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twenty-two
Sean spent the rest of the evening meeting Delaney’s “uncles” in between taking photos and an official report about the vandalized camera for Delaney’s case. They were a hard-nosed bunch who clearly would do anything to protect their buddy’s daughter, and who clearly didn’t love cops. Sean took it all in stride. After introductions he kept mostly to himself while he gathered clues and reaffirmed his opinion that the uncles had nothing to do with the theft of ’33.
By the time he made it home for a shower, it was late and Sean just collapsed on his bed, asleep in seconds. He woke to sunshine, Callie wrapped around his back and a head fresh and ready to solve this case once and for all.
At the station, Castillo was already at her desk and gave him side-eye for being late. Sean mumbled hello and buried himself in his notes. He’d done some poking around last night to find other bike shops in the area, and today he called up a dozen or so, starting with those closest and working his way farther out.
Near the end of his list, with a shop called Vintage Rides, he hit pay dirt.
“Dogwood County PD, this is Detective Sean Callahan. I’m just looking to see if you sold a certain part recently. A cadmium-plated rear brake rod that would work on a ’33 Indian Four.”
The guy at the other end of the line, who had a scratchy, older voice, didn’t even hesitate or hem and haw about Sean really being a cop or did he have a warrant or any of the other stuff Sean had been getting all morning. “Yep. Sold one of those not too long ago.”
Sean waited, trying not to get too excited. When nothing else came he added, “Do you keep records? Know who bought it?”
“Yep,” the guy said again. “I’d have to pull it up.”
Silence passed. “Okay, that’d be great. Do you happen to remember, while you’re pulling it up, what the customer looked like? Young guy or pair of guys? Or an older guy with gray braids, maybe?”
“Nope. A woman bought it. Don’t have to pull up the record to remember that.”
Sean sat back in his chair and let that tidbit wash over him a second. Castillo glanced his way, obviously curious at his stunned expression. “I see,” Sean finally said, clearing his throat. “Can you pull up that record, then?”
“Yep. I’ll call you back. I got a few customers right now.”
Click.
The guy hung up.
Sean sat there a second, momentarily lost. A woman? He started to get a sinking feeling in his stomach. This could very well be a different brake rod, not the one that was bought for Delaney’s bike. It was also possible the old man at Vintage Rides hadn’t heard him correctly, and this brake rod wasn’t for the same kind of bike.
Sean sat there, staring into space. He turned back to his notes. He’d studied Delaney’s social media at the start of the Great Case of the Missing Motorcycle, but now that he’d vowed to find whoever was behind the theft, the return, and apparently the repair of the bike, it was time for a revisit.
Personally, Delaney didn’t do much. There were some old Christmas pictures on her Facebook and Insta accounts. Professionally, for Triple M Classics, she had a website, a Facebook business page and an Insta business account. He spent an hour scrolling, eyes sharp for anything out of the ordinary and anything in association with the motorcycle.
He’d just given up and closed out all tabs when he spotted something in his notes that he’d missed before. Delaney had provided a Facebook page for her father, which he’d glossed over because it was tucked in next to hers and he’d taken it for a repeat. Sean quickly called up the page and chuckled at the sparse contents. Looked like Martin Monroe had used Facebook about as much as Sean did—almost never. From the look of it, Delaney had been logging into her dad’s page and using it as a sort of diary, posting things since her father had passed, maybe like she was talking to him, even though she knew he was dead. Sean got a twinge of sadness in his gut.
The most recent posts were of the truck and the motorcycle. There was a photo of ’33 on the day it had arrived at Delaney’s shop. The photo had one like, from somebody who called herself Lauren Bacall and who also used the old film star’s photo as her avatar. Further poking revealed that Martin’s only two friends were this Lauren Bacall and Delaney.
Sean clicked on her name. Lauren Bacall had no other friends and no posts, though she had joined ten years ago. “Really,” Sean said. “Who the hell are you, Lauren Bacall?”
“We had it all!”Castillo’s voice, coming from behind burst into song. Sean jolted in his chair.“Just like Bogie and Bacall!”
“Jesus.” Sean threw a balled-up piece of paper at her, which she batted away with the finesse of a cat.
“Here’s lookin’ at you kid...missing all the things we did...”Castillo planted her hand on her chest and swept out her other arm in a dramatic gesture.
“Whatareyou singing?”
“You know. It’s a sappy song from the ’80s.”
“No. Don’t know it.”
“Do so.”
“No. I’m way cooler than you.”
Castillo rolled her eyes, leaned in and poked her face into Sean’s screen. “Whatcha looking at?” After a few seconds she sighed. “Didn’t you get laid? You told me you got laid. So why are you still on this case that isn’t a case anymore?”
