Luke’s expression hardened.
Stolen bikes.
Cloned identification numbers.
Possibly insurance fraud.
“How did you find out?”
“He had me sanding a frame. I saw grinding marks where the number had been.”
“And you confronted him?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“I looked at his computer.”
Luke closed his eyes.
“Not good.”
Caleb continued quickly.
“There were files. Lots of bikes. Some stolen from other states. He was changing paperwork.”
“Did he catch you?”
“Not then.”
“But later.”
Caleb nodded.
“He found the copies under my mattress.”
Luke felt his jaw tighten.
“What happened?”
Caleb pulled up his sweatshirt.
Across his side was a yellow-purple bruise.
Luke’s anger became immediate.
Violent.
He forced himself not to show all of it.
“When?”
“Three days ago.”
“You ran after that?”
“The next morning.”
“And he’s looking for you.”
“Yes.”
Luke paced once across the room.
Then stopped.
“There’s still something you’re not telling me.”
Caleb frowned.
“What?”
“Why me?”
“My mom—”
“No.”
Luke pointed to the documents.
“If Rebecca left my address because she knew you might need help someday, fine. But you said she’d been working insurance claims. You found motorcycle fraud. You came specifically to a motorcycle club where several members work in repair shops.”
He looked at the old photograph.
“This is connected.”
Caleb’s eyes filled with uncertainty.
“I don’t know.”
“But you suspect something.”
The boy slowly reached into a smaller pocket of the backpack.
He removed a folded piece of notebook paper.
“My mom wrote this before she died.”
Luke unfolded it.
One sentence.
If Curtis ever gets the blue motorcycle, take the photograph to Luke before you tell anyone.
Luke read it twice.
“What blue motorcycle?”
Caleb whispered:
“My mom’s.”
Luke looked up.
“She had a blue motorcycle?”
Caleb nodded.
“An old one.”
“What kind?”
“I don’t know exactly. She kept it covered.”
Luke’s heartbeat changed.
“What did it look like?”
“Dark blue. Silver engine. Scratched tank. She said it hadn’t run in years.”
Luke already knew.
He had painted that motorcycle himself.
Seventeen years earlier.
For Daniel.
By seven the next morning, Luke had gathered four people in the clubhouse office.
Wesley Grant.
Earl Maddox.
Naomi Price, an attorney and longtime friend of the club.
And Caleb.
Luke placed the old photograph, vehicle documents and Rebecca’s note on the desk.
Naomi read everything twice.
She was forty-six, sharp-eyed and unimpressed by nearly everybody.
“You should have called me last night.”
Luke leaned back.
“You were asleep.”
“That has never prevented you from calling about stupider things.”
Wesley tapped the note.
“What’s special about the blue motorcycle?”
Luke stared at the photograph.
“It belonged to Daniel.”
Silence.
Everyone in the club knew about Luke’s younger brother.
Most knew not to ask questions.
Luke continued.
“Daniel bought a 1997 Softail before we opened the shop. It was ugly when he got it. Red frame. Yellow tank. Parts from three different bikes.”
Earl smiled faintly.
“I remember that thing.”
“We rebuilt it.”
Luke looked toward Caleb.
“Rebecca helped.”
“What happened to it after Daniel died?” Naomi asked.
“Police impounded it.”
“After the crash?”
Luke nodded.
“Insurance totaled it.”
Caleb leaned forward.
“What color?”
Luke looked at him.
“Blue.”
The boy became still.
Luke continued.
“Deep navy blue. Rebecca chose the paint.”
Caleb whispered, “Then it’s the same bike.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because Daniel crashed at seventy miles an hour. The front end was destroyed.”
“Mom’s bike had a different front fork.”
Luke stared.
“Did you ever see the frame number?”
“No.”
Naomi placed both hands on the desk.
“Let’s avoid assuming anything. Rebecca could have purchased another similar motorcycle.”
Luke nodded.
But he did not believe it.
The paint was custom.
Rebecca had mixed the color herself.
A shade she called Midnight River.
There had been only one motorcycle like it.
“Where is the bike now?” Naomi asked.
Caleb’s face darkened.
“Curtis has it.”
Luke stood.
“How?”
“When Mom died, her stuff went into probate. Curtis told the caseworker he’d store my things until everything got sorted out.”
“And the motorcycle?”
“He picked it up from our house.”
“Why would a foster parent be allowed to take property from your mother’s estate?”
Caleb shrugged.
“He said it needed safe storage.”
Naomi’s expression suggested several professional thoughts she chose not to say aloud.
Luke grabbed his jacket.
“Where does he live?”
Naomi immediately said, “No.”
Luke looked at her.
“No what?”
“No riding sixty miles and kicking someone’s garage door in.”
“I wasn’t planning to kick—”
“Yes, you were.”
Earl coughed to hide a laugh.
Naomi continued.
“We have a minor alleging abuse and possible vehicle fraud. The intelligent thing is to document everything and contact the correct authorities.”
Caleb shook his head.
“They’ll send me back.”
Naomi looked directly at him.
“I’m not your caseworker.”
“I know.”
“I’m also not going to promise you something I can’t control.”
Caleb looked disappointed.
“But,” she added, “photographs of injuries plus credible allegations plus these records give us grounds to demand an emergency review.”
Luke nodded.
“And the motorcycle?”
“Property issue. Separate problem.”
Luke looked at the note Rebecca had written.
If Curtis ever gets the blue motorcycle...
Rebecca had expected this.
Not necessarily Curtis himself.
But someone like Curtis.
Why?
“What did your mother tell you about the bike?” Luke asked.
Caleb thought.
“She said never sell it.”
“What else?”
“That some things are safer when people think they’re broken.”
Luke stared.
Rebecca had always spoken in puzzles when she did not want children listening.
But Caleb was her child.
Maybe she had intended him to understand later.
Luke picked up the old photograph.
Daniel stood beside the motorcycle.
Then Luke noticed something he had never paid attention to before.
Rebecca’s hand rested on the seat.
On her wrist was a silver bracelet.
Luke remembered giving it to her.
The memory struck unexpectedly.
He put the photograph down.
“Caleb, why was your mother working insurance claims?”
“She said she wanted regular hours.”
“When did she start?”
“About six years ago.”
“What kind of claims?”
“Vehicle theft mostly.”
Luke and Naomi exchanged a glance.
“Did she ever mention your foster father before she died?”
Caleb shook his head.
“No.”
“Then how did you end up with Curtis?”
“Agency placement.”
“Random?”
“I think.”
Naomi wrote something down.
Luke did not believe in coincidence as much as he used to.
Not when a woman investigating vehicle theft died suddenly.
Not when her son was placed with a man apparently altering motorcycle identification numbers.
Not when that man gained possession of a bike connected to a seventeen-year-old crash.
Naomi noticed his expression.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Build a conspiracy before we have facts.”
Luke looked at Caleb.
“How did your mom’s accident happen?”
“Truck crossed the center line.”
“Driver?”
“Never found.”
Naomi stopped writing.
“What?”
Caleb repeated it.
“Police said they thought it was a stolen pickup. They found it burned two days later.”
Now nobody spoke.
Luke looked at Naomi.
She no longer appeared skeptical.
“What county investigated?” she asked.
“Bell.”
“Officer name?”
“I don’t know.”
Naomi gathered the documents.
“I’m making calls.”
Luke pointed.
“Make copies first.”
“I was already going to.”
Wesley stood.
“What do we do?”
Luke looked toward the repair bay.
“Find out whether Daniel’s old VIN still exists anywhere.”
For three hours they searched old records.
Luke still had boxes from Barrett Custom Cycles stored in the clubhouse attic.
Invoices.
Parts orders.
Tax forms.
Old photographs.
At 10:47, Earl found the original service notebook.
Luke flipped through yellowed pages until he reached 2008.
Daniel Barrett — 1997 FXSTC.
Original VIN recorded below.
Naomi ran the number through a legal vehicle-history service.
The result appeared.
TOTAL LOSS — FATAL COLLISION.
SALVAGE CERTIFICATE ISSUED.
DESTROYED / PARTS ONLY.
Luke read the final line.
“No resale.”
Naomi nodded.
“If Rebecca had that exact frame, someone broke the law.”
Caleb said softly, “She did.”
“How sure are you?”
“I can show you.”
“Show us what?”
Caleb pulled out his phone.
The screen was cracked but functional.
He opened an old photograph.
The blue motorcycle stood inside Rebecca’s garage.