by Tripp Ellis
He handed me a lens adapter for his iPhone. It was a massive telephoto that clipped onto the existing camera. It had a built-in stabilizer. Gone were the days when you needed an expensive DSLR camera with a lens that weighed as much as an anchor.
It was the perfect surveillance device.
Along with the forward-looking infrared adapter that JD had, his cell phone could cover a multitude of reconnaissance operations.
“She’s probably just going shopping,” JD said.
The tracking device led us to the parking lot of the Seven Seas Hotel. It was a luxury beachfront resort. It was a weekday, so the parking lot wasn’t very full. We spotted Claire’s car right away.
“Just shopping, huh?” I said with a healthy dose of sarcasm.
17
“I’m sure there’s some logical explanation,” JD said.
“Now you sound like a man in denial,” I replied.
“Forgive me if I don’t want to believe my friend’s wife is fooling around on him.”
JD parked the car, and we strolled into the lobby. It was spacious and elegantly decorated. A soothing waterfall trickled, and a piano player tickled the keys of a Baby Grand.
JD looked around and spotted Claire by the elevator bank. The doors parted, and she stepped inside. As soon as they slid shut, JD sprinted toward the elevators. He watched the indicator lights above the elevator as the lift rose and stopped at the 4th Floor.
JD tapped my arm and dashed into the stairwell.
I followed him, and we spiraled up. By the time we reached the 4th Floor, and spilled into the hallway, it was empty.
Claire was nowhere to be found.
We strolled the corridor, listening intently at the doors.
“Definitely shopping,” I said, dryly.
JD scowled at me.
Outside of room #421 we heard giggling—a male and female voice.
JD and I exchanged a glance.
He had a grim look on his face.
He used the infrared attachment to his camera to peer into the hotel room. The heat signature of two figures showed up as orange and red blobs. The rest of the room was blue and purple. The two figures embraced, kissing each other passionately.
JD was visibly upset.
He recorded the feed—evidence to show Ian later.
JD and I watched the thermal images as the couple peeled off each other’s clothes and found their way to the bed. Before long, the mattress was squeaking and the two blobs became one. Moans of ecstasy seeped into the hallway.
JD kept recording.
“Don’t you think you have enough footage?” I whispered.
“We don’t have visual confirmation. We have to wait until they come out.”
We moved away from the door and hovered by the entrance to the stairwell.
I had forgotten how boring a stakeout could be. You never know how long it’s going to take, and things often take longer than you expect. The couple in the hotel room went for more than a few rounds. I heard a window open afterwards, and from the infrared images, looked like they were smoking a cigarette and blowing it out the window.
This was a no smoking hotel.
“Are you sure you want to be the one to tell Ian his wife is fooling around?” I asked.
“It’s what he hired me to do.”
“Weren’t you the one telling me I needed to stay out of Madison’s affairs?”
“That’s different. She’s your sister.”
“Still, I think she needs to know if her boyfriend’s a douche-nozzle.”
“Just like my friend needs to know if his wife is fooling around,” JD said.
“He’s going to hate you.”
“I’m just the messenger.”
“They shoot messengers.”
JD switched out the infrared attachment, exchanging it with the telephoto lens. All he needed were a few quick snaps of the couple emerging from the hotel room after their illicit affair. That would be all the proof Ian would need.
Two hours after they arrived, the hotel room door opened, and a woman stepped into the hallway. She glanced down the hall, then moved toward the elevators.
It wasn’t Claire.
Our jaws were practically on the floor.
We just wasted all that time surveilling the wrong person.
“How did we lose her?” JD asked.
“Just be glad that wasn’t her,” I said.
“I was sure she got off on the 4th Floor.”
I shrugged.
“You think she’s still on this floor?”
“Check your tracking app,” I suggested.
JD tabbed through a few screens on his phone. “I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch. She’s not here. The car is gone.”
I glared at him. “Some detective you are.”
He shrugged innocently. “What? She’s elusive. She’s a professional. She knows what she’s doing.”
I rolled my eyes. “She’s an ordinary, average, suburban housewife.”
“Don’t underestimate how cunning they can be,” JD warned.
“You should know.”
JD had been through more wives than he could count.
We made our way back down to the lobby, still not sure how Claire had eluded us.
Her car was gone by the time we reached the parking lot. JD looked at his tracking app. “Looks like she’s headed back home.”
“I think I’ve had enough recon for the day. How about you drop me off at Cycle Universe?”
JD looked at me like I was crazy. “Are you going to pull the trigger?”
“I don’t know. I just want to take another look.”
“And miss all this exciting action?” JD said with a healthy dose of sarcasm.
“I don’t really have the stomach for this kind of thing. It’s heartbreaking.”
“Heartbreaking? You’re fine with killing people, but this is heartbreaking?”
“Call me a hopeless romantic, but I’d like to believe people can make it work.”
“When have you ever made a relationship work?”
“That’s beside the point. I’d like to believe the possibility exists.”
JD shook his head.
He dropped me off at Cycle Universe, and I told him I’d catch an Uber home. I walked into the shop telling myself I was just looking. That was it. No money was going to exchange hands.
I was absolutely, positively, not buying a motorcycle.
18
The bell on the door chimed.
“Back again?” Ray said as I stepped into the showroom.
“Just another look.”
He flashed a knowing grin. He heard that line of bullshit before. He was already counting the money. He knew a sucker when he saw one.
I made my way across the showroom toward the sport bikes, the smell of fresh rubber filling my nose. The X3 was 320cc of liquid cooled, twin cylinder adventure. Six speed transmission with an inverted fork, monocross single shock, and ABS brakes. It had sport rims and tires and a sleek aero package. It weighed 370 pounds and was light and nimble.
Next to it was its big brother, the X6. 600cc of molten madness. Four cylinders, 16 titanium valves, six speed transmission with a slipper clutch. It had a three way adjustable inverted fork. A piggyback shock that was four-way adjustable. Dual hydraulic ABS disc brakes. A seat height of 33.5 inches and weighed 420 pounds.
It was sex and death on two wheels.
Fast, powerful, and thoroughly invigorating.
I practically got a boner just looking at it. It was an adrenaline junkie's wet dream.
At three times the price of the X3, it ought to be.
I didn't even bother looking at its bigger brother, the X1. It was a liter bike just short of a Moto XP racer. That was like taking a ride on Satan's back.
I figured I should ease myself back into the world of motorbikes.
The salesman hovered nearby. He must have seen the look in my eyes. My heart pattered. Adrenaline coursed through my veins.
<
br /> I had to have one.
There was no way I was walking out of the store empty-handed. And Ray knew it.
"How much?" I asked.
"For the X6? MSRP is $12,999."
No way was I going to pay sticker.
"Of course, if you're ready to buy today, I could work out a special price. I can see how bad you want it."
"I'm sure you have a cash price."
He hesitated a moment. "Cash as in green?”
I pulled a fat stack of hundred-dollar bills from my pocket and fanned through it. It sounded like a dealer shuffling cards in Vegas. That was pretty much what I was doing—gambling with my life, buying a motorcycle.
The salesman looked around the shop, then scratched his chin.
"You're going to need a helmet and some leathers with a bike like that."
I nodded.
“Gloves and boots too.”
"What did you have in mind for leathers?"
"I was looking online at the ApexStar™ V2 racing leathers that are airbag compatible. I figure I should cover my bases in case I ever want to track the bike."
"You have good taste. Pricey. But good taste." He thought for a moment. "If you're going to go all out, you should look at the Speed-X™ R15 helmet. It's their flagship model. State-of-the-art aerodynamics with six air intakes and exhaust outlets. It's got a cheek pad cooling system. Wind tunnel optimized. UV coated visor. Anti-fog system. It's got a multi-layer shell with an emergency quick release system. It's lightweight and stylish. It comes in a variety of Moto XP colors, or you can go with a classic solid color. I can even arrange for a custom paint job."
"How much?"
"I can do the bike, the leathers, gloves and helmet for $11,999."
I shook my head. "You gotta do better than that.”
"That helmet is $700. MSRP is $1500 on the leathers. With gloves and boots, I'm giving you a hell of a deal."
I stuffed the wad of cash back into my pocket.
Ray didn’t like that. “Not so fast.”
“$9,999.”
He winced. “$10,999.”
My face remained like stone. I said nothing.
There was a long moment of silence.
Ray cracked first. ”Okay. You got yourself a deal. $9,999. You’re killing me.”
I grinned.
I counted off a fat stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills and handed them to Ray. He handed me the keys and told me to pick out my helmet, leathers, and accessories.
I found a pair of black and white leathers with midnight blue accents in my size and tried them on. I found a helmet to match.
Ray helped me roll the sport bike out of the showroom. The tires squeaked against the slick floor.
"Do you need riding lessons? Have you taken your Basic Riding Course?”
“I’m licensed. I've just got to shake the cobwebs off."
"Don't be too quick about it. Take some time to ease into it. This bike’s got a lot of power. Go easy about getting on the throttle coming out of the corners. The traction control should keep things in check, but this thing screams like a banshee. And make sure you heat the tires up before you start pushing it."
It was sage advice.
He gave me an overview of the basic operation in the parking lot.
"I love my customers. I want to sell them bikes for years to come. Be careful out there. Safe riding.”
We shook hands, and I cranked up the bike. The 4 cylinder hummed with precision, the exhaust note hinting at the fury that lay within the beast.
I pulled my helmet on and latched the chinstrap. I pulled up my gloves, pulled down the visor, and gave a few revs on the throttle. The sweet exhaust note was music.
I eased the clutch out and gently tugged the throttle. The bike rolled forward, and I wondered what the hell I had just gotten myself into.
I pulled up to the highway and waited for the traffic to clear, then I let the clutch out and throttled up. The crotch rocket launched out of the parking lot. One upshift, and I was at 70 MPH on the highway.
Wind whistled, and the bike felt like it was on rails. I weaved in my lane, getting used to the turning. This thing could carve around corners like nobody's business.
I slowed behind the car in front of me. 55 miles an hour felt like we were crawling. When the passing lane cleared, I got on the throttle and zipped around the sedan like it was standing still. Another shift, and I was doing 130 miles an hour down the two-lane blacktop.
What the fuck was I thinking?
Maybe this was a mistake?
19
It was like someone had stuck a needle in my vein and mainlined adrenaline. My heart was about to punch through my chest. I twisted the throttle, the engine howled, and the exhaust note roared. The needle bounced off the redline, and the scenery blurred by. It was shit-your-pants scary, and I loved every second of it.
I squeezed the brakes and brought the beast to a halt faster than I thought possible. Inside my helmet, I had a grin from ear to ear.
This was pure insanity.
Nobody needed this much speed.
The really frightening thing was that, eventually, I would become numb to it and crave more.
Such is the way of things.
I cruised around Coconut Key for the next hour, enjoying my new ride. The sleek, aggressive bike drew a lot of looks.
It turned heads everywhere.
I drove down to Oyster Avenue to get a bite to eat. I parked at the curb and climbed off the crotch-rocket, pulled off my helmet, and took a breath of fresh air. The leathers had pads in the shoulders, elbows, and hips. If you ate the pavement, they’d do a pretty good job of keeping you in one piece. Without them, the slightest fall would give you a serious case of road rash.
In high school, a friend of mine set his bike down on the freeway at 115 miles an hour. He was only wearing jeans, T-shirt, and a helmet.
I'm not sure how he survived.
He said he was fine until he started to tumble. That's when the pavement took chunks of flesh out of his knees, elbows, and knuckles.
He got up and walked away, but it was a miracle.
I had worked up a healthy sweat, even though the suit was well ventilated. I strolled down the avenue, looking a little ridiculous in full race leathers, but the protection was worth it.
I decided to grab a bite to eat at Bob’s Rocket Burger. It had a ‘50s rockabilly vibe to it. Checkered floor, red leather booths, teal accents on the walls. Pinup queens from the ‘50s lined the walls. There were pictures of old cars, World War II era bombers, and black-and-whites of musicians from the era.
Burgers sizzled on the grill, and the smell of good old-fashioned American food wafted throughout the restaurant. Elvis played on the jukebox.
The hostess seated me at a table. Before long, a cute waitress wearing pink shorts and a white blouse, tied at the waist, glided to my table on roller-skates.
She had her hair up in a bun and looked like a pinup queen herself—red lipstick, green eyes, creamy skin.
“I’ll have a burger, fries, and a chocolate shake.”
She scribbled my order down on a pad, smiled, and rolled away.
My eyes couldn’t help but follow her fluid motion.
I glanced around the restaurant as I waited for my meal, taking in the scenery. JD's devilish daughter, Scarlett, sat in a booth opposite a young man.
She had narrowly avoided jail time for possession of cocaine. She was on probation, and if she stayed on the straight and narrow for the next two years, the whole thing would be expunged from her record.
I was pretty sure her probation officer wouldn’t like what I saw.
Her companion handed her a bag of weed under the table.
In exchange, she slipped him a wad of cash.
The two tried to look inconspicuous as they made the exchange.
The dealer sat in the booth for a minute, then left.
I strolled over and slid into the booth opposite Scarlett. She gasped, startled, a
nd her eyes widened. "Tyson, what are you doing here?"
Her face flushed, caught red-handed.
"I'm grabbing a bite to eat. What are you doing here?" I said knowingly.
Scarlett stammered. “Doing the same.”
She tried to change the subject “What's with the outfit?"
“I bought a motorcycle."
Her eyes brightened. "Really?"
"Really."
"You have to take me for a ride."
"I'll think about it. You have a helmet?"
“Why would I have a helmet?"
I shrugged. "When I get an extra helmet, I'll give you a ride."
The waitress brought my hamburger and milkshake. "You moved tables, I see.”
She tried to hide the annoyed tone in her voice, but wasn’t doing a good job. It was obviously not her section and had apparently caused strife with another waitress.
"I'm sorry. Is that a problem?"
She forced a smile. "No. Not at all. Is there anything else I can get you?"
"No, thank you."
She twirled around and skated away.
"Well, I guess I better get going," Scarlett said. "I've got to get to work."
"Not so fast," I said as she tried to slip out of the booth.
She plopped her butt back down on the red leather bench.
"Hand it over."
She tried to play it off, innocently. “Hand what over?"
"Cut the shit.”
“What shit?”
“Don’t play games with me. We’re beyond that, aren’t we?”
She huffed and growled, then reluctantly slapped the bag of weed on the table.
I grabbed it quickly and stuffed it in my pocket.
"It's just weed," Scarlett said. "What am I supposed to do. Join a convent?”
Scarlett as a nun was certainly an interesting image that flashed in my mind. I tried not to laugh. "Do you want to walk away from this whole thing with a clean record?"
"I just had a piss test yesterday. I don't see my probation officer for another month. I can smoke one joint and have it clear my system by my next test."
"And you really think it's worth the risk?" I said.
"I'm going absolutely bonkers. I can't do anything. I'm not supposed to hang out in bars or clubs. I'm not supposed to drink. I can't smoke weed. I can't do drugs. I can't hang around people who do those things. Ergo, I have no social life."
