by J W Becton
All the evils of the car repair world could be dispatched in twenty minutes. The problem is that they wanted to charge me as if they had purchased new parts instead of camouflaging the damage to the old ones.
Nice.
So I spent the day smiling, nodding, and generally playing dumb with each mechanic I met, and I came away with quotes ranging from $3,000 to $4,500.
Now, how did four body shops, supposedly staffed by professional mechanics, come up with costs that varied so widely for the same repairs on the same vehicle?
Because they knew how to game the system, that’s why.
Good lord, was there anyone out there not trying to bilk someone out of something?
On my way to the last garage—Allred Racing and Repair—I met up with Vincent at a strip mall parking lot. We knew Eddie Wohl had an association with this final shop. After all, he had given me the business card and claimed to be employed there. And if we found Eddie at work today, we intended to invite him down to the DOI for some questioning and light refreshments.
Okay, not so much the latter, but we did want to question him in connection with the fraud ring.
I wanted Vincent with me as backup in case Eddie decided he didn’t want to accept my invitation like a Southern gentleman.
I pulled my sedan parallel to Vincent’s BMW and rolled down the window, letting in an icy blast of air. I cranked up the heater in defense and leaned out slightly.
“Let me guess,” Vincent said in lieu of a greeting, “you feel like you’re in need of a good delousing.”
I laughed. “You have no idea. Do honest mechanics even exist?”
“I haven’t found one,” he said with a shrug, “and their prices are all over the place.”
“Ditto that.”
Frankly, I was relieved to know that mechanics weren’t just targeting women; they’d also gone after Mr. Don’t-Screw-with-Me Mark Vincent. So at least they were equal-opportunity jackasses.
I rubbed a knot in my neck, cursed Zoren, and sighed. Maybe I should get another massage—a real one—to recover from the first.
“So, are you ready?” I asked, dropping my hand back to the wheel.
Finishing at the last garage would officially end the greater part of our undercover work, or at least make any future identifications as Janet Aliff and Chris Caffrey more dangerous, but Dr. Keller had received threats. That meant he was compromised as a source, and we needed to bring in the guilty parties as soon as possible in order to protect him from some sort of retaliation.
It was time, and besides, our undercover work had been successful. We had accumulated a suspect list as long as I-75, and we were at the point in the investigation where we needed to start putting asses in seats and demanding answers.
“Yeah,” Vincent said, nodding. “I’ll park nearby and observe.”
“If I see Wohl, I’ll sing out,” I said. “Assuming nothing goes wrong, I’ll meet you back at the DOI.”
I gave Vincent a head start so that he could be set up before I arrived at Allred Racing, and by the time I pulled into the lot, he was nowhere in sight.
One look around the parking area revealed that this place was more racing than repair. Filled with cars of various makes and models—from imports to classic American muscle—the lot was a testament to speed and flame graphics. I ended up parking beside a tricked-out Honda Civic that made my blue sedan look anemic.
Why was it always Honda Civics that ended up with the trumpet mufflers and wild paint jobs? I wasn’t an expert, but I didn’t think the motor in a Civic backed up all that window dressing.
Shrugging, I trekked into the office, and the bell above the door tinkled as I entered, announcing my presence in a room that was dominated by the sounds of air wrenches and loud Southern rock.
I was surprised anyone heard the chime at all.
“Hey, I’ll be with you in a moment,” said a smallish young man wearing a gray-and-blue-striped workman’s shirt and a name tag that said Mike. He went back to leaning over the counter and scribbling on a work order form.
Behind Mike stood a large plate-glass window with a view into the garage itself. From what I could tell, there were five bays, and four of them had cars up on lifts in various stages of undress. The place looked busy.
A mechanic opened the glass door behind the counter and popped his head inside.
“Mike, when you’re done up here, could you come take a look at the rear end on the Ford? It might be a candidate for dusting.”
I glanced between them, wondering if he was actually talking about what I thought: using sawdust to quiet the damaged, worn rear end of a vehicle without actually repairing it. If so, they were blatantly discussing a fraud in front of me.
Morons.
The other mechanic looked at me and winked, and I blinked back innocently while making a mental note to ask for a tour of the garage, just to see what I could see.
Finally, Mike waved a dismissive hand at the other mechanic and looked up at me.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
I started the same spiel I’d rehearsed four times already that day.
“I’m here to get a quote on some repair work for my car. I was in an accident, and I need some prices for my insurance adjuster.”
“Okay, well, accidents happen,” he said, smiling sympathetically as he wandered around the counter. “Let’s have a look.”
I led Mike outside into the misty afternoon, and as we walked toward the sedan, he asked, “How did you hear about us?”
“A guy named Eddie witnessed the accident. Gave me your card. Said he worked here and that he’d get this fixed right up,” I explained, pointing to the sedan. “Is he here?”
“’Fraid not,” Mike said as he rounded the car, taking it all in. “He’s been out sick the last few days.”
He let out a whistle when he saw the air bag situation.
“Yeah, that sucks right there. That where you got the black eye?” he said, gesturing at the wheel.
Apparently, my fancy new liquid concealer wasn’t concealing as well as I’d hoped.
“Yeah,” I confirmed.
He circled to the front of the sedan.
“Interesting,” he said. “I was expecting more damage up front, given that the air bag went off. You must have had a faulty unit.”
“Don’t I know it?” I said, giving a quick laugh. “We weren’t going that fast, and the thing still smacked me.”
“These older models don’t have the same graduated system that newer cars do. When they go off, it’s with the same force whether you’re going fifteen or fifty-five.”
Mike got down on the ground, sliding across the wet pavement and under the engine compartment of the car.
“I don’t see any damage to the frame,” he said from below.
“Like I said, it was a slow-speed accident.”
“Best to check anyway,” he said as he used the bumper to pull himself out and studied the body damage from the lower angle. “I don’t want to hit your insurance company with a bill twice the size of the estimate. You said you were insured, right?”
“Yes, for all the good that’ll do,” I lamented.
Mike stood, brushed off his shirt, and pointed me inside.
“Come on in and I’ll write you up an estimate real quick.”
“Sure,” I said as I walked beside him. I paused in front of the Civic beside me, turning as if I wanted to take a closer look.
“I noticed a lot of sports cars here,” I said. “Not many others are bashed up like mine.”
“Yeah,” he said, following my lead like a proper Southern gentleman and pausing to explain. “We do body work, but we also do custom jobs: blowers, headers, turbos.”
“For drag racers?” I asked as I began walking again, this time purposely leading him along the outskirts of the garage bays so that I could peek inside.
“Most of our repeat clients are racers.”
“I didn’t know there was a drag strip in
Mercer.”
I glanced over to find him studying me openly, so I smiled and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
I’m so coy.
He grinned back at me.
“There’s two or three paved drag strips in the surrounding counties, but folks sometimes get together casually to run their cars for fun.”
“Oh,” I said, making a mental note to sniff around the MPD for reports of illegal drag racing in the area. “Sounds exciting.”
Usually, illegal drag racing and auto insurance fraud went hand in hand. If auto fraud were taking place in conjunction with this particular shop, and clearly it was, then maybe it connected to illegal drag racing if it took place anywhere nearby. It couldn’t hurt to check. And that might mean that previously unrelated complaints—ranging from “discount” auto parts being used in full-cost repairs to a rise in stolen, stripped, and abandoned vehicles—might actually be related to the fraud ring.
Lord, Ted would be so pleased.
“Racing is my passion,” Mike said. “Cars, motorcycles, boats, you name it. If it has an engine and goes fast, I’m there.”
“Why do you still do body work?”
“Bread and butter. It pays the bills,” he said. “And speaking of….”
Mike took the lead now, and we headed into the front office, where he got busy totaling up his estimate, which came in at $3,500: neither a low-ball figure nor a jacked-up estimate.
“And this includes everything? New parts, paint, the works?” I asked. “No extras will be tacked on at the end?”
“No, ma’am,” he said. “If we see a need for any other repairs, we’ll let you know before we proceed.”
“Okay,” I said. “Well, I’ll get back to you after I hear from my insurance company.”
I met back up with Vincent at the DOI, where I found him pacing the parking lot with his hands clasped behind his back.
I buttoned my overcoat and joined him in the misty afternoon.
“What’s up?” I asked, striding alongside him.
When he didn’t respond, I asked, “Something wrong?”
“Not sure,” he muttered.
I grabbed his arm, and he stopped pacing at least.
“That Honda Civic you parked next to at Allred,” he said. “It’s Justin’s.”
I blinked at him as a thousand different thoughts went through my mind.
“Does that mean anything other than the fact that he took it there to be repaired?” I asked, and then, recalling the flames that emblazoned the side of the car, I added, “Or that he has really poor taste in automotive paint?”
“I don’t know what it means, but some of the options aren’t all that attractive.”
“And I haven’t even told you about the drag racing yet,” I added quietly, not wanting to bring up the possibility. “Mike said that the garage specializes in it, and he hinted that there were some ‘informal clubs’ that get together to race. He said most of their clients are racers.”
Vincent shook his head but said nothing, and I was left wondering how to fill the strained silence. I could imagine his thoughts. Didn’t parents always think the worst first? He was probably imagining Justin throwing in with the fraud ring, acting as a runner or crash dummy maybe, getting paid under the table and twisting the knife in his father’s back a bit in the process. Or maybe he was a budding drag racer, which really wasn’t the smartest idea either.
Honestly, I couldn’t imagine Justin becoming involved in this sort of organized, criminal fraud, even if he wanted to get back at Vincent in some adolescent fashion, but I could believe he had stolen some college tests and was a wannabe drag racer.
“It’s probably completely innocent,” I offered, trying to be honest and yet equivocating at the same time, but Vincent didn’t appear assuaged. “He’s probably in it for the cars. There’s likely nothing to worry about.”
“Given his recent history of poor decision-making, I wouldn’t put much past him,” Vincent finally managed to say.
I knew he was talking more to himself than to me, but I answered anyway.
“Yeah, there is that,” I agreed, thinking of my own sister and her disastrous choices since she became an adult.
Vincent shook his head but again remained silent, and I got the feeling that he was doing some heavy mental gymnastics, calculating how worried he ought to be about Justin. Wondering if he were making too much of the situation.
“I’m going to have to talk to him….”
His voice trailed off, and he ruffled his hair in no particular pattern, causing the close-cropped strands to curl slightly at the ends. He turned and paced in the opposite direction before I could respond. I knew he was wrung out about his son, but I couldn’t help finding him just the slightest bit adorable.
His vulnerability always softened me up.
I trotted after him as he continued to speak.
“…don’t want to accuse him of anything, but goddammit, I’ve been a cop too long to think he’s just there having his oil changed, not with his current antics. You don’t go to a drag-racing shop unless you have a real reason to be there.”
I nodded mutely, still trotting. He turned and paced back in the opposite direction, and I stopped, watched his retreating back.
“This isn’t the way….”
Vincent’s head turned, looking for me, and he realized I was no longer following along. He stopped, turned fully, and looked at me, head tilted in confusion. His unrelenting blue eyes stared into mine as if he might find the solution to his problems somewhere in my brain.
“This isn’t the way I wanted this to be. I came to Mercer knowing the best I could hope for was to become my son’s friend. What else could I ask for after what I did?”
I wasn’t completely competent in the family department, so I didn’t respond, and he strode back toward me, stopping a few paces from where I stood.
“It started out so well, but then….”
Without finishing the sentence, he looked away.
“He doesn’t want me to be his father.”
I felt my stomach twist at the dejection in his tone.
“Yes, he does,” I said, walking a step closer. “He does. Make contact with him.”
Of course, I had no clue what Justin wanted or didn’t want from his father, but I knew what Vincent needed to hear.
I searched his face, but he kept his gaze focused on the ground.
Finally, he said, “I like it better when your family is the screwed-up one.”
Nineteen
Blond, helpless, and innocent as an angel: Keller’s daughter was Lacarova’s worst nightmare.
Parked across the street from a public playground in somebody else’s Acura Integra, Lacarova watched the little girl, feeling like some kind of child-diddling pervert and certain that some nosy neighbor was probably already looking for his picture in the sex-offender registry.
Well, they sure as hell weren’t going to find him among those psychos. He may have done a shitload of wrong, but he was no sexual deviate.
And after this, he wouldn’t be a criminal anymore either. No siree. He was done with that life now.
Well, after taking care of the kid anyway.
He glanced at his watch, wishing he were at the shop or back in bed or anywhere but here. He’d skipped out on work and instead spent the morning watching the doc’s house, waiting for his opportunity, just as the boss had commanded. He’d seen Mrs. Keller leave, but Dr. Keller had apparently taken the day off from his doctorly duties. His Navigator remained in the driveway, mocking Lacarova.
He was supposed to kill a kid while her father was home.
Sure thing. No problem.
Ha.
So he just sat there, watching nothing happen until around midmorning, when a redheaded teenage girl slouched down the street and rang the doc’s doorbell. She shivered on the doorstep for a few minutes, refusing to zip her puffy coat against the cold.
After Red was admitted to the house
, Dr. Keller left on his golf cart, clubs in tow, headed to the neighborhood course. Lacarova supposed it was a good day for golf, and it meant the doc would be gone for hours, so the kid must be under the care of babysitter Red.
And as a bonus, Red didn’t appear to be the sharpest knife in the drawer.
Knowing his opportunity had arrived in an unzipped puffy coat, Lacarova remained where he was, debating what to do next. He was supposed to make it look like an accident, run the girl down in the street, so breaking into the house was out. He didn’t think even the cops would be dumb enough to believe a break-in/hit-and-run combo to be accidental.
He needed the kid to come to him.
About twenty minutes later, that’s exactly what happened. A herd of pimply, posturing teens descended upon the corner park, taking up residence on playground equipment far too small for their gangly forms, and Lacarova knew what would happen next.
And yes, within minutes of the herd’s arrival, the front door of the Kellers’ house opened, and out popped Red with a pastel-clad little girl in tow. Literally.
Red had the girl by the hand and was practically dragging her down the street toward her teen friends, who were calling to her from the park.
It seemed cold for a playtime, but hey, he wouldn’t complain.
Shrugging, he watched and waited for his opportunity.
God, the Keller girl was tiny. Couldn’t be more than three years old. She toddled along behind Red, her purple coat fastened securely and her tights-clad legs moving as fast as they could beneath her pink skirt. A matching pink backpack bounced beneath her blond curls. She was a goddamn doll.
He closed his eyes against the image of the child as something clenched inside him.
This was definitely going to be his last job for the boss. Afterward, he was getting out from under her control, one way or the other.
He had to do this.
Had to.
Lacarova dragged his palm across his brow, mopping up the cold sweat that had suddenly oozed onto his skin.
