Page 6

Hagen stood in front of Davis Motors and wondered why anyone would ever drive a motorcycle. They were uncomfortable, exposed to the elements, and far too dangerous. One mistake, one moment of distraction, and the driver would be smeared across the road like a squashed racoon.

But Ian Montell looked like the kind of person who might’ve liked them.

Tyra Scharf’s ex-boyfriend sat on a low stool inside the entrance to the small repair shop in southeast Nashville. His head was shaved above his ears so that his cropped bleached hair dropped to a sharp point in the back.

Tattoos climbed from beneath the collar of his faded blue work shirt up the sides of his muscular neck.

Hagen could just make out the tail of a curling serpent, the top of a set of Gothic letters—which looked suspiciously like the tattoo that read “Vindicta” spread across his own upper back—and an ornate cross just below the guy’s left ear.

A wide scar that ran along the length of his jawbone might’ve been the result of a moment of distraction during a ride but could’ve also been the work of a sharp knife.

Even if Ian Montell didn’t look like any father’s idea of a good match for his daughter, Mannie Scharf had good reason to suspect Montell’s involvement in Tyra’s kidnapping.

He had a record. And it contained several arrests for grand theft auto and a couple of short stints inside for assault. The latter irritated Hagen the most.

And yet the delicacy with which the mechanic rested a hand on the leather bike seat as he turned a wrench under the Honda Gold Wing was as close to an expression of tender loving care as Hagen had ever seen.

Montell looked like he’d known how to make an exhaust roar long before he’d fired up his first throttle.

As they approached the mechanic, Stella whispered, “I can see what Tyra saw in him. He’s a hottie.”

“I get it. You’re only into me for the tats.” Hagen reached for his badge. “You always did love a bad boy.” He took a few more steps forward and cleared his throat. “Ian Montell?”

Montell lifted his head. Deeper in the garage, another mechanic was bent over the handlebars of an oversize Harley. The smell of fresh paint and motor oil enveloped them, despite it being a very open and airy garage.

Hagen braced himself for a chase if Montell tried to run.

He held out his ID. “Special Agent Hagen Yates, FBI. This is Special Agent Stella Knox.”

Montell sat straight on his stool. He lifted the wrench.

Hagen calmly put his badge into his inner jacket pocket, unbuckling the strap on his leather shoulder holster in the same motion. He’d need both his hands to hold his weapon, if Montell made a move with that heavy tool.

The other mechanic quietly wheeled away the Harley.

Montell dropped the wrench on the ground next to him. It landed with a heavy clatter. He picked up a rag and wiped his hands. “What do you want? If it’s a repair, you’ll have to come back later and talk to the boss.”

Hagen relaxed. “We want to ask you a few questions, Mr. Montell.”

“Ian. Mr. Montell’s my dad. What’s up?”

“Where were you the night of the fifteenth? This past Friday, between eleven p.m. and one a.m.”

“How’s that any of your…” Montell took a deep breath.

His jaw tensed, then relaxed. The scar on his face blanched, the pale line briefly overtaking his skin before retreating again.

He’d clearly been down this road with law enforcement before and had learned the hard way to control his temper.

Cops would’ve pushed him to talk, and he’d paid for being too mouthy.

There was little point in trying to resist again now.

“I was away. Camping. Got back late last night.”

“Camping? This time of year?”

“Best time to go, winter. I was up near Roan Mountain. Nights are cold, but no one’s up there. It’s beautiful. You can walk for miles without seeing anyone.” His gaze flicked from Hagen to Stella. “You two should try it. Go on. Get yourselves lost.”

His small joke and insult seemed to please him. His eyes smiled, but the look he gave Stella also came with a hint of a wink.

Stella’s face hardened. “Was anyone with you?”

“Yeah.” Montell rubbed a knuckle hard with his rag. A patch of oil had stained the skin and wasn’t coming off. “My girlfriend and two other couples. We all road together in my buddy’s big ass Tahoe.”

Stella had her notebook in her hand. “Can you give the name and contact info for everyone who was with you?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.” He pulled out his wallet and dug around. “We stopped off at a gas station near my campsite for supplies. I used my credit card to pay for everything I bought. Y’all can track that, right?” He handed the receipt over.

Hagen peeked over Stella’s shoulder as she studied the slip of paper. It had the store name but no address. The time stamp was 5:58 Friday evening. “What’s the address of the place?

“Hell, I don’t know the address. Right in the town off Roan Mountain. There’s maybe two gas stations in that whole place.”

Stella wrote that down. “Names and contact information for those who were with you?”

He rolled his eyes and pulled out his phone, listing out the names and phone numbers of his fellow campers.

As Stella took that info down, Hagen hunched his shoulders. The air outside the repair shop was cold, though Montell didn’t seem to mind. “When was the last time you saw Tyra Scharf?”

“Tyra?” A look of concern washed over Montell’s face but vanished quickly. “Not for a long time. Ditched her…must’ve been, I don’t know, six weeks ago. Something like that. Why?”

Montell didn’t sound like he was lying. But he might’ve just been a good liar. Hagen ignored the question and threw another of his own. “You haven’t seen her since?”

“She tried calling for a couple of weeks after I dumped her. I blocked her number.” He shrugged. “We’re done.”

“I’m surprised.” Stella counted on her fingers. “She’s pretty. Rich. On paper, that seems like something guys would want.”

“In Tyra’s case, not if they want to keep their sanity.

” He picked the wrench back up and cranked on a bolt to tighten it, then returned the tool to the ground.

“Yeah, Tyra’s pretty. And her dad’s rich.

But she’s not. She’s got her trust fund, but she spends money like a pimp with something to prove.

She’s also seriously loca . Or just plain dumb. I could never tell.”

Hagen frowned. “What do you mean?”

Montell stood. His stool rocked for a moment, then righted itself.

He walked to a table by the wall of the workshop, opened a large thermos, and poured himself a cup of steaming coffee.

“Look, Tyra’s cute, right? Sexy little thing.

I thought I had it made. But she’s intense, you know?

She’ll get an idea in her head, like the earth’s flat, the moon landings didn’t happen, Tupac’s alive and living in Tulsa, whatever, and she’ll get stuck on it. ”

“And?” Hagen prompted when he took a sip of coffee instead of continuing.

He shrugged. “I’m not interested in that shit. I want to ride bikes, fix bikes, and spend as much time in the wilderness as I can. We came from different places, and we’re going in different directions, so we split.”

Hagen glanced at Stella. He believed this guy. He hoped Alessandra Lagarde was having better luck in her investigation of the fire.

“Are you aware Tyra’s been kidnapped?”

“Kidnapped? Shit .” Montell put down his cup, spilling it on the way. He shook the hot liquid from his fingers and grabbed a towel from a hook above the table. “No, I didn’t know that. Like, for money?”

This guy was irritating. Hagen tried to keep steady. Though if Montell was that confused about how kidnappings worked, it boded well for his innocence. “Yeah, for money.”

“Wow. No, I didn’t hear.” He wiped his hand and picked up his cup again. “If it’s just for money, she’ll be okay. Daddy’ll pay. Tyra’s daddy loves his little girl.”

“Don’t all daddies love their kids?” The words shot out of Hagen’s mouth before he could stop them. He regretted them immediately .

“Do they? Guess you and me mix in different circles, FBI agent.” Montell sipped his coffee again.

“Look, I hope Tyra’s okay. But I don’t know anything about a kidnapping.

And honestly? Whatever punishment you’ve got lined up for the person who took her, it won’t even come close to being locked in a room with Tyra Scharf. Now, we done here? I got work to do.”

Hagen scratched his temple. Ian Montell was their best lead so far. He didn’t want to give up this quickly. “Mind if we look around?”

The man could refuse. And he’d definitely want to if the repair shop was storing stolen motorcycles. But he’d dealt with the law before. He had to know a refusal might bring Hagen back later with a warrant, a darker mood, and a deeper search.

Montell put down his cup and threw his hands up. “You do what you gotta do, man. This ain’t my place. I just work here.” He returned to his stool and to the repairs of a motorcycle that looked to Hagen to be in perfect working order.

Hagen and Stella strolled through the workshop. There was little to see. Metal shelving units and racks filled with tools. Assorted engine parts on tables waiting to be reassembled.

A door at the back opened into an office just big enough to hold a desk, a chair, and a tray with packets of sugar and a jar of instant coffee.

A second door led into a back garage area, where three motorcycles were covered in tarps. The height of the handlebars suggested that two of them were Harleys. Hagen didn’t see any sign of a trapdoor to a basement or a storeroom where someone might’ve been hidden.

Tyra wasn’t there.

They returned to the SUV, where Hagen called Slade. “ Montell’s got what sounds like a pretty solid alibi, if it checks out. We’re going to look into it now, but it’s probably not him. We’re barking up the wrong tree here.”

“Right.” At the end of the line, Slade sighed. “You’re sure?”

“Ninety-five percent, I’d say. He looked surprised to hear about the kidnapping. I don’t think he was faking it.”

“Well, that was always a possibility.” Slade’s voice was tense, hard. “But looks like we’ll have to start planning for the handoff. I’ll call Mannie Scharf, and we’ll set it up for tomorrow night. You two meet us here.”