ON MONDAY MORNING, Nick Stefanos leaned out of the open window of his Dodge at the P. G. Plaza Metro station and snapped photographs of Erika Mitch.e.l.l meeting her new boyfriend in the parking lot beside his idling Acura. Stefanos steadied the long lens of his Pentax as he shot. He caught Erika and her boyfriend embracing and he got one of them kissing and another of Erika getting into his car.

Stefanos dropped the roll of film at a shop on Georgia Avenue and smoked a cigarette in his car as he looked over the list Al Adamson had given him, checking the addresses against the detail map he kept in the Dodge. He pulled off the curb and drove over to Hyattsville, to a garage off Queens Chapel Road.

C. Lewis, the seasoned-leaning-to-elderly owner of the shop, had no knowledge of the red Torino, mentioning only that it was "one beautiful car." He added that there had been fewer than a hundred manufactured of that particular model, so locating it shouldn't prove to be all that difficult. Stefanos thanked him, and Lewis said, "Say hi to Al."

Stefanos drove back into Northwest, to a garage named Strange Auto near 14th and Arkansas. Go-go music was pumping from the open bay as Stefanos approached.

The owner, Anthony Strange, informed Stefanos that "the only thing I'll touch here is Mustangs. Torino ain't nothin' but an overgrown Maverick, and I ain't even even gonna tell you what I think of them." His mechanic, a very young man with a black knit cap pulled low on his forehead, laughed and turned up the Back Yard CD he had coming from the box. gonna tell you what I think of them." His mechanic, a very young man with a black knit cap pulled low on his forehead, laughed and turned up the Back Yard CD he had coming from the box.

Out on the sidewalk, Stefanos looked at the next name on his list. The place was just up over the District line. He wasn't far from there now.

Thomas Wilson was standing in the back of the garage, talking to Manuel and Jaime, when the bell rang from the front of the bay.

"That would be them," said Wilson.

"Yes," said Manuel.

Jaime Gutierrez dropped his cigarette to the concrete and ground it under his boot as Manuel Ruiz went to the bay door. He hit a red b.u.t.ton beside the door; the door lifted, and a Ford Ranger rolled into the garage. Manuel lowered the door as Frank Farrow parked the pickup beside a two-tone Falcon.

Farrow and Roman Otis stepped out of the pickup. Otis stretched his long frame and followed Farrow to where Wilson and Gutierrez stood. Manuel met the group, and Farrow shook his hand.

"d.a.m.n," said Otis, rolling his head so that his neck muscles relaxed. "Tall man like me can't take a long journey in a truck that size, for real. Got used to the size of that Mark you hooked me up with, Man-you-el."

"I am pleased that you like it."

"G.o.dd.a.m.n right I like it. That's a beautiful car."

"What've you got for me?" said Farrow.

"Is over here," said Manuel, and they followed him as he led the way. Farrow looked at the red Mustang with the Formula tires with raised white lettering and the black scoop on the hood.

"A Mach One?"

"Yes," said Manuel. "Nineteen seventy-three, three fifty-one automatic. Original white interior. Beautiful."

"It's red."

"That's right."

"Does it run?"

"It is very straight."

Jaime nodded in agreement and lit another cigarette.

Farrow ran his finger along the waxed surface of the hood. "You have clean tags for it, amigo?"

"Yes."

"Put them on. And get rid of that Ranger any way you see fit. It's on the hot sheet by now."

"Okay, Frank," said Manuel. "You can sit in the offi while we put on the tags, if you wish."

"You said 'offi,'" said Otis, showing his gold tooth. "But you meant 'office,' right?"

Manuel smiled thinly.

"Come on with us, T. W.," said Farrow.

Wilson said, "Right."

The office was small, and many of the papers on its cluttered desk were smudged with grease. Otis had a seat on a wooden slat-back chair and put his feet up on the desk. Farrow sat on the edge of the desk and put fire to a Kool.

"So, T. W. Any progress on finding Detective Jonas?"

"Not yet."

Farrow looked at Otis. "Gimme that phone book over there, Roman. The D.C. edition."

Otis handed him the directory that was on the desk. Farrow flipped through the pages, found the one he was looking for, and folded the book open so that Wilson could see it.

"Here's Jonas, right here," said Farrow. "On Hamlin Street. Now give me that detail map over there, Roman."

Otis did it, and Farrow turned to the page representing Northeast.

"You said Jonas lived in Brookland, right, T. W.? Well, here's Hamlin Street, smack in the middle of the Brookland neighborhood, right here." Farrow dropped the detail map back on the desk. "Funny how easy it was to find Jonas. I walked into a Seven-Eleven this morning and got the information out of a book just like this in a minute flat. You know, he was in the phone book all the time."

"I didn't think to look in the directory, Frank," said Wilson, trying to put some levity in his voice. "I mean, who would would have thought -" have thought -"

"You didn't think. Or maybe you were just trying to avoid more trouble." Farrow stood and walked over to Wilson. Wilson seemed to shrink before him. "I know you don't like conflict, T. W. But when I ask you to do something, I expect it to be done."

"Listen, Frank -"

"Don't let it bother you, all right? Wouldn't want your nerves to get the better of you." Farrow removed his black-rimmed nonprescription gla.s.ses. "Now. How's it going on our upcoming prospects?"

"Working on that," said Wilson. "Been out in the clubs, listenin' to people talk. Gonna find something real good for the two of you, you'll see."

"You been clubbin', huh?" said Otis. "Must be gettin' a lot of p.u.s.s.y, too, with that up-to-the-minute look you got goin' on."

"Find something soon," said Farrow. "We don't want to be here any longer than we have to." Farrow checked his watch. "Come on, let's see how they're getting along out there."

"I'll just wait here," said Otis, "let my legs straighten out for a while."

Farrow and Wilson walked back out to the garage. Going around the corner, they nearly b.u.mped into Manuel and Jaime and a man in a brown leather jacket they were talking to. The man's eyes widened slightly at the sight of Wilson.

"Hey," said the man in a friendly way.

"How you doin'?" said Wilson.

"Nick Stefanos," said the man, extending his hand. "Remember?"

Wilson remembered. It was that investigator, Dimitri's friend, the one from the meeting last Tuesday night.

Nick Stefanos found the street called Selim in downtown Silver Spring and parked his ride outside Hanagan's Auto Body behind a late-model Chrysler product. He rang the bell beside the door of the unmarked bay located between Hanagan's and Rossi Automotive, and zipped up his leather as he waited. The door opened and a short, black-haired, Indian-featured Hispanic stood in the frame. The name "Manuel" was st.i.tched across his uniform shirt.

"Yes?"

"Nick Stefanos. I'm an investigator with the District of Columbia." Stefanos flipped open the leather cover and let Manuel inspect his ID. "Do you have a minute? I have a couple of questions."

Manuel looked over his shoulder and back at Stefanos. He knew Stefanos was not a cop, but the investigator tag had raised the red authority flag in his mind. This was Stefanos's intent. If this Manuel was like most people, he'd let Stefanos have his minute, if only to get rid of him for good.

"What is this?"

"A case I'm working on for the courts."

"A court case?"

Stefanos decided to cut right to it. This one's sh.e.l.l looked hard enough.

"It's not about you or your business," said Stefanos. "I'm not IRS and I'm not immigration. I'm just trying to locate a particular car."

"What kind of car?"

"A Ford." Stefanos blew into his hands. "Look, can I come in and warm up?"

Manuel looked him over. "Come on. But I have much work to do today, okay?"

"I'll be quick."

As they entered, Stefanos saw a mechanic in the back of the garage quickly pull a tarp over an early-seventies, muscled-up Mustang. Stefanos only saw the car for a couple of seconds, but the lines were unmistakable. Stefanos walked toward the mechanic, whose obvious, urgent action had sparked his curiosity. Manuel walked beside him.

"You're Manuel Ruiz, right?"

"Yes," said Manuel, clearly perturbed. "How do you know this?"

"Al Adamson. You know Al, don't you?"

"Si. The Continental man."

Stefanos kept walking. The mechanic met them past an entrance-way to a hall of some kind. All of them stepped around a corner.

"You must be Jaime Gutierrez," said Stefanos. He noticed the teardrop tattoos on the side of Jaime's bony face.

"Yes," said Jaime, glancing nervously at his partner.

"I won't keep you guys. I'm trying to locate an old Torino. A special-edition Ford called the Twister, red -"

Jaime spoke Spanish to Manuel, and then Manuel said, "We know of no such car."

"You guys specialize in Ford restorations, right?"

"We do not know this car," said Manuel. "I do know of a Torino man, though. On Route One in Laurel."

"Who is it?"

Manuel gave him the man's name and the location of his garage. Stefanos was writing it down when he heard the voices of two other men, and then the men, one white and one black, were right upon them as they turned the corner.

Stefanos recognized the black man. It was Thomas Wilson, one of the guys from Dimitri's group.

"Hey," said Stefanos.

"How you doin'?" said Wilson with a shaky smile.

"Nick Stefanos. Remember?"

"I forgot something in the office," said the white man, walking back around the corner.

Stefanos speed-scanned the man before he turned: medium height, solid build, flat eyes, thin lips, a Ca.s.savetes type with dyed-black hair and Clark Kent gla.s.ses on his lined face.

"What you doin' here, man?" said Wilson in a friendly way.

"I'm working a case. How about you?"

Wilson spread his hands. "Gettin' my car checked out."

"Thought you drove a Dodge," said Stefanos, realizing then that it was Wilson's car he had parked behind out on Selim. "This is a Ford shop, isn't it?"

Wilson forced a grin. "Yeah, but my boys here... they make an exception when it comes to my short."

"Okay." Stefanos closed his notebook. "Well, I've gotta run. Thanks for your time, Manuel. Take it easy, Thomas."

"Yeah, man, take it light."

Stefanos shook Manuel's hand. He nodded to Jaime and Wilson and walked from the garage.

Driving back into D.C., he thought of the teardrop tattoos on Jaime's face: prison tats, or those from a gang. He thought of the odd, hard man who had rushed off. He thought of Thomas Wilson, a Dodge man, getting his car done in a Ford restoration shop. He wondered what Wilson was doing hanging around these men. And he had that crazy feeling again, the same feeling he'd had the night of the meeting: the feeling that something was not right.

TWENTY-SEVEN.

AFTER THE MAN in the brown leather jacket had gone, Frank Farrow and Roman Otis emerged from the office and crossed the garage. in the brown leather jacket had gone, Frank Farrow and Roman Otis emerged from the office and crossed the garage.

Farrow said to Thomas Wilson, "Who was that?"