An Obvious Fact (7 page)

Novo handed Henry his phone and then turned back to me as the Cheyenne Nation checked for messages.

“You said there were three specific types of gyroscopic instability on a motorcycle.”

Mike smiled. “I did, and though the third usually doesn't leave marks on the pavement, we were lucky that the kid was riding in the emergency lane, and the pavement was remarkably fresh.”

“Wait—he was riding on the edge of the road?”

He nodded. “Just on the other side of the rumble strip.”

“Where he ran off the road.”

“No, he was riding there for quite a ways, and here's the thing: there was an instability, but it was a low-speed phenomenon called flutter, which is when the front tire and steering assembly experience rapid oscillation—think of an unsupported castor on a shopping cart. It happens only one way, when the rider's hands are not on the handlebars.”

Henry and I looked at each other and then back to Mike. “So, you're saying that he was riding on the edge of the road with his hands doing something other than steering?”

Mike nodded again. “Yes, and if flutter is the case, then that means there must've been something on the rear of that bike.”

“Like the heavy saddlebags you mentioned?”

“Or . . .”

“Or what?”

“From the photos you took, I could see that there was a seat pad on the Harley.”

The Cheyenne Nation carefully set his wineglass on the uneven surface of the old picnic table, his voice rumbling in his chest. “Then someone was on the back of the motorcycle.”

The Bear decided to stay at the Pondo, as the locals called the bar, and talk with Jamey and some of the other hill climbers who had arrived as our little party was breaking up, but I was worried about Dog back at the motel cabin. I thought the quiet by the river might be a chance for him to get out, and evidently he thought so, too.

I walked along after him in the thin fog that rolled off the water as he sniffed at the high stalks of grass and the cattails that had sprung up near the edge. “Don't get any wise ideas—I'm not sharing my bed with a wet dog.”

He ignored me and trotted on along the bank to where I could see someone in the mist. I was about to call Dog off, but he seemed to know who it was. After another step, I recognized her profile, and I joined them. “Hello, Lola.”

She didn't look at me but petted Dog's wide head. “Hi, Sheriff.”

“Did you get your keys?”

“No.”

“I put them under the floor mat on the driver's side.”

“You don't have to do that; nobody outside of the Tre Tre Nomads would touch that car.”

I stopped and turned to look at the river, the fog rolling tendrils from the surface, the water reflecting the high clouds just starting to disappear in the dusk. “I guess it's the lawman in me, but I can't leave the keys in the ignition of a car, especially in a town with thousands of bikers in it.”

She glanced at me.

“Although, I am sure ninety-nine percent of them are good, law-abiding citizens.” I looked around. “I'm amazed you found a quiet spot.”

She took out a cigarette and lit it, taking a deep drag. “Might be the only one.”

“You mind if I ask you a question?”

Her voice took on an officious tone. “Where were you on the night of January sixteenth?”

“Something like that.”

She stared at me. “You're serious?”

“I am. Where were you the night of your son's accident?”

She took another drag on her cigarette. “Who wants to know?”

“You wanted an investigator; this is called investigating.”

“Me?”

“Everyone's a suspect until we find out who did it.”

“So, you do think somebody did it?”

Dog was getting too close to the water, so I patted my leg. “You're not answering my question.”

She studied me for a moment more. “The Dime Horseshoe Bar in Sundance for the Burnout.”

“The what?”

“They put up a big platform on the street, and then guys ride their bikes up onto it and do these epic burnouts—you
know, locking up the front brake and spinning the rear? Lots of smoke, lots of beer and leather—an All-American spectacle.”

“Were you driving your car?”

It took her a few seconds to answer. “No.”

“Then who was?”

“What are you saying?”

“Without laboratory analysis I can't be absolutely sure, but it looks to me as if somebody hit your son with your car. There was gold paint on the Harley and there appears to be damage to the right front fender of the Cadillac.”

“There's damage all over my car; it's a beater.”

“It's a flake gold beater, a pretty unusual paint job.” I folded my arms and studied her. “I'll ask again: Who was driving your car?”

“And I'll say how the hell should I know? Everybody borrows it.” She smoked some more. “The thing was sitting where it is now that day with the keys in it, so I literally have no idea.”

“Who usually borrows it?”

“Everybody—everybody in the club anyway.” She stopped talking and looked up at me.

“I think your exact words were, no one outside the Tre Tre Nomads would touch that car.”

“It couldn't be someone from our club.”

“You're sure of that?” She didn't seem so, all of a sudden. “How many club members are there here?”

“A couple dozen maybe?”

“Can you get me a list?”

“No, I can't do that.” She took another drag on the
cigarette. “It would be like dropping a dime on them—ratting them out, you know?”

I smiled my everybody's-an-outlaw-until-the-outlaws-show-up smile. “Well, I don't have the time to go around and ask fifty thousand bikers if they happen to be members of the Tre Tre Nomads.”

“I can point them out to you.”

“And then what? I ask them if they happened to borrow your car on the night your son was run over? No, I think it would be a lot easier if you just asked around among your friends.”

“They're not my friends.”

“No, the exact term you used was family.”

She said nothing, and we both watched as a tandem of motorcycles thundered across the bridge above.

“Just tell them that somebody used the car and didn't fill it up and that you want some gas money, or tell them that somebody left something in the car and you want to give it back to them.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know—money.”

“They're not going to buy that.”

“Well, then think of something. You're an enterprising woman.”

Finishing her cigarette, she turned back toward the river and flicked it into the water, where it disappeared in the mist but for a brief sizzle. “Thanks for your help.”

She turned to go, but I called out to her. “Look, I'm willing to do this, but if you want to know what happened to your son, I'm going to need your assistance.”

She lodged a hand on her hip. “Junior detective, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“I'll think about it.”

“Don't think too long; after Henry's race tomorrow, we're out of here.”

She cocked her head. “Maybe I'll just ask Henry.”

“You're welcome to, but I'd advise against it.”

“And why's that?”

I gestured toward the river and, more important, the bridge. “Lot of water, huh?”

She studied me for a moment more and then swiveled on a heel and walked away.

• • •

When I got back to the cabin, I was surprised to see one of the two Hulett police cars preparing to back out from the spot in front of our door. Dog and I came around the left rear just as the reverse lights came on, so I tapped the quarter panel and Dougherty jerked to a stop.

I leaned on the sill. “How come you're not driving the new and improved MRAP?”

“He's calling it the Pequod; even ordered up decals to put the name on the side. Now where did he get that name from?”

“Heck if I know, troop. Better than the
Andrea Doria
.” I checked on Dog, who was sniffing the squad car's tires. “What's up?”

He handed me a bulky manila envelope through the window. “This is the cell phone that was on Bodaway, or, more exactly, lying in the grass where the incident took place. Sorry it's taken so long to get it to you, but I've been kind of busy.”

I stuffed the envelope under my arm. “Anything else?”

“The preliminary accident report along with the testimony of the witness.”

“Witness?”

“After the fact.” He reached up and tapped the package. “Local girl by the name of Chloe Nance; she's the one that found him.”

“Nance. Why does that name sound familiar?” The thought struck as the words left my lips. “Related to Bob Nance, the guy that underwrote the Pequod?”

“Yeah, that's him. He's underwritten about half the county.” He gestured toward the manila bundle again. “Look, the phone is dead, and I haven't had time to find a charger to fit it.”

I pulled the device out and studied it and was pretty sure it was similar to Henry's. “I'll find a way to get it to talk, even if I have to use a rubber hose.”

I started to back away so that he could get going when he called after me, “So, what the hell is a Pequod?”

“You mean other than the ship in
Moby Dick
?”

“Yeah.”

“A Native tribe in Connecticut, although it's spelled differently now, with a
T
instead of a
D
. By the early twentieth century, there were only a little over fifty of them left.”

“Are they still around?”

“One of the richest tribes in the country—casinos. Good night, troop.”

“Good night, Sheriff.” He backed the cruiser the rest of the way out and crunched gravel as he left.

Dog and I made our way to the cabin door, and I was
surprised to find it ajar when I was pretty sure I'd closed it. Figuring it might've been Henry, I gave pause but then slipped my .45 from the small of my back just in case. Training it through the opening, I pushed the door wide.

“I thought for sure that cop was going to come in here, and that would've been bad.” He was sitting on the guest chair, leaning backward against the wall with the television on mute. In one hand he had a beer and in the other a 9mm semiautomatic. “Hope you don't mind, but I made myself at home.”

I kept the Colt on Brady Post, the Tre Tre Nomad enforcer, and stepped inside, sticking a leg out to restrain the growling beast behind me. “I don't mind, but I think he does.”

“Keep a handle on that dog or I'll shoot him.”

“You do, and he won't be the last one to get shot here tonight.”

The biker lowered the Glock and stuffed it in the front of his pants. “I figured you and I ought to get introduced; besides, the ice machine is broken up at the Pioneer.”

I waited a second and then lowered my weapon. “I thought we had been.”

“Not formally.” He reached into his pocket again and tossed something onto the bed near me.

It was a nifty leather wallet not unlike the one in my shirt pocket, but unlike mine, his read
DEPARTMENT
OF THE TREASURY
.

“ATF?”

“Special Agent Post at your service. I don't usually break cover to the locals, or anybody for that matter, but you seem pretty capable and I could use some help—sure didn't throw any kind of scare into you at the hospital parking lot earlier today.”

“Generally, I'm too stupid to be scared.”

“Oh, I doubt that.”

Holstering my Colt, I picked up his badge and ID card. “So, which one is it, alcohol, tobacco, or firearms?”

“Firearms—the Nomads are responsible for about thirty percent of the illegal guns showing up in the Southwest these days, mostly imported from their chapters in Mexico.”

I sat on the bed and called Dog over. He still growled at Post but recognized that the dynamic had changed. “So, the enforcer for this particular chapter happens to be a federal agent?”

He set the beer bottle on the nightstand, crossed the room, and closed the door. “Sorry, can't be too careful these days.” He crossed back and sat, reaching a hand out to Dog, who pulled back a lip, giving his interpretation of the night of the long knives. “Whoa . . . easy there.”

“He'll warm up to you; just ignore him.” I folded my fingers in my lap and looked at the man, younger than I'd thought underneath the Buffalo Bill facial hair. “So, what's the deal with the kid, Bodaway?”

“A major pain in my ass is what it is.” He picked up his drink and took a long draw. “Bodaway is involved in the gun trafficking—he's the conduit to all the other clubs.”

“Gangs.”

“Whatever. Anyway, all cats being gray in the dark, the kid is getting weapons to all the other gangs and I've been working on his source, but so far, nada.”

“I thought you said it was the connections in Mexico that were coming up with the guns.”

“Until recently. We were able to motivate the
Federales
with
all the Fast and Furious fallout, and when that source dried up, we thought we had them, but now they seem to be getting them from here in the U.S.”

“So you're just shadowing Bodaway to find the source?”

“That and some information on some other things—been deep undercover for more than nine months now.”

“Like what information?”

“I'm not at liberty to say.”

“Lola have anything to do with it?”

He shook his head. “I don't think so, but who the hell knows with her.”

“Any sign that she's involved up to now?”

“No, but she loves the little asshole and would do anything for him—including getting you and your Indian buddy involved.”

“Cheyenne.” The three of us looked up to see Henry standing in the doorway, leaning on the jamb with his arms folded, neither of us having heard the door itself open. “If you please.”

“Henry Standing Bear, meet Special Agent Brady Post.” I turned to look at him as Dog sidled over to the Cheyenne Nation. “Is that your real name?”

“No.”

“Do you want to tell us what your real name is?”

“No.”

I shrugged and turned back to the Bear, gesturing toward the tattooed man in the chair. “ATF.”

Post interrupted. “Why don't you just tell everybody?”

“My bet is that he heard everything anyway.”

Henry nodded and closed the door behind him. “I heard about the guns and the fact that you have been in deep cover
for the last nine months. Amazing that you have risen as far as you have in that short amount of time.”

Post gestured with a thumb toward the accessories on the back of his denim vest. “Fully patched.”

“So, what is it you want from us?”

“Well, I thought it would be nice if we weren't working at cross-purposes.” He turned back to me, picked up his beer, and rolled it between his hands. “Look, I know you're investigating the accident at local request, and I'm assuming also because of Lola Wojciechowski?”

I shrugged again. “It's still debatable as to whether we're going to take the case.”

Henry smiled. “We?”

Post sipped his beer and studied me for a while before slowly smiling. “That why you've got a manila envelope under your arm that says Bodaway Torres?”