“And the question is where she goes and with whom.”

“I’ve got to get moving.”

“Black’s never a bad idea,” she said in parting.

I settled on black pants and camisole, and a red shawl of Wendy’s that made me look like a flamenco dancer. But I rolled the shawl and flung the ends over one shoulder and that helped. Even though my knowledge of biker bar dress codes was sadly lacking, I would neither stand out nor blend in. And Kim, whoever she was, would be proud to say she knew me. I troweled on twice as much makeup as usual, slipped a couple of photos in my handbag, and I was ready.

On the drive over I gave myself one more chance to tell Teo what I was up to. He wanted to help, and I wanted him to. But Craig wouldn’t talk to me with Teo in tow. A man and a woman approaching a stranger in a bar would look like a setup. I would tell Teo whatever I discovered the next time we were together. Meantime I would park on a busy street and be surrounded by people inside the bar. Finally I would drive some crazy route on the way home to be sure nobody followed me. I would be safe.

Against the Wind was hopping. Still two blocks away, I could hear the strains of Steppenwolf’s “Born to be Wild” along with hoots and hollers. I wondered how many times the song played every hour. I bet I’d hear it again before my snooping ended.

When a car pulled out right across the street from the bar, I did a quick U-turn and pulled in before somebody else nailed the space. Double good luck? My car was directly under a streetlight. The sleuthing gods were with me.

Tonight, motorcycles were lined up neatly along the parking strip at the front of the bar. Careful parking probably prevented a lot of fights. Two old guys with gray beards and ponytails were working on a monster chopper at the end. Two younger guys with a blonde in a not-so-artfully torn tank top were lounging against the side of the building. Her bleached hair was scrub-brush short, and her earrings were shoulder-length chains. My earlobes ached in protest.

Inside I made my way to the bar under a shower of colored light. I wasn’t sure Christmas had provoked this seasonal display, or whether the owner thought his world needed color year-round. But lights were strung from every rafter, and a life-size Santa sat at the end of the bar, on the bar, with a beer mug in his robotic hand. Every so often he lifted the mug to his lips and chortled. I was surprised no one had ripped Santa open and torn out his mechanical heart.

I grabbed the only empty seat, swinging myself up to a metal stool. My legs could no longer reach the floor. Neighbors on both sides seemed harmless enough. On my right, a guy with a crew cut and an eye patch was reading email on his cell phone. On my left a woman with hair confined in a million long braids was conversing with a man in a tweed jacket who looked like an Oxford don.