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had been an accident involving a young man and that he thought there might be more to it than just a routine traffic incident.”
    â€œThey tried to kill him.”
    â€œWho did?”
    She looked at her hands and then started to get up again. “I need to talk to Henry.”
    â€œNo, you need to talk to me. Corbin, a traffic analyst from the Division of Criminal Investigation by the name of Mike Novo, and I are going to be heading up the inquiry as to what happened to your son, but we could use your help.”
    She studied me. “I don’t even know you.”
    â€œI’m a nice guy.” She didn’t seem convinced, so I added, “I grow on people.”
    She bobbed a sandal. “Like a fungus?”
    I ignored the remark. “So, how did you and Henry meet?”
    She studied me some more and turned to get her bag. “I should go.”
    I smiled. “Where?”
    â€œTo see my son.”
    I surprised her and stood. “How ’bout Dog and I go with you?”
    â€¢ • •
    Fortunately, Lola Wojciechowski drove a dilapidated, slightly dented, faded gold ’66 Cadillac DeVille, so there was plenty of room for all of us. I shouted across the expanse as Lola careened through the sloping hills of the Devils Tower landscape, the monument peeking down at us every now and again. “I noticed the Arizona plates. You live down there?”
    She shouted back after checking the rearview mirror and the reflection of Dog, dead center. “For quite some time now. My ex has a custom bike shop in Maryvale—Crossbones Custom.”
    â€œThat would be Mr. Torres?”
    She leaned over and, pushing a button in the dash and gesturing toward the yawning glove compartment, handed me the pocketbook containing the .38. “Yeah, Delshay.”
    I placed the purse in there and carefully closed the compartment. “Motorcycles, I’m assuming?”
    â€œNo, Huffy and Schwinn. . . . Of course, motorcycles.”
    I smiled and looked through the windshield. “Ever heard of a motorcycle club by the name of the Tre Tre Nomads?”
    She glanced at me. “No.”
    I watched the scenery some more as she put her foot into the Caddy, sending us down a straightaway toward Moorcroft at a good ninety miles an hour, passing motorcycles as we went. “You know, I know the HPs that prowl this part of Wyoming during the rallies, and they don’t have much of a sense of humor this time of year.”
    She kept her foot in it a bit longer but then let off.
    I placed an arm on the doorsill and adjusted the side mirror so that I could watch behind us. “And point of interest: when law enforcement asks you a question, we generally already know the answer.”
    She simmered a bit and then pushed a big wave of the black and silver hair from her face. “What do you want to know?”
    â€œIs Bodaway a member of the Tre Tre Nomads?”
    â€œI guess.”
    I adjusted my sunglasses and stared at her.
    â€œYes. Yes, he’s a member.”
    â€œSo what are the chances that his accident is gang related?”
    â€œEverybody who knows him loves him.”
    â€œThat doesn’t answer my question. Does he have any known enemies?”
    She gestured as another group of maybe thirty motorcycles passed us, headed for Hulett. “He’s in a motorcycle gang—everybody is his enemy, including you.” Driving the big car with one hand, she threaded her fingers through her hair. “You people . . .” I waited for the rest. “People don’t understand these clubs; they think you join them to break heads, take drugs, and generally fuck up society—but the reason you join is because society fucks with you. Do you know what it’slike out there on the streets? I’m not talking about Cornhole, Wyoming; I’m talking about a real city with people in it.”
    I sighed. “I’m not completely