Free An Obvious Fact by Craig Johnson Page B

lawman in me, but I can’t leave the keys in the ignition of a car, especially in a town with thousands of bikers in it.”
    She glanced at me.
    â€œAlthough, I am sure ninety-nine percent of them are good, law-abiding citizens.” I looked around. “I’m amazed you found a quiet spot.”
    She took out a cigarette and lit it, taking a deep drag. “Might be the only one.”
    â€œYou mind if I ask you a question?”
    Her voice took on an officious tone. “Where were you on the night of January sixteenth?”
    â€œSomething like that.”
    She stared at me. “You’re serious?”
    â€œI am. Where were you the night of your son’s accident?”
    She took another drag on her cigarette. “Who wants to know?”
    â€œYou wanted an investigator; this is called investigating.”
    â€œMe?”
    â€œEveryone’s a suspect until we find out who did it.”
    â€œSo, you do think somebody did it?”
    Dog was getting too close to the water, so I patted my leg. “You’re not answering my question.”
    She studied me for a moment more. “The Dime Horseshoe Bar in Sundance for the Burnout.”
    â€œThe what?”
    â€œThey put up a big platform on the street, and then guys ride their bikes up onto it and do these epic burnouts—youknow, locking up the front brake and spinning the rear? Lots of smoke, lots of beer and leather—an All-American spectacle.”
    â€œWere you driving your car?”
    It took her a few seconds to answer. “No.”
    â€œThen who was?”
    â€œWhat are you saying?”
    â€œWithout laboratory analysis I can’t be absolutely sure, but it looks to me as if somebody hit your son with your car. There was gold paint on the Harley and there appears to be damage to the right front fender of the Cadillac.”
    â€œThere’s damage all over my car; it’s a beater.”
    â€œIt’s a flake gold beater, a pretty unusual paint job.” I folded my arms and studied her. “I’ll ask again: Who was driving your car?”
    â€œAnd I’ll say how the hell should I know? Everybody borrows it.” She smoked some more. “The thing was sitting where it is now that day with the keys in it, so I literally have no idea.”
    â€œWho usually borrows it?”
    â€œEverybody—everybody in the club anyway.” She stopped talking and looked up at me.
    â€œI think your exact words were, no one outside the Tre Tre Nomads would touch that car.”
    â€œIt couldn’t be someone from our club.”
    â€œYou’re sure of that?” She didn’t seem so, all of a sudden. “How many club members are there here?”
    â€œA couple dozen maybe?”
    â€œCan you get me a list?”
    â€œNo, I can’t do that.” She took another drag on thecigarette. “It would be like dropping a dime on them—ratting them out, you know?”
    I smiled my everybody’s-an-outlaw-until-the-outlaws-show-up smile. “Well, I don’t have the time to go around and ask fifty thousand bikers if they happen to be members of the Tre Tre Nomads.”
    â€œI can point them out to you.”
    â€œAnd then what? I ask them if they happened to borrow your car on the night your son was run over? No, I think it would be a lot easier if you just asked around among your friends.”
    â€œThey’re not my friends.”
    â€œNo, the exact term you used was family.”
    She said nothing, and we both watched as a tandem of motorcycles thundered across the bridge above.
    â€œJust tell them that somebody used the car and didn’t fill it up and that you want some gas money, or tell them that somebody left something in the car and you want to give it back to them.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œI don’t know—money.”
    â€œThey’re not going to buy that.”
    â€œWell, then think of something.