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“Going to talk to the Dudes,” Sean said. “That’s our best lead.”
Richard and Dale Worley lived in an apartment about half an hour’s drive from Delaney’s shop. They were like Abbott and Costello, with reverse heights, neither one funny.
“I didn’t take that chick’s bike, though I’m not surprised somebody did,” the big guy said. His name was Dale but everyone called him Dude.
“Why’s that?” Sean looked around the apartment. From where he stood in the galley kitchen, he could see a messy living room, coffee table covered in pizza boxes and beer cans, and a television running on Fox News.
The smaller one, Richard—aka Dick—snorted. “She won’t know how to take care of that bike. Won’t treat it right. I’m sure one of the many other people who saw it the other day felt the same.”
A sizzle of irritation ran up Sean’s spine. “She owns a vintage motorcycle shop. Why wouldn’t she know how to take care of it?”
Dick made a derisive sound and bit into his sandwich, which looked like ham and cheese on Wonder Bread. “Well, it’s missing, isn’t it?”
“Exactly,” Dude piped in. “I give that shop six months, tops. Yeah, some people might take pity on her or be interested at first—oh, look at the cute little lady running her own bike shop, how sweet—but once she starts breaking their shit, they’ll sing a different tune.”
The zip of irritation turned to a slow burn through Sean’s veins. For the first time in a long time, he felt a wave of dizziness wash through him. Over the last decade and a half, the vertigo had dissipated, but had never quite gone away. It’d been months, though. The last time he’d felt it had been at a Nationals game when two drunks in the row in front of him got in a shoving match and dumped their beer on him. He rubbed the scar near his eye with the heel of his hand, drew a deep breath and blew it out slowly. The feeling passed. “You give the shop six months, huh? So you give it about six months less than your shop lasted?”
Sean had done some digging online before he came up to the apartment, learning everything he could about Dude’s Bikes and its owners. When he’d pulled up their website—which was still live—the home page had sported a picture of a white-and-brown pit bull with a brown eye patch, which he presumed to be Wyatt. The dog stood near an orange Harley Street Rod.Our bikes are a dangerous breed!the caption read, though the dog didn’t look dangerous at all. He looked sweet, and a little sad, like he didn’t really want to be in the Dude’s stupid picture.
Dude’s chewing slowed, which was a relief because the guy had really big horse teeth that chomped and fat lips that smacked. Worse than nails on a chalkboard. Dude exchanged a look with Dick. They knew they’d been insulted but also seemed to know better than to say anything.
“We got prospects on a better location,” Dick said. “Our lease running out was a good thing. She won’t last there, either.”
“Shop’s by a major thoroughfare. I see bikes on the road all the time this time of year.”
“Yeah. Well.” Dude stuck his hand in a bag of chips and drew out a fistful. “We’ll see.”
“The bike aside,” Sean moved on. “Miss Monroe said you showed a lot of interest in her dog. A pit bull that was at the shop. Used to be yours?” Sean didn’t see any sign of a dog, not a white-and-brown pit bull or any other kind of animal. There were no leashes, bowls, dog smells, nothing. Nothing but Dude and Dick’s pigsty of a bachelor pad.
Dude and Dick held their shared look for a heartbeat too long. “Sinbad’s ours. But she wouldn’t let us have him.” Dude picked up his sandwich and resumed eating. “He was really excited to see us, too. It was clear he wanted to come with us but the bi—Miss Monroe held on to his collar and wouldn’t let him follow.”
Sean let a long silence pass, his eyes narrowed at the men. “I was told you returned the dog to Pittie Place.”
“We did,” Dick chimed in. “On a temporary basis. We’re tight with the owner. Sunny would’ve been okay with us taking him back. She wants what’s best for the dog.”
“That last sentence, at least,” Sean said, closing up his notebook, “is the truth. One last question. Did either of you threaten Miss Monroe?”
“Is that what she said?” Dick didn’t wait for a reply. “Because that’s a lie.”
“Yeah,” Dude agreed. “Nobody threatened anybody. Why would we? It’s not like we’re afraid of her.”
“Maybe you’re mad she bought the shop you couldn’t afford.” Sean noted the moment of silence. “You wouldn’t have to be afraid of her. You’re just pissed that she’s there. And on top of all that, she won’t give you the dog back. Am I on to something?”
“No.” Dick’s response was too quick, too forceful. “Listen, Detective. We didn’t threaten her. And we didn’t take her bike. Now if you’ll excuse us, we have important things to do.”
“Uh-huh. Thank you for your time, gentlemen.” Sean handed over his business card. “If you think of anything, give me a call.”
Dick took the card and tossed it on the kitchen counter, on top of a bag of smashed hamburger buns.
“What do you guys do now?” Sean paused in the doorway, taking the opportunity to peek into the mudroom. Two sets of muddy boots lay on a filthy rug. “Ever since your shop failed?”
Dude’s chewing paused again. The sandwich was gone and he was on the last cheekful of ham and cheese, which now sounded crunchy because he’d shoved in a few chips. “We’re doing some online sales and stuff.” He dusted the grease from his fingers and gestured toward a computer that rested on a dining room table just behind the kitchen.
“Mmm-hmm.” Sean took one more sweep of the apartment, everything he could see, from dirty kitchen to messy living room to dinged up laptop. No ashtrays or odor of stale tar or any other signs that the men smoked, at least not inside. “Have a nice day.”
Sean toured the parking area before heading back to his minivan. The spaces were marked by apartment number, with one space for every apartment. At the end of each row there were several spots marked Visitor. In the brothers’ space was a pickup truck. Sean peeked inside the open bed. Trash. Old wood. Leaves. Dirt.
There were no motorcycles that he could see, and every single spot had been taken. Not that Sean had expected to find the stolen bike sitting out in front of the apartment. Still, he made notes and took pictures.
