“Client was a lawyer and the husband was doin’ her assistant. I’d bet that made for an uncomfortable working relationship. Anyway, what if we just ask Ms. Ramirez where she’s going?” Seemed easier than just sitting in the truck and speculating.
As the two of us were getting out of the truck, a familiar roar had me turning to look down the street. Motoring toward us were two of the sickest-looking custom Harley Low Riders I’d ever seen, and they were turning onto Rita’s street.
“Fucking hell,” I whispered before I hurried to the driver’s side and jerked Jagger down with me. I didn’t know if they were stopping or just driving by, but I was ninety-nine percent sure they were strapped and ready to fight.
“Let’s see if they keep going and it’s a coincidence, or if they’re here to cause trouble.” I inched to the end of the truck bed and peeked around the corner.
The bikes turned into Rita’s driveway and stopped on the front lawn. One of the men got off his bike while the other guy stayed put. They were both wearing Viper Kings cuts, and the tanks had custom Viper heads wearing crowns over a red-and-purple background that matched the colors on the patch on the back of the cuts. There was no doubt who they were.
“This is definitely not a coincidence.” I turned to see Jagger’s scowl as he handed me the binoculars. I put them up to my eyes to see the guy still sitting on the bike reach into the right saddle bag, open the lid, and pull out a large sack before placing it on his lap.
Guy Number One talked to Rita for a moment before he motioned for Guy Number Two to join them inside the house. The second guy dismounted his bike and dropped the bag. When he bent to pick it up, I saw a flash of silver tucked into the back of his pants.
“Shit! He’s got a gun.”
Fitz reached for his phone. “Fucking hell. It’s in the car. You got yours?”
I reached into my back pocket and slid it out, handing it to him. Fitz quickly tapped in a number, and as it was ringing, we heard two gunshots.
I started to run, but Jagger grabbed my arm and hauled me back. The two bikers rushed out with the bag and started their bikes, peeling out of the yard.
Fitz ended the call before it was answered, pulling up the camera app and shooting their escape. He then called 9-1-1 again.
“What’s your emergency?”
“I heard gunshots fired at…” Jagger went on to give the dispatcher the address of Rita Rameriz’s home and his name. After he hung up, he turned to me. “We can give the footage to whoever shows up.” I nodded and took my phone to wait.
We stayed away from the house because no fucking way did we want to be blamed for whatever had happened inside. Since Rita wasn’t coming out, we both knew it wasn’t good.
The sheriff’s deputies showed up about thirty minutes later. After we gave our statements regarding why we were there and what we saw, we were allowed to leave. They took our information for any follow-up questions.
Deputy Lance Garrett was there once again, asking questions the same as he’d done when Maria died. He was as unconcerned about the death of Rita Ramirez as he’d been about Maria, treating both incidents with as much professionalism as if someone ran over a squirrel. I had a feeling he’d missed the diversity and inclusion seminars most precincts required of their officers who dealt with the public.
When we were back in the truck, Jagger grabbed his phone from the console and dialed, putting it on speaker.
“Spitzer.”
I nodded. It was a good idea to notify Spitzer of what had just happened since he was the detective looking to nail the Viper Kings and the Víbora Cartel.
“Hey, Detective Spitzer, it’s Jagger Hansen. There’s something going on you should know about. Can you meet me at Sparks Bail Bonds? I’ve got a video I want to explain to you.”
“Sure. Gimme thirty.”
The call ended, and Jagger’s concerned eyes met mine. “I hope this gives them what they need to catch these bastards.”
Oh, I agreed a thousand percent. Spitzer arrived at Jagger’s office twenty minutes after we got there.
“You want coffee?” Jagger asked. I could tell he wasn’t really excited about meeting with the detective, but if what we’d witnessed helped the guy, then it wouldn’t be wasted time.
“I’m fine right now. I was in at seven, so I have five cups under my belt. Tell me what the fuck is going on?”
“Rita Ramirez was murdered today. I caught the suspects on my phone.” Jagger turned his laptop to the detective and showed Spitzer the video.
“So they showed up at her house and went inside? You didn’t get the actual shooting.”
I couldn’t hold my tongue. “Are you fucking kidding me? He’s got the two of them leaving the scene of a crime where we heard two gunshots. The license plates on the custom bikes can easily be seen in the video, and the way they left—you’ve got to be fucking kidding me that you don’t think this is helpful to your case against the cartel and the MCs.
“The same Clark County deputy came out to confirm the woman was dead and did nothing else, Spitzer. Deputy Lance Garrett. He’s the guy who showed up when Maria died.”
