Restore My Heart (22 page)

“I’m not planning anything dangerous. I’d just like to see where the guy lives, get a feel for his set-up. You’d know more about what to look for.”

“Look for? What are you thinking?”

“Well, wouldn’t he have to have some kind of building or garage to modify engines, grind off engine numbers, stuff like that?”

“You’ve made quite a leap, Joe, from innocent until proven guilty to let’s find evidence.”

Joe started the engine. “I’m running out of time. Mom thinks Dad was murdered. We know Roy was murdered, and somebody shot at me. You were nearly run over by a speeding truck. I don’t believe in coincidence.”

Running out of time? He must be thinking about returning to Atlanta. Of course. She knew he’d not be around forever. Joe Desalvo, handsome financial wizard, probable ladies’ man, wasn’t a forever kind of guy. She’d always known that.

“I want to get to the bottom of this, too. I want to nail the sucker who killed Roy if it’s the last thing I do,” she said, remembering the pain and hatred in Janet Bishop’s eyes.

Back at Mustang Sally’s, Justin scowled as Sally entered the service area. “Did you go home to change?”

“I had to. Why?”

“Alone?”

Sally fought a smile. “No, Dad. Joe waited with me until I got safely into my car.”

“Good.” He spun on his heel and returned to the engine stand, where he’d pulled the Corvette’s engine. He removed the head bolts.

“Want me to help move the heads to the work bench?” Sally asked.

“Yeah.”

Sally snapped on a pair of chemical-resistant nitrile gloves, then moved to the back side of the V-8 engine. With her dad at the front, she grabbed a rocker arm and lifted the first head from the block. They hoisted it to the worktable, where he could remove the valves. Working together, they moved the other head.

She pulled off one glove to grab a shop towel, then patted perspiration from her face.

“Thanks,” her dad mumbled, then turned to the work bench.

Sally returned to the carburetor she’d been rebuilding before she’d left for Roy’s funeral. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but her dad seemed more energetic than he’d been in years. Could it be the work? He’d once loved cars. Had he begun to heal?

Joe studied the address he’d scribbled on the sticky note. Dan Alsop, according to the accounts payable file he’d accessed at Bloom Desalvo’s, lived across the county line in Taylor County. Few of the rural homes displayed house numbers.

After three passes down the narrow county road, Sally called out, “There it is.”

Joe pulled onto the shoulder and stopped. “It’s dark. I think no one’s home.”

“Don’t park here. Pull down to that closed gas station and park. We’ll walk.”

“It’s too far for you.”

“Do it. We don’t need to arouse suspicion.”

She had a point. The last thing he’d need is for a neighbor to call the cops. In isolated areas, neighbors could be too vigilant. “I don’t plan to get too close. He may have a Rottweiler.”

“Great. You have your flashlight?” She held up her small Maglite.

“Yes. We’ll take yours for light, mine to knock out the dog.”

A few minutes later, Joe led Sally down the sloping driveway of an old frame house. The driveway led to the garage, located in the basement. Joe studied the wooden garage door.

“Locked.”

“Hey,” Sally whispered. “You said no breaking and entering, remember?”

“I know. Shine your flashlight into the window. I’ll peek inside.”

The windows were too high for Sally to see, but she managed to hold the light for him. Stretching, Joe peered into the shadows. “Good girl. Hold it steady.”

“Tell me what you see.”

“I see a bunch of books, like in your office at Mustang Sally’s. And, uh, some kind of press. A metal press, I think, with sheets of blank metal. Aluminum, maybe?”

“Engine plates. He’s stamping out fake engine plates.” The flashlight’s beam danced with Sally’s excitement.

“Hold the light still. I see—” Joe stretched, staring into the dim interior. “There’s an old typewriter, pans like you’d see used in film developing—”

“For faking documentation. What else?”

“Nothing, except some tools, like some of yours.”

“Hurry. I hear a car on the road.”

“That’s all I can make out with the flashlight.”

The approaching car’s headlights swept the yard. Sally flicked off the flashlight. “It’s turning in here, Joe. We have to hide.”

Joe grabbed Sally around the waist, lifting her as he backed beside the wall. “Be very still.”

Sally pressed against him so close he felt her hammering heart against his arm. Or was that his pulse, drumming inside his head? What the hell were they doing? What had begun as a peek at Dan Alsop’s lair had turned into trespassing. Alsop could have them arrested as prowlers.

Sally didn’t move, didn’t even breathe. Joe was holding his own breath, straining to hear, while he squinted into the darkness to watch. The slamming of a door covered Joe’s sudden gulp for air. A lone man climbed from a pickup truck. He headed up the wooden steps to the back door on the main floor of the house.
Go inside
.

But the guy halted on the steps. Had he spotted them? Joe pressed deeper into the shrubbery, again holding his breath. Sally froze against him. The man backed down the stairs, his steps growing louder as he crossed the driveway. Closer. After an interminable minute, he returned to the stairs. He climbed the steps, then disappeared inside the house.

Joe’s heartbeat steadied, his breathing kicked in again. Sally exhaled, her warm breath a whoosh across his arm. He helped Sally up the driveway. They stuck to the edge, hiding in the shadows. Good thing Dan Alsop, or whoever, hadn’t lingered outside or carried out his trash.

And didn’t have a Rottweiler.

“Close call,” Sally murmured as they drove toward Jeffersontown. “I’m not cut out for detective work.”
Or criminal trespass
.

“Can’t say that I am, either. I nearly went into cardiac arrest when that truck pulled in the driveway.”

Sally puzzled over Joe’s observations. If what he’d seen had been forging equipment for engine plates and documentation, they might be able to link Dan Alsop to Ellen Kennedy’s Packard. “We need to get inside.”

“What? Are you crazy?”

“Okay, not us, but the authorities. I bet an expert could match the keys on that old typewriter to the documentation showing James Dean’s ownership of that Skyliner.”

“What, exactly, do you mean by documentation?” Joe asked.

Sally shook her head. He really didn’t know squat about his father’s business. “A copy of a bill of sale, with the original purchaser’s name, a notarized copy of a title, or a license receipt. Those can all be forged and made to look aged.”

“I don’t even know who bought that James Dean car, or if it was handled through Bloom Desalvo.”

“How about linking that metal press to the forged engine plate on your Kaiser Darrin?”

“We’re in over our heads, Sally. Law enforcement knows how to collect evidence so it stands up in court. What good is it if we prove Dan Alsop is counterfeiting classic cars if he doesn’t go to jail?”

“Think about this, Joe. We’re not just concerned with a scam here. We’re trying to find out who’d kill to cover their tracks. Doesn’t it make sense that if I thought of tying Dan Alsop to the Darrin, he thought of it, too? That’s why the Darrin and anyone who can testify that it was misrepresented when sold would have to be eliminated.”

“Eliminated.”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense of all that’s happened.” The logic did nothing to calm the rolled oyster churning in her stomach. “We can’t depend on the local authorities. It takes time getting search warrants and gathering evidence.”
Just like that FBI agent
. Adam Ferguson had told her to drop out of it, to let him handle it now, but where was he?

“What can we do? I told you I won’t do anything dangerous.”

“Unfortunately, we’re in danger either way. So why not take the offensive?”

“I don’t like what you’re suggesting. Let’s give the cops a chance first.”

“Meanwhile, we’re still targets.”

“You’re tired. Why don’t you sleep on this and we’ll discuss it tomorrow after work.”

“Tomorrow after work. I have to be home by eight.”

“Or you’ll turn into a pumpkin?”

Sally grinned in spite of her anxiety. “Just the opposite. My friend Laquita is a beautician. She’s going to try to turn me into Cinderella before the ball.”

Joe pulled up in front of the house, then killed the motor. Leaning toward her, his arm on the back of her seat, he murmured, “That won’t be much of a stretch.”

“Thanks, Joe.” Sally needed only to turn her head a few inches before her lips would be against his. Heat suffused her body. “I—I promise I won’t embarrass you tomorrow night.”

“Look at me.” His finger tilted her face to his. “It never crossed my mind, Sally Clay. I wish you’d take my word for it. You’re a desirable woman.”

His breath warmed her face. His lips followed, gentling against her mouth in the most tender of kisses.

The next few minutes passed in a fog. With Joe’s help, she made it to her door, then inside. So dazed from his kiss she couldn’t remember what she said to him, she sobered at his parting words.

“Watch your back.”

Thursday morning, Joe poked his head through the door to Vic Bloom’s office. Vic scowled at a sales contract until he noticed Joe. Recognition instantly transformed his face into a relaxed smile.

“Got a minute?”

“Sure, Joey. Come on in.”

Joe took one of the two vinyl chairs usually reserved for customers. Except for the overflowing ashtray, Vic’s desk was tidy and clean. His office exuded a professionalism sadly lacking in the man’s own appearance.

It hadn’t always been so. Joe remembered a younger Vic Bloom, dashing and slick in his business suits and wing-tipped shoes. He’d bought himself and Leo copies of John Malloy’s
Dress For Success
about the time Joe started high school. Joe still had his dad’s copy.

“What’s on your mind?”

Joe cleared his throat, unsure where to begin. “I wanted to talk to you about the classic car division, Vic.”