Walter paid the shop’s normal rate.

No favors.

No celebrity nonsense.

He simply sat nearby, drank terrible vending-machine coffee, and answered Casey’s questions.

Frank and Walter had met in 1957.

Walter had vision.

Frank had precision.

Walter could sketch a motorcycle on a napkin.

Frank could look at the sketch and tell him exactly where it would crack after ten thousand miles.

Together they rented a collapsing warehouse outside Cleveland and built three motorcycles.

The third became famous.

The Panhead.

The motorcycle that launched Doyle Custom Cycles.

“What happened?” Casey asked.

Walter stared at the floor.

“Money happened.”

Henry Garrison became their accountant.

Orders grew.

Magazine articles came.

Investors appeared.

Frank began noticing royalty statements that didn’t match sales.

“He accused Henry?”

“Yes.”

“And you?”

Walter looked ashamed.

“I thought Frank was paranoid.”

Casey said nothing.

Walter continued.

“Henry showed me documents. Accounts. Signed withdrawals. He made it look like Frank was stealing from me.”

“You believed him.”

“For six months.”

“What happened?”

“Frank left.”

Casey swallowed.

“And then?”

“Two years later I learned Henry had stolen from both of us.”

“Did you tell Grandpa?”

“I tried.”

Walter’s voice became quieter.

“He never answered.”

Casey thought of Frank’s old hands teaching her how to remove a stripped bolt.

Never force metal when it’s angry, kiddo.

Listen first.

She had been nine when he died.

There had been no motorcycles in his garage.

Only an old sedan, shelves of tools, and a wooden toolbox Eleanor refused to throw away.

“Why didn’t Grandpa tell us?”

Walter looked toward the Panhead.

“Maybe he wanted that world dead.”

Then Casey saw it.

A weld.

Tiny.

Almost invisible.

Along the upper frame tube beneath the tank.

She leaned closer.

“That’s not factory.”

Walter stood.

“What?”

“This section.”

Casey ran her finger over it.

“Someone opened the frame and closed it again.”

Walter stared.

“Frank welded that.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he always feathered his welds twice on the right edge.”

Casey looked at him.

Walter was pale.

That night, someone broke into Garrison Auto.

Nothing was stolen.

Not the computers.

Not the tools.

Not the cash box.

The Panhead was still there.

But the seat had been ripped off.

The tank loosened.

The frame scratched.

Someone had been searching.

Marcus arrived before the police.

He stood staring at the damage.

“Who knew it was here?”

Casey thought about the gas station.

The attackers.

Brody looking at the bike.

Walter’s story.

Then she noticed a photograph on Marcus’s office shelf.

She had seen it hundreds of times.

Never really looked.

Marcus stood beside his sister at a family barbecue.

Three younger men were behind them.

One of them had an arm around Marcus’s shoulder.