Free Fourth Victim by Reed Farrel Coleman Page A

eighties?”
    “Not much fun getting a gun stuck in your face, no matter who’s doing it.”
    “Sorry again about the gun.”
    “I’m not judging you, Jack. I just wanna stop the killing.”
    “Okay.”
    “One question about Albie. You said he was paying to bring his family up from Mexico, that he put money down on a house, and that you were looking to sell him the business. That’s a big nut to carry for an oil man, any oil man, even for a hard working one. You sure he wasn’t going down the South Shore or out east doing some deliveries for cash? They did find him in Mastic.”
    “Look, even if I didn’t trust Albie—which I did—I’m a meticulous person. What, you think only my trucks are clean? Look at my coveralls, for goodness sake; clean like new. From the day I started as an owner, I’ve been a hard-on about paperwork. I made my guys keep mileage logs. I check the odometers every night. I keep records of every gallon of number two oil bought, pumped, and spilled and of every gallon of diesel used to run the trucks. Since the cops impounded Albie’s truck, that’s the most time that rig has spent out of my sight since I bought her. Whoever buys my equipment from me will know everything about it. So if Albie was running side jobs and stealing my oil to do it, he was either a magician or a criminal genius.”
    “Fair enough,” Healy said. “I guess you better get on the road. Glad we met and, again, too bad about Albie.”
    “No sweat.” Peterson turned to go back to his truck.
    “Jack,” Healy called after him.
    “What?”
    “I’m looking to get my daughter’s fender fixed. Noonan’s Collision any good?”
    “Used to be before the father moved to Ft. Myers last year. Now his kid runs it.”
    “What’s wrong with the kid?”
    “Take a look inside the shop. I gotta go.” With that, Jack Peterson closed the cab door, put the Mack in gear, and rumbled by.
    When the truck was gone, Healy walked around front and took a look through the glass of the shop doors. The reasons behind Peterson’s less than ringing endorsement of the body shop were painfully evident. Loose tools, uncovered paint cans, body filler cans were all over the place. The tape job on the Subaru in one of the bays was careless and uneven. Very sloppy.
    “Can I help you?”
    Healy turned to face the heavyset blond Serpe had described to him the night before. The splint on her hand was hard to miss even with it down at her side.
    “Yes, hi, I was just talking to the oil guy and he recommended you guys to fix my kid’s Honda. Dented fender.”
    She flashed the smile Joe had mentioned. “No problem.”
    “I don’t know about that. We’ve got a five hundred dollar deductable.”
    “Like I said, no problem. We’ll just bury it in the estimate.” Nice, Healy thought, offering to commit insurance fraud before your first cup of coffee of the day. They exchanged pleasantries while she opened the shop, turned off the alarm, and flipped over the OPEN sign.
    “Almost seven-thirty on a Saturday morning. Must be a busy day. I’m surprised you guys don’t get in earlier.”
    “Yeah, I know, but the boss lives out east and—” “The Hamptons?” Healy cut her off.
    She laughed. “The Hamptons, that’s pretty funny. Nah, Mastic. Hammer ain’t a Hamptons kinda guy.” “Hammer?”
    “Hank Noonan. His dad owns the place.” “When will he be in?” “Before nine,” she said. “Thanks. I’ll be back.”
    Her tiny silhouette was backlit by the early morning sun. She was sitting on the hood of his car as he came around the side of the town house. There was a big sports bag on the ground at her feet. She looked so small and pale; her hair limp and dull. Some of the life had been bleached out of her. But when she smiled at him, he thought he recognized a trace of the woman he’d fallen in love with. He was slow to approach her, reminding himself to look closely, to make certain he was seeing her and not the her he wanted to