“What? But-but why?”
“Do you know if he and Vic Bloom were close?”
“He’s known Vic all his life, of course, but Joe’s been away for years, living in Atlanta.”
“We’ve traced some of the cars back to Georgia. Dan Alsop made the buys, but that’s all we know.”
“Joe suspects Vic of working the scam with Dan Alsop.”
“And of murdering his father, right?”
Sally chewed her bottom lip, now chapped from too much gnawing. “I don’t think so. I think Dan Alsop was his suspect. As I told you last night, Joe found a PI’s report on a man named Duane Anderson. Have you come across that name in your investigation?”
“Duane Anderson is the seller’s name on some of the cars originating in Georgia. Dan Alsop is the buyer’s name in most cases. But they could be one and the same.” He shrugged.
“After looking at the file we found and comparing it to my own records, I’d say the questionable activity at Bloom Desalvo started at the same time Dan Alsop opened up shop in Louisville.”
“Until then, you’d say Bloom Desalvo ran a clean business?”
“As far as I’m concerned. My business dealings were limited to restoration work Leo brought over. He and Uncle Sal—”
“Salvatore Clay, the previous owner here?”
“That’s right. Leo, Vic, and Sal were longtime friends. Sal trusted them, so I did, too.”
“Since Leo Desalvo’s death, has Vic assumed responsibility for the collectible cars?”
Sally shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Special Agent Ferguson stood. “Can you find out from Joe Desalvo?”
I doubt it. “Why don’t you talk to Joe yourself?”
“I will, as soon as the locals finish their interview.”
“The police are talking to Joe? What’s that about?”
“I assume you haven’t heard. This morning, Joe Desalvo reported a homicide at Bloom Desalvo Motors. Vic Bloom was at his desk, a bullet in his skull.”
Sally gasped. Vic? Dead? “Joe found the body?”
Adam Ferguson shrugged. “He claims. Right now, he’s being questioned as a possible suspect.”
Joe switched off the ignition and stared at Mustang Sally’s back door. What was he doing here? He’d parked beside Sally’s vintage convertible. Two other vehicles were parked in the lot. The red pickup truck probably belonged to Justin Clay, since Joe had seen it before, both in Sally’s garage and at the Universal Joint. The late-model sedan may as well have had government emblazoned on the doors. Joe figured the nondescript blue Ford belonged to Special Agent whatever from the FBI.
Damn.
He’d wanted to talk with Sally alone. As soon as he’d untangled himself from the web of police procedures, he’d headed here. What did that say about his need for Sally?
Had he been so long without friendship he mistook it for love? Admittedly, he was a loner. He’d never taken time to meet his neighbors in Atlanta, to pal around with the guys after racquetball matches. His dates had been, well, more about short-term relationships. Very short-term.
Until Sally.
She was the first woman who didn’t want something from him. No, that wasn’t accurate; she’d wanted information. If it hadn’t been for the FBI, she wouldn’t have gone out with him. She’d have fought Joe’s overtures, kicking and screaming.
Maybe he should go inside and thank the FBI guy.
He opened the Dodge’s door just as Special Agent whatever strode from the garage. At least he looked like an FBI agent, with his dark blue suit, wingtips, and conservative haircut. He headed toward Joe.
“Special Agent Adam Ferguson, FBI. Would you be Joe Desalvo?”
“I would,” Joe answered, thrusting out his hand.
Ferguson shook it. “I need to talk to you.”
Joe suppressed a groan. Not more questions! He really needed to talk with Sally, and not with an audience. But he also needed to clear his father’s name. “Fine. Can we talk here? I need to see Miss Clay on another matter.”
Ferguson nodded, then gestured toward the door. “After you.”
Sally’s eyes widened as Joe opened the door. Perched on her work stool, she hovered over a complicated-looking schematic. She turned her gaze to Ferguson when he entered the garage behind him.
“May we use your office, ma’am?”
If you call me ma’am one more time, I’m applying for social security.
“Help yourself,” Sally said, shrugging. Gone was the teasing smile she’d turned on Joe when he’d addressed her as ma’am. Lavender crescents tinged the flesh beneath her eyes. Had he caused the strain in her face, the loss of sleep? She met his gaze. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah.” Unable to ignore the scent of her, the mix of roses and raw gasoline and woman, he slid past her, resisting the urge to touch her cheek or give her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. It wouldn’t do for the FBI to think their informant was in cahoots with the suspect. As he formed the thought, the bitterness he’d felt the day before faded. Sally didn’t see him as a suspect.
Averting her eyes, she said, “If you guys don’t need me, I have work to do.”
The FBI man followed Joe through the garage to the office. Joe braced himself for another interrogation as he settled in the old metal chair at Sally’s desk. Ferguson claimed Sally’s grease-stained chair, disregarding the peril to his suit.
“Can you bring me up to speed on Victor Bloom’s murder? I haven’t gotten a lot from the locals yet.”
Hardly what Joe expected, Special Agent Ferguson addressed him as if he were a colleague rather than a suspect. But Ferguson wasn’t interested in a local murder. His case was interstate fraud.
“I went in early to look through the files again.” He shrugged. “I just thought I’d overlooked something, you know?”
“Go on.”
“I found something, all right. Vic Bloom slumped over his desk with a bullet in his forehead. A gruesome sight.” The thought triggered images of his father, also found at his desk at work. Joe was thankful to have been spared that scene.
“What were you hoping to find?”
“Evidence. I don’t know how much Sally’s told you about my father, but I’ve convinced the police to reopen the case. Not only do I want to bring peace to our family about Dad’s death, I’d also like my mother to benefit from his life insurance.”
“It’s invalidated if his death is ruled suicide.”
“Right. Mom and I, with Sally’s help, have uncovered a second set of books showing classic auto transactions with much larger profits than are shown on the official spreadsheets.”
“She gave me the copied file.” Ferguson patted his jacket. “I haven’t looked at it yet. How are the books falsified?”
“The selling prices check out, at least the ones we’ve verified. But the wholesale price is vastly lower on the secret spreadsheet, making the overall profit for the past six months much higher than reported. My mom, who now owns half of Bloom Desalvo Motors, is worried about tax evasion issues.”
“She should be if somebody is hiding money.”
“We assumed it was Vic Bloom, but now—”
Ferguson nodded. “It could be Bloom. Maybe he got greedy, maybe there’s a double cross.”
“Or maybe he stumbled upon it like my dad and was killed for it.”
“The police suspect you of Bloom’s homicide.” It wasn’t a question.
“They’re grasping at straws. In order to clear my father of culpability in the fraud and to prove he was murdered, I need Vic alive. Also, there’s no evidence to hold me. I just found the body and was first on the scene.”
“You talk like an attorney.”
Joe smiled. “No, but I watch Matlock reruns.”
Ferguson gave Joe a brief smile. “I’m inclined to agree with Miss Clay. She thinks someone—probably this Dan Alsop or Duane Anderson or whatever alias he’s using—duped both Bloom and your father. Since your father had
Alsop investigated, I’m inclined to agree.”
“If my father had information that could put Dan Alsop out of business, he could’ve been killed for that alone.”
“I also suspect your father was murdered, although I reviewed his file yesterday. One cleverly-staged suicide. The insurance company will need convincing. You might want to consider having him exhumed and running toxicology tests on him.”
Joe stiffened. Could he put his mother through all that? “Weren’t tests run in his autopsy?”
“No. Tox screens aren’t routine, unless foul play is suspected.” Ferguson shrugged. “You have more of a case for foul play now. You could push the coroner for further blood analysis and tissue sampling or pay for a private pathologist to handle it.”
“What would we look for?”
“Any substance. In order to stage a suicide like—” Ferguson didn’t finish. With an apologetic grimace, he shrugged.
“Don’t spare me. I know Dad’s pistol was stuck in his mouth and fired. What you’re saying is if he wouldn’t voluntarily squeeze the trigger, a strong drug could disable him so that he’d be helpless against the murderer squeezing it.”
“It’s been done before. Someone could dope his coffee or food, inject him with a drug—”
“Inject?” Joe interrupted. “Sally saw a piece of a syringe by the dumpster at the car lot.”
“Sorry, Joe.” Ferguson shook his head. “Miss Clay told me about that. Victor Bloom was an insulin-dependent diabetic, so it was probably his. Regrettably, she didn’t recover it for forensics.”
“She knows better. Handling used hypodermics is risky business.” There are strict guidelines for the disposal of biohazard waste. You don’t just throw a needle in
the trash.
“I can’t argue that. Back to Dan Alsop. I’m getting a search warrant for his house and business, but I’ll need probable cause. Sally says you have the Darrin hidden away.”
“Yes, it’s about forty miles from here in—”
“Don’t tell me. Just take me to it tomorrow. With the paper trail tracking it back to Dan Alsop, the forged engine number should convince a judge.”
“Sure. Frankly, I’ll be relieved to turn over the car. It’s brought trouble from Day One.”
“I don’t think you or Miss Clay are in danger now. If you don’t have the car and she doesn’t have the photos, neither of you is a threat.”
“I disagree.” Someone had tried to run down Sally. “Sally’s a witness to the forgery, isn’t she?”
“We’ll want her as a witness.” He shrugged. “It’d be stronger testimony if we had proof to back it up.”
“What about Vic Bloom? How was he a threat?”
“I’m hoping we’ll find out soon.” Ferguson stood, extending his hand to Joe. “Thank you for your time.”
Joe rose to meet his handshake. “I want to help, Special Agent Ferguson. My father was no criminal and he wasn’t suicidal.”
With a quick nod, Ferguson whisked past Joe, leaving him alone in Sally’s office. Joe hesitated, although anxious to talk to Sally. He hadn’t really rehearsed his speech. What would he say to heal their rift? What if she wouldn’t talk to him? He hadn’t missed the wariness in her eyes when he’d walked into the garage.
She’d been disgusted with him last night. No wonder. Just as she’d said, his injured party routine had worn thin. He’d been so quick to assume her betrayal, without hearing her side of the story. How fair was that?
Regardless of what she’d done, he needed her. He needed her! The realization no longer unsettled him. Whatever it took, he had to recover what he’d thrown away. He wouldn’t do it sitting in her office, waiting for her to come to him. It was up to him to go to her. Collecting his scattered confidence, he marched into the garage.
Sally’s heart somersaulted in her chest as Joe stalked into the garage. She had a long way to go if she was going to get him out of her system. Just looking at his handsome face stole her breath. Well, he’d be gone soon. She wouldn’t have to look at him. That’d surely help, wouldn’t it?
Instead, she tightened inside with an aching loss, already missing the sight of him. It wasn’t fair. Here or gone, he affected her. She pretended to be absorbed in the schematic for a high-energy electronic electrical system for a 350 Chevy, but couldn’t ignore Joe’s presence. He stood inches from her. His woodsy scent filled her, his warmth drifted over her.
“Sally, we need to talk.”
Oh, God! She’d forgotten Vic’s murder. Poor Joe. Her gaze flicked to him. His eyes stared back, dark and troubled. A neediness she’d not seen before filled his gaze. He needed her! She wondered if he realized the emotion in his face. Would he resent her one glimpse at his vulnerability? Joe no longer trusted her, but his eyes said otherwise. She’d not let him down.
“Okay, I need a break. Want to go for coffee?”
“That’d be perfect.” He tried a smile but it didn’t stick.
She slid from the stool. “Justin, want a cup of coffee? We’re running over to White Castle.”
Her father stared at Joe, then Sally. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Joe hadn’t agreed to White Castle, but Sally’s father wanted to know her whereabouts. Last night must have shaken him. All morning he’d been the proverbial mother hen, clucking around when a customer or the FBI showed up. It might have annoyed another person. Sally treasured any breakthrough, any show of interest from her father.
At the door, Joe pressed his palm at the small of her back. She resisted the urge to lean back, increasing the pressure. Both comforting and unnerving, Joe’s touch warmed her and she welcomed it. At war with her body, her brain warned her to shrug away. She told her brain to take a hike.
“Okay if I drive?”
Not I’ll drive. He’d asked, still the gentleman, chipping away the last of Sally’s resistance. “Sure.”
Joe ushered her to his car. After he’d pulled onto the street, he glanced at her. “You were right. I was wrong.”
“Wow. Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“Okay.” Sally studied his profile. “What are we talking about?”
“My injured party routine.” He shrugged, then glanced at her again. “I overreacted.”
She sighed. You broke my heart. No use crying over spilt milk, Aunt Sue would say. “I can’t really blame you, Joe. I know things didn’t look good.”
“Call me a fool, but I don’t believe you’d betray a friend.”
“I’d never call you a fool or betray a friend.”
“That’s a relief.” He smiled then, a genuine smile, and reached for her hand. “Friends?”
This from the guy who’d said, “After Friday night, I think we’re beyond friends.” What did she expect? Oh, Sally, I love you and can’t live without you? She knew better than that. Her original assessment had been right on target. He needed an excuse to distance himself. That hadn’t changed. “Sure. Friends.” Whatever.
Joe stopped at the intersection. His smile disappeared. “I don’t like the climate, Sally. The cops haven’t charged me, but—”
“Charged you?” Outrage bolted through her. “With what? Surely they know you’d never hurt Vic. You’re no more a murderer than I am.”
He chuckled. “Can I hire you to defend me?”
“Seriously, do you have a lawyer?”
“Not yet.” His jaw tightened. “They told me not to leave town. I’m supposed to be in Atlanta Friday morning for a staff meeting.”
Sally fought to control her features. Joe was leaving Friday. Her heart ached, even though she’d known he’d return home soon. But leaving for Atlanta beat sitting in a jail cell. She shivered at the thought.
“You cold?”
“No, afraid. For you, I mean. Do you really think you’re a suspect?”
“I found his body, Sally.” He said the words in a flat, emotionless tone. But Sally heard the anguish he’d tried to hide.
“I’m so sorry, Joe. That
had to be rough.”
“It also makes me a suspect until the cops come up with something better.”
Will they even look? The thought came out of nowhere, clutching at Sally’s chest, and it wouldn’t let go. “We have to come up with something better. Let me think—”
“We?”
“—about this. Who gains from Vic’s death? Barbara?”
“Or me.”
“What?”
“An outsider might see this as an opportunity for me to buy out Vic’s half from his distraught widow. Then Mom and I would own Bloom Desalvo Motors.”
“You aren’t interested in the business.”
“You know that and I know that.”
“I see. What about Dan Alsop?”
“I’ve been thinking about him. I can’t see Vic double crossing him. It’s just not in him. Mom says Vic’s not overly ambitious. He always takes—” Joe swallowed. “I mean, he took the path of least resistance.”
She placed her other hand over his and squeezed. He’d known Vic all his life. He’d need to grieve his loss just as she had Roy’s. “Well, here’s a theory: Vic’s as innocent as Leo and, like Leo, stumbles upon information that Dan Alsop is cheating Bloom Desalvo customers. Just like your dad, he’s killed for it. If Dan Alsop or whoever he is has enough money at stake in his scam, he can’t afford exposure.”
“I like your theory but for one thing: the secret file on the USB drive. It shows Bloom Desalvo profiting. That makes Vic and/or Dad accomplices to Dan Alsop without evidence to point elsewhere.”
“Barbara Bloom?”
“If you’d seen her this morning when she arrived at the office, you’d know she couldn’t have killed Vic.”
“Or she’s a great actress.”
Joe shook his head. “She was already upset because Vic hadn’t come home last night. When she saw the ambulance and police cars, she lost it. Paramedics had to sedate her right there in the parking lot.”
We had to sedate him and move him to the psychiatric ward.
Pushing thoughts of her father aside, Sally asked, “Did she say anything?”
“Nothing coherent. She just kept crying ‘no.’ “
“He was her husband. If she didn’t kill him, she’d have good reason to fall apart.”
Restore My Heart Page 24