Chapter 43
I DIDN’T WANT to panic. In the history of the world, nothing had ever been made better by panic. That being said, it was extremely unnerving to have no idea where Gary Trilling had disappeared to.
Rob Trilling kept trying his brother on his cell phone without success. He started pacing in the parking lot and running his hand over his head. It was the most agitated I’d ever seen him. He’d always been cool, even under fire.
I glanced around what I could see of the sleepy little town in every direction, then looked at Trilling and said, “You better call the sheriff’s office.”
“They don’t respond very fast out here.”
“We may be in a situation where they need to watch the roads for a kidnapping.”
Trilling bit his lower lip. He started to dial 911, then paused and lifted his head like he heard something I didn’t. Which is exactly what happened. His ears had picked up the hum of a vehicle before I could hear anything at all.
Then a cream-colored 1968 Chevy Camaro whipped around the corner. By the time it passed a small redbrick building, I definitely could hear it. The car roared onto the lot, tires screeching as the driver mashed the brakes and brought it to a perfect stop right next to the parked Humvee.
A man slowly emerged from the passenger side of the car, looking like he might be a little shaky on his feet.
Then the driver’s door burst open. I could hear the driver laughing as soon as the door opened.
The driver, a good-looking man in his mid or late thirties, turned to his passenger and said, “I’ll take it. Cash.”
The man was tall and lean. His sandy hair was styled, not cut.
He was actually wearing driving gloves. Gloves in this weather was no surprise, but I was doubtful those provided much warmth.
Maybe that’s why he immediately thrust his hands into the pockets of a fancy all-weather jacket.
Personally, I was wishing I had mittens.
Trilling walked over and checked on the other man, who I assumed was his brother, Gary. I followed so that we were all standing between the Humvee and the classic Camaro.
For the first time, the sun was out in full force. Not that it was warm. Far from it. With the sun and decreased wind, standing outside was at least tolerable. I had all my cold-weather gear on me, but this was a different kind of cold than I usually experienced in New York City.
Gary Trilling looked at his brother. “Mr. Marks here wanted to go for a test-drive in the Camaro I bought from that Air Force colonel.” Gary still appeared a little flustered.
Trilling was clearly in no mood to treat Arnold Marks like a normal car buyer. “You think we can’t figure out who burned down the office and killed our friend Lillian?”
The man held his gloved hands up in front of him and splayed his fingers. “I had nothing to do with the fire. I heard it was an accident. Poor wiring from when the office was built.”
No one said anything. I could see Trilling working through something in his head. That made me a bit nervous. I hoped he wasn’t about to do something rash. I tried to give him a little calming nod of my head.
Then Arnold Marks looked toward me and asked, “And who is this?”
I made no effort to offer my hand but said, “My name is Mike Bennett. I’m considering buying a stake in the car lot.”
That got a better reaction than I’d expected.