Grip arrived in nineteen minutes. Later I would think about that single minute, the way a frightened mind fixes on small details when it cannot yet make sense of the larger ones. He was early to a conversation that might tell him somebody had been trying to kill him. He came on another motorcycle, a black touring bike whose exhaust was so quiet it barely disturbed the neighborhood, and a second rider followed a car length behind.
The other man was shorter than Grip, though that meant he still looked imposing in my narrow doorway. His white beard was trimmed close, and his hair was tucked beneath a plain black cap. He surveyed the building in a single measured glance, noticing the replaced lock bracket, the empty tool hooks, the red Knucklehead, and the white rag on my workbench.
"Iron Jack Crowley," Grip said. "President of our Bakersfield charter."
Jack extended his hand. His grip was neither crushing nor theatrical, which somehow made me more attentive to him. He looked at my handwritten notebook and asked if he could examine it before I said anything else. I passed it across the bench.
"Tell us in order," he said. "What you saw first, what you tested, what you found, what you changed."
That was almost exactly what Hector would have asked. I began with the roadside complaint, the repeated failure, and the first dyno results. I explained what the two spark plugs, compression readings, and fuel checks had ruled out, then what the ignition trace had shown before the engine lost power. I told them how the frame inspection led me to an unauthorized insert, the altered wire routing, and a condition that could interrupt the ignition under load.
Neither man spoke while I explained. That made it easier to keep my own words calm. I showed them the photographs in order, then the extracted steel component resting in its container. Jack leaned close, looked at the machine marks, and asked whether I was sure it wasn't part of an old authorized frame repair.
"I'm sure it doesn't belong to the factory design," I said. "I'm sure the modification was hidden. I'm sure the wiring next to it was being affected when the engine got hot and vibrated. Frank Duran inspected the frame and reviewed my work. What I can't prove by looking at this piece is who installed it or why."
Grip's face tightened. "But you're thinking somebody put it there to make the bike quit."
"Yes. That's what it looks like. I don't want to pretend the evidence says more than it does."
Jack nodded once. It was the first visible sign of approval I'd seen from him.
"And the bike is fixed?" he asked.
"It no longer fails under the conditions I could safely reproduce. The structural repair and electrical correction have been inspected here, but Frank and I both want independent sign-off before highway riding. I won't hand you a dangerous machine just because the sun is setting."