“I don’t think I’ll be able to,” I said. I even managed to sound apologetic about it, instead of informing her bluntly that there wasn’t enough money in the world to pay me to spend an hour with Daniel and Kenneth Kelly. “I’ll be busy following Nick Costanza around.”
“It’s a really good location,” Rachel said wistfully. “Right in Five Points.”
“I’m sure it is.” I softened my tone a little. “And maybe I’m wrong and it’ll work out this time. Daniel has plenty of experience starting businesses. And he’s had enough practice with bars, too, hasn’t he?”
And so had Kenny, for that matter.
Rachel’s lips twitched. “That’s what I told him. At least he’ll be intimately familiar with the product.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I said. “And if they do end up getting it up and running, I’ll let you show it to me then, OK?”
“OK.” She smiled.
I nodded and went back to the bills, though I couldn’t quite focus on the numbers anymore. My third case as a PI, and it was following my dead husband’s mistress’s boyfriend around an auto body shop to see if he was cheating on her with a coworker named Megan.
The universe, it seemed, had a twisted sense of humor.
Chapter Two
The Body Shop sat on Charlotte Avenue between a tire store and a place that sold discount mattresses, its cinder-block facade painted a once-optimistic shade of yellow and dark blue that had faded to something closer to despair. I’d been here before, back when I was trying to figure out who had tampered with David’s brake lines, and the memory of that visit wasn’t exactly pleasant. Nick Costanza had refused to deal with me, and had passed me onto a coworker named Bud, who had proceeded to tell me that I wasn’t bad-looking for an older broad—he’d throw me a bang, he said; very gracious of him, I thought, especially considering that I wouldn’t have touched him with the proverbial ten-foot pole—but I was making a fool of myself by chasing after Nick. The unfairness of the whole thing had left me shaking with rage, and I’m sure they’d had a good laugh about it once I had left.
I didn’t see Bud this time. I did see Nick, but unlike last time, I didn’t actually want to talk to him. My Lexus—new since the last time I’d been here—could actually use an oil change, and I wanted an up-close look at Nick and possibly Megan, so I pulled into the lot and got in line for one of the two bays that handled oil changes. Farther down the line, I could see Nick’s posterior—it was a nice one—bent over the engine of a Honda Civic. The place smelled like motor oil and exhaust, with an undertone of burnt coffee drifting from the open office door. A sign in the window advertised oil changes for $29.99, which seemed reasonable enough.
The car currently in the bay exited at the opposite end, and the car in front of me—a Dodge Charger—pulled up in its place. I put the Lexus in gear and followed. In front of me, the driver of the Charger followed the unspoken directions of the mechanic as the car jockeyed its way into the perfect position above the grate in the floor. The mechanic lowered his hands, satisfied, and the window of the Charger slid down. A wave of rap music rolled out, loud enough to make me wince
I wasn’t the only one. Heads turned all over the place, and Nick emerged from under the hood of the Civic and straightened, looking around for the source of the sound. He dragged a rag out of his back pocket and wiped his hands on it, even though the rag looked dirtier than his fingers.
I should have looked away, but I was a second too slow. His eyes locked onto me, and I watched his expression shift from vague interest to recognition to something harder. He stuffed the rag back into his pocket as he started toward me.
So much for staying under the radar.
He was still as good-looking as I remembered—tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and the kind of Mediterranean features that probably made tourists in Italy swoon. The grease-stained coveralls should have detracted from the effect, but didn’t. I could see why Jacquie had held onto him through her relationship with David, even if he was several tax brackets below her usual flavor. If I were fifteen years younger, I would have gone out with him, too.
“Mrs. Kelly.” He stopped a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest. That was better than last time, when he’d taken one look at me and run. At least he was open to a conversation this time
“Nick,” I responded. “You’re still here.”
His brows lowered. “Where else would I be?”
“It’s been a few months,” I said. “I thought you might have moved on.”
“No, I—” He stopped before finishing the sentence, and glanced over his shoulder. I’m not sure at what. There was nothing to see other than cars and more cars.
“I’m here for an oil change,” I said.
He turned back even as his eyebrows went up. “An oil change.”
“That’s what the sign says you do.” I gestured toward the window. “$29.99. Very competitive.”
“Uh-huh.” He didn’t move. “You’re telling me your husband didn’t take his cars to a fancy import dealership someplace like Franklin for an oil change?”
“He did,” I admitted. “But as you probably recall, my husband’s dead. And $29.99 is right up my current financial alley.”
“Right.” He studied me for a moment. “You’re a PI now, aren’t you?” His lips twitched. “Your most recent client ended up in prison, didn’t she?”
She did, but that was neither here nor there. “You mess around, you find out,” I told him, and watched as a shadow crossed his face.
“Let me guess. Jacquie hired you to spy on me.”
