Part 28 (2/2)
”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 s.h.i.+rt.
”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?”
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