Nick was taking his time on what looked like an oil change for a beat-up Ford Explorer while the other guy finished whatever he was doing to a Honda Accord before slamming the hood down. He said a few words to Nick, who nodded, and then took himself off as well. Instead of getting into a car, he dodged cars on his way across the street to the Taco Bell, where he pulled the door open came inside. He didn’t look in my direction even once, so I didn’t think he was here for me. Instead, I watched as he ordered a meal at the counter and took it to a table in the back, near the restrooms, where he took bites between scrolling on his phone. Unlike me, he didn’t seem interested in what was going on at the Body Shop at all, because he had positioned himself in a spot by the wall where he couldn’t see across to it.
I left him alone and focused my attention back across the street.
It was just before one o’clock when a mint condition vintage Porsche Boxster in gleaming silver zipped down the street and into the lot outside the Body Shop.
My spine snapped straight.
I won’t claim to know a lot about cars. I know what I like, and that’s pretty much it. I love my Lexus. I had traded in the convertible David gave me for it, when I decided that the sports car was too eye-catching for undercover work. But aside from that, I’m hardly a connoisseur. I did know, however, that this car had most likely cost more than the average person’s annual salary. I also knew it wasn’t the kind of car you took to a discount oil-change place in West Nashville.
The driver’s door opened and a man unfolded himself. He was in his early forties: a decade and a half older than Nick and about the same younger than Sal, with black hair so glossy it shone in the weak November sunlight. Like both of them, his complexion indicated either a Mediterranean heritage or a recent trip to somewhere sunny and warm. He carried what looked like a well-filled leather briefcase and moved with the kind of confidence that comes from never having been told no by anyone in any circumstance.
A lawyer? The briefcase suggested as much, and if Sal had run into legal trouble, that explained the tense atmosphere at the Body Shop. It also explained why he might have wanted most of his employees out of the way before the lawyer showed up.
I glanced at the mechanic at the back of the Taco Bell. He was paying no attention to what was going on outside.
I raised my phone and captured a few photos of the newcomer as he walked from the Porsche to the office. He had his back to me, so I didn’t capture his face, but at least I could get a picture of car and license plate.
When he pushed the door open, I saw Megan’s head snap up. The door closed behind him, and then, just a few seconds later, it opened again and she scurried out. She headed for the Ford Explorer and Nick, and no sooner had she arrived in the bay than they both disappeared from view, deeper into the shadows.
I couldn’t see what they were doing back there, but I would have bet David’s entire fortune—or at least the part of it I had inherited—that they weren’t in the process of making out. Whatever this was about, it wasn’t romantic.
Not that one thing necessarily precluded another, of course. Nick and Megan might still be carrying on behind Jacquie’s back, even if I hadn’t seen any sign of it. But this—the arrival of the well-to-do possible lawyer with a briefcase—this was what Nick had been nervous about. It was obvious to anyone with a modicum of intelligence that this wasn’t any kind of routine business transaction. Wealthy men with briefcases and thousand-dollar suits don’t take their vintage Porsches to Sal Gomorra for an oil change.
I turned my attention back to the office door.
Two minutes passed. Then two more. Finally, after what felt like an eternity but was probably just five or six minutes, the office door opened again. The man in the suit emerged, and I lifted my phone and started taking pictures. The briefcase was still in his hand, I noticed, although when I gave it a more intent look, it was immediately obvious that it no longer appeared as well-filled as it had been.
Had he brought paperwork for Sal to look over? Had Sal received an offer he couldn’t refuse, and he was selling the place, and he didn’t want his employees to know about it before the transaction was complete? Was that why everyone had scattered?
Or—alternative scenario—had the well-filled briefcase contained something other than paperwork? Had it contained… a gun, say, and now Sal was slumped over his desk inside the office, with an untraceable gun near his hand that he hadn’t pulled the trigger of?
If the man in the suit had just committed murder, he showed no sign of it. He looked perfectly calm as he walked toward his Porsche, and that was when I made a split-second decision and jumped to my feet.
Nick wasn’t going anywhere—he was still at work, and I had his address if I needed it later. Sal wasn’t going anywhere, either. He was either dead in the office or he wasn’t, but either way, what happened was already done. And Megan would most likely be here when I got back, too. But this man, whoever he was, might lead me to something useful.
I grabbed my phone and keys and headed for the Toyota, dumping my half-eaten burrito in the trash can on my way past. The Body Shop mechanic in the back of the Taco Bell didn’t even look up when I walked out. By the time I had cranked Rachel’s engine over, the Porsche was waiting to merge with traffic on Charlotte Pike. I got myself into position on the other side of the street and waited for him to go before I followed.
Chapter Five
The Porsche was easy to follow. It stood out in traffic like a diamond in a pile of coal, and the driver didn’t seem overly concerned with whether anyone was tailing him. There were no unexpected turns and no evasive maneuvers. He drove with the casual arrogance of someone who believed he was untouchable, and I’m not sure he looked in the rearview mirror even once.
We headed east on Charlotte, then south on 28th Avenue, winding through the streets of Midtown. Finally, he pulled into the parking lot of a place I recognized immediately: Sambuca Ristorante.
It was upscale Italian, the kind of place where the cheapest entrée starts at forty dollars and the wine list requires a sommelier to decode. I’d been there once with David, years ago, for some business dinner I’d spent the entire evening trying not to fall asleep during. I couldn’t recall the details, other than the mind-numbing boredom, but David must have been trying to impress someone, probably a prospective client whose money he wanted, because when it came to Italian food, I knew he preferred the heartier fare at Fidelio’s.
The vintage Porsche pulled into the lot behind the restaurant. I idled at the curb, watching as the driver grabbed his briefcase and legged it across the parking lot to the rear of the building. I waited, but when he didn’t reappear, I assumed he must have gone inside through a secondary entrance back there. Maybe he was a particularly favored patron, someone who was allowed to come and go through the private door in the back.
Or maybe he wasn’t a patron at all. Maybe he was Mr. Sambuca, or whoever the owner of the place was. Or a friend of the family, with entrance privileges, arriving late for lunch after discharging an unpleasant duty.
I could go inside to try to get a better look at him. Maybe I could figure out who he was meeting, if he was having lunch with someone. But I was in jeans and a sweater, hardly dressed for Sambuca’s midday crowd, and there was a good chance I’d be too noticeable, anyway. I don’t blend well under the best of circumstances. It’s the hair. Redheads tend to stand out, even when we try to be inconspicuous.
No, I decided. I had his photograph, and one of his license plate. With that, I could get his name from the DMV. And if I wanted a look inside Sambuca again, I could come back later, when I was more appropriately dressed. Mr. Porsche might not be here then, but then again he might. If he was, I’d know he was affiliated with the restaurant somehow. And if he wasn’t… well, then I hoped he’d had a nice lunch.
I pulled out my phone and sent the images I had taken, both of the Porsche and its driver, to Rachel with a instructions to try to match them. After that, and Rachel’s confirmation that she’d get right on it, I pulled up my recent text messages and found Greg Newsome’s name.
Change of plans for tonight? I typed. Would you be up for Sambuca’s instead of Fidelio’s? Have you ever been there?
His response came back almost immediately.
