Chapter 38
It was a little before seven A.M . when Charlie dropped us off in front of Ramón’s garage. We unloaded my suitcase out of Charlie’s back seat. He didn’t bother to shut off the engine or say good-bye, and we watched as he drove off with Vero’s suitcase in his trunk.
“All my hoodies are in that bag.” Smears of soot framed her scowl, and her hair was a nest of snarls.
“Not all of them,” I reminded her. We’d had to put some of her clothes in my suitcase to make room for the money in hers. She kicked the asphalt as Charlie’s Cadillac disappeared from sight.
Her drenched sneakers made squelching sounds as she dumped her fire blanket in a trash can beside the door to the garage. “When Sylvia finally pays you, we’re using your advance to buy me shoes.”
I glanced down at myself. We both looked like we’d been spit from a volcano.
“Should we be here?” I asked as she unlocked the gate to the salvage yard. I set my suitcase down beside it.
“The garage doesn’t open for another two hours,” she said, plucking the padlock from the chain.
“The money in that duffel bag didn’t come from the Aston, which means that car is still here.
And, thanks to Stu, your detective boyfriend has a list of all of Feliks’s shell companies, and yours is probably on it.
If Javi couldn’t get rid of the Aston, we’ll have to do it ourselves. ”
The chain rattled as she pushed the gate open.
I followed her through the maze of squashed chassis and disembodied auto parts, pausing when we passed a familiar tower of crushed cars.
Vero and I stepped around a suspicious patch of motor oil, conveniently spilled where Ike’s body had been.
“Wonder what they did with him,” I said quietly.
Vero shuddered. “For both our sakes, I hope we never find out.”
Our feet dragged on our way to the shed. The weight of everything that had happened this week—of everything we had learned during the brief time we’d spent in Charlie’s car—was impossible to carry, or even make sense of, on so little sleep.
Vero popped the lock on the shed, drawing the doors open wide. We stood side by side, staring at the dusty blades of sunlight that sliced through the cracks in the ceiling to the tire tracks on the empty floor.
“I’m. Going. To. Kill him!” Vero threw down the padlock, turning back to the parking lot, her gait fast and her eyes wild. “I’m going to run over him with my car and set him on fire!”
“Maybe don’t say that out loud,” I shushed her. My wet soles chafed my heels as I hurried to keep up.
“He stole our car!”
“You’re assuming the worst. We have no reason to believe that.”
“ You have no reason to believe that,” she reminded me.
“Maybe you should give him the benefit of the doubt. He probably just moved the car. He probably worked things out with his buyer and he’s just running late with the money. Try calling him.”
“I have called him, Finlay! Seventeen times! And I’ve been texting him for hours!”
“It’s early. He’s probably asleep.”
“When I find him, I’m going to throw a Molotov cocktail through his window!”
I cringed, slamming into her back as she jolted to a stop in front of the gate. She looked up at the security camera mounted above it. Her fists clenched as she turned on her heels, storming toward the back door of the garage.
She fumbled over her keys as she rushed to unlock it, mumbling to herself in short, irate bites about Javi.
How he was a no-good, selfish thief and a liar.
How he disappeared whenever it was convenient for him.
The door banged into the wall as Vero shoved her way inside.
I chased her down the hall as she slapped on the lights and dropped into the chair behind the desk in her cousin’s office.
She scooted close to the monitor and wiggled the mouse, clicking windows open.
Two sets of video footage popped open on the screen: the gate to the salvage yard on the left and the parking lot on the right.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m doing exactly what you said, giving him the benefit of the doubt. And when I see him drive that car off the lot, I’m going to his apartment and I’m going to strangle him with your hair dryer cord.”
Vero dragged her cursor over a scroll bar.
The grainy black-and-white images on the monitor moved rapidly in reverse.
The parking lot was dark, the gate locked.
A raccoon’s eyes glowed as it waddled backward across the screen.
Vero paused the footage as Javi’s black Camaro pulled into the lot.
Vero pushed the Play button. We watched as Javi got out of his car and unlocked the gate.
He appeared a moment later in the second window, his image captured by the second camera as he strode into the salvage yard.
Vero stiffened, slowing the video as two figures snuck up behind him.
There was a burst of motion, and we both gasped as Javi slumped and hit the ground.
The men knelt beside him, rummaging in his pockets before stepping over him and moving deeper into the salvage yard.
Vero sped up the footage, ten minutes passing in a handful of seconds.
She slowed the recording as a set of headlights approached the gate and the Aston rolled to a stop in front of Javi’s motionless body.
The two men got out of the car. Exhaust billowed from the tailpipe, the headlights illuminating them as they bound Javi’s wrists and ankles, dragged him to the back of the Aston, and tossed him into the trunk. Vero didn’t breathe as the car drove out of the gate.
Neither of us moved. We watched as the Aston appeared on the right side of the screen.
The passenger door opened. One of the men got out.
He climbed into a familiar Audi with New Jersey license tags.
The Audi’s headlights came on, and we watched as the driver followed the Aston out of the parking lot.
Vero blinked at the screen. Then she deleted the footage. Every frame.
“Vero? What are you doing?”
“Get your suitcase,” she said, swiping a set of keys from her cousin’s desk. “We’re going to Atlantic City.”