of it."
Deborah fumed but held her false grin well. "Your town, is it?" Deborah crossed her arms over her chest. "I suppose you aren't aware that Sycamore Lodge existed here long before your town sprang up?"
Maxim sighed. "That was well before your time, Deborah."
"Well, thank you for noticing," she said defiantly. "It's true just the same. This lodge was an outpost in the nineteenth century for the surveying of Beale Wagon Road. The trail was ordered by the president himself, and he appointed his friend, Edward Fitzgerald Beale, to build it. Water, flat ground, a straight shot—it was the best path west for hundreds of miles before Route 66 and the Interstate ran across the more tenable land to the south."
The detective blinked back his obvious boredom. "I'm not in the mood for one of your history lectures. Is all of this leading somewhere?"
Deborah glared at him. "The point is that this building has been here for a long time, and it has outlasted many masters. Through the boom times to the founding of Sanctuary to the isolation of the highways, this bar has withstood. All of Sycamore, really. And the Seventh Sons ain't no different."
"You're from Alabama, Deborah. You didn't have anything to do with the club twenty years ago."
"Maxim," she said, "I feel sorry for you. It's tradition and family that give meaning to life."
The detective tilted his head in a careless gesture. "You're not going to make me arrest you, are you?"
Deborah's eyes narrowed. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Just filling in blanks. I'd like to start with you coming down to the marshal's office and answering some questions for me. You'd be a big help in the investigation." Maxim assumed an exaggerated expression of concern. "And of course, with your friend being the victim, I'm sure you'd like to assist in any way possible."
Deborah had a look on her face like she was properly dumbfounded. The woman was definitely more surprised than upset by Maxim's insistence.
Diego watched them both intently as he sat down again. He had learned that the detective was not a werewolf the other night when he didn't turn, but he hadn't been sure how friendly he was with the gang. Because of their potentially illegal operations, motorcycle clubs often bought out the authorities, after all.
Instead, Maxim looked to be crossing an invisible line. Diego recalled an older police sergeant complaining to Maxim about the prisoners the night they were arrested. If the detective was indeed prioritizing justice over procedure, then perhaps he was someone who could be trusted.
The roadhouse was now empty except for the three of them. Maxim was holding his second bourbon, and this time he sipped from it. Deborah paced a few steps away and came back as she mulled over his proposal. Diego thought it was obvious to everybody that the gang was up to no good. The real question was how deep Maxim wanted to dig.
"I really miss your Lola," said Deborah with soft words. "She often spoke of your stubbornness." Diego perked up at this revelation. "Sometimes she even thought it was a good thing."
It suddenly became apparent to Diego just how small of a town he was in. Everybody in Sanctuary seemed to have deep ties.
"I know you like to tell yourself that your drinking got heavier after your wife disappeared, Detective." Mom rapped her fingernails on the bar. "Truth is, you were always a hopeless drunk."
Diego watched as Maxim spun a silver ring around his finger with one hand and killed off his drink with the other. "Thanks for your cooperation, Debbie."
The detective walked out from behind the bar and headed for the front door. Deborah went to the table with her plate of unfinished fried chicken and picked up a gold-sequined purse. The woman pulled out a compact and casually reapplied her pink lipstick as Maxim waited. Then she returned to the bar and placed her cowboy hat back on her head, facing the biker.
"I didn't like your sister, Diego. She was a princess and riled
Deborah fumed but held her false grin well. "Your town, is it?" Deborah crossed her arms over her chest. "I suppose you aren't aware that Sycamore Lodge existed here long before your town sprang up?"
Maxim sighed. "That was well before your time, Deborah."
"Well, thank you for noticing," she said defiantly. "It's true just the same. This lodge was an outpost in the nineteenth century for the surveying of Beale Wagon Road. The trail was ordered by the president himself, and he appointed his friend, Edward Fitzgerald Beale, to build it. Water, flat ground, a straight shot—it was the best path west for hundreds of miles before Route 66 and the Interstate ran across the more tenable land to the south."
The detective blinked back his obvious boredom. "I'm not in the mood for one of your history lectures. Is all of this leading somewhere?"
Deborah glared at him. "The point is that this building has been here for a long time, and it has outlasted many masters. Through the boom times to the founding of Sanctuary to the isolation of the highways, this bar has withstood. All of Sycamore, really. And the Seventh Sons ain't no different."
"You're from Alabama, Deborah. You didn't have anything to do with the club twenty years ago."
"Maxim," she said, "I feel sorry for you. It's tradition and family that give meaning to life."
The detective tilted his head in a careless gesture. "You're not going to make me arrest you, are you?"
Deborah's eyes narrowed. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Just filling in blanks. I'd like to start with you coming down to the marshal's office and answering some questions for me. You'd be a big help in the investigation." Maxim assumed an exaggerated expression of concern. "And of course, with your friend being the victim, I'm sure you'd like to assist in any way possible."
Deborah had a look on her face like she was properly dumbfounded. The woman was definitely more surprised than upset by Maxim's insistence.
Diego watched them both intently as he sat down again. He had learned that the detective was not a werewolf the other night when he didn't turn, but he hadn't been sure how friendly he was with the gang. Because of their potentially illegal operations, motorcycle clubs often bought out the authorities, after all.
Instead, Maxim looked to be crossing an invisible line. Diego recalled an older police sergeant complaining to Maxim about the prisoners the night they were arrested. If the detective was indeed prioritizing justice over procedure, then perhaps he was someone who could be trusted.
The roadhouse was now empty except for the three of them. Maxim was holding his second bourbon, and this time he sipped from it. Deborah paced a few steps away and came back as she mulled over his proposal. Diego thought it was obvious to everybody that the gang was up to no good. The real question was how deep Maxim wanted to dig.
"I really miss your Lola," said Deborah with soft words. "She often spoke of your stubbornness." Diego perked up at this revelation. "Sometimes she even thought it was a good thing."
It suddenly became apparent to Diego just how small of a town he was in. Everybody in Sanctuary seemed to have deep ties.
"I know you like to tell yourself that your drinking got heavier after your wife disappeared, Detective." Mom rapped her fingernails on the bar. "Truth is, you were always a hopeless drunk."
Diego watched as Maxim spun a silver ring around his finger with one hand and killed off his drink with the other. "Thanks for your cooperation, Debbie."
The detective walked out from behind the bar and headed for the front door. Deborah went to the table with her plate of unfinished fried chicken and picked up a gold-sequined purse. The woman pulled out a compact and casually reapplied her pink lipstick as Maxim waited. Then she returned to the bar and placed her cowboy hat back on her head, facing the biker.
"I didn't like your sister, Diego. She was a princess and riled
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