Free Dear Crossing by Marjorie Doering

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    Greg Speltz’s dark eyes registered surprise. “You like Judas Priest?”
    “Some,” Neil hollered over the music. “‘Riding on the Wind’ and ‘Bloodstone.’ Good stuff. Hey, what do you hear from Keith?”
    “Nothing much.” His narrowed eyes shifted from Neil to Ray. “I’ve got work to do. What do you guys want?”
    Ray shouted over the pulsating bass. “Friday night, maybe Saturday morning, did you do some work on a Harley?”
    “Not me.” Greg wiped his hands on a greasy, paint-spotted shop rag. “Let me check with my dad.” He signaled for them to wait and walked toward the office.
    Ray put his mouth closer to Neil’s ear. “Friend of yours?”
    “Brother of. I graduated with Keith Speltz—couple years older than Greg, better-looking, smarter, more athletic, better prospects.”
    Ray had seen the outcome of similar sibling rivalries. “Is he trying to compete?”
    “Gave up,” Neil shouted over the music. “Got into drugs.”
    “Too bad.”
    “Got out of rehab not long ago. Trying to get a detailing business off the ground.”
    Greg Speltz trailed behind his father as they entered the repair bay from what constituted the business’s office space—a disorganized room not much larger than a walk-in closet.
    Burt Speltz had no trouble making himself heard. “Greg, turn that damn racket off.” Rather than wait, he did it himself and kicked the car door shut, putting a new ding next to a half dozen others.
    He jerked a thumb in his son’s direction. “His girlfriend’s car,” he told them. “A piece of crap and he goes and spends a shitload of money on a frickin’ audio system for it. Gotta be twice what the car is worth. Dumb kid.” He shot a look at Greg. “Goddamned girlfriend’s not worth shit either. You oughta stay clear of that freeloading druggie.”
    “Lay off Katie.”
    “Just so you know, I’m keepin’ track of every engine part you’re putting in that heap of hers. No freebies. Hear me?”
    “Don’t worry. I’ll pay for every last fuckin’—”
    Ray stepped between them. “Back off, both of you. You can pick up where you left off when we’re done here.”
    Lips pulled down at the corners, Burt Speltz clamped muscle-knotted arms across his chest.
    Ray turned to the older Speltz. “Did you do some repair work on a Harley this weekend?”
    “Yeah. Hauled one into the garage Friday night. It sat here Saturday morning waitin’ on Greg to come in. Bikes are more up his alley than mine. Of course, he was out chasing around ’til all hours with his girlfriend.” He cast an angry look at his son. “That girl’s gonna drag you right back down to where you were six months ago.”
    Greg’s jaws clenched. “Shut up about her.”
    “Look,” Ray told them, “I’m not here to referee. Can we focus for a minute? Tell me about the bike’s owner.”
    Burt Speltz pinched his chin, deepening a pronounced cleft. “Nice-looking guy. Mid-twenties or thereabouts. Said a deer ran out in front of him. It was raining, and his bike hydroplaned. It skidded down the pavement, across the shoulder and into a ditch. Him and his bike both got scuffed up pretty good. The damage to the bike was mostly all on the surface. Just needed a new gas line. That much I could do. Good thing, too. If I’d waited for Greg to show up—”
    Ray hampered another father/son argument. “Did you get his name or license number? Did he use a credit card for the repair?”
    “I saw a credit card tucked inside his billfold, but he paid in cash. Sort of surprised me, because from the looks of it, he was scraping the bottom of the barrel.”
    “Can you think of anything you noticed that might help us locate him?”
    “Can’t say I paid any attention. The only thing I know for sure is that when Mr. Davis dropped him off here Friday night, the kid’s leg was giving him hell.”
    “Mr. Davis? Paul Davis?”
    “Yeah.”
    “You’re sure it was him?”
    “Positive. He’s the only one I