I knew something was wrong before I even stepped out of my truck, because the garage door was open and the patch of concrete where my Harley had sat for six years was empty.
Chapter 2
Detective Harper arranged the supposed sale for Thursday afternoon in the parking lot of a closed big-box store.
Before that meeting happened, however, the investigation revealed something I had not imagined even Cody could accomplish.
He had accepted deposits.
Three of them.
Five hundred dollars each.
Three different buyers had each been told the motorcycle was being “held exclusively” for them.
When one man noticed another comment on the listing and demanded an explanation, Cody replied that there were “different tiers of exclusivity.”
Detective Harper read that message aloud over the phone.
“Different tiers of exclusivity?”
“That sounds like him.”
“What does it mean?”
“I have known Cody for thirty-five years. I have no idea.”
One buyer demanded his deposit back.
Cody refused.
The money, he explained, had already been “reinvested into brand infrastructure.”
I learned what the infrastructure was Wednesday evening when Bambi called me.
“Is this Dr. Mercer?”
“Yes.”
“This is Bambi.”
There are moments in adult life when hearing an absurd name confirms that the following conversation will also be absurd.
Bambi sounded furious.
“Your brother is insane.”
“I’m familiar with the condition.”
“He told me you gave him the motorcycle.”
“I did not.”
“He said your parents always favored you because you’re a doctor, and you gave him the Harley as reparations.”
I closed my eyes.
“Reparations for what?”
“For being the less celebrated son.”
“Cody got a jet ski for graduating high school.”
“He told me that was an educational marine vehicle.”
“Of course he did.”
Then Bambi explained the business.
The company was called Wolf & Orchid.
“What is Wolf & Orchid?”
She sighed. “I still don’t know.”
According to Cody, it would combine motivational speaking, luxury nightlife, personalized astrology, exotic mocktails, female empowerment, and something he called “predator confidence.”
Men would pay to attend seminars about “alpha entrepreneurship.”
Women would receive “goddess frequency coaching.”
Tickets would cost two hundred fifty dollars.
Their launch party was scheduled for Saturday.
They had no venue.
No insurance.
No permits.
No staff.
No speakers.
But they did have twelve hundred black cocktail napkins featuring a gold wolf wearing sunglasses.
“That’s why he’s selling your bike,” Bambi said. “He needs launch capital.”
“How much has he already spent?”
She hesitated.
“Define spent.”
My stomach tightened.
“Bambi.”
She began listing numbers.
Eighteen hundred dollars for a custom neon sign.
Nine hundred for a fog machine.
Twelve hundred for imported mineral water because Cody believed American bottled water gave off “middle-class energy.”
Seven hundred dollars for a life-size fiberglass wolf.
Six hundred for custom drink stirrers.
Eleven hundred for something called a VIP scent experience.
“What is that?”
“A man stands near the entrance and sprays cologne.”
I lowered my forehead to the kitchen table.
She was not finished.
Cody had paid twenty-four hundred dollars to a social media strategist named Blaise.
“What did Blaise do?”
“Three Instagram posts.”
“Three?”
“One is the wolf.”
“Naturally.”
“One is Cody standing shirtless beside your motorcycle.”
“Excellent.”
“The last one is a champagne glass beside a quote.”
I waited.
Bambi read it.
“Success is just trauma wearing a watch.”
I laughed so suddenly I had to mute the phone.
When I regained control, Bambi said, “There’s more.”
“Of course there is.”
“He rented a camel.”
I unmuted.
“A what?”
“A camel.”
“Why?”
“He says luxury brands use animals.”
“Which luxury brands?”
“I asked that. He said, ‘Think Dubai.’”
I leaned back and stared at my ceiling.
There are ordinary family problems.
Then there is discovering your younger brother is selling your stolen Harley to finance a camel for an unlicensed motivational nightclub.
Thursday arrived.
Detective Harper told me firmly not to attend the sting.
So I did not attend it.
I parked across the street at a Wendy’s.
At 3:12, Cody arrived riding my Harley.
He wore a white suit.
No helmet.
White loafers.
And a long red scarf blowing behind him.
Bambi followed in a Nissan.
Two detectives waited beside an SUV. One played the buyer while Harper stood farther away pretending to study his phone.
Cody parked and immediately launched into a sales presentation.
Later, Harper let me watch the body-camera footage.
I have never enjoyed television that much.
“This is one-of-one custom work,” Cody said, patting the seat.
“You built it?” the detective asked.
Cody hesitated.
“I oversaw the build.”
“How long?”
“Couple years.”
“What engine?”
“Harley.”
“What size?”
Cody looked down at it.
“Large.”
The detective asked for the title.
“Title’s currently in transition.”
“What does that mean?”
“Family paperwork.”
“Whose name is on it?”
Cody shifted his weight.
“Technically my brother’s.”
“Technically?”
“But spiritually mine.”
I later printed that sentence and framed it for my office.
The detective asked whether I knew he was selling the motorcycle.
Cody apparently sensed danger for the first time.
“My brother’s a dermatologist.”
The detective waited.
“He makes dermatologist money.”
Apparently, Cody believed income transferred ownership.
Then the detective asked why he needed $9,500.
Cody explained Wolf & Orchid.
All of it.
The networking.
The goddess frequencies.
The scent experience.
The camel.
On the footage, Detective Harper turned away because he was laughing.
Finally, the buyer nodded.
“All right. I think we’ve got enough.”
Harper walked over.
“Cody Mercer?”
Cody smiled.
“Yes, sir. You interested too?”
“I’m Detective Harper.”
The smile disappeared.
Cody’s first words were not I can explain.
They were:
“Is this about the camel?”
Across the street, I nearly choked on a French fry.
The detectives detained him.
Bambi immediately raised both hands even though no one had accused her of anything.
“This is a family misunderstanding,” Cody insisted.
Harper asked whether he had permission to take the motorcycle.
“My dad said it was fine.”
“Does your father own it?”
“Not legally.”
“Did your brother give permission?”
“Not verbally.”
“In writing?”
“No.”
“In any form?”
Cody thought.
“Emotionally, I feel like yes.”
Harper later told me that was the moment he stopped asking questions.
My parents called within twenty minutes.
Dad was furious.
At me.
“What the hell did you do, Dr. Lotion?”
“What did I do?”
“You got your brother arrested.”
“He tried to sell my motorcycle.”
“He was going to pay you back.”
“With what?”
“The business.”
“The camel business?”
“It’s not a camel business.”
Dad sounded insulted by my lack of nuance.
Mom got on the phone.
“Red Velvet, he made one mistake.”
“One?”
“He got excited.”
“He stole my Harley.”
“He borrowed it.”
“He listed it for sale.”
“He panicked.”
“He took three deposits.”
“He’s entrepreneurial.”
“He rented a camel.”
Silence.
Finally, Mom said, “I don’t understand the camel.”
“Neither does anyone.”
The Harley came home undamaged.
Cody did not go directly to jail that afternoon, but the attempted sale, the fraudulent deposits, and his creative financial arrangements created legal problems far more serious than he had expected.
And somehow, his arrest was only the beginning.
Because the things he bought with the stolen deposits had already started shipping.
