"I'll need her contact information."
"Certainly. Is there anything else you need?"
"Patrick Carson is suing your company for $1 million in damages."
“I can't discuss ongoing litigation. I'm sure you understand."
I just stared at him and said nothing. The silence grew uncomfortable. Often, people will fill up the silence when it gets uncomfortable. Even when they shouldn't.
"Patrick is unstable,” Orson said. “He’s the kind of individual who is easily agitated. We let him go because of poor conduct, poor performance, and a pattern of ongoing harassment. I can't really say anything more. But we do have a counterclaim against these frivolous allegations. I am confident we will prevail.”
I just threw it out there. "Sydney’s testimony could have established a timeline.”
Orson’s jaw tightened. "We were unaware that Patrick was talking to Sydney at the time of his termination. In no way did we let him go because of his allegations. Therefore, he is not entitled to any compensation. There was no retaliatory behavior on our part. That's all I'm going to say about that." He paused. "Gentlemen, thank you for stopping by, but I really must get back to business."
I set my card on his desk, stood up, and shook his hand. "Don't forget to send me your wife's contact information."
He forced a smile, picked up the card, and said, "I'll do that right now.”
Sure enough, my phone buzzed with a text from Orson by the time we hit the lobby. We said goodbye to the receptionist, stepped outside, and took the elevator down to the main lobby.
"What do you make of that guy?" Jack muttered.
"I think Sydney’s death is convenient for him for a number of reasons. But he doesn't strike me as the type to get his hands dirty.”
"A guy like that has someone do his dirty work for him," Jack said.
We stepped off the elevator on the first floor, hurried across the atrium, and walked outside. I called Claire on the way back to the Wild Fury van. She confirmed Orson’s alibi. I didn't expect otherwise.
Jack's phone buzzed with a call as we climbed into the van. He pulled the device from his pocket, swiped the screen, and held the phone to his ear. "Tell me something good."
Sparky’s voice crackled through the speaker. "Your car is ready. You can pick it up anytime."
Pure joy filled Jack's face. "We are on our way."
13
"Idon't know, Sparky," Jack said, looking at the Porsche with a frown.
Sparky deflated. "You don't know?"
Jack ran his fingers along the bodywork, examining the paint. He knelt down and squinted, looking from different angles. With the eye of a watchmaker, he walked around the car, making his inspection.
It was a tense moment for Sparky.
Finally, Jack said, "I don't know if you could have done a better job. Looks fantastic!"
Sparky breathed a sigh of relief and chuckled.
You couldn't tell the car had been painted unless you put a paint meter on it. The seams were flawless. There was no overspray. We both looked long and hard but couldn't see where the bullet holes had been.
The 1979 light blue metallic Porsche 911 SC looked like it had just been driven out of the showroom. It gleamed in the Florida sun. Slick with protectant, the fat tires were black as pitch.
With a beaming smile, Jack said, “Truly, you've outdone yourself."
"I fixed everything,” Sparky said with pride. “And I do mean everything. I went ahead and did an engine-out service. New water pump, hoses, timing chain, syncros, everything. This car is tiptop.”
Jack stepped inside with Sparky and settled the bill. It was not cheap.
