“I compared it to Julian's old ones.”
He opened a drawer containing several metal tabs.
The difference was subtle but obvious.
Julian's letters were stamped.
The fake had been scratched.
“The one in Widow Jane was made to look like Julian's work,” Rourke said.
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
Noah examined it.
“You said someone opened the engine recently.”
Rourke nodded.
“Widow Jane was serviced nine days ago.”
“By who?”
“My club's mechanic.”
“Name?”
“Owen Pike.”
“Trust him?”
“I trusted him yesterday.”
Rourke pulled out an invoice.
Noah read it.
PRIMARY INSPECTION.
CLUTCH ADJUSTMENT.
FLUID REPLACEMENT.
“Did Owen know the bike's history?”
“Everybody close to me does.”
Ellen looked around.
“What are we doing here?”
Rourke opened another cabinet.
“Looking for something Julian left me.”
Noah frowned.
“You've had nineteen years.”
“I didn't know it existed.”
“How do you know now?”
Rourke looked at Ellen.
“Because last night I remembered what Julian said the week before he died.”
Ellen whispered, “The heart.”
Rourke nodded.
Noah looked between them.
“What heart?”
Julian had apparently loved riddles.
When he completed a motorcycle, he sometimes hid notes or small objects inside what he called the machine's heart.
Not the engine.
Not exactly.
“The central frame backbone,” Ellen explained. “The part everything else depends on.”
Rourke walked toward a bare frame.
“Julian told me, ‘If anything ever goes wrong, remember the heart keeps the truth.’”
“You never checked?”
“I thought he was being philosophical.”
Ellen laughed sadly.
“Julian was never philosophical.”
Exactly.
They found Widow Jane's original build jig in the back room.
Inside a hollow fixture was a small cylindrical container.
Rourke opened it.
Inside was a microcassette.
Noah stared.
“That's it?”
Ellen looked frightened.
Rourke found an old recorder in the office.
It still worked after batteries were replaced.
The tape hissed.
Then a man's voice filled the shop.
Noah stopped breathing.
His father's voice.
“If you're hearing this, I was right to be worried.”
Ellen covered her mouth.
The recording continued.
“Money is missing from the shop. Not small amounts. Someone has been using our supplier accounts to buy parts that never arrive here.”
Rourke leaned closer.
“I thought Marla was doing it.”
Ellen whispered, “No.”
The tape continued.
“I confronted her. She showed me something worse.”
Static.
Then:
“Someone is moving stolen motorcycles through our frame numbers.”
Noah looked at Rourke.
The Gray Wolf leader had gone pale.
Julian continued.
“If the police find those bikes, our names will be attached.”
More static.
“Marla says the records point to someone inside the riding group.”
Rourke's jaw tightened.
Then Julian's final sentence:
“I know who it is.”
Click.
The tape ended.
No name.
No explanation.
Noah stared at the recorder.
“Seriously?”
Rourke almost laughed despite himself.
“Your father loved drama.”
Ellen wiped her eyes.
“No. The tape ran out.”
Noah removed the cassette.
“What happened to Marla?”
Rourke looked toward the dusty windows.
“Nobody knows.”
A voice came from the shop entrance.
“I do.”
All three turned.
An elderly man stood in the doorway.
Noah had never seen him before.
Rourke had.
His face hardened.
“Silas.”
The man smiled.
“Been a long time.”
Silas Boone had been a Gray Wolf before the Gray Wolves officially existed.
At seventy-one, he moved slowly but watched everything.
Rourke clearly did not trust his arrival.
“How did you know we were here?”
Silas nodded toward the highway.
“Small town.”
Rourke crossed his arms.
“Try again.”
Silas looked at Noah.
“Kid looks like Julian.”
“Answer the question.”
Silas sighed.
“Owen called me.”
Noah and Rourke exchanged glances.
“Why?”
“Because you were asking about old records.”
Rourke stepped closer.
“What does Owen know?”
“Probably less than he's afraid he knows.”
Ellen spoke.
“You said you know what happened to Marla.”
Silas finally looked at her.
“Hello, Ellen.”
“Where is she?”
“Alive.”
The room changed.
Rourke stared.
“You're lying.”
“No.”
“Where?”
“Colorado.”
Ellen's eyes filled.
“You knew?”
Silas nodded.
“For eighteen years.”
Rourke grabbed his jacket.
Noah expected violence.
Silas didn't resist.
“She begged me.”
“You let us think she was dead.”
“She thought whoever killed Julian would kill her too.”
Rourke released him.
“Who?”
Silas looked toward the cassette recorder.
“Marla never knew for certain.”
“But she had records.”
“She had enough to know the theft ring involved more than one man.”
Silas sat.
He explained.
Nineteen years earlier, customized motorcycles were easy to disguise.
Frames could be altered.
Vehicle identification numbers transferred.
Parts separated and recombined.
A group had been stealing high-end motorcycles across three states.
Mercer-Maddox Customs was unintentionally useful because Julian's custom frames provided legitimate paperwork.
Someone had begun copying their frame numbers.
Marla discovered duplicate supplier orders.
Julian traced them.
Then he died.
Three days later, Marla's apartment was broken into.
She vanished before anyone could stop her.
“Why didn't she go to police?” Noah asked.
“She did.”
Everyone stared.
Silas continued.
“She spoke to a deputy.”
“Who?”
“Ray Hollister.”
Rourke swore.
Noah said, “Who is that?”
Rourke looked at him.
“Former county sheriff.”
Former?
Silas explained that Hollister had been a deputy back then.
Marla handed him documents.
The documents disappeared.
No report was officially filed.
Years later Hollister became sheriff.
He retired only two years ago.
Noah felt the story widening.
“Was he involved?”
Silas shrugged.
“Marla believed he was.”
Rourke paced.
“Why tell us now?”
“Because Owen contacted me.”
“About what?”
Silas looked at the fake signature plate.
“He found that while servicing Widow Jane.”
Noah frowned.
“What?”
“He removed it.”
“But I found it inside.”
“Because someone put it back.”
Rourke stopped moving.
Silas continued.
“Owen called me because the initials scared him. He knew the story. Asked whether Julian used plates like that.”
“And?”
“I told him to leave it alone.”
Rourke stared.
“Then somebody planted it back inside my motorcycle in a place designed to destroy the primary.”
Silas nodded.
Noah understood.
It wasn't random sabotage.
It was a message.
A fake piece of Julian's history had been used to cripple the motorcycle Julian died on.
Someone wanted Rourke remembering nineteen years ago.
“Why now?” Ellen whispered.
No one knew.
Noah looked around the shop.
“Maybe because something changed.”
Rourke faced him.
“What?”
“Whoever did this wasn't scared for nineteen years.”
Noah pointed at the cassette.
“Maybe they're scared now.”
Silas became quiet.
Too quiet.
Noah noticed.
“What changed?”
Silas looked at him.
“You.”
Noah laughed nervously.
“I was alive yesterday too.”
“But nobody knew where you were.”
Ellen closed her eyes.
Silas continued.
“Rourke publicly offered ten thousand dollars to fix that bike.”
“So?”
“Thirty Gray Wolves watched you repair it.”
Noah began to understand.
“And then they heard my name.”
Silas nodded.
“By breakfast, half the riding community probably knew Julian Mercer's son had appeared.”
Rourke cursed softly.
Ellen reached for Noah's arm.
Silas continued.
“Somebody spent nineteen years assuming Julian left no heir who knew this world.”
Noah looked at the old tools.
The tape.
The photograph.
“But I don't know anything.”
“Maybe they don't know that.”
A motorcycle engine sounded outside.
Rourke stepped toward the window.
One rider.
Owen Pike.
He parked near the entrance.
Rourke went outside immediately.
Noah followed.
Owen removed his helmet.
He looked terrified.
“Rourke.”
“What did you do to my bike?”
“Nothing.”
“Silas says you found that plate.”
Owen's eyes moved toward Silas.
“You told him?”
Rourke grabbed Owen's vest.
“Talk.”
“I found it during service.”
“Then why was it still inside?”
“Because the next morning it was gone from my bench.”
Rourke froze.
“Who had access?”
Owen swallowed.
“Everybody at the clubhouse.”
A loud crack split the air.
The office window shattered.
Everyone dropped.
Noah hit the floor.
Rourke dragged Ellen behind a steel cabinet.
A second crack.
Then tires screamed outside.
Someone shouted.
By the time the Gray Wolves reached the road, the vehicle was gone.
Embedded inside the shop wall was a bullet.
Noah stared at it.
Nineteen-year-old secrets were no longer history.
Somebody was still willing to kill for them.
Police arrived.
Statements were taken.
The bullet was recovered.
A dark SUV had been seen leaving the area, but nobody caught the plate.
The responding detective was named June Alvarez.
Unlike the officers in the old story, she immediately took the situation seriously.
Especially after hearing Julian's recording.
She told Noah and the others something none of them wanted to hear.
“Stop investigating this yourselves.”
Rourke almost smiled.
Detective Alvarez pointed at him.
“I'm talking especially to you.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“You have the face.”
Noah glanced at Gary, remembering almost the same words.
Apparently everyone had a face.
The next morning Alvarez contacted retired Sheriff Hollister.
He denied everything.
Said he vaguely remembered Marla.
Denied receiving documents.
Denied knowing about duplicate frame numbers.
Noah didn't believe him.
Neither did Alvarez.
But suspicion was not evidence.