by Andrew Grant
Crest Cadillac was a half-hour drive from police headquarters, allowing for the heavier than usual traffic. It was less than two miles from the Mercedes dealer they’d visited the day before, on the same street, but Devereaux didn’t mind the sense of retracing his steps. He was actually glad to. He had no scientific basis for it, but often felt that cases seemed to center around a particular location. It was as if some kind of gravity was in play, creating a critical mass of clues, so Devereaux was feeling optimistic as they rolled past Golden Rule Bar-B-Q on Montgomery. He even smiled as they went by the Hyundai dealer because someone had rolled their stock of used cars farther down the steep grassy slope between the showroom and the street in the last twenty-four hours, creating the impression of a herd of unruly animals trying to flee a corral.
“What’s with all the car dealers on this street?” Garretty pointed to the line of Chevy Silverados lined up on the opposite side, each with its giant hood standing open. “And look at those. That’s not a good sign. It’s like they’ve broken down already, before anyone’s even bought them.”
Next up was Chrysler, its neat white showroom surrounded by tubs of bright plants and a selection of Jeeps perched on steep ramps. Then Nissan, with a horde of smaller SUVs and crossovers crammed in the space in front of a grim, gray building. Then the Honda showroom, painted cheerfully in blue and white with a circular, deco-style central section and a wavy canopy like a mid-century European beach pavilion Devereaux had once seen on a postcard. And finally, before the long gap to Mercedes, they reached Crest Cadillac.
Crest’s premises were set back a little from the street, surrounded by neatly manicured lawns. Only six vehicles were visible, neatly arranged in color-coordinated pairs. There were two buildings on the site—a plain, rectangular one, heavy and substantial, and another that was tall and light with an extravagantly curving roof like a hangar at an airport from the days when flying was glamorous.
The service department was housed in the airport-style building, so Devereaux parked the Porsche by the main entrance and followed Garretty inside.
“We need to talk to your service manager.” Garretty showed his badge to the guy behind the reception counter. “Right away.”
“No problem, sir.” The guy lifted his telephone handset. “Normally she wouldn’t be here this time on a Saturday, but she’s working late today. I’ll ask her to come right down.”
“No need.” Garretty took the receiver from the guy’s hand, reached across the counter, and replaced it in its cradle. “Just tell us where she is. We’ll find her.”
—
Devereaux and Garretty could hear voices before they were halfway up the ornate flight of cast-iron spiral stairs that the reception guy had pointed them to.
“So, what are you going to do about it?” It was a woman’s voice, loud and angry but under control. “The work you did was totally unsatisfactory. You kept my car three days longer than you promised. There’s still an annoying squeak coming from somewhere in the center console. And what’s worse, there’s a scratch on the driver’s door. Right where I’ll see it every single time I get in. And it definitely wasn’t there when your guy collected the car, so don’t you dare try and pass the blame back onto me.”
The detectives paused outside a door marked Boardroom at the end of the upstairs corridor, where the sound was coming from.
“Well?” The woman’s voice grew louder. “I’m waiting. What are you going to do? I want a replacement vehicle. I want it without delay. I want compensation for all the time you’ve wasted. I want—”
“You know what?” A man spoke for the first time. “Forget it. I’m out of here.”
The door opened and a short, balding guy in a shiny gray suit rushed out, avoiding eye contact with the detectives and practically running for the stairs.
“Who are you?” Inside the room, a woman was sitting on the far side of a wide, pale wood table. She was leaning forward, peering over the top of her turquoise-framed glasses. Her face would place her in her mid-thirties, but that was at odds with the mane of bright silver hair that flowed way past her shoulders and contrasted sharply with her slim-cut charcoal suit coat. “You’re not on my list. And why have you both come at once?”
Devereaux introduced himself and showed her his badge.
“Oh.” The woman got to her feet and gestured for them to come in and sit. “Sorry for the misunderstanding. My name’s Alison Jacques. I’m in charge of service here. We’re short-staffed right now—two of my guys just defected to Jaguar—so I’m interviewing for replacements. I thought you must be late applicants.”
“No problem.” Devereaux took a seat near the door. “How’s the recruitment process going?”
“Honestly?” Jacques frowned. “It’s slow. I don’t know what kind of cars you’re accustomed to, Detectives, but we have a very demanding customer base here. Cadillac drivers are very particular about every detail so I like to make sure that if my front-line staff are going to crack under pressure, they do it up here with me rather than downstairs with the people who pay the—”
Jacques was interrupted by a tinny, disembodied voice from the dealership’s PA system. “Would the owner of a blue Porsche, license plate DVRX, please make themselves known to service reception. Calling the owner of a blue Porsche…”
“Yours?” A hint of pink spread across Jacques’s face. “Sorry. And don’t worry—you can move it later. Why don’t you tell me how I can help. I don’t imagine you’re here to talk about my HR issues.”
“No, we’re not.” Devereaux shook his head. “We’re here to ask you about a vehicle you recently did some work on. An Escalade, belonging to a customer named Lawton Vetch. We need a list of everyone who could have had access to it while it was in your possession.”
Jacques slammed her right hand down on the table, palm first. “That asshole. What’s he said? What’s he claiming’s wrong? And frankly, Detective, this is outrageous. My mother—eighty-two years old, never hurt a soul her whole life—called 911 when she saw a couple of kids trashing the zinnias she grows in the front yard, and the police wouldn’t do anything about it. Now this guy snaps his fingers and just because he’s rich and he’s a celebrity, you come running over here? I mean, has he got the chief of police on speed dial? That car was only returned this morning, and you’re here already?”
“Mr. Lawton hasn’t complained.” Devereaux looked around to check the door was properly closed. “We believe his car was involved in a crime. An extremely serious crime. Possibly more than one, while it was in your possession. That’s why we need the list.”
“Oh.” Jacques closed her eyes and sighed. “Sorry, again. I get a little overprotective where my mother’s concerned. Wait here. I’ll get you the list right away.”
—
Jacques returned five minutes later and handed Devereaux a single sheet of paper. “That was easier than I thought. I’ve included his home address and contact details. But this is freaking me out a little, Detectives. Do you really think my guy could have been involved in criminal activities? That’s creepy. And annoying, if it means I’m going to have another vacancy to fill.”
“This only covers one day.” Devereaux checked the date at the top of the page. “The day you collected Vetch’s car. And there’s only one name. We need the details for the whole time you had it. And everyone who could have had access. Mechanics. Salespeople. Receptionists. Managers. Cleaners. Everyone.”
“This guy is everyone.” Jacques paused. “Let me explain. Vetch called us to do the work because we supplied the vehicle and we like to portray ourselves as a one-stop shop for the full spectrum of our customers’ automotive needs. But the things Vetch wanted done were non-standard, so we subbed the work out to one of our specialist contractors. Our guy just collected the car from Vetch’s house and took it straight to the contractor’s site. That was the sum total of our involvement.”
“Except for sending the bill.” Garretty couldn’t keep the disdain out
of his voice. He’d had his own run-ins with car dealers over the years. “Presumably with a healthy markup.”
Jacques smiled. “Of course. We’re not a charity, Detective. And we didn’t force Mr. Vetch to arrange the work through us. He could have gone to the contractor directly, but I guess he values convenience more than saving a few bucks.”
“So the Escalade wasn’t here on Thursday?” Devereaux folded the piece of paper and slid it into his pocket. “Or Friday? Are you certain?”
“One hundred percent.” Jacques nodded decisively. “It wasn’t here at all. It never set one wheel on our premises.”
“What about after the work was done?” Garretty asked.
“The contractor returned it himself.” Jacques shrugged. “Or one of his guys did. This morning. Either way, it didn’t come here and none of my people touched it again.”
“All right.” Devereaux sighed. “In that case, we’ll need your contractor’s details.”
“Really? You could have said so before.” Jacques got to her feet. “Come on. Why don’t I get them for you on the way out.”
“Let’s do that.” Devereaux opened the door. “And you can give me your mother’s details at the same time. I’ll make sure that someone takes care of her problem.”
Saturday. Afternoon.
The address that Alison Jacques gave the detectives for the subcontractor who’d worked on Lawton Vetch’s car was at Montgomery and Deo Dara Drive. It was a scant half mile from the Cadillac dealership, as the crow flies. But the main street is divided at that point, so Devereaux looped around in a reverse D shape via Old Columbiana Road to avoid having to overshoot the place and then double back on himself.
Approaching from the west, Devereaux pulled up onto an immaculately swept, weed-free forecourt in front of a blue and white chalet-style building that was set back from both the streets it bordered. A small enameled sign next to the wide roll-up door at the right-hand side of the structure said Paltrow Auto Electrics, but there was nothing else to welcome prospective customers. The sound of an old Oasis song from the ’90s was just audible from inside so Devereaux glanced across at Garretty, pounded on one of the metal door panels, and stepped back to wait for a response.
“We’re closed.” The music stopped and a man’s gruff voice echoed from somewhere inside.
Devereaux pounded harder.
The door whirled open amid a clatter of chains and pulleys and a man appeared at the far side. Devereaux pegged him as being in his late thirties. The guy was well built, around six feet tall with a jumble of black hair, and was wearing freshly laundered coveralls with shiny black work boots. Behind him was an old Triumph TR6 in signal red. Its bodywork and interior looked immaculate, but the hood was open and the clump of disconnected, multicolored wires protruding from the area near the firewall told another story.
“I told you we’re…” The guy spotted Devereaux’s Porsche and his demeanor instantly became a thousand times friendlier. “…happy to stay open a little longer. What do you need? Radar detection? Audio upgrade? Enhanced security? There’s a new GPS tracker module just come out, it’s so small there’s no way any thief will ever find it. Not if it’s installed by someone who knows what they’re doing. And me—I know what I’m doing. Trust me.”
“Are you Lucas Paltrow?” Devereaux took out his badge.
The guy nodded. “I am. What’s this about?”
“We need to talk.” Devereaux surveyed the area. “It’s a little delicate. Is there somewhere private around here?”
“Sure.” Paltrow turned and stepped back toward the car he’d been working on. “We can use my office. Follow me. It’s through here.”
—
Paltrow’s office was at the back of the building. It was small, but exceptionally tidy. There was only one visitor’s chair, so both detectives remained on their feet.
“Sorry.” Paltrow looked up at Devereaux. “I don’t get many visitors. How can I help you gentlemen? I still say you should let me have a look at the security system on that 911. You’re asking to have it stolen if you don’t upgrade, and it doesn’t have to be expensive.”
“We’ll get to that later.” Devereaux paused. “Maybe. First, we need to know where you were at five pm yesterday.”
“That’s easy.” A relieved smile spread across Paltrow’s face. “I was at the movies. Summit Sixteen.”
“What time did you leave the theater?”
“I don’t know, exactly. But let’s figure it out. The lights went down at four-oh-five. Give it, say, half an hour for trailers and commercials. Two hours for the movie itself. Then I hit the bathroom on the way out. I’d have been in the car by sevenish. And back here by seven-twenty. Seven-thirty at the very latest.”
“You came back to work?”
“No. I live here. In the other half of the building.”
“Seems like a strange place to live.”
“Not really. It suits me. It used to be a law office before I bought it. Did you see the accident repair center, across the street? All the dealerships used to have them, back before the insurance companies took it all in-house to cut costs. The guy who owned the place before me would literally sit outside in his car, watch the tow trucks go by, then follow them and try to sign up the owners for personal injury suits. Anyway, I lost my house in my divorce. My old partner died, and rather than buy his kids out of his half of the business I sold it and bought this place to work and live in. Two birds, one stone. It’s a perfect setup for me.”
“OK.” Devereaux shrugged. “Whatever floats your boat, I guess. Now, back to the movie. What did you see?”
“Rush.”
“There’s a movie about the band?”
“Probably. But this one’s about motor racing. Formula One. In Europe. In the seventies. There was this battle between a Brit and an Austrian for the world championship. It was legendary. The Austrian dude almost got killed. He got horribly burned. His face was all messed up. It still is, to this day. His lungs—”
“I haven’t heard of it. When did it come out?”
“A few years ago. It’s not new. The theater does this thing one Friday a month called The Last Chance Saloon. They show an older movie, probably for the last time.”
“Sounds like a good idea. Can anyone confirm you were there?”
“Sure. My buddy, Dean Sullivan. He came with me. Ask him. He’ll tell you. I’ll give you his number, if you want it. Or you can wait. He’s on his way over. He’ll be here soon. But what’s this all about? Why do you want to know where I was?”
“How come you and your buddy Dean were free to go to the movies yesterday afternoon? Why weren’t you both working?”
“I’m self-employed. I can work when I want. I’d finished the last job I had for the week so I knocked off early. And Dean? His health isn’t so good. He’s on disability. He doesn’t have a job right now.”
“Lucas, let me tell you about a case I worked, years ago.” Garretty sat on the edge of Paltrow’s desk. “It wasn’t long after I got my shield. My partner at the time and I, we were trying to alibi a guy out of something, after some allegations had been made. Some serious allegations. Now, this guy claimed he’d been with a buddy at the time in question. The trouble was, his buddy had a better sense of self-preservation. The buddy figured, a situation like that, two detectives sniffing around, maybe there’s a deal to be made? And there was. But only one. And guess what? The buddy got it. He walked. The original guy, he should still be in Donaldson. I say should be because he got shanked in the exercise yard, halfway through his second week.”
“You think we’re…OK. Never mind.” Paltrow eased his chair back a few inches, pulled his phone out of his pocket, and fiddled with the screen for a moment. “Here. Take a look. Two tickets for Rush, bought and paid for in advance on the movie theater app. So you can see, Detective. I’m not making it up. Now, your turn. Come on. Tell me what this is about.”
“We’re getting to it. Tell me this, first. The jo
b you had this week. The one you’d already finished. Was it on a black Escalade, sent to you by Crest?”
“Right. It belonged to some TV dude. I finished it Monday lunchtime, actually. It was a real simple job, but I’ll be honest with you: I kept it all week so it would look like there was a lot more to it. See, guys who pay the big bucks for these premium-type cars, they like to feel they’re getting their money’s worth.”
Devereaux made a mental note to have a word with the dealer he’d bought his Porsche from. He’d needed a replacement rear speaker recently, and they’d hung on to his car for weeks…
“So you finished the work Monday. Where was the Escalade the rest of the week?”
“Here. I kept it around back in case the dude drove by in another vehicle and saw it. He thought Crest was doing the work, remember. I like it that way, because then they have to deal with the complaints afterward. Believe me, some of these rich guys, they’re such whiners.”
“Who else had access to it?”
“No one.”
“Someone must have. Think harder.”
“Oh.” A series of parallel lines creased Paltrow’s forehead. “Well, there is one guy, I guess. Why is this important?”
“What’s this guy’s name?”
“Flynn. Billy Flynn. Did someone see him driving the Caddy, or something?”
“Where was he yesterday, around five pm?”
“Here. Minding the shop while I was at the movies. Only he didn’t know that’s where I was. He thought I was out following up on some business. He’s more likely to stay focused that way.”
“Was the Escalade here when you got back?”