Page 11 of Witch Upon a Star
Lucky was sitting in his normal seat, to the right of Steel’s. He wasn’t even touching Steel’s gavel, which had been a present from Jenna when the club had been formed and that was likely the only reason Steel even used it.
“Keys,” the VP groused. “What do you have?”
“Not much,” was not the answer any of us wanted to hear. “Even with the rush the DEA put on it, forensics takes a while. So I did a bit of digging on my own.” The television screens on the walls came to life. A 3D computer model of a motel room appeared on the screens. “I built a rendering of the motel room from the crime scene photos,” Keys explained. Dixie Gilbert, Ollie’s birth mother, had been murdered last Thursday, and Steel was the number one suspect in her death. “Chip and Tom also headed over to get me some more accurate measurements.”
I wasn’t the only one to look at Keys with raised eyebrows. Neither Tom, Keys’ new business partner, nor Chip, a veteran who was living on property but wasn’tprospecting for the club, were club members and therefore shouldn’t have been told club business.
“It’s Steel,” Keys argued defensively before anyone could say anything. “I didn’t give them details but I needed all the help I could get on such short notice.”
Lucky and Bulldog exchanged a look before Bulldog shrugged his shoulders. Lucky let out a long sigh. “I’ll allow it, but you should have informed me first before you did so.”
Keys nervously pushed his glasses up his nose. “It was three in the morning. I didn’t want to disturb you.”
Lucky indicated for him to continue.
Keys started typing quickly, ducking his head down below the monitors in front of his chair. The motel room on the screen spun as two people appeared in the room. Neither had details, like hair or eye color, but it was obvious one was a tall man and one was an extremely skinny woman. It reminded me of a beta version of a video game before features are added to the avatars.
As the image continued to spin, a red line came through the window and ended as a dot on the woman’s forehead. Both people in the room remained standing, though.
“From what we were able to determine, this is the angle of the bullet through the glass,” Keys explained. “I got a look at the shell casing the police found?—”
“Wait,” Papaw interrupted. “He didn’t check his brass?”
Keys shook his head.
Papaw scowled. “Steel would never be so sloppy.” Realizing what he’d said and Keys’ stunned expression, he added, “Not that I think he did it. Don’t get your panties in a bunch, kid. I’m just saying, if he did, he wouldn’t have been so sloppy.”
Keys cleared his throat. “Um, right.” The screens split into two separate images. On the right was the model of the motel room and on the left was a crime scene picture of a bronze shell casing in grass with an L-shaped ruler beside it. “It’s a 51mm, but without the bullet, there’s no way to determine what model gun was used.
“If they did their homework, it would be an M40-A1,” Angel stated, and Papaw nodded.
“Why?” Lucky asked. “Marine snipers generally use MK-22s.”
I silently agreed. It had been the weapon I’d used as a Raider as well. I wasn’t a sniper like Steel had been, but I’d still been certified in LDKs—long distance kills.
“Not when Steel was trained,” Papaw explained. “In the 1990s, we used the M40s. It wasn’t until the mid-2000s that we changed over.” He pointed to the television screen. “They didn’t leave a shell casing because they’re sloppy. That bullet will trace back to Steel somehow.”
“Does Steel have a rifle?” Bulldog asked the room as a whole.
No one seemed to have that answer. To my knowledge, Steel had a SIG Sauer M18. Keys had other weapons stashed for when we might need it, but none of those weapons were registered, and therefore, couldn’t be traced back to us.
“Are there any fingerprints on the casing?” Bulldog asked Keys when no one could answer his other question.
Keys didn’t look happy to say, “It hasn’t been processed yet.”
Bear’s face darkened from his usual jovial expression as he sat forward. “How much do you want to bet that Steel’s fingerprint will beon there?”
There were no takers.
Lucky cracked his neck. “We need that shell casing. If Steel’s fingerprint is on it, it won’t matter what alibi we give him, he’s going down for murder.”
“Were you able to give Toni Steel’s alibi?” Bulldog asked Keys. Toni Anderson was the club’s defense attorney. She was a friend of our business attorney, Susan Brown. When Lucky had been arrested two and a half years ago, it had been Toni who had gotten him out. We didn’t call on her often, but she was still a good contact to have.
The kid nodded. “She had it Saturday morning. Said she’d be talking to the prosecutor first thing this morning.” He made a face. “But it’s flimsy at best. All I did was prove what time Steel and Jenna arrived on property Thursday afternoon and that there was no evidence he left again before Friday morning. Jenna is Steel’s only alibi at the time of the murder. Ollie was still at Angel and Cage’s. I can prove his phone was on property, but again, that can be argued.”
“And Jenna gave her statement to Carlos on Friday when I took her over.” Lucky rubbed his forehead like he was getting a headache. “He was helping Jenna bathe at the time of the murder.”
“Well, unless they have a photo of that with a credible timestamp, his fingerprint on the shell casing is going to trump a spouse’s alibi,” Demo said, pointing to the monitors.
