Page 44 of Givin' Me Fitz!
Chapter Sixteen
Sawyer
My first stop after talking to Fitz earlier in the day was Las Vegas PD’s substation in Spring Valley, which was closest to Tumbleweed’s Durango location. I needed to talk to Chet Crane to see when the cops were going to release the dispensary as a crime scene so we could get in there and clean it up because we were losing money every day. A good ol’ boy came to the front desk and slid open the glass. “Help ya?”
“I’m here to see Officer Crane. He’s expecting me.” The guy gave me the judgmental “up and down” before closing the glass and waddling away. How the fuck could a guy as out of shape as he appeared to be police anything? It was mean of me, but seriously?
Forever later—and just before I was about to leave—Crane came to the door and opened it. “Hey, Abbott. Come on back.”
I followed him, half wishing I’d worn my cut just to piss off the assholes staring at me as I followed Crane. I was pretty sure they all knew who I was, anyway. I sauntered through a bunch of desks, some empty, some occupied, holding my head high.
Crane led me to a small interrogation room—the sign outside said conference room, but fuck if we all didn’t know what it was used for.
“Something to drink, prez?” The sarcasm was thick in the cop’s tone.
“No thanks. Where are you boys in the investigation of who robbed our dispensary? Did you figure out who that body belonged to? I have the feeling it wasn’t Boyd Townsend.”
I had to tread carefully because they’d been damn serious about us not taking things into our own hands unless we wanted trouble with law enforcement for interfering with an ongoing investigation.
We weren’t choir boys, I’ll admit. There was no need to go looking for trouble, so we’d stayed away from their investigation into our robbery and Townsend’s death. All we’d done was go out to Townsend’s house to see his old lady was gone.
Crane pointed to a chair so I sat down, pulling my phone from my shirt pocket and turning on the recording app. “You don’t mind if I record this, do you Officer Crane? Sometimes things get misconstrued in conversation. Not that I think you’d put words in my mouth or anything.”
Not surprisingly, Crane did the same thing. “It’s 2:43 on the afternoon of November second. I’m here with Sawyer Abbott, president of the Steel Cowboys Motorcycle Club. I consent to having this conversation recorded by Mr. Abbott. Do you consent in return, Mr. Abbott?”
“I consent, too. What do you know?” I turned the signet ring on my index finger while I listened to him review the shit they had so far.
“We found footage from the vehicles you picked up on the rear security cameras and were able to identify them from the plates. The pickup truck with a bed cover belonged to Melvin McFall of Las Vegas, who reported the vehicle stolen the day before the robbery. Park rangers found it smoldering near the Scenic Byway in the desert. It was burned out, but there was no trace of your product anywhere inside. My guess is they had someone pick them up out there. They weren’t going to waste all that weed.
“The other vehicle was a Ford Explorer registered to Beulah Carrey, the wife of Luther Carrey who is incarcerated in—”
I cut him off. “Lute Carrey was the president of the Mojave Scorpions. He’s in Atwater, right? Most of the old-timers are relaxing in prisons out here for the shit they were involved in that got the ATF’s notice.
“I think the guys you should be looking for are the next generation of the Mojave Scorpions, though I know a few of them are doing time in Indian Springs for that little dust up at their clubhouse after they kidnapped me. Feel free to contact Officer Marco Pacetti of Henderson PD. He can fill you in on what happened. As a courtesy between police officers.”
Crane studied me for a minute before he spoke. “I’ll do that. We don’t know much more about the robbery than that. We went out to the Carrey residence in Goldfield, but the house appeared to have been abandoned. We’ve notified the Esmeralda County Sheriff’s Office that Mrs. Carrey is a person of interest in a robbery in Clark County. We’re waiting to hear back.” Crane lifted an eyebrow, though I had no idea what he thought I had to add.
“When will you release the dispensary so we can get inside, clean it up, and reopen? We’re losing money every day it’s closed, in addition to the cash the Scorpions stole from us.” I poked the metal table to emphasize my point.
Crane smirked. “Give me a minute, and I’ll get the paperwork. Our team got everything they could from the shop, but maybe you should question your ranks to see if anyone’s heard anything more. If you find out anything, I trust you’ll let me know.”
I chuckled. “You’ll be my first call.”
He stood and went out the door of theconference room, leaving me to wonder how long they’d have kept Tumbleweeds on lockdown if I hadn’t shown up.
Crane returned a few minutes later with a paper for me to sign. “All yours. If you have any questions or anything new comes to light, give us a call, please.”
Smirking, I stood. “Or maybe I’ll just mention it to Hobie Richards. You guys are tight, right?”
I picked up the copy of the paper he’d given me and headed out for my next appointment. In the back of my head, I knew we needed an attorney because I had a bad feeling about the minefield on the horizon if the Scorpions were involved. We were damn near legit, but this shit could set us back ten years.
I needed to get Mouse to find us a top-notch lawyer—or maybe I’d ask Fitz if he knew anyone in town. Better safe than sorry.
An hour later, I was waiting to meet with Regan Hill, the guy who owned Valley Cultivation Farm in Amargosa Valley where we bought a lot of our weed. The other part of our products came from a place outside a Native American reservation in northwestern Nevada.
There was a fancy gatehouse where I was supposed to meet with Regan, and the lady who reminded me of the receptionist at a dentist’s office had given me a bottle of ice-cold water while I waited.
Hill’s business compound could easily be mistaken for a supermax prison, and the guards around the place looked a lot like an Army special ops unit. Based on what happened to us, I was sure Hill had every reason for what could be construed as security overkill.
