We headed for Framingham. The all-news radio station said state cops and FBI had swarmed "Motorworks"-they screw everything up-in Rourke, New Hampshire. An FBI spokeswoman confirmed the search had to do with the deaths of garage owner Oliver Dufresne and his mother. FBI wouldn't say more, wouldn't comment on why drug-sniffing dogs were part of the show.

I thought about calling the Framingham cops or the staties but couldn't see how I'd do it without getting hauled in myself. Got an idea, texted McCord: Tell MA cops look 4 josh whipple, beige altima/taurus, sutton area, last seen purg chasm I hoped McCord got something good out of this mess. But had a feeling he wouldn't.

When we pulled up at my house, Trey's rented Dodge wasn't in the driveway. Inside, Kieu pidgined that he was gone and that Myna Roper was napping in a bedroom. Kieu tried to explain where Trey was, but I couldn't understand. About the time we both got good and frustrated, she rubbed her belly and pointed at me with a question on her face. I nodded like crazy. She got a bunch of stuff from the fridge and started making a batch of the shrimp-and-noodles thing I loved.

Randall helped Kieu cook. Patty Marx, who according to Randall hadn't said a word on the ride down, wanted her laptop. I said no G.o.dd.a.m.n way, and took her cell to boot. "So the deal is I'm a virtual prisoner?" she said.

"Yes," I said.

I motioned Tuan to follow me to the second-floor apartment. I had propped the door open so the cats had the run of the house, but I suspected they mostly stayed upstairs. Both cats had been smacked around some before I got them and were stranger-wary.

I freshened their food and water, cleaned their box. Tuan said something in Vietnamese that ended in a question. After a few tries I figured he wanted to know the cats' names. "This one's Dale," I said. "Dale Earnhardt Senior. Died February 18, 2001, at Daytona." I pointed toward the food dish. "That's Davey over there. Davey Allison died July 13, 1993, in a helicopter wreck. I beat him a couple times in Busch races. He was about my age."

Then Kieu barked something up the stairs and Tuan pulled my sleeve.

I said, "Food ready?" Rubbed my belly.

Tuan smiled and nodded and buzzed downstairs before I could stand.

Kieu had piled a serving platter with shrimp and noodles. We all dug in.

We were mostly finished when Trey stepped in the kitchen door. He must have kicked off his sneakers on the deck, because he stood in damp white socks and the lower six inches of his pant legs were wet.

After introducing Patty, I motioned Trey out to the deck. "Where you been?" I said, closing the kitchen door behind me.

"You advised me to stash the money."

"I was thinking about a safe-deposit box," I said, looking at his wet pant legs.

"I thought of a better place. No key required."

"Safe?"

"Safer than safe," he said, then laughed. "Safe as a safe."

"You want to tell me where?"

"What's the old saying? Three can keep a secret as long as two are dead."

"Come on, Trey."

"I need to clean up," he said, and stepped inside.

Randall and I drank coffee on the deck. Soon Trey stepped from the kitchen in fresh clothes, his hair wet. Instead of pulling up a chair he just squatted, the backs of his thighs pressed tight to his calves. He folded his arms across his knees and said, "What's going on?"

"You know Josh Whipple, the kid I told you about from Motorenwerk?" I said. "If Patty Marx is right, he's a flat-out psycho. Got started killing his mother when he was nine years old."

"Mother of G.o.d."

"Killed aunts, uncles, cousins, grannies," I said. "It was him killed your father, Ollie Dufresne, and Ollie's mom."

Trey worked his mouth. After a while he said, "What about the police, Conway?"

"They're looking for him. I hope they get him soon. But he knows about your father's stash, and he wants it."

"He can have every penny if he'll let us alone," Trey said.

I was proud of him. There aren't a lot of people can kiss seventy-five grand good-bye, especially once they've got it spent in their heads. "Wish it were that simple," I said. "But there's more dough. A lot more."

"Where?"

"Wish I knew." I had an idea, but wanted to keep it to myself.

"Tactically speaking," Randall said, "the primary question is whether Josh can find us."

I shook my head. "Thought about that. The house is still in my friend's name, and Josh never heard of him. Takes a year or more for the records to transfer and the databases to catch up."

"So this is a safe base of operations," Randall said.

I nodded.

"I know you well enough to guess what happens next," he said. Trey watched our conversation like a tennis match.

"So tell me," I said.

"We're going to take a run at Josh."

"I'm going to. I need you to keep an eye on things down here."

"But we just agreed this is a safe house."

"Belt and suspenders."

Randall smiled with one corner of his mouth. "When you find Monsieur Whipple, what are your, ah, intentions?"

"Give him to the cops."

"Really?"

"Really. I don't go looking for ... for the things I run into."

"You do manage to find them, though."

"Yes," I said. "I do."

"Ever wonder why?"

"No."

"Yours is but to do or die," Randall said, and snorted a laugh. I didn't bother to ask what the h.e.l.l he meant.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.

Inside the house, I worked my cell. Called Charlene. No word on Fred. I hemmed and tap-danced, then finally asked her to stay away from her house, to come to Framingham after work instead.

"Why in G.o.d's name would I do that?"

s.h.i.t. "One of the players in this Tander Phigg thing is bad news," I said.

"So?"

"So he might come looking for me."

"He might show up on my doorstep looking for you?"

"He busted into my truck today. Your address is on the registration."

"And that," she said, "is how things go when Conway Sax is in your life."

I said nothing.

"Jesus, Conway!" Click.

Waiting. I'm better at it than I used to be. Prison does that.

Long evening. To pa.s.s time I prowled the yard, picking up construction sc.r.a.p. Cell in one pocket, cordless home phone in another, hoping for word on Josh.

On Fred.

Looking down, I started to round the corner into the backyard ... and heard a voice that stopped me.

Myna Roper. With all h.e.l.l breaking loose, I'd forgotten about her. I slowed, stuck my head around the corner, looked at the deck.

She sat next to Trey on folding chairs. She was talking, he was listening. Spread across their laps was an oversize three-ring binder. Myna would point at something in the binder, talk about it, look at it a few seconds, flip the page. Next time the page flipped, I saw a black-and-white photo.

Myna was showing Trey his father's five happy years.

In her trailer, she'd pointed at Tander's stunning picture of her and claimed it was the only memento she saved from back then.

It was a lie.

I was glad.

I smiled, backed away, and walked softly to the front porch.

The next morning I headed north before dawn. I was dying to get in touch with McCord, see what the Motorenwerk task force had turned up, but with things as hot as they were, it couldn't be good for him to have cell contact with me.

McCord was thinking the same way. As I worked north on Route 495, a text buzzed in from a strange number: Know who this is?

Smart. He'd bought an el cheapo prepaid cell. I texted back: U drive a charger. Mwerks search?

H yes, $ no Thoro?

They tore it apart Thx Use this # Duh So the task force had found heroin traces in Ollie's garage, but no big pile of money.

Huh.

So why did I still think Phigg's Mercedes was the key? Why'd I think I could find what thirty cops with Sawzalls had missed?

Because I knew the pride Ollie had taken in stashing drugs. Because I knew Phigg's obsession with the car.

Because the suicide mission, the stupid odds, the bra.s.s-b.a.l.l.s attack is what you live for.

Okay, that, too.

I drove and I thought, trying to click pieces in place.

Patty Marx showed up a year and a half ago, did the tender reunion bit with Tander Phigg, and sold him a horses.h.i.t vision of the two of them in Canada. Phigg bought it and started cashing out.

At some point, I still believed-despite the thirty cops tearing apart Motorenwerk and coming up dry-Phigg had Ollie hide the money in the Mercedes. He'd somehow figured out Ollie's drug connection. The knowledge had to be his leverage, and it explained why Phigg and Ollie hated each other from the get-go. Phigg made the deal worth Ollie's while with seventy-five thousand untraceable-but kept the whip hand by paying only on delivery.

I played with ideas. Josh hadn't been working at the shop for long, so the Mercedes could have been all b.u.t.toned up and buried under a car cover by the time he hit the scene. Then maybe he got a whiff of the deal via Phigg's big mouth. It was easy to picture Phigg bulls.h.i.tting around at Motorenwerk, saying golly he was broke but not really, wink wink. It was the type of thing he'd do. And smart-as-a-whip Josh, acting dumb and doing oil changes, wouldn't miss a word.

You could build a scene where Phigg owed Ollie the seventy-five grand from the pump house-stash one-but was holding back for some reason, and couldn't get his Mercedes-stash two-until he paid up. Mexican standoff.

And you could picture Josh getting nosy, antsy-two big wads of money so close he could nearly touch them.

You could picture him forcing the issue. It felt right.

But something wouldn't click. I sighed. The more I chased it, the greasier it would be. Had to wait until it came to me. So I headed for Motorenwerk.