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  “Don’t they look happy?”

  “No, they look like they’ve been swimming in hell.”

  “Didn’t I mention this was a hot yoga class?”

  Wallace’s jaw dropped a little. “A hot what?”

  “A hot yoga class. Yoga in one hundred and four degrees.”

  “I’m quite sure you didn’t mention it.”

  “You chickening out?”

  “No. But you could have told me to wear swim trunks.” Wallace nodded in the direction of a man exiting the classroom completely drenched, his clothes stuck to him like Saran wrap on a microwaved hotdog.

  “I have twenty bucks that says you won’t make it ten minutes,” Emily said.

  Inside the room, Wallace sneered and lowered himself to the floor.

  “Good idea, partner,” Emily said. “Stretch it out. Showtime in five.”

  *

  Sweat dripped from Wallace’s face by the time the teacher had introduced herself as Patty from somewhere Wallace immediately forgot. At the three-minute mark, in the midst of a downward dog pose, Wallace’s shorts were drenched, hugging his thighs and manhood. His eyes burned from the salt in his perspiration.

  At eight minutes, his arms shook and his lungs wheezed. Wallace audibly grunted as the instructor mercifully moved the class into a moment of rest in the happy baby pose. Lying on his back, feet in the air, Wallace was thankful for a position that required neither balance nor exertion. Following the teacher’s instruction to grab the soles of his feet while remaining on his back, Wallace instantly understood the meaning of the happy baby. For a brief moment, a peaceful feeling washed over Wallace and he saw a glimpse of the potential of yoga. It was at this precise moment of near Nirvana, on his back with a grip on both feet, that a large gas deposit unceremoniously escaped Wallace’s large intestine.

  By the time Emily stopped laughing, Wallace had left the room.

  *

  In the comfort of a seventy degree room on the third floor, Wallace struggled with the controls on the exercise bike. There were twelve buttons on the control pad and a computer screen above the handlebars that allowed gym members to select the scenery to accompany their ride. A tour through wine country? A mountain bike jaunt through the Grand Canyon? A leisurely ride along a beachfront boardwalk?

  To Wallace’s right, through a large window, traffic crawled up Route Seven, inching past the Koons’ Ford-Chrysler-Dodge dealership on the other side of the road. Wallace stared at the line of cars perched on the hill and then glanced back at the computer screen. He shrugged his shoulders, selected the bicycle medley, and left his workout to be decided by the computer Gods. The screen on the exercise bike welcomed him and Wallace smiled as he began to pedal, serenely meandering forward in the direction of a green forest on the virtual horizon.

  Now this is what I’m talking about, Wallace said to himself. To hell with hot yoga. All he had to do was pedal. Halfway through his programmed ride, he exited the woods for an equally tranquil path through a sea of gently swaying wheat fields.

  Wallace ignored the computer screen on the bicycle and averted his eyes to the TV hanging from the ceiling in the corner. With the sound on the TV off, he listened to the steady hum of equipment while he read the closed caption text running across the bottom of the screen. The weather was followed by a reporter covering a rash of bicycle thefts in Northwest DC, including several instances where bikes were stolen off the bike racks of parked vehicles. One unlucky cyclist even had their bicycle stolen from the rear of the vehicle, while their car was stuck in traffic. At the conclusion of the bike theft story, a video clip of a peloton of cyclists raced across the TV screen.

  Wallace checked his progress on the computer display of the exercise bike and then returned his gaze to the TV. Moments later he was still staring upward, but his brain was elsewhere. The detective was in problem-solving mode, communing with his subconscious mind. His mind floated from the bicycle theft story and his eyes drifted again to the car dealership out the window.

  After a period of silent reflection that a Nepalese monk could appreciate, Wallace broke his silence. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said loudly, startling the woman on the bicycle next to him who tried, in vain, to steer away from her suddenly vocal neighbor.

  Wallace pressed the red button on the control pad and the computer screen on the bike went dark. He dismounted from the sweat-laden seat, losing his balance in the process, and took long strides down the hall that lead to hell yoga 101. The glass wall at the back of the yoga room was now covered in moisture, allowing Wallace to see only the faintest outlines of the practitioners in the room, asses in the air.

  Wallace opened the door and a blast of heat slapped his face.

  “Emily Fields, it’s time for work. Meet you in the lobby in ten minutes,” he bellowed into the furnace before turning away.

  *

  As they exited the front door of the gym, Wallace pointed in the direction of the car dealership across the street. “It’s probably faster to walk.”

  “Are you buying a car?”

  “I was thinking about getting a minivan. You can deck it out for me. Fuzzy dice. A bumper sticker. The whole nine yards.”

  Emily cocked her head to the side and followed as Wallace skipped across four slow-moving lanes of traffic and a narrow grassy median. Fifty yards later, Wallace opened the door to the showroom and Emily stepped in. Her face was still flush, her body not yet cooled from stretching in the tropics.

  The young salesman with the seat nearest the door stood from his desk when he saw Emily. Wallace glanced around the car showroom and quickly concluded the vehicles on display outnumbered existing customers eight to nil.

  “Can I help you?” the salesman asked, extending his hand, business card pinched between his thumb and pointer finger. Wallace extended his own hand with his badge cupped in his palm. “Not buying. Just looking.”

  “What can I help you with, Officer?” the salesman asked.

  “We’re both detectives,” Emily informed him.

  “Detectives,” the salesman confirmed.

  “We’re looking for a bike rack,” Wallace said.

  “For what kind of vehicle?”

  “A minivan. Specifically, we’re looking for one that fits a Chrysler Town and Country.”

  “Well, you’re in luck. The bike racks we sell for minivans will fit most makes and models. Most dealers sell the same equipment. How many bikes do you need it to hold?”

  “Let’s assume one or two.”

  “For single bicycles, the Pro Series Eclipse is hands down the most popular for minivans.”

  “How does it attach to the vehicle? Specifically to the Town and Country?”

  “The Pro Series Eclipse attaches to the rear of the vehicle. The rack fits over the rear door and attaches at the bottom and the top. It’s pretty secure. It can hold several hundred pounds. It also comes with multiple locking options for security.”

  “Are there other ways to attach the rack?”

  “There are options for attaching bikes to the luggage rack on the top of the vehicle. But when you are talking about a minivan, there are some clearance issues, not to mention just the physical struggle of getting the bike onto the rack. You would need a ladder in most cases. I’m not saying it can’t be done, but it isn’t easy. On some of the larger bike rack models, where you can carry up to six bikes, we have components you can attach to the trailer hitch.”

  “What about bike racks that attach to the front of the vehicle?”

  “There’s also an option for the front of the vehicle, but I’ve only seen one or two customers choose that configuration since I started working here.”

  “So a bike rack that attaches to the rear door is the most popular?”

  “For a minivan? Without a doubt.”

  “How long does it take to attach?”

  “The rack to the car, or the bike to the rack?”

  “The rack to the car.”

  “A couple of
minutes. Faster if you know what you’re doing.”

  “And can the rear door be used with the bike rack on it?”

  “No. You would have to remove the rack to use the rear door.”

  “Thanks,” Wallace said, turning towards the door. Emily smiled at the young salesman as she followed Wallace out. “What did we just learn?”

  “Walk through this with me. You are a single mother. You own a minivan.”

  “I could do one or the other, not both.”

  “Use your imagination. Why do people buy minivans?”

  “A lot of room. Sliding doors. Easy to get in and out of.”

  “Right. Easy egress and ingress is what I was thinking, but everything else you said is equally true. Most minivans typically have two front seats, two back seats and a third row. So the easy entry and exit is primarily for people. I mean, it’s easy to slide the door open and get into one of the seats. The side doors are not as convenient for cargo because once you open the doors, the seats are right there. I mean, imagine you’re shopping and you have a bunch of shopping bags, you’re probably going to use the back door. Particularly if you’re like my wife and you buy your toilet paper sixty rolls at a time from Costco.”

  “So you’re saying that most minivan owners use the sliding side doors for people and the back door for groceries.”

  “That is my assumption.”

  “We can go sit in a supermarket parking lot for an hour and prove or disprove that theory.”

  “We may just do that. But let’s assume for a second that I’m right. Most people use the back door for stuff. Now, if I have a bike rack on the back of the van, I can’t use the back door.”

  “According to the salesman.”

  “Right. Once I put the bike rack on, I sacrifice the back door and some major convenience. And it’s not just groceries either. Think about all that miscellaneous stuff parents have to carry around. Strollers. Toys. Diaper bags. Umbrellas. The convenience of carrying all of that around is negated somewhat by the bike rack on the back door.”

  “Okay.”

  “Which means that people probably only put the bike rack on the back of a minivan when they need it.”

  “Seems logical.”

  “Right?”

  “Sure.”

  “So why did Beth have a bike rack on the vehicle the morning her minivan ended up in the canal?”

  There was a long pause and then Emily said, “Because she went for a bike ride so she could dump the weapon.”

  “I think we just learned what the Duke of Junk was lying about.”

  Chapter 33

  Detective Wallace knocked on the office trailer and the Duke of Junk opened the door, phone pressed to his ear. He waved the detectives inside the trailer and motioned for them to have a seat at the chairs on the visitor’s side of his desk. Wallace and Emily sat, each engulfing the details of the room. The practiced art of observation was a skill shared by all good detectives.

  The Duke of Junk turned away from his visitors and checked his appearance in the small circular mirror attached to a gray filing cabinet. As he answered questions on the phone regarding parts for a 1999 Toyota Camry, he brushed his eyebrows with his fingers, and checked the space between his teeth for any breakfast remnants.

  “Detectives Wallace and Fields,” the Duke said, hanging up the phone and spinning in his chair to face his guests. “I didn’t expect to see you back so soon. I hope you’re not looking for the boxed up minivan. It’s outside Pittsburgh by now, one step closer to a two-thousand degree furnace.”

  “We are, indeed, here about the minivan.”

  “I’m not sure I’m going to be able to help you.”

  “And I’m quite sure you will,” Wallace retorted.

  A small twitch surfaced just above the Duke of Junk’s face. “Anything I can do. You know that.”

  “When we were here last, you mentioned you found a stroller in the minivan.”

  “We did.”

  “And a damaged bike rack. It was on the back of the minivan.”

  “That sounds about right. Some other stuff in the glove box. Owner’s manual. Maybe a handful of change and a pair of sunglasses.”

  “What about the bike?”

  “What bike?” the Duke responded, his voice cracking in betrayal.

  “Either you’re heading back into puberty, or you know exactly what bike I’m referring to.”

  “Man, there was no bike.”

  “Are you looking for an obstruction of justice charge? Clamoring for an investigation into the illegal sale of stolen goods? This can be easy, or this can be hard. You’ve had a good run. You’re close to payday. The developers are getting ready to write you a big check. Retirement is right around the corner. Don’t be stupid. Don’t fuck things up now,” Wallace said matter-of-factly.

  The Duke of Junk subconsciously looked over at the large jar of change in the corner of the trailer.

  “There was a bike on the rear of the minivan when it came in on the wrecker. It had a lock on it. Had to blow torch the lock off. One of those U-locks with the fancy keys. Pretty sturdy. We ruined the bike rack with the blow torch.”

  “Was the bike damaged?”

  “No, it was in pretty good shape. I figure the minivan probably went into the water nose first. With the engine weight in the front of the vehicle and all. Not to mention the pure momentum. The bike probably never hit the bottom of the canal. Of course, the bike was covered in the little treasures you would expect to find in nasty, stagnant, canal water, but it wasn’t damaged.”

  “And what happened to it?”

  “I sold it,” he said, his voicing trailing off.

  “How? Craigslist?”

  “No. Nothing like that. It was weird, man. Real weird. That wrecker arrived at the lot, dropped off the car, and a few minutes after the wrecker leaves, this dude shows up and tells me he wants to buy the bike that was just brought in. Said he happened to see the vehicle on the wrecker as it pulled in here. Said he had the same model of bike at home and that he could use the parts.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “Hell no. I mean, this guy was telling me he happened to look over at a minivan, covered in mud, on the back of a wrecker, and not only is he able to ignore the spectacle of the minivan, but he can identify the bike on the back of it? No way. Uh-uh. I know bullshit when I smell it.”

  “Don’t we all,” Wallace said with a glare.

  “How much did he offer you?” Emily asked.

  “A couple hundred dollars. I turned him down at first.”

  “Then he offered more?”

  “Then he doubled his offer and added a hundred. Pulled the cash out before I even answered. He washed the bike off with the hose outside the door and walked right out the front gate.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “A white guy. Tattoos.”

  “Tall, short, thick, thin?”

  “Average height. But it don’t matter.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I followed that guy to the gate and watched him walk down the street. Halfway down the block he threw the bike into the side door of an older Ford van. He slid the door shut, walked to the front of the van, and said something to the driver. Then the driver drove off. The guy who came into the junk yard with the cash just walked off down the street without the bike.”

  “What model year was the van?”

  “Hard to say. Late nineties.”

  “Color?”

  “White. Dirty but white.”

  “Did you get a license plate?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Didn’t occur to me. Besides, I don’t think I could see that far when I had good vision.”

  “Any cameras down there?”

  “On the outside of a wrecking yard? No. No cameras down there. Got a few cameras on the inside of the yard near the back, but they only show the yard and the back fence line. There are probably a security camera or
two in the surrounding blocks, but we are at the end of Buzzard Point, not much else down here.”

  “Anything else you need to tell me about the minivan? Anything at all? I’m giving you a pass on this little indiscretion. I won’t be so generous the next time around.”

  “I told you everything I know.”

  As Wallace and Emily exited the trailer, Emily turned towards Wallace. “You want me to canvass the area for cameras?”

  “You bet. Run the surrounding blocks. See if we have anything on the van or the driver.”

  *

  Back at the precinct, Wallace pulled out a map of Northwest Washington. Emily stood next to him at the table and stared down. Wallace placed a sticky note on the map next to the EPA lawyer’s house and then another sticky note at the location where the minivan went into the water.

  “Until we hear back on the security cameras near the junk yard and can identify the van with the stolen bicycle in it, I’m going to assume the guy in the old Ford van wasn’t just some random individual buying bicycles.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “A helper. A cleaner.”

  “Then Beth the grocery store clerk is our sniper.”

  “I’m saying it’s a distinct possibility.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “I’m going to lay out the morning of the murder. You try to talk me out of my line of reasoning, if you can.”

  “All right.”

  Wallace pointed to the first sticky note. “If our grocery clerk is our shooter, then she was at the EPA lawyer’s house at six a.m., give or take a couple of minutes.”

  “Assuming the lawyer was leaving at her normal time.”

  “Correct,” Wallace said. He ran his hand from the first sticky to the second sticky on the map. “Beth the shooter traveled something close to this route to reach the point in the canal where her minivan entered the water. We already checked the coffee shops and gas stations in the area and no one remembers seeing her. She also didn’t show up on traffic surveillance cameras anywhere. Everything else is closed at that hour of the morning. We are talking a stretch of primarily well-to-do residential neighborhoods. Not impossible to ditch a weapon there, but also likely that someone would have found a misplaced rifle in their yard. We searched and found nothing.”