Like Coffee and Doughnuts

by Ellle Parker

  When I came out, Seth was in my chair, looking through the notebook. I poured myself the last cup of room service coffee and sat on the corner of the bed.

  He turned to me. “Well?”

  “The only link I see is that all the real VIN numbers are for cars that have been salvaged in Miami.”

  “There’s no way that’s a coincidence,” Seth said.

  “Nope. I don’t think so.”

  “So what the hell does it mean?”

  “Well, whatever this is about, McCann wanted it real bad. Maybe enough to kill for. I don’t think a lot of junked cars fit the bill. But, when you think of it, wrecked cars aren’t a bad place to hide something if you don’t plan to leave it too long.”

  Seth jumped up and rubbed his hands together gleefully. “All right then, let’s get cracking. Where are we going first?”

  I looked at him warily. He was completely wired and going stir-crazy, and I didn’t think he was going to like my answer. “I have no idea.”

  “What?” He frowned at me. “But you ran them, you said they were all salvaged, so where are they?”

  “They’re in Miami. That’s all I know. They don’t list final resting places, just the last thing reported to the DMV.”

  He flopped back in the chair and stared at me.

  I smiled. “You want the computer or the phone book?”

  “Say what?”

  “To search salvage yards,” I explained. “If he hid something in wrecked cars, I would imagine the rest of the code is what we need to find the cars.”

  He looked about as excited by that as I expected him to be. “I’ll take the computer.”

  “Fine,” I said, getting up to pull the phone book from the nightstand. “But stay off the porn sites, I don’t want you fucking up my hard drive.”

  “What the hell do you take me for?” he groused as he twisted around and pulled the laptop in front of him.

  “I’m serious. No porn.”

  He flipped me off over his shoulder.

  I brought the yellow pages to the table and sat down in the chair opposite him, turning to the Auto section and scanning the columns until I found salvage yards. There were at least twenty of them.

  “What are we looking for?” Seth asked, over the top of the screen.

  “Get a list and start looking for anything that might match something in Serrano’s notebook.”

  He made a face. “That’s like looking for a needle in a haystack!”

  “Welcome to the reality of detective work, my friend.”

  I read through the listings a couple of times, getting familiar with them and looking for things that might have appealed to Serrano, something that would make him choose a particular place. I even looked for Bond references. I didn’t find any.

  Across the table, Seth scrolled through computer screens and muttered irritably to himself. I suppressed a smile. Usually, when he helped me out, it was bar fights, tailing people, and repo work. The fun and interesting stuff. He’d never spent a sweltering afternoon at City Records with me, or sat through three hours of computer searches brainstorming keywords.

  I thought maybe location was a key, so I jotted down the addresses for a couple of likely looking places, choosing them based off how flashy their ad was, and flipped to the maps in the front of the phone book. I found the street index and ran my finger down the columns to find the first one. It was in section K-four on page fourteen.

  My brain started to get the kind of itch that happens when an idea is just out of reach. I paused to see if it would come, but nothing happened. Turning to page fourteen, I followed the side bar down the page to row K. Again the itch. Still no idea. As I scanned the top of the page and found column four, it finally hit me.

  “Son of a bitch,” I said, smacking the phone book and leaning back in the chair.

  Seth looked up. “What’s the matter?”

  “I got him,” I said, giving him a huge grin, which he cautiously mirrored back at me. I could tell he wasn’t completely ready to believe anyone could make sense of a wacko’s scribblings. “I figured out another piece of the code, and it’s a doozy.”

  “So, spill.”

  I knew damn well he was chomping at the bit, and if I was right, we weren’t too far from going somewhere. I turned the phone book so he could see it. “Look at the first line of each code,” I said. “They’re map coordinates.”

  “Like longitude and latitude?” He looked deeply skeptical.

  I shook my head. “Like atlas markings. The top and side bars you use to zero in on a certain spot on the map. The first bit is the page number, and the rest shows you where on the page to look.” I demonstrated with the one I’d just been looking for.

  Seth’s eyes got wide and a slow smile crossed his face. “Hot damn.”

  “We better hope like hell he used the Miami YellowBook, because if these refer to any other map, we’re screwed. I can only imagine how many different maps cover this area, we’d never figure it out.”

  “Only one way to know,” Seth said, shoving my notes at me. “Page fifteen, M-eight.”

  I turned the page and we both leaned in as I followed the M row to the eight column. I grabbed a pencil and outlined the square of map we were interested in. “Looks like we got twenty-fifth through twenty-eighth avenues crossed by ninety-ninth street through a hundred and second. So let’s see if there’s a salvage yard in there somewhere.”

  Seth slid the computer into the center of the table and started scrolling through his list slowly.

  “There’s one on a hundred and first,” he said, pointing at the screen. He clicked the link for it and a Google map popped up. The little flag showed us it was nowhere near the part of the city we were concentrating on. He swore.

  “I have an idea,” I said, pulling the computer closer. I used Google Maps to search for salvage yards in the area, which got me a map covered in little flags. Using the phone book as a reference, I zoomed in on our square. Flags started dropping off the edges of the map as the scale got larger and larger. Eventually, only one flag remained, and it was well within the section we wanted. I clicked on the flag and all the information for M & H Auto Sales & Salvage popped up on the screen. Seth let out a whoop and slapped me on the back.

  “You’re a fucking genius,” he said. He grabbed the page of notes and held it up next to the screen. “And Serrano’s not. Look at the second line of the code. It’s the freakin’ address.”

  He was right. The second line of code was 993827. M & H was located at 9938 NW 27th Avenue. I shook my head and smiled. I also got that rush again. It’s one hell of a feeling, and I will never grow tired of it. Sometimes, it’s the only thing that keeps me pushing forward until I finally solve a case.

  I took the sheet from Seth and set it down, labeling the parts of the code we’d figured out—map, address, VIN. I did that for each set, so the information started to look organized and meaningful.

  Seth got up to get himself a glass of water and came back, looking significantly more interested in the whole process now that it was producing something.

  We used the same method to track down each of the other salvage yards. Having the address line made it quick and fairly simple, and within twenty minutes we had all four yards, with names, complete addresses, and phone numbers. I put all the information on the sheet with the codes. I also marked each one on the phone book map and tore the pages out. Normally, I hate jerks who do stuff like that, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

  Seth took the paper from me and looked it over. He pointed at the last one, on the bottom of the page. “What’s that? We don’t have anything down for it.”

  “Got me,” I said, stretching. “It’s the only set that looks like that, so I figured it was important.”

  I wanted more coffee and had to make do with the crappy boil-your-own that came with the room. Still, it was better than nothing.

  At the table, Seth bent over the computer, chewing his lip and typing. I
sat down on the bed and watched. “What’cha doing?” I asked.

  “I was looking at this last code, and the first line looks just like the address lines of the salvage lots. I’m trying to see if I can pull something up.”

  I looked at our notes. The top line for that code was 8592124. It made sense to me, we still had nothing to go with the car key or the card. Seth was searching the map for either 24th or 124th, but wasn’t getting very far. His idea was sound, but what we’d done before wasn’t going to work without knowing what part of the city to look at.

  “Try whitepages dot com,” I said.

  He pulled up the site and shook his head. “That won’t work, Dino, it’s asking for the name of the place, and all I have is the address. Maybe.”

  “Click on this tab that says ‘reverse lookup,’” I said, pointing it out to him.

  “You sneaky bastard,” he said as he started to enter in various combinations of the address numbers we had.

  On the third try, he got a listing for EZ Mini Storage. Bingo.

  “Nice work,” I said. “You wanna bet there’s a BMW in there that fits this key? Do a map search on it now.”

  I added the new information to our sheet and marked the storage unit on the phone book map. Seth looked exceedingly pleased with himself.

  “Now can we get the hell out of here for a while?” he asked, turning sideways in the chair.

  “Yup, put your shoes on.” I tossed them over.

  “You know, this stuff with the maps and the squished up addresses and everything, it’s completely redundant. First of all, if you hide something that important, aren’t you going to remember where? And if you have the addresses right there, you don’t really need the map numbers too, do you?”

  “Remember,” I pointed out, “he was role playing. It’s a game. He may not really need to look them up on the map, but he does it because it feeds the fantasy that he’s some kind of secret agent.”

  “What a nut job.”

  I tossed the notebook and papers into my briefcase, and put away my computer. We packed our bags as well, and I stopped by the dresser to pick up my wallet and car keys. Seth shoved a ball cap on his head, shouldered his duffel, and we went down to check out.

  Chapter 17

  At around eleven in the morning on a weekday, the traffic in Miami is already pretty heavy and starting to pick up for the lunch hour. That meant slow going for much of the drive. Three out of the four salvage yards we were looking for were at the edges of town, situated where there was more room to spread out. We decided to hit the farthest one and work our way back. Serrano had us going in all directions anyway.

  Seth drove because I couldn’t stand another minute of him fidgeting, drumming his fingers, or otherwise going crazy on me. Miami was easier to bear if I didn’t have to actively deal with it, and he was smart enough not to abuse Matilda when I sat within arm’s reach of his throat.

  That left me free for navigating, and I had both a Florida road map and the phone book pages on my lap.

  “Where to first?” Seth asked. He had one hand on the wheel and the other draped over the side of the car, aviator sunglasses on, and cap turned backward.

  “Lester’s Auto Salvage.”

  “Hrm. Wonder if he’s anything like Ed.”

  “No idea,” I said, reading the map. “Take the next exit up here. You’re gonna turn left at the top.”

  He hit the turn signal and floated over onto the ramp, pulling to a stop at the light. It took us another ten minutes to get to 27th, then five more cruising along until we spotted the salvage yard.

  We parked at the far end of a dirt patch out front and walked along the fence. Seth peered in at the cars, getting a feel for what was in there. He pulled his hat off and put it on the right way, mashing it around until it sat right.

  A bell jingled as we went in, and a large man in a dirty union suit came through a door connecting the front office to the shop. Country music drifted in behind him, sounding tinny in the concrete acoustics.

  “What can I do ya for?” he asked.

  Seth smiled and readjusted his cap. “I’m looking for the right front fender of a ninety-five or ninety-six Chevy Caprice. White if you’ve got it.”

  “Well, now, I know I have a few of those out there. Probably got something that’ll fix it.”

  “I sure hope so,” Seth said. He jerked his thumb at me. “His wife is a picky bitch, and she’s not going to settle for just anything.”

  The guy gave me a knowing nod and said, “Ain’t that always the way. They’ll have our nuts in a wringer one way or t’other.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said.

  We followed him through the side door, and he pointed out the section of the yard we needed. “Most of the Chevys are over in that corner there, running down the hill. There’s a few good Caprices in there. Take a look at the ninety-seven too, I think there’s at least a couple. Fender from one of them oughta’ work, I think.”

  “Thanks, man,” Seth said, and we started off down the center driveway. Behind me, I could hear the guy singing along with Willie Nelson while he hammered on some old car part.

  When we were well out of earshot, Seth asked, “What’s Serrano’s code for the Caprice?”

  I pulled the sheet of notes out of my back pocket and unfolded it. “The parts we haven’t figured out are R-nine, seventeen and one-three-two-two-zero-nine.”

  “Whatever the fuck that means,” Seth said.

  He paused at the top of a small rise, and we looked out over the long rows of battered and broken cars, snaking through the grass to the left of the driveway. They made neat lines like some kind of automotive farm crop. With any luck, somewhere out there was the reason we’d been through a whole lot of trouble.

  “R-nine, seventeen,” Seth mused, folding his arms over his chest. “We know Serrano was a moron, and we know the rest of his code was simplistic and redundant, so what the fuck does R-nine, seventeen mean?”

  “Are the spaces for the cars marked? Like some parking lots?”

  “Shit, no,” Seth scoffed. “Not usually. Most of these places are loosely organized by type of car, but that’s about it. Old codgers who’ve been around forever have it all in their heads. Some of the newer or bigger places keep computerized inventories, but that wouldn’t help us. Unless Serrano had access to that information, and I highly doubt it.”

  “All right,” I said, putting on my sunglasses to cut the glare of a few hundred windshields. “What’s R, then? Road?”

  Seth smacked his forehead. “Row!” He looked like he was considering smacking me too.

  “Row nine,” I said, nodding. A thrill was creeping up my back, and I grinned. “Car seventeen in row nine, maybe?”

  Seth looked smug. “Sounds pretty freakin’ obvious to me.”

  I turned and looked back toward the front gate. The cars there were more jumbled, and it was harder to make out what actually constituted a row. Seth had a finger in the air and was counting to himself, turning as he passed where we stood, and looking out ahead of us.

  When he hit nine, I said, “Lead the way. Let’s see if you’re right.”

  “That red Monte Carlo,” he said, pointing. “I think that’s the row.”

  We set off down the drive, walking fast, but resisting the urge to break into a dead run in case the old guy was watching. No one gets that excited about fenders. Taking a left at the Monte, we both started counting. When we hit seventeen, we stopped and stared. It wasn’t a Caprice. I counted again to be sure, but the car seventeen spaces from the end was a rusted out Impala. Damn.

  “Shit,” Seth said.

  I turned and looked behind us. That one was a truck. When I turned back, Seth was already trudging through the tall grass between the cars to the next row over. Sure enough, there on the other side was a green Chevy Caprice that had seen better days. Plus one very bad day. The front end was crumpled and the windshield smashed into a tight spider web of cracks. One of the back doors was
missing. I had a feeling someone didn’t walk away from this one.

  Seth snatched the notes from my hand and went around to the driver’s side, cupping his hand over the glass to compare the VIN to what we had.

  “You really think that’s necessary?” I asked, figuring that if we’d gotten this far, it had to be the right car.

  “You want to waste an hour searching this pig and find out we were barking up the wrong tree?”

  “No, not really,” I said. “Are we?”

  Seth straightened up. “Nope. It’s a match. Can you believe this? It’s like we’re in a fucking Indiana Jones movie.”

  “I think that was the idea.” I took a look at my watch. It was just after noon, and the sun was beating down hot and clear. There wasn’t even a hint of breeze, and I could feel the sweat forming on the back of my neck. I wasn’t looking forward to crawling around in a stale, overheated car full of native wildlife.

  “Where do you want to start?” Seth asked.

  “Let’s try the trunk, seems logical.”

  Seth had brought a small pry bar from the tool kit in my car. He needn’t have bothered, though. One look at the back end showed it was too banged up for the trunk to close properly. He lifted the lid, and we both peered in.

  The spare tire was missing, as well as the jack, and there was little else of interest inside. The carpet was bunched up and the cover of the tire well was askew. Seth started pulling off fuse hatches and interior panels, reaching into places I didn’t even know existed. I stood back and let him work, deferring to his expertise.

  After ten minutes he stood up and dusted off his hands. He looked hot and irritated. “There’s nothing here, Dino.”

  “Son of a bitch.” I wiped the sweat off my brow with the back of my hand. “All right, let’s get to work on the rest of it.”

  Seth took the driver’s side and I took the passenger, both of us reaching under seats and prying up the corners of door panels. I even checked the glove compartment, but that seemed a little obvious, even for Serrano.