Gypsy king

“That’s not what I’m saying. Of course you’d tell the story.”

But would he dig for it? I didn’t doubt Dad’s ability to investigate. He’d been a star reporter in his prime. But since he and Mom had moved to Clifton Forge and bought the Tribune years ago, he’d slowed down. He wasn’t as eager as he’d once been. He wasn’t as hungry.

Me? I was starved.

“If there’s no story, there’s no story,” I said. “The only thing I’m out is my time, right?”

“I’m going on the record as your father and your partner: I don’t like it. They might not be a gang anymore, but those guys have an edge. I don’t want you crossing them.”

“Understood. I’ll ask my questions and stay away.” Or away-ish.

“Bryce,” he warned.

I held up my hands, feigning i

“Be. Careful.”

“I’m careful. Always.” Okay, sometimes. Dad’s definition of careful was a little different than mine.

I stood on my toes to kiss his cheek, then I waved and hurried out of the pressroom before he assigned me something that would keep me trapped at my desk all day.

The police station was on the opposite end of town from the newspaper. It sat on the banks of the Missouri River along a busy street crowded with restaurants and offices. The river was ru

It was another smell from my youth, one I’d missed in Seattle.

I parked my car and went inside the station, making small talk with the officer up front. Then I thanked my lucky stars when she waved me through without any hassle. The first three times I’d come here to visit the chief, I’d been put through the paces. Fingerprints. Background check. A photo.

Maybe it was protocol.

Or maybe they didn’t like reporters.

The station was quiet this morning. A few officers sat at their desks, heads bent over keyboards and ballpoint pens as they did paperwork while the others on shift were patrolling the streets. The chief’s office was along the rear wall of the building. The window behind his desk had a beautiful view of the river.

“Knock, knock.” I rapped on the open door and stepped inside. “Morning, Chief.”

“Morning, Bryce.” He set down the document he’d been reading.

“You know, I never can tell if that’s a happy smile or an irritated smile when I come here.”

“That depends.” His eyes narrowed on my purse, his bushy gray eyebrows coming together.

I reached inside the handbag and retrieved a pack of licorice. “How’d I do?”

He shrugged, staring at the Twizzlers as I set them on his desk and took one of the guest chairs. In my previous visits, I’d brought along Twix, Snickers and M&M’s. He’d been lukewarm toward my treats at best. So today, I’d gone out on a limb at the Town Pump and picked up something fruity.

“It looks like a happy smile, but with the mustache, it’s hard to tell.”

He chuckled and ripped the package open while I did an i

“You could have just told me.”

“What’s the fun in that?” Chief Wagner stuck the candy in his mouth and chomped a huge bite.

“Are you going to make me work this hard for all my information?”

“Nope,” he said. “We put out a weekly press sheet. All you have to do is download it. Easy peasy.”

“Ah, yes. The weekly press sheet. As truly riveting as those reports are, I was talking about information a bit more . . . in-depth.”

The chief steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “I don’t have anything for you. Just like I didn’t have anything for you two weeks ago. Or the week before that. Or the week before that.”

“Nothing? Not even a tiny morsel you may have forgotten to put in the press sheet?”

“I’ve got nothing. Clifton Forge is a fairly boring place these days. Sorry.”

I frowned. “No, you’re not.”

He chuckled and took another piece of licorice. “You’re right. I’m not sorry. I’m too busy enjoying the peace.”

Chief Wagner was overjoyed that his press sheets only included infrequent 911 calls, random Saturday night drunk and disorderlies and the occasional petty theft from a misguided teenager. This town had seen more than its share of murder and mayhem over the years—thanks to the Tin Gypsies. The motorcycle club was likely responsible for the streaks of gray in Marcus’s hair.

Yet from what I’d been able to dig up in the news archives, the former Tin Gypsy members had spent little to no time in jail cells. Either the chief had overlooked their crimes or the Gypsies were damn good at covering their tracks.

In their glory days, the Tin Gypsies had been led by Draven Slater. I’d seen him around town, and he carried himself with the same air of ruthless confidence he’d passed down to his son, Dash. And neither man struck me as a fool.

My theory was that Police Chief Marcus Wagner was a damn good cop. But Draven, Dash and their Gypsies were always one step ahead.

If I was going to get a story, I’d have to be at the top of my game. Draven had taken a backseat at the garage, which meant I’d be up against Dash. I’d seen the man—I’d been watching.

Dash rode his black motorcycle along Central Avenue like he owned Clifton Forge, flashing a straight, white smile that was blinding. He was the quintessential bad boy. His sexy smirk, chiseled jaw and day-old stubble made all the ladies swoon.

Every lady except me.

The other women in town could have fun with his amazing body. What I wanted from Dash were his secrets.

And I’d need the chief’s help to get them.

In my previous visits here, I hadn’t uttered a word about the Gypsies. I’d only come in to meet the chief and build a rapport. But if I was going to start my investigation, then it was time to go for broke.

“Do you know why the Tin Gypsies closed down so suddenly?”

His jaw stopped midchew and he narrowed his gaze. “No.”

Wrong move. He was going to clam up.

“Okay.” I held up my hands. “I was just curious.”

“Why?”

“The truth? My gut says they are a story.”

The chief swallowed and leaned his elbows on the desk. “Listen, Bryce. I like you. I like your dad. It’s nice to have decent reporters ru

I scooted to the edge of my seat. “Okay.”

“Our town has had more trouble over the last twenty-something years than most have in a hundred. The Gypsies brought a lot of shit here. They know it and they’re trying to make up for it. They’ve been nothing but law-abiding men for over a year. They follow the law to the letter and the town’s changing. I’ve got citizens who feel safe walking down the streets at night. They leave their car doors unlocked when they run into the grocery store. This is a good town.”

“I’m not trying to impede progress.”

“Great. Then leave the Gypsies alone. I’ve gone head-to-head with them more times than I can count. What I could punish them for, I have. And I’m watching. If they do anything illegal, I’ll be the first one there to make them pay. Trust me on that.”

The chief didn’t sound like a fan of the former club. Good to know. But if he thought his warning was going to scare me away, he was mistaken. Now I was more curious than ever what had caused the Gypsies to shut their clubhouse doors.

If they were even closed. Maybe this was all a ruse.