Free Taming Crow (Hells Saints Motorcycle Club) by Paula Marinaro

off the floor.
    “Hey man,” he said into the phone. Then Crow reached for the pack of smokes he had placed on the saw horse.
    “Got that information for you,” Jules responded. .
    “Yeah?” Crow lit up the smoke and drew deep. “Let’s hear it.”
    “Chick is straight up, Brother. Melissa Pignatelli Raymoor. Married at twenty, widowed at twenty-six. Had a kid somewhere in between there. Not running from anything that I could dig up. Couldn't find anything on that massage gig you say she's got going on, but she's probably keeping that under the radar. I'm guessing tax-free money or some bullshit. Her license to practice is legit. Got it when she was still living in Mass. So yeah, everything you got on her checks out.”
    “Got anything I don’t?”
    “Not much. Like I said, bitch is clean,” Jules responded.
    “Her old man?”
    “Captain Jesse Raymoor. Air Force Academy graduate. Fighter pilot killed when his F-16 hit a goddamn mountain in Afghanistan after coming back from a recon mission. The body was recovered.”
    “She been with anyone since?”
    “No. Nobody. Raymoor and her were high school sweethearts. First love kind of shit. Didn’t come up with anyone else. Except for this one guy.”
    “You gonna make me ask?” Crow shot out.
    “Relax man. Just trying to remember the name. Shit. I got to lay off the weed. Anyway, there was this guy used to come around when her man was out of town. He was Air Force too. I got the take that the three of them were tight from way back. Nothing there but a friendly check-in once in a while. Probably at the request of her old man.”
    “Family?” Crow prodded.
    “Raised by her father and grandfather. Grandpa was a pretty big deal bookie at one time, well-known on the horse racing circuit. Daddy and Gramps both did a little time, but who the fuck hasn’t? No problems out of the ordinary there. They're still running the books, but it's been scaled back a lot and more small time now. From what I can tell, the business is clean and the payouts are all good. They have some muscle working for them, but rarely use it. I checked in with Gianni, he's heard of them. You know those goddamn wops all know each other one way or another, but they ain’t connected in a way that matters.”
    Then Jules paused. “I pulled up her DMV pic too. The bitch is hot.”
    “What the fuck are you talking about?” Crow growled into the phone.
    “What the fuck are you talking about? You told me she's got this uptight vibe going on. Really, Brother? If that's true, then you got a hell of a surprise waiting for you when you unwrap that package. That wild hair, that gorgeous smile, eyes lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree in the photo and that's just the crappy registry pic. Everyone looks bad in those.”
    “You're looking at the wrong chick, man. The woman's wound tight.” Crow knew Jules was screwing with him.
    “Melissa Raymoor right? Ninety-five Primrose?”
    Crow stomped out the smoke on the unfinished floor.
    “Yeah, that’s her,” he answered.
    “Well, I’m looking at her picture right now. And I’m telling you the bitch is smoking. I ain’t messing with you,” Jules shouted into the room. “Riker, get the fuck over here.”
    Another minute brought Riker to the phone to give an enthusiastic description of what he’d like to do to the woman in the photo.
    “When was the picture taken?” Crow scowled into the cell.
    “Hold on. The writing is so fucking sm…there it is. Almost three years ago now,” Jules said.
    “When did you say her man died?” Crow asked.
    “Let me switch screens again.” Silence and when Jules came back on none of the smug mirth was left in his voice. “Damn, it was taken just a couple of weeks before her man bought it.”
    “Forward me that pic, Brother?” Crow asked quietly.
    “Done,” Jules said. “How’s everything else going? The house and shit? You want me to send a few of the boys down to help with?”
    “No, man. I got this.