Cara kicked the floorboards in frustration. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”
“Just tell me where you’re trying to go,” Stephanie said soothingly.
“Centinela and Washington Boulevard.”
“We’ll take Sawtelle part of the way. I’ll put up the sunroof while we’re in traffic. It does ruin our whole Thelma and Louise vibe, though.”
“Stephanie!”
“Kidding!” She patted Cara on the leg as the sunroof went up and they crawled toward the exit. “But once I drop you off at this unnamed place, how are you going to get around without a car?”
“I have it figured out,” Cara said, more confidently than she felt.
Finally, they reached the STOR-MORE storage facility.
“Over there,” Cara said, pointing.
Stephanie made a sharp turn into the driveway. “You’re not planning to hide in a storage locker, are you?”
“I’m just getting a few things. But that’s actually not the worst idea.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Stephanie said. “I have a much better idea.”
Of course she did.
“It’s a listing in Malibu. The owners relocated to Paris and are selling the house as is—lock, stock, barrel, sheets, towels, and all. It fell out of contract because there’s a foundation crack. There’s nothing else scheduled because they want twenty million, and it has to be fixed before anyone else puts an offer on it. It’s still listed but only to placate the seller.”
The place sounded better than Cara wanted to admit. “Is it your listing, though?”
“I’m co-listing with Dana Cameron in the Malibu office, but she’s on a cruise until the end of the month. Work doesn’t begin until she gets back. You get whatever it is you need, and I’ll drive you out there.”
Cara shook her head. “I don’t need a ride. And I can’t put you in any more danger than I already have. The US Marshals are going to be looking for you, too.”
Stephanie huffed.
“Honestly, it’s too huge a risk.”
“The authorities will never get anything out of me,” she said testily, but pulled a pen and pad out of her glove compartment. “I’ll write down the address and the alarm code. There’s half a bottle of wine, an apple, and some cheese that needs to be eaten in the fridge.”
Cara got out at the unmanned security gate. Stephanie blew her a kiss as she peeled out of the parking lot.
The gate opened easily with the passcode written below the storage facility’s address. She pushed through and quickly found herself lost in the endless rows of lockers. Karl had never brought her here before. Finally, she located row C and locker 1144.
As she unlocked the big red padlock and rolled up the shutter, she remembered how, in the woods, she’d encouraged herself by treating each new accomplishment as another level achieved in a game. Unlocking her home, Karl’s safe, and now this large door felt the same way. But would she ever complete the final level and win?
She rolled back the soft gray tarp to uncover the sleek, black 1969 Mustang.
The untitled car had been given to Karl in trade by a patient. Cara hadn’t wanted him to keep it, but after his death, she kept paying the storage fees, not wanting to deal with whatever issues had kept him from getting it properly licensed in the first place.
While this sketchy trade for services had nothing to do with his potentially sketchier real estate deal, it certainly seemed to reveal a willingness on his part to engage in nontraditional business transactions.
The more urgent question was whether the classic car would still start. If it didn’t, she might well be spending the night in its back seat, in the storage locker.
Cara climbed behind the wheel and put the key in the ignition.
The engine coughed weakly but didn’t start. The battery had to be weak. Tapping the gas pedal, she tried again. This time the engine chugged several times and turned over. She revved it a few times just to be sure.
Then she put the car in gear.
