CHAPTER FOUR.

I parked across from Motorenwerk at 5:15 as the rain, which had been trying like h.e.l.l all day, finally started. Thunder closed from the southeast as I looked at the shop. The garage doors were closed. Through the office's plate-gla.s.s window I saw Josh. He was counter-leaning, finger-drumming. An Audi A6 Avant sat outside the office. It looked like Ollie had left for the day, and Josh was stuck waiting for the Audi's owner to show.

For me, it was a good setup. I wanted to talk to Josh without Ollie around. Wanted to surprise him, fl.u.s.ter him. I decided to wait for the Audi owner, then bust in.

I looked around the interior of my F-150, which I'd picked up on the way. The gla.s.s-shop guy had said the glue for the new windows was set up already, rain wouldn't be a problem. So far, there were no leaks.

I eased the truck backward twenty yards, moving out of Josh's sight line. Rain picked up, thunder waded in. I ran the AC to keep the windows clear, waited, thought. What was Josh doing here? He could be earning more anywhere else, and it had to be killing Ollie to keep him on the payroll.

At quarter of six, the thunder and lightning peaked. At the end of Mechanic Street, a bolt hit not twenty yards from the Dumpster I'd puked in yesterday. I half jumped in my seat, smelled ozone, felt neck hairs rise.

A minivan pulled up. The man who hopped from the pa.s.senger side wore a suit, had a briefcase but no raincoat. He hunched, waved thanks to the minivan's driver as it turned and left, ducked inside.

I stepped from my truck and stood in pouring rain next to the office door. After two minutes the customer stepped out. I startled him. He recovered, nodded, hopped in his car. I waited near the door where Josh couldn't see me. I was trying to time my entry-wanted him relaxed, but didn't want to give him a chance to lock up. I was ready to push my way in if I heard keys jingle.

In maybe three minutes I stepped into the office, hoping to intimidate the h.e.l.l out of Josh.

He wasn't behind the counter.

s.h.i.t.

I stepped into the garage. Heard noise near the back, walked along the wall. Tried to keep it quiet, but my shoes squished.

Josh stepped around a corner, walking with purpose. He held a good-size rubber mallet, raised and ready. His eyes were narrowed, his mouth open a little. His teeth were slightly apart, and I saw the pink of his tongue-tip between them. If I hadn't known better I would've thought he was looking forward to beating the bejesus out of an intruder.

This wasn't working out the way I'd pictured it.

Josh saw it was me. I made a whoa-now gesture with both hands. He stood four feet away, mallet poised.

"Really coming down out there," I said.

"The h.e.l.l'd you come from?" He breathed hard through his nostrils. Did I read disappointment in his eyes? Had he hoped I was some meth-head burglar he could cream?

"Got some paper towels?"

He nodded at a roll of blue shop towels on the bench beside me. I snapped off a half dozen and toweled my hair.

Josh said, "Where'd you come from?"

"Ollie live nearby?" I said.

"Why do you want to know?"

"Jesus, kid!" I fist-thumped the bench as I said it. "I don't know what Ollie is to you. He's more than your boss, isn't he?"

Josh said nothing.

"I'm going to talk with Ollie," I said. "Soon. Here. What I need from you is his last name, how close he lives to this place, his phone number. This is going to happen, with your help or without."

"Maybe it is, maybe it isn't," he said, twirling the mallet in his hands. "Maybe you're going to get your head busted in again."

Jesus, had I ever misread this kid. "It wasn't you who nailed me yesterday. Was it?"

Josh said nothing. He didn't drop his gaze, didn't stop twirling the mallet.

Something clicked. I smiled slow and big and edged past Josh, putting my hands up when he c.o.c.ked the mallet. I cleared the corner and saw what I'd antic.i.p.ated: One corner of the car cover on Phigg's Mercedes had been lifted.

"What the h.e.l.l is it about this car?" I said.

"I think you ought to leave."

"Tander Phigg hanged himself this morning," I said.

"I heard."

"What is it about this car?"

Josh said nothing.

"Look," I said, sighing. "I need to talk with Ollie. Here, tonight. Let's work it like this: You give me his number. I'll bust a window around back, tell him I climbed in after you left. I'm guessing he used to pay for a security service, but not anymore. That sound right?"

Josh nodded.

"Must be twenty ways I could find his name and number without your help," I said. "You're just my shortcut." I took a Sharpie from the bench, slid it and a dry shop towel toward Josh.

He stared at me for twenty seconds. Then he wrote a number on the towel. "When you talk with Ollie, you won't mention this," he said, nodding toward Phigg's car. "In fact, you'll forget all about it now that Phigg's dead."

I said nothing. It was easier than lying. Instead I tore off another paper towel and wrote my name, cell, and e-mail on it, shoved it to him.

He eyeballed it. "What's that for?"

"This place is going to change, fast and soon," I said. "It's probably going to go away. Maybe you'll need help finding your next job. I know a lot of guys in the business."

As his fingertips touched the paper towel, I put one of my own on it. "Or maybe you'll just want to tell me more about Ollie," I said. "About what the h.e.l.l's going on here. You thought it was a high-end restoration shop. Thought it'd be more fun than doing oil changes at the local Toyota store, huh? But it was something else."

Josh wanted to tell me. I could feel him tipping, the same way he nearly had in the garage yesterday. But he just reached a hooded Windbreaker from a hook and unclipped a huge key ring from his belt loop. "I'll need to lock you out," he said, flipping through keys. He looked at me. "Second window in on the back side is so sticky we can't close it to lock it. Be easy to open it with a pry bar. Ollie would think you just got lucky and found the right window."

Two minutes later I fired the F-150, watched Josh drive away in a rough old Audi 4000. It was a cult car, an all-wheel-drive sedan that came out back when that was rare. They were hard cars to keep running right, especially now that they were a quarter-century old.

I sat in the truck and figured out how to work what I wanted to do next. The weak link was going to be a missing cop car. I needed to pressure Ollie, rush him, to get him to overlook that.

I was going to get wet as h.e.l.l, no way to avoid it. The thunder and lightning had moved past, but the rain was hard and steady. The upside was with the sky gray to begin with, it'd get dark earlier.

I called Charlene at home. She was brisk, chopping something while we spoke. Sophie was fine. Work was fine. She hadn't heard from Jesse. I wouldn't make it for dinner tonight? Fine. Click.

By eight o'clock it was dark enough. The rain wasn't dramatic anymore, but it wasn't letting up either. I cleared my throat, hit *67 to block Caller ID, and dialed the number Josh had written.

Ollie took his time answering. I heard a TV as he said, "Yeah."

"Mr. Dufresne?" Said it Doo-FREZ-nee on purpose.

He sighed. "Doo-FRAYNE. What?"

"Sorry. Rourke PD, sir. We got a report of a lightning strike here at your shop. Looks like it holed your roof. h.e.l.luva lot of water coming in."

It worked. The TV clicked off. Ollie said, "Office or garage?"

"Garage."

"f.u.c.k me. I'll be there in ten minutes."

I was set to click off when he said, "Who is this? Scharf?"

"Giarusso."

"You new?"

"Been here almost eight months." I tried to sound offended.

"How come you show up as 'Unknown Caller'?"

"They've got us using our personal cells for calls like this. Budget, you know?"

"Do I ever. Ten minutes."

I worked fast. Parked my truck down the street, alongside the upholstery place, while the pit bull barked.

I rain-sprinted back to Motorenwerk, tire iron in one hand, stout flashlight in the other. It's the kind cops use-knurled aluminum barrel, eighteen inches long, packed with four D batteries. It's as much a club as it is a flashlight. Comes in handy.

I ran around back, found the unlocked window Josh had described, levered it with the tire iron, climbed into the garage.

Dark as h.e.l.l in here. I flashlighted my way to the front, killed the light, rested it on my shoulder.

Waited.

Not long. I saw headlights. I heard a heavy splash out front, then a key-scrabble as the office door opened.

But the office lights didn't come on.

Dufresne wasn't stupid.

I heard the door close gently, a tiny air-puff really. I heard water drip from Dufresne. Pictured him standing in the dark no more than five feet from me.

I heard a gun's slide rack. Dufresne definitely wasn't stupid-had a semi-auto, with a round in the chamber now.

s.h.i.t.

I pictured him listening hard, breathed slowly through my mouth. The gun changed things. I decided I had to take a chance.

I clicked the flashlight on, took loud steps, tried for the same voice I'd used on the phone. "Mr. Dufresne? That you up there?"

Nothing.

"You wanna hit the lights out here?" I said. "I banged the bejesus out of my shins once already." Walked toward the door as I said it.

It worked. Dufresne couldn't take the risk, couldn't walk in pointing a gun at a cop. He had stowed the gun in his raincoat by the time he stepped through the door, reached for the light switch, and said, "I thought-"

As the lights came on I flicked my heavy flashlight at his forearm, meaning to break it. But I missed, got the meat of his upper arm instead.

Dufresne was most definitely not stupid. He took one look at me and processed the whole scene before I could hit him again. He reached in the raincoat for his gun.

I closed fast, head-b.u.t.ted his nose, heard it break. He'd gotten his right hand on the gun, but his hand was hung up in the wet raincoat. I bear-hugged him to keep it there.

He was strong for a short guy. His left arm hung useless from the shot with the flashlight, and his right hand was tangled up in the gun and the coat, but he fought like h.e.l.l anyway. He pushed up at my chin with the top of his head, nose-jetted blood into my shirt, stomped at my feet and ankles.

But his sneakers didn't bother my work boots. I poured on the bear hug, forced air from him, kept his right arm pressed against his chest.

Funny thing: As we fought, Dufresne's foot-stomps going weak, me squeezing and waiting for my chance to knock him out, I felt like I was up in the garage's rafters and to my left, watching it all.

That was new.

I used to forget everything in a fight. I used to lose myself in a red-mist fury that always meant bad things for the other guy-and good things for Barnburners. This was different. No red mist, no hate. I just wanted to weaken Ollie enough so I could take away the gun.

I was getting old.

I thought all this while I floated above and to my left, watching Dufresne's blood jet against my chest, watching myself crush him more or less to death.

He finally fainted. I could tell because his dead weight nearly pulled me over. I let him drop, making sure he didn't slam his head on polished concrete. I fished the gun from his raincoat. It was a Browning P35 Mark I, but different. I squinted, studied the piece, finally figured it out: The gun had been modified to fire beefy .40 S&W loads rather than stock 9 millimeter stuff. I'd heard you could mod the P35 that way, but hadn't seen it done.

I stuck the gun in the back of my pants, then realized I needed to black this place out right now, before a cruising cop spotted lights in Motorenwerk and swung by to check things out.

I killed the lights and checked Dufresne. He was out cold. I pocket-patted, found his keys, stepped out front.

The rain was slowing. Dufresne's 5-series BMW, mid-nineties, black or dark blue, was angle-parked. I hopped in and pulled it around the side of the building, between the Dumpster and the stack of old tires. Locked it, stepped inside, locked the office door behind me, stepped in the garage, flashlighted Dufresne.

His eyes were open. He stared at me, wheezed, squeezed his left fist like he was testing it. Twice he tried to speak, but wheezed and coughed instead.

I hadn't planned for this. The way I'd planned it, I would humiliate him, terrify him. I would zip-tie his wrists to the lift, slap him with an open hand, maybe pull down his pants. Pull a man's pants around his ankles sometime and slap-rather than punch-his face awhile; you'd be surprised how fast it can break a guy.

But it wouldn't break Dufresne. His hot-rod Browning, his street smarts, the way he fought with no arms and a broken nose: This was a soldier.

He took a huge, wheezing oxygen-suck and said, "What the f.u.c.k?"