river was running fast and high from the melting mountain snow. The June sun reflected off the water’s rippled surface in golden flickers. The Montana air was clean and fresh, a close second to my beloved newspaper scent.

It was another smell from my youth, one I’d missed in Seattle.

I parked my car and went inside the station, making small talk with the officer up front. Then I thanked my lucky stars when she waved me through without any hassle. The first three times I’d come here to visit the chief, I’d been put through the paces. Fingerprints. Background check. A photo.

Maybe it was protocol.

Or maybe they didn’t like reporters.

The station was quiet this morning. A few officers sat at their desks, heads bent over keyboards and ballpoint pens as they did paperwork while the others on shift were patrolling the streets. The chief’s office was along the rear wall of the building. The window behind his desk had a beautiful view of the river.

“Knock, knock.” I rapped on the open door and stepped inside. “Morning, Chief.”

“Morning, Bryce.” He set down the document he’d been reading.

“You know, I never can tell if that’s a happy smile or an irritated smile when I come here.”

“That depends.” His eyes narrowed on my purse, his bushy gray eyebrows coming together.

I reached inside the handbag and retrieved a pack of licorice. “How’d I do?”

He shrugged, staring at the Twizzlers as I set them on his desk and took one of the guest chairs. In my previous visits, I’d brought along Twix, Snickers and M&M’s. He’d been lukewarm toward my treats at best. So today, I’d gone out on a limb at the Town Pump and picked up something fruity.