and hip to account for minor road rash and some bruising on his shoulders and knees. Because the floor was cold, the man had been allowed to keep his worn, yellowed socks on. Although the holes in the toes created a comical appearance, Maxim didn't want to take the situation lightly.
"Listen, Diego. I won't tolerate any surprises." The detective brushed his right jacket back and placed his hand on his gun holster, more a signal of readiness than a threat. As the two shuffled by him, Maxim shook his head and addressed the rookie. "And, Gutierrez. Shave that damn mustache."
"Sorry, boss," the uniform chuckled, "but I don't think there's enough hair here to glue to your bald head." He laughed and pushed the prisoner into the stairwell, wearing a stupid grin the whole way.
The detective sighed and rubbed both hands on his head, checking to see if Kent had noticed the quip. Ever since Maxim had shaved his hair close to his scalp, the rookie had been on him about it. So what if his hair was receding a bit? He surely wasn't going bald at thirty-two.
Still, something had been bothering him, and he refused to call it an early mid-life crisis. As gifted as he was, he hadn't managed to recover his wife after she disappeared two years earlier. Living without her created a void inside him that he was just beginning to comprehend. However easily work had come to him thus far in Sanctuary, there remained the nagging feeling that he needed to understand more. This determination, whether through carelessness or curiosity, brought him to consider the bikers an aberrant type of thorn.
In truth, Diego had him hooked the second he mentioned disappearances.
Trailing them downstairs, Maxim hit the ground floor, turned into the police lobby, and entered the marshal's office. It was a large room littered with desks and outdated computers and had the old kind of fluorescent bulbs that buzzed. The far wall was exposed brick, and the ceiling tiles were still stained from the years when smoking was legal in government buildings. The only two officers in the room besides the rookie were Hitchens and Cole, two veterans who were as much a relic in these times as the office itself.
"Get out of the way, black," said Gutierrez to Hitchens as he passed him by.
"You keep calling me black and I'm gonna file racial discrimination charges on your ass." Hitchens tried to scowl but couldn't hide his smirk. "Fucking spic."
Maxim shook his head. If Gutierrez was an instigator, the two veterans were stock cartoon caricatures: Hitchens was heavy and bossy and loud and Cole was tall and muscled and reserved. The humorous moment did not last long.
"Dwyer, what in the hell do you think you're doing?" Hitchens always spoke plainly. He didn't care if it got him into trouble, and it often did, but Maxim appreciated that nuance about the man. He was overweight and in his fifties but still dependable in most situations.
This wasn't one of them.
"The marshal is going to flip his lid when he finds MC members in our jail!"
Barney Hitchens was the patrol sergeant, so he was accustomed to getting his way. He didn't hold rank over the Criminal Investigation Unit but the marshal certainly did, and the marshal would not be happy that Maxim had chosen to observe and interfere with the bikers at Sycamore Lodge tonight. None of the police were cleared by the brass to monitor the club, and Hitchens and Cole, perhaps concerned with their pensions, never bent that rule. The two uniforms had responded to the motorcycle accident, but they wanted no part of locking up the Seventh Sons.
"Someone needs to account for the dead man, Hitchens. What else could I do?"
The grizzled officer was only half sympathetic. Gutierrez escorted the prisoner to the interrogation room and Hitchens watched them with uncertain eyes. "You should have just left it alone, that's what. And on a full moon, no less."
And there was the real reason no one interfered. Fear.
This was a small department and the
"Listen, Diego. I won't tolerate any surprises." The detective brushed his right jacket back and placed his hand on his gun holster, more a signal of readiness than a threat. As the two shuffled by him, Maxim shook his head and addressed the rookie. "And, Gutierrez. Shave that damn mustache."
"Sorry, boss," the uniform chuckled, "but I don't think there's enough hair here to glue to your bald head." He laughed and pushed the prisoner into the stairwell, wearing a stupid grin the whole way.
The detective sighed and rubbed both hands on his head, checking to see if Kent had noticed the quip. Ever since Maxim had shaved his hair close to his scalp, the rookie had been on him about it. So what if his hair was receding a bit? He surely wasn't going bald at thirty-two.
Still, something had been bothering him, and he refused to call it an early mid-life crisis. As gifted as he was, he hadn't managed to recover his wife after she disappeared two years earlier. Living without her created a void inside him that he was just beginning to comprehend. However easily work had come to him thus far in Sanctuary, there remained the nagging feeling that he needed to understand more. This determination, whether through carelessness or curiosity, brought him to consider the bikers an aberrant type of thorn.
In truth, Diego had him hooked the second he mentioned disappearances.
Trailing them downstairs, Maxim hit the ground floor, turned into the police lobby, and entered the marshal's office. It was a large room littered with desks and outdated computers and had the old kind of fluorescent bulbs that buzzed. The far wall was exposed brick, and the ceiling tiles were still stained from the years when smoking was legal in government buildings. The only two officers in the room besides the rookie were Hitchens and Cole, two veterans who were as much a relic in these times as the office itself.
"Get out of the way, black," said Gutierrez to Hitchens as he passed him by.
"You keep calling me black and I'm gonna file racial discrimination charges on your ass." Hitchens tried to scowl but couldn't hide his smirk. "Fucking spic."
Maxim shook his head. If Gutierrez was an instigator, the two veterans were stock cartoon caricatures: Hitchens was heavy and bossy and loud and Cole was tall and muscled and reserved. The humorous moment did not last long.
"Dwyer, what in the hell do you think you're doing?" Hitchens always spoke plainly. He didn't care if it got him into trouble, and it often did, but Maxim appreciated that nuance about the man. He was overweight and in his fifties but still dependable in most situations.
This wasn't one of them.
"The marshal is going to flip his lid when he finds MC members in our jail!"
Barney Hitchens was the patrol sergeant, so he was accustomed to getting his way. He didn't hold rank over the Criminal Investigation Unit but the marshal certainly did, and the marshal would not be happy that Maxim had chosen to observe and interfere with the bikers at Sycamore Lodge tonight. None of the police were cleared by the brass to monitor the club, and Hitchens and Cole, perhaps concerned with their pensions, never bent that rule. The two uniforms had responded to the motorcycle accident, but they wanted no part of locking up the Seventh Sons.
"Someone needs to account for the dead man, Hitchens. What else could I do?"
The grizzled officer was only half sympathetic. Gutierrez escorted the prisoner to the interrogation room and Hitchens watched them with uncertain eyes. "You should have just left it alone, that's what. And on a full moon, no less."
And there was the real reason no one interfered. Fear.
This was a small department and the
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