to the right of the door, and gathered her bag and notebook. She wasn't sure that Nick Perone would have something to say that wasn't reflected in the file he'd submitted to the foundation, but if he did, she wanted it committed to paper rather than memory.
A brass sign on the door welcomed her to Perone Automobilia and invited her in. She found herself in a well-decorated reception room complete with cushy sofas and chairs and a large flat-screen TV. A counter with a granite top separated the room from the receptionist's desk. Emme glanced over the counter but the desk was unattended. She leaned on the cool stone and looked around, thinking perhaps she'd misunderstood what Nick Perone had told her on the phonethe day before. When he'd given her an address and driving directions, she'd asked if they'd be meeting at his home.
“No,” he'd replied, “I have an auto restoration business. I get in early, so whenever you arrive, I'll be available.”
A door on the left opened and a man in a light blue button-down shirt entered the reception area.
“Mr. Perone?” Emme asked.
“No,” he replied. “Can I help you?”
“I have a meeting with Mr. Perone this morning.”
“Oh, you're the investigator from the Mercy place.”
“Mercy Street Foundation. Is Mr. Perone here?”
“He's in the back, said to send you on in when you got here.” He opened the door and held it for her. She stepped into a large warehouse-type garage—so well camouflaged from the exterior—where several old cars were parked here and there in various stages of disassembly.
“Where? …” she asked.
“Last bay there on the right.”
Emme walked the length of the garage, ignored by the mechanics she passed, who appeared oblivious to her presence. The air smelled of grease and heated metal and something that reminded her of glue. The last bay held the chassis of a white car up on concrete blocks, the hood of which was open. The back of a pair of worn jeans appeared to be draped over the grill. As she drew closer, Emme could see the jeans were worn by a dark-haired man who was leaning as far into the car as one could without actually being part of the engine.
“Mr. Perone?” she called over the sound of a saw that seemed to echo through the high-ceilinged space.
“Yeah,” he replied without raising his head.
“I'm Emme Caldwell. We spoke yesterday on the phone.”
“Oh. Right. You're here about Belinda.” He withdrew from under the hood and turned. There were dark streaks on his chin and over one very blue eye. Emme extended a hand but he held up a dark-stained cloth. “Sorry. I'd shake but I don't think you want to be wearing this for the rest of the day.”
“It's nice to meet you all the same,” she replied, feeling a bit awkward. “Is there a place where we can talk?”
“We can go in my office.” He draped the cloth over the hood of the car and headed toward the office.
“I didn't realize there were still this many old cars on the road.” She tried to lengthen her stride to keep up with him.
“What?” He stopped and turned and for a moment she felt trapped and held by those deep blue eyes.
“All these old cars.” She averted her gaze and gestured toward the lot of them. “Do you think more people are keeping their older models rather than buying newer ones because of the economy?”
He looked at her as if she had two heads. Then, with studied patience, he said, “These are classic automobiles. Collectors items.”
“Sorry. They just look … well,
old
to me.”
“Yeah, well, that ‘old car’ I'm working on will be worth about a quarter of a million dollars when I'm finished with it.” He opened the door and held it for her.
She stopped and turned back to look at the car in the last bay.
“You're kidding.”
“Nope.”
“Why?”
He paused in the doorway. “That's a 1956 Porsche 356. Back in 1969, the original owner parked it in one of several garages on his property and dropped dead the next
A brass sign on the door welcomed her to Perone Automobilia and invited her in. She found herself in a well-decorated reception room complete with cushy sofas and chairs and a large flat-screen TV. A counter with a granite top separated the room from the receptionist's desk. Emme glanced over the counter but the desk was unattended. She leaned on the cool stone and looked around, thinking perhaps she'd misunderstood what Nick Perone had told her on the phonethe day before. When he'd given her an address and driving directions, she'd asked if they'd be meeting at his home.
“No,” he'd replied, “I have an auto restoration business. I get in early, so whenever you arrive, I'll be available.”
A door on the left opened and a man in a light blue button-down shirt entered the reception area.
“Mr. Perone?” Emme asked.
“No,” he replied. “Can I help you?”
“I have a meeting with Mr. Perone this morning.”
“Oh, you're the investigator from the Mercy place.”
“Mercy Street Foundation. Is Mr. Perone here?”
“He's in the back, said to send you on in when you got here.” He opened the door and held it for her. She stepped into a large warehouse-type garage—so well camouflaged from the exterior—where several old cars were parked here and there in various stages of disassembly.
“Where? …” she asked.
“Last bay there on the right.”
Emme walked the length of the garage, ignored by the mechanics she passed, who appeared oblivious to her presence. The air smelled of grease and heated metal and something that reminded her of glue. The last bay held the chassis of a white car up on concrete blocks, the hood of which was open. The back of a pair of worn jeans appeared to be draped over the grill. As she drew closer, Emme could see the jeans were worn by a dark-haired man who was leaning as far into the car as one could without actually being part of the engine.
“Mr. Perone?” she called over the sound of a saw that seemed to echo through the high-ceilinged space.
“Yeah,” he replied without raising his head.
“I'm Emme Caldwell. We spoke yesterday on the phone.”
“Oh. Right. You're here about Belinda.” He withdrew from under the hood and turned. There were dark streaks on his chin and over one very blue eye. Emme extended a hand but he held up a dark-stained cloth. “Sorry. I'd shake but I don't think you want to be wearing this for the rest of the day.”
“It's nice to meet you all the same,” she replied, feeling a bit awkward. “Is there a place where we can talk?”
“We can go in my office.” He draped the cloth over the hood of the car and headed toward the office.
“I didn't realize there were still this many old cars on the road.” She tried to lengthen her stride to keep up with him.
“What?” He stopped and turned and for a moment she felt trapped and held by those deep blue eyes.
“All these old cars.” She averted her gaze and gestured toward the lot of them. “Do you think more people are keeping their older models rather than buying newer ones because of the economy?”
He looked at her as if she had two heads. Then, with studied patience, he said, “These are classic automobiles. Collectors items.”
“Sorry. They just look … well,
old
to me.”
“Yeah, well, that ‘old car’ I'm working on will be worth about a quarter of a million dollars when I'm finished with it.” He opened the door and held it for her.
She stopped and turned back to look at the car in the last bay.
“You're kidding.”
“Nope.”
“Why?”
He paused in the doorway. “That's a 1956 Porsche 356. Back in 1969, the original owner parked it in one of several garages on his property and dropped dead the next
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