Of course someone chooses that moment to knock on the glass pane in the door.

The sudden sound makes me jump. Most sudden sounds have been making me jump lately.

“Closed!” I holler. I’m in no mood to deal with anyone and kick myself for not shutting the steel grate. I can’t bring myself to pull the shades, though. It makes Black Rabbit too dark, too isolated.

Too much like that night.

“Ned was halfway done with my sleeve,” a guy’s muffled voice answers from outside.

“Well, then I guess you’re only going to have half a sleeve.”

“Come on, Ivy . . .” he pleads in a whiny voice.

With an irritated sigh, I open one eye and take in the burly man pressed against the glass, watching me. “I don’t know you.” Ned worked a lot of strange hours, though, especially in the mornings. It’s quite possible this guy sat in this chair for five hours before I ever stepped in here.

Or maybe he isn’t a client of Ned’s and he’s here to hurt me because I gave the police information about “Mario.” It’s a worry that lodged in the back of my mind a few days after the initial shock wore off. What if I saw something I wasn’t supposed to see? What if someone thinks I know something that I don’t? I certainly don’t have any valuable intel. The police thanked me for my help with the information I provided—a first name and shiny black combat boots, and a mediocre description of the cash register man’s profile that hasn’t resulted in any leads through the media so far. There’s a good chance that Ned’s murder will go unsolved. Detective Fields was considerate enough to spell that out to Ian and me when we asked.

The bushy blond beard covering the man’s face doesn’t hide his broad smile. “You mean to tell me you don’t remember the scrawny kid who’d come in here with toy race cars, wanting to play?”

That does sound familiar. I frown. “Bobby?” Son of Moe, one of Ned’s biker customers? This guy looks nothing like that scrawny kid. He could easily pass for thirty, even though I remember him being younger than me.

“In the flesh.”

Holy shit. I completely forgot about him. “You heard what happened, right?” I can’t see how he didn’t. It was all over the local news, and his dad was at the funeral, along with a dozen other bikers. Maybe he was there, too. I didn’t pay much attention to faces.

A solemn look touches his eyes when he nods. “Come on. Open up.”

Reluctantly, I climb to my feet and make my way over to unlock the door. Bobby has to duck to step through the doorway, his heavy boots making the floorboards creak. He’s more than double my size, and I don’t doubt there’s also muscle under all that leather and thick layer of fat. If I hadn’t spent so much time with guys like this, I’d be nervous standing in here alone with him now.

But I see the Harley parked outside and the official death’s hand insignia on his leather vest that marks him as a member of Devil’s Iron, and I’m just plain mad. “The cops said that what happened to Ned may have had something to do with you and your guys. Is that true?” I stare him right in the eye, willing myself to see the truth—or lie—for what it is. Ned was no saint, I know that. I know of a couple instances where some booze and cartons of cigarettes “fell off the back of a truck” and into the hands of guys like Bobby. Ned helped sell some of the inventory through here, to his regulars. People he trusted.

And that’s just what I know about. I have no idea what I don’t know about.

“Me?” Bobby’s hands press against his chest. He looks taken aback.

I nod toward his vest. “You.”

He’s shaking his head even before the words come out. “No, ma’am. We had nothing to do with what happened in here.” His soft blue eyes roam the shop. “Though trust me, the pigs have been poking around the clubhouse, trying to provoke the guys plenty.”

“What have you heard on the street?” It’s a ballsy question, assuming that a biker gang that despises law enforcement would offer information that might help in an official investigation, but it’s worth a shot.

Bobby shakes his head. “All quiet on our front, so far. What do you know?”

I’m not supposed to say anything . . . “Two guys, one named Mario. One with dark hair, muscular, midthirties. That’s all I know.”

He dips his head. “All right. I’ll ask around, and I promise you, if I catch wind of something I’ll pass it along.”

He’s buttering me up, I can just feel it. “And in return you want . . .”

With a sheepish grin, he holds out a thick arm—the same circumference as my thigh—to show me the detailed outline of a zombie bride with playful eyes and long lashes covering his biceps. Crisp, clean lines. Sordid humor. Definitely Ned’s work. “Ned always said you were a close second to him. I’d love it if you could finish this for me.” He peers at me with puppy-dog eyes you wouldn’t expect from a guy with his affiliations.

Ned would hate knowing that a subpar artist—basically anyone else—added ink to his work, and even though he’s six feet under, I owe it to him to finish it. Still . . . “I’ll think about it,” I finally mutter, blowing a strand of long hair that fell across my face off. “But not today. I’m busy.”

“I can see that.” He nods at the chair. “You gettin’ rid of it?”

“Yup.”

“Why? Ned loved that chair.”

And he died in that chair. I restrain myself from being that blunt. “It just needs to go.”

Bobby’s heavy boots clomp across the floor to rescue the wrench from the corner where I threw it. Dropping his massive frame to one knee, he attempts to unfasten the bolt but quits soon after. “It’s seized. You’re going to need a torch for that.”

“Fabulous. Because I have one just lying around.”

“I could bring one by and help you out. Say . . . tomorrow, around three?” His eyes flicker to his arm and then to me, and I see the trade-off for his help. He’s good, I’ll give him that much. I want to say no, but I also don’t know anyone else who owns a torch.

I really do need his help.

“Fine.” I can’t believe I’m actually agreeing to finish that tattoo here. I don’t even know that I have it in me to do that. I should tell him to meet me anywhere but here: in a garage or bar or back alley or his biker gang clubhouse.

“I’ll be here at three.” His grin falls quickly. “Ned was a good friend to all of us. We had some great laughs down at the clubhouse on game night.”

Game night is a fancy way of saying poker Wednesdays, where Ned would more times than not lose his shirt to a biker. He hadn’t been down there in a few weeks, though. Said it was costing him too much lately.

Things are starting to make sense to me. “Was he into it for money with someone over there?”

“Eh.” Bobby shrugs noncommittally, and I’m not entirely sure what that answer means.

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“Nothin’ major from what I know.” He rests a hand on the back of the leather chair. “You know, I always hoped Ned would be here to do my son’s one day, too. When I have a son, of course. I don’t have one yet.” His gaze drifts down my front, stalling over my chest. “I need to find a good woman first.”