Surviving Ice (Burying Water, #4)(71)

“You lied to me,” I snap, cutting him off before he sends me into a panic over what’s happening at the shop. Given the auto shop behind me—in a run-down area of Daly City, where trees are sparse and litter plenty—is a grimy mix of cobalt blue and construction orange, I shouldn’t let his opinion sway me too much.

“Look at you, with your hands on your little hips.” He chuckles, giving me a once-over, like I’m some cute little kid.

I have the urge to punch him in the face, but I restrain myself.

Pulling a rag out from his back pocket, he casually wipes the oil from his hands. “So, what’re you goin’ on about now?”

“When I asked you if Ned owed one of your guys money and you said no, you were lying right to my face, weren’t you?”

A frown takes over his jovial expression as he glances over his shoulder at the other guys. “What have you heard?”

“That Ned had a sizable gambling debt with one of your guys.”

His boots drag over the gravel as he gets closer. “And who told you that?” His eyes aren’t nearly as soft, his face not nearly as friendly as it was a moment ago.

Maybe I shouldn’t have charged in here like this. I straighten my back. “The cops.”

He laughs. “Bullshit.” I guess the idea that the cops know about Iron’s internal affairs is crazy.

I hold his gaze until he realizes I’m not lying, and his grin falls off his face.

“Who told them?”

“You’ll have to ask Detective Fields that.”

He runs his tongue over his teeth. “Ned didn’t owe us nothin’. Tell your detective he has a shitty source.”

The meaning behind his words, his inflection, isn’t lost on me. “Who did he owe, then?”

Bobby heaves a sigh, muttering something unintelligible to himself. “Ned was into it with a guy named Sullivan. He’s not Iron. He’s . . . an associate of ours, who sometimes joins our game nights.”

“What kind of ‘associate’?”

“A business one,” he answers vaguely.

I fold my arms over my chest. “Guns?”

“No.”

“Hookers?”

“No.”

“Drugs?”

He falters. “No.”

My stomach turns. So Ned owed money to a drug dealer. Hell, that’s worse than owing one of these bikers. “How much?”

Bobby sighs. “Two hundred and fifty g’s, originally. He paid up a hundred of that, but couldn’t get any more from the bank.”

My mouth drops open. “How the hell did Ned end up owing someone a quarter of a million dollars?”

“Poker. Your uncle had a bit of a gambling problem.”

I scowl. “No he didn’t.”

“Yeah . . . he did,” Bobby says, his voice firm. “For a few years now. Dad warned him about owing money to a guy like Sullivan, but he wouldn’t listen. Fucking stubborn old man.”

Ned had a gambling problem? Was it worse than he let on? Obviously yes, if he owed that kind of money. I rack my brain, trying to think of a particular Wednesday night over the past few months when he came home distraught from a poker night. The problem is, I was never home to see him come in. And by Thursday when I strolled into Black Rabbit at noon . . . well, Ned was always on the grouchy side to begin with. “And you didn’t think it was important to tell the cops all this?”

Bobby snorts. “Nobody’s tellin’ the pigs shit. You know that, Ivy. Besides, why would it matter? Sullivan didn’t take out Ned. What good would that do? He wouldn’t get his money.”

“Well, he obviously wasn’t getting his money anyway. Ned had no money!”

“Not cash. But he had Black Rabbit.” Bobby gives me a knowing look. “And Sullivan was after that.”

Oh my God. Ned would have lost his mind if he had to hand over the shop. But now that Ned’s gone . . . “This Sullivan guy trashed Ned’s house the other night looking for cash, didn’t he?”

Bobby’s brow furrows. He looks genuinely surprised. “What?”

“Ned’s house was torn apart two nights ago. Someone was looking for money. Or something.”

“I don’t know nothin’ about that.” Bobby heaves a sigh and reaches up to scratch his scraggly beard.

“What?” He knows more than he’s telling me.

“It’s nothing, really. It’s just . . .”

“Spit it out, Bobby!”

“Okay! Okay.” He glances over his shoulder at the guys again, who are focused on the car on the hoist. “Dad said that Ned came by the clubhouse to talk to him and Tiny.”

Moe and Tiny are two fifty-something-year-old bikers who have been coming to Ned since he opened up. I remember sitting on Tiny’s giant lap when I was just six, while Ned worked on his sleeve.

“Ned wanted their backup for a meet he had with someone in a few days’ time.”

I frown. “Backup? What does that mean, like protection?” Did he know he was in danger?

“Sounds like it, but Ned didn’t tell them too much. Alls he said was that he had something to trade that was worth a lot of dough and he’d be able to pay Sullivan and get him off his back about the shop. He needed a couple guys with him, so he wasn’t going to the exchange alone. He said he’d give them a five percent cut.”