Chapter 2
I said nothing the rest of the night.
Early the next morning, I printed out a thick stack of documents and drove straight to the criminal investigation office in the city.
I didn't go to the local police station.
If I started there, they would treat it like a neighbor dispute. They would try to mediate. They would call it a civil issue. That wasn't what I wanted.
I wasn't looking for compromise. I wanted impact.
The lobby of the investigation office was quiet. Officers moved quickly, their expressions sharp and focused.
A young officer named Danny Moreno came over and had me sit down.
"What's the situation?" he asked, his tone professional.
"I'm here to report a theft of personal property." I placed the documents on the desk and pushed them toward him.
Danny's expression didn't change. He had seen plenty of cases.
He picked up the top sheet. "Stolen item: one motorcycle. Location: residential garage. Suspect: Misty Norris, a neighbor..."
He paused, frowning slightly. "A neighbor dispute?"
He leaned back. "Did she move or lock your bike because of noise or parking issues?"
"No," I said evenly. "She sold it. She sold it to a junk dealer for 1,000 dollars. Then she gave me the money and said it was compensation for her grandson's stress."
Danny's lips twitched as if he wanted to laugh, but he held it back.
"Are you sure you want to turn this into a criminal case?" he asked. "You see her every day. It's better to settle something like this. We can have the local station step in. She returns the money, apologizes, and—"
"Please read the documents first," I cut in, my voice flat.
He looked at me, a little surprised, then finally picked up the stack.
He flipped open the first document. It was a customs declaration.
Item: Ducati Panigale V4S.
Price after tax: 110 thousand dollars.
Danny stopped. He looked up at me. The casual attitude was gone. Now his eyes were sharp and serious.
He said nothing and kept going.
Next came the official sales contract from a Ducati dealer, stamped in red and signed by me. The total price was 110 thousand dollars.
The third document was the vehicle ownership certificate. My name was on it.
The room felt tighter. I could hear his uneven breathing.
He didn't say anything and kept flipping through the pages.
Next came the list of upgrades.
Brembo GP4-RX brakes: 7,000 dollars
Ohlins FGRT front forks: 12,000 dollars
Akrapovic titanium exhaust: 16,000 dollars
Marchesini forged wheels: 10,000 dollars
There were page after page of receipts, payment records, and video proof of installation for each part.
There were over twenty pages. Every dollar was accounted for.
At the end was the summary.
Purchase price: 110 thousand dollars.
Upgrade costs: 77 thousand dollars.
Total: 187 thousand dollars.
When Danny saw the number—187 thousand dollars—the stack of papers in his hands suddenly felt a lot heavier.
He jerked his head up and stared at me, his eyes wide with shock.
"Is this all real?" he asked, his voice dry.
"It is," I said, keeping my tone steady. "Every document can be verified. I can provide bank statements for each transaction. I am the sole legal owner of that vehicle."
The reception room went completely silent.
Danny looked at me, then back at the list in his hands. Small beads of sweat started to form on his forehead.
That was the moment it hit him. This was not some petty neighbor dispute.
It was a serious theft case. And it involved a huge amount of money.
Under the law, stealing high-value property, or doing so under serious circumstances, carried a sentence of three to ten years. Anything over 20,000 dollars was already considered a large amount.
My vehicle was worth 187 thousand dollars—almost ten times that threshold.
This was not just serious anymore. It was extreme.
The minimum sentence alone went past ten years.
Danny picked up the radio on the desk, his hands shaking slightly. "Keith, you there? We have a case at the front desk. You need to come down yourself. Yeah. It is urgent."
He set the radio down and looked at me again, but this time, his expression was completely different.
He no longer saw me as some annoying young guy making a scene.
In his eyes, I was a calm victim, someone he couldn't take lightly.
He quickly poured a glass of water and handed it to me with both hands. "Mr. Frazier, please have some water. We will take this very seriously."
I took it. "Thank you."
I knew my first move had worked.
The wheels of justice were already starting to turn for Misty.
But she had no idea. At that moment, she was probably holding her frightened grandson and feeling pleased with herself, thinking she had won.
She did not realize that she had sold more than a motorcycle.
She had sold the rest of her life.