THE ADDRESS MR. Mulligan gave led to a place outside town. The sign on the mailbox read J&C Hogs. I checked the address, but it seemed right, so I started up the lane to a sprawling ranch with a massive detached garage. The garage door was open. Through it I could see three gleaming black motorcycles. Harley-Davidsons. Hogs.

I swung off my bike as a man walked out. His grease-stained shortsleeved shirt showed off an impressive set of muscles for a guy who had to be in his midsixties.

“Ms. Levine,” he said, wiping a hand before extending it. “Chuck Mulligan.”

I shook his hand. His gaze had already slid over to my bike, and our fingers hadn’t fully disconnected before he was walking toward it.

“You didn’t really call me out here to wax nostalgic on past students, did you,” I said. “You heard what I was riding.”

He smiled, face creasing. “Guilty.”

“Only you realize I can’t stay and chat,” I said. “Not with a Harley man.”

“Those are clients’ bikes. Mine’s a BMW.”

“Even worse.”

He laughed and crouched beside my bike, checking it out.

“So you must be the C in J&C Hogs. Who’s the J?”

“Janice. My wife. She just put me on the sign so I’d feel special. It’s her business.” He paused. “Was her business, I should say. Still not used to that. She passed away last year. I took over after I retired.”

He pushed to his feet. “Let’s get inside. I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable there.”

“Actually, I’d be more comfortable there.” I pointed to the garage. “If that’s okay.”

“Certainly.”

We spent the next half-hour looking at bikes and talking about them. His wife’s business had been customizing Harleys—making them faster and fancier.

I’d have been tempted to move on to business a lot faster if I didn’t see how much he was enjoying the opportunity to talk about his wife and her work. I understood that, so I let it keep going until he steered things on track by saying, “Have you met Paula Thompson yet?”

“No, just Kayla. Cool kid.”

His gray eyes sparkled. “Cool. Yes, that’s a good word to describe Kayla. One of those little characters who don’t quite fit in, but you know, when they grow up, they’ll do better in life than all the popular kids. Paula brings her up once a week to go over her lessons, make sure she’s on track. I offer to help more, but Paula won’t even take the supervision work for nothing—insists on cleaning my house while I’m working with Kayla.”

“You taught her, too, didn’t you? Paula Thompson?”