Chapter 5
Chapter Five
The Porsche was easy to follow. It stood out in traffic like a diamond in a pile of coal, and the driver didn’t seem overly concerned with whether anyone was tailing him.
There were no unexpected turns and no evasive maneuvers.
He drove with the casual arrogance of someone who believed he was untouchable, and I’m not sure he looked in the rearview mirror even once.
It was upscale Italian, the kind of place where the cheapest entrée starts at forty dollars and the wine list requires a sommelier to decode.
I’d been there once with David, years ago, for some business dinner I’d spent the entire evening trying not to fall asleep during.
I couldn’t recall the details, other than the mind-numbing boredom, but David must have been trying to impress someone, probably a prospective client whose money he wanted, because when it came to Italian food, I knew he preferred the heartier fare at Fidelio’s.
The vintage Porsche pulled into the lot behind the restaurant.
I idled at the curb, watching as the driver grabbed his briefcase and legged it across the parking lot to the rear of the building.
I waited, but when he didn’t reappear, I assumed he must have gone inside through a secondary entrance back there.
Maybe he was a particularly favored patron, someone who was allowed to come and go through the private door in the back.
Or maybe he wasn’t a patron at all. Maybe he was Mr. Sambuca, or whoever the owner of the place was. Or a friend of the family, with entrance privileges, arriving late for lunch after discharging an unpleasant duty.
I could go inside to try to get a better look at him.
Maybe I could figure out who he was meeting, if he was having lunch with someone.
But I was in jeans and a sweater, hardly dressed for Sambuca’s midday crowd, and there was a good chance I’d be too noticeable, anyway.
I don’t blend well under the best of circumstances.
It’s the hair. Redheads tend to stand out, even when we try to be inconspicuous.
No, I decided. I had his photograph, and one of his license plate.
With that, I could get his name from the DMV.
And if I wanted a look inside Sambuca again, I could come back later, when I was more appropriately dressed.
Mr. Porsche might not be here then, but then again he might.
If he was, I’d know he was affiliated with the restaurant somehow.
And if he wasn’t… well, then I hoped he’d had a nice lunch.
I pulled out my phone and sent the images I had taken, both of the Porsche and its driver, to Rachel with a instructions to try to match them. After that, and Rachel’s confirmation that she’d get right on it, I pulled up my recent text messages and found Greg Newsome’s name.
Change of plans for tonight? I typed. Would you be up for Sambuca’s instead of Fidelio’s? Have you ever been there?
His response came back almost immediately.
Sure. Any particular reason?
I hesitated, then typed: Work-related. I’ll explain tonight.
Intriguing, he sent back. I’ll pick you up at seven.
I smiled despite myself and put the phone away. Then I took one last look at Sambuca’s entrance and started the Toyota.
Back at the Body Shop I found a different spot to park, this time on a side street with a view of the lot but less exposed than the Taco Bell. The afternoon stretched ahead of me, and I settled in for what I expected to be more tedious waiting.
I was right about the tedious part, although not about the waiting being uneventful.
Nick was still carrying on, and still looked a bit like he was carrying the world on his shoulders.
Whatever had happened earlier, didn’t seem to have helped at all.
Through the open bay doors, I could see him moving with the mechanical efficiency of someone who could do his job in his sleep, but his head kept turning toward the office every few minutes.
Sal was still alive, anyway, and with no harm done to him, because around three, the office door opened and he and Megan came out.
She was carrying her purse and Sal was carrying the flimsy plastic bag from earlier, around something that wasn’t a Styrofoam container from the Panda Palace.
They both got into Sal’s car—another pickup, but a newer model than Daniel’s, unless it was just the Body Shop that kept it looking new and shiny.
I gave them a few seconds’ head start before pulling out after them.
Friday afternoon traffic on Charlotte Avenue was thick, but they didn’t go far. Just a few minutes later, Sal flipped on his turn signal and rolled into the parking lot of a Regions Bank branch. I turned into the Mercado across the street, and prepared to wait.
Sal found a spot near the bank’s entrance and cut the engine.
By the time he opened the door and hopped down, the plastic bag was gone and all he had in his hand was a navy blue deposit bag—the kind with a zipper and a lock—that looked satisfyingly full.
It must have been a successful business week at the Body Shop.
I watched as he limped into the bank. (The limp wasn’t new, either. He’d had it when I first saw him this morning.)
Megan stayed in the truck, and I could just make out the glow of her phone in the gloom inside the cab. She was scrolling through something, it seemed. Maybe Facebook. If I only knew her last name, I could check her social media and maybe get a clue as to what was going on.
She didn’t look particularly concerned about being a bodyguard, if that was her task here. But then again, it was broad daylight on a Friday afternoon in a bank parking lot. Not exactly a high-risk situation, at least not unless a bank robber decided to take this opportunity to strike.
Still, it struck me as odd. Sal looked like he could take care of himself just fine, and if he couldn’t, he had at least three or four mechanics working for him who looked like they could bench-press a Buick. Any one of them would have been a more intimidating presence than Megan.
But maybe they had a closer relationship than employer and employee.
She could be his niece, for all I knew, or the daughter of his best friend from the army.
She could be his own daughter. Anything at all was possible—practically anything at all—so it was fruitless to speculate when I had none of the information I needed.
Five minutes passed. Then five more. Finally, Sal emerged from the bank, the deposit bag noticeably deflated and tucked under his arm. He climbed back into the truck, and they went on their way.
I followed them back to the Body Shop, where they both disappeared into the office. I checked my watch. It was four-fifteen, and the Body Shop closed at five, if the sign in the window was accurate. Then again, who knew if someone might leave early?
Work was continuing, but it wasn’t long before I noticed a change from earlier.
When a mechanic finished up work on one car, he wouldn’t pull another one into the bay and get started on it.
He’d go into someone else’s bay instead, and help finish the work there.
At one point, there were four of them crowded around a tiny Prius, all of them bumping heads over its equally tiny engine.
Until they all stood up, dusted off their hands, and one of them slammed the hood down.
And the Prius went back into the lot. Ten minutes later, the Prius’s owner showed up and drove it away.
About a quarter to five, Zachary called. “I’m in the lot down the street.”
“I’m outside the Taco Bell,” I told him. “I’ll take Megan tonight. You take Nick. Follow him home, or wherever else he goes. If that isn’t home, stick with him until he gets there, or if it looks like he’s spending the night somewhere else, make note of where that somewhere else is.”
“I know the drill, Gina,” Zachary said.
“Of course you do. Just don’t lose him, and make sure he doesn’t see you.”
Zachary rolled his eyes. I could hear it in his voice. “Yes, Mom.”
I ignored the snark. “Once he’s settled for the night, you can go home. Do you have plans for tomorrow?”
“Not if you need me for something,” Zachary said.
“You can take the morning shift at the Body Shop, then. They’re only open from eight to noon.”
And chances were that no one interesting would be here.
Megan probably didn’t work on weekends, and who knew if Nick did?
And Zachary was always excited to do anything that looked like real PI work, no matter how boring it was.
I might as well let him. Especially when it meant I didn’t have to hurry home tonight.
“Hot date?” Zachary wanted to know.
“Not that it’s any of your business,” I answered, “but yes, I’m meeting Greg for dinner.”
Zachary muttered something. I decided not to ask him what it was. “Anything else?”
“Two things,” Zachary said. “Rachel said to tell you the Porsche is registered to a corporation. Something Syracuse, LLC.”
“Something?”
“It was Italian,” Zachary said. “I don’t know.”
“Is it headquartered in Syracuse, too? The corporation?”
Plenty of Italians in Syracuse. Plenty of Italians all over New York, for that matter.
“No,” Zachary said. “It’s local. She told me the address, but I can’t remember it.”
“That’s all right. I’ll get it from her.” I didn’t have time to deal with it right now anyway. “Do you see her?”
There was a pause while Zachary observed things from his vantage point. From mine, Megan had just emerged from the office, this time carrying a handful of white envelopes.
“Paychecks,” Zachary said, “most likely.”
I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. I had had a look around for his car, but hadn’t been able to lay eyes on it. That was a good sign.