Own the Wind(28)

So I figured finding the guy, bringing him to justice, if that could happen, would help Shy to heal. Or, at least, it wouldn’t hurt.

“No,” Natalie cut into my thoughts, “you’re not goin’ to find the guy yourself, but that doesn’t mean you’re not insane.”

“Why is finding that bastard insane?” I snapped.

“How many reasons do you want?” she snapped back.

“Five,” I retorted.

She sat back in her chair, lifted her hand with one finger extended and launched in. “One, you’re hiring Lee Nightingale and, girl, you know, that dude has had books written about him. They were fictionalized, but he’s also in the paper all the time, so we both know whoever wrote that shit did not tone it down. He’s the badass to end all badasses. He’s such a badass, he’s the freakin’ definition of badass, and his team of badasses only exist to define alternate nuances of the same thing.” Her chin jerked out. “Badass.”

“This is good in a private detective,” I pointed out.

Natalie ignored me, lifted her hand again, and shook two fingers at me.

“Two, he’s the best of the best, and the best of the best is expensive. You got a sweet gig as a nurse, but even so, you also don’t have that kind of cake.”

I had to admit this was a concern.

When I moved into my apartment, Dad and Tyra sprung for my living room furniture set, the brothers bought me a killer stereo, and the old ladies got together to outfit my kitchen with junk I could use to ruin food. I just had to buy my dining room table and bedroom furniture and I was good to go. My rent was also cheap. And Nat was right, I had a sweet gig. I wasn’t a millionaire but my salary was nothing to sneeze at, especially at my age.

Therefore, I was comfortable.

That said, I’d been thinking on this scheme for a while, and I’d called over a month ago to get an appointment with Lee Nightingale of Nightingale Investigations, the premier private investigation service in Denver or, maybe, from their reputation, the world. They set me up, but my appointment was next week. That was how in demand this guy was. And usually that kind of thing reflected in fees.

“Three,” Natalie went on and I focused on her, “I don’t know, it’s a guess since I never was stupid enough to hire a badass but, I’d say, when a badass sends an invoice and it doesn’t get paid, he gets testy.”

Another concern I had.

“Maybe he’ll take installments,” I suggested.

She again ignored me.

“Four and five, because, girl, when I say it you’re gonna know this is worth two numbers, you manage to hire Lee Nightingale, he manages to find this guy, and, Tabby, you know Nightingale is so good, that case could be cold as the arctic and he’ll still find this guy, we’re talking about Shy Cage and Chaos here. The guy who whacked his parents is unearthed, he’s gonna go apocalyptic on his ass. We’re talkin’ takin’ this guy somewhere no one knows about, playin’ with him for maybe years, then probably tossing him into a pit, dousing him with lighter fluid, and setting him on fire like that stone-cold black dude did to Tig’s daughter on Sons of Anarchy.”

“Chaos is not SAMCRO,” I returned, referring to the acronym for the motorcycle club in that TV show.

She lifted her eyebrows.

I decided not to argue that point.

She leaned forward and continued, “Tab, I can see it. My girl is back and I don’t want to turn you to that dark place you’re leavin’ behind, but Shy Cage is not a physical therapist.” Her voice dipped quieter. “In other words, girl, he’s not Jason.”

I licked my upper lip and fidgeted in my chair.

Natalie kept talking, “If Jason’s parents were murdered, you found the guy who did it, he’d stand in front of reporters and make relieved statements about justice being done. You know, there is no way that motherf*cker was found, Shy, who you’re suddenly weirdly tight with and we’ll talk about that later,” she declared ominously. “And your dad, I’ll put out there, since Shy is a brother and those brothers are all about the brotherhood, will not lose their f*ckin’ badass biker minds and let that shit go unavenged the way they think it needs to be avenged.”

Okay, even though I’d been thinking on this awhile, maybe I didn’t think it all the way through.

“Okay,” I started. “Maybe I can make a deal with Nightingale that he finds enough evidence that when this guy goes inside, he never comes out.”

Natalie sat back, her brows shot up and she cried, “Girl, do you not watch TV?”

I glared at her.

She leaned toward me again and stated, “These guys got networks. That guy would be in the joint about two seconds before some inmate who owed Chaos a marker got the word and he started carvin’ that motherf*cker’s name in a shiv.”

This, too, was probably true.

I leaned toward her and admitted, “Natalie, he’s been supercool with me. You’re right, we’re tight and he talks about his folks all the time. I have to do something.”

“Now we’re talkin’ about what I wanna talk about,” she informed me. “Tell me, how in the f*ck am I in your kitchen for four hours last week helpin’ you botch batch after batch of cookies to get one good enough to give to Shy Cage?”