“It’s too grainy.” Mulder took the picture back. “The pixels are too big and too few. When we sent it through our software, it just got more distorted.”
“Welp.” Fisher grimaced. “I’m sure sorry to say it, but unless ya have a clearer image, there’s no way I can tell for sure if it’s one of ours.”
“When we compared it to traffic cam footage, we thought it looked very similar to this bike that was caught on camera last fall.” Mulder removed another 8x10 from his coat and handed it to Fisher.
The new image showed Sam sitting at a red light, leather jacket looking slick and shiny, black helmet obscuring his face from the camera’s all-seeing eye. Pale Horse’s gas tank gleamed like a giant pearl beneath him.
“The license plate on this machine,” Mulder tapped the picture in Fisher’s hand, “shows it’s registered to Black Knights Inc. LLC. That’s you guys, right?”
“Sure is.” Fisher nodded convivially. “And that’s one of our mechanics sitting on the back of it. But see here.” Fisher pointed to the handlebars in the photo. “This bike has low drags. That first picture ya showed me has keystone-style handlebars.”
He was glad Sam had recently switched out the handlebars on his ride, having decided the keystone style was too cumbersome.
“And see that.” He pointed again at the photo in his hand. “This bike has a two-in-one exhaust, and that other image looked like it was a true dual exhaust. Although”—he shrugged—“it’s too blurry for me to know for sure.”
“So where isthatmotorcycle?” Waller hitched his chin toward the image Fisher held before turning to catalog the badass bikes lined up on the shop floor like good little soldiers.
Fisher had been careful to move his motorcycle, which usually sat at the end of the row of bikes, into the space reserved for Pale Horse. Nothing more suspicious than an obvious hole in the ranks.
“Your guess is as good as mine, my man.” He redonned his down-home, aw-shucks grin. “We build and sell a lot of motorcycles here. Chances are good this one”—he shook the photo for emphasis—“went out the door months ago.”
Mulder’s eyes alighted on something over Fisher’s shoulder when he asked, “And who here could tell us who bought this particular bike?”
Fisher turned to see Eliza, looking as fresh and fine as a daisy, gliding down the stairs. Her black slacks and button-down shirt made it seem as if she should be running a corporate office downtown, not whiling away the hours with a bunch of gun-toting grease monkeys on Goose Island.
“That would be Becky,” she said to Mulder as she made her way to Fisher’s side. “Our lead designer. She’s the one who keeps the records of who orders what and who buys what.”
“Is she here?” Waller sounded impatient and Fisher decided his initial instinct about the guy was right. Waller was a dick.
“Long gone, I’m afraid.” Eliza laced her fingers together in front of her. Her placid expression managed to look both wide open and completely closed off which, for some reason, reminded Fisher of British royalty. He reckoned, being the chief of staff’s daughter, she was as close toAmericanroyalty as it came. “She’s usually out the door at five sharp,” she added. “She’s got two small children, you see.”
When Waller and Mulder exchanged frustrated glances, she quickly added, “But she’ll be in bright and early tomorrow morning. You gentlemen are welcome to come back then and talk to her. I’m sure she’d be a lot more help than we are. Fisher here”—she tucked an arm through Fisher’s, and he was ridiculously aware of his elbow touching her side-boob—“is good with a wrench, but he doesn’t touch the sales side of things. And I run the offices, but I’m hands-off when it comes to customers.”
“How about those two?” Waller hitched his chin toward the second floor, where Samantha and Ozzie casually munched on pizza and watched the exchange below.
“That’s Ozzie and Samantha Sykes,” Eliza explained. “Ozzie’s a designer as well. His wife isn’t employed here, however. She’s an investigative reporter for theChicago Tribune.”
Raising her voice, Samantha called down, “Anything you’d like to put on the record, agents? I could have a story running in tomorrow’s online edition if you have something juicy for me!”
Mulder blanched and Fisher only refrained from smiling by biting the inside of his cheek.
“No, thank you!” Mulder called up. “This visit is strictly off the record!”
Samantha only shrugged, not agreeing or disagreeing. Fisher could see how much that irritated Mulder. A muscle twitched in the man’s right cheek.
“You guys sure have a lot of security and computing power for a simple motorcycle-building outfit.” The agent tried to make the statement sound offhand, but there was no missing the hard speculation in his eyes.
“I can assure you, Agent Mulder, there is nothingsimpleabout this operation. We have millions of dollars in equipment and bikes on site.” Eliza’s chin-lift could only be described ashaughty. “Becky’s production bikes sell for anywhere from fifty to ninety grand. But her custom jobs? Motorcycles like you see here?” She swung her arm to encompass the line of choppers whose sparkling chrome and fantastical paint jobs gleamed in the florescent lighting. “If you want one of these, it’ll set you back a cool quarter mil.”
“The hell you say.” Waller’s eyes flew wide with disbelief.
“It’s true.” Eliza nodded. “And Becky and Ozzie use some pretty high-powered software and high-tech equipment to design these rolling works of art. Hence the need for the guardhouse, the gate, and the razor-wire. Now…” Her smile was saccharin, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Is there anything more we can do for you tonight gentlemen? It’s getting late.”
It was the nicest way Fisher had ever heard someone say,Get the fuck out.Again, he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning.
“One last thing.” Mulder turned his attention on Fisher. “We pulled all your employment records before arriving. It’s odd that almost everyone working here has a military background, don’t you think?”
“Not really.” Fisher shrugged. “The guy who owns the place makes it a point to employ former fightin’ men.”
