Chapter 6

Desmond Pike blinked. Once. It was the first honest thing his face had done all night.

"What?"

"The build plate," I said. "The one on the steering head. The one that says who built it, and where, and when. Every Apex has had one since 1979. Ask him what happened to this one."

"The plate says Apex Moto," Desmond said.

"The plate says Apex Moto now."

Vivian Cross had her phone out before he finished the sentence.

She didn't ask permission. She set it flat on the velvet rope, tilted the screen toward the room, and started swiping.

"Restoration intake. Two years ago. The bike came to us from a collector in Marfa." Swipe. "Intake photos. Forty-one of them." Swipe. "Here."

The photograph on the screen was the same motorcycle, unrestored. Faded paint. Rust on the forks. A torn seat. And on the steering head, stamped into original metal and shot at an angle in somebody's garage light, was a small rectangular plate.

The room leaned in.

"Read it," Vivian said.

Desmond didn't.

So she read it herself, out loud, slowly, the way you read a legal document.

"E. WARD. AUSTIN, TEXAS. 1985. Hand-stamped, one of one."

Nobody said anything.

She swiped again. The current bike. Same steering head. Same spot. A new plate, clean and machine-engraved, and on it: APEX MOTO - RESTORED.

"Somebody took it off," Vivian said. "It's in the file. 'Original build plate removed during restoration.' It's initialed." She looked up. "It's initialed D.P."

Somewhere behind me a champagne flute went over. Nobody picked it up.

Desmond's face had gone the color of skim milk. He started talking fast - the restoration was outsourced, the shop made that call, he just signed the paperwork, he'd have to check with the vendor, it was a mistake, it was obviously a mistake.

"Mr. Pike," Vivian said. "You initialed it."

"I sign forty documents a day."

"You initialed the removal of the founder's name from the founder's motorcycle."

Ruben's hand came off my arm.

I want to be honest about what I felt in that moment. It wasn't triumph. It was closer to grief - standing in a room full of people beside a machine I'd made with my own hands, and finding out that the only thing anybody had bothered to keep was my signature on a key ring.

Desmond had his phone against his ear.

"Mr. Cross," he said, and his voice was doing something I hadn't heard from it yet. Something thin. Something quick. "It's Desmond. Sir. I need you at the store. Right now. There's a situation."