Last Chance to Die, Noah Boyd [most read book in the world TXT] 📗

through everything again,” Vail said.

She studied his face for a minute. “I don’t need you sitting around here reassuring me that everything is all right. If you want something reviewed, I’ll do it. You and Luke can make better use of your time looking for Sundra. Besides, watching you sit around here all day will drive me crazy.”

“You up for that, Luke?” Vail asked.

“Thanks, Kate. Now I’ll have to put up with him all day.”

Vail took a last swallow of coffee and said to Kate, “Don’t answer the door for anyone. If the phone rings, don’t answer it. If you need anything, call Luke’s cell.”

“Anything specific you want me to look for in the files?”

“Why don’t you take a look at all the moles they gave up that lead to you. There’s something rattling around in one of the subbasements of my brain telling me we’ve missed something. There’s got to be at least one mistake they made. Maybe something else that’ll expose Rellick.”

She walked them to the door. “Boys, don’t forget to say please and thank you, and absolutely no gunfighting.” She pushed them both out the door and locked it.

Once they were in Bursaw’s car, Vail said, “Okay, who’s next on the deleted-file list?”

“Kate seemed a lot less tense this morning. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“If you’re going to use your Vulcan mind meld, this could turn out to be a very long day.”

“Okay, I’ll let it drop, but be advised I have made a mental note that there was no denial.” Bursaw reached over the seat and grabbed his briefcase. “Let’s see.” He flipped through some pages. “How about the El Mejor Car Service?”

“Is that Spanish?”

“In this town it could just be misspelled.”

The address was in a commercial neighborhood. The building was two stories and ran a long way back into the property. There was parking all around the rear, and several of the cars were older limousines. Vail said, “Let’s take a ride through the lot and see if we can figure out what we’re looking at here.”

Bursaw coasted around the building, which was, judging by the high overhead doors, mostly garage in the back half. Vail looked at the cars that were not part of El Mejor’s fleet but more likely belonged to the employees. He pointed out Colombian-flag bumper stickers on two of them. Bursaw said, “You want to pass, maybe come back with some help when you’re off the marshals’ Top Ten list? I think there’s a rule right in the handbook which states that wanted FBI agents should not get into shoot-outs with drug dealers.”

“No, I’m feeling very docile today.”

Bursaw snorted a single syllable of laughter. “Docile? You? I guess you should ‘sleep on the couch’ more often.” He parked against a back wall near a walk-in door.

As they entered, they counted seven men scattered around five vehicles. The hot smell of oil and grinding metal hung in the warm air. Every one of the workers stopped what he was doing and scrutinized the two agents. No one said anything, and as Vail started to slowly unbutton his topcoat, he and Bursaw casually stepped away from one another, minimizing themselves as targets.

“Who’s the boss?” Vail asked. No one answered. “Who’s the boss?” he asked again, a little more impatiently.

Still nobody spoke up. He took a couple of steps toward the closest man, who had the dashboard from a Cadillac next to him on a bench and was working on one end of it.

Suddenly, from behind Vail, a man spoke with a slight Hispanic accent. “I am the owner.”

Vail turned around as Bursaw continued to watch the men. He flashed his credentials. “We’d like to talk to you.”

“Do we have something to talk about?”

“It’s not about what you think it is. It’s about a missing person. But if you send us on our way, others will come back, and it won’t be to talk.”

The owner weighed his options. “I guess I have a couple of minutes.”

The three men walked into an overly ornate office. “What’s your name?” Vail asked.

“Alberto Clark.”

“Americanized?”

“My parents did it when we came here. I was three. I didn’t know the FBI was so interested in genealogy.”

“Actually, we’re more interested in true names.”

Bursaw handed Clark a photo and said, “Her true name is Sundra Boston.”

“And?” Clark asked.

“Know her, seen her, heard of her?”

He handed back the picture. “I don’t know her. Why would you think I did?”

“She’s an FBI employee, and now she’s missing. She was investigating your business.”

“This is a legitimate business. I pay taxes. I am a citizen.”

“This has been a paid public service announcement,” Bursaw said in a sarcastic monotone. “And your employees?”

“I’m not a fool. They are all here legally on work visas.”

Vail said, “And those cars out there, the ones they’re working on. That’s part of your business?”

“Those are their cars. When it’s slow, I let them work on them.”

Bursaw threw his head back and laughed. “I’d like an employment application because you must have the best wages in America. Those guys don’t know three words of English, and they’re all driving luxury cars? The one working on the dashboard was swapping VINs. I expected you to lie to me, but try to keep it at a level that’s not completely insulting. You’re from Colombia. You’re supposed to be dealing cocaine, not stolen cars. Have you no ethnic pride?”

“Alberto, we’re with the FBI, where lies will get you five years apiece,” Vail said. “Now, have you had any contact with the FBI regarding your business?”

“No, I swear,” Clark answered, the concern growing in his voice.

“Convince us.”

Clark thought for a moment. “We’ve been operating here freely for three years. We have little concern about the police interrupting our operation. Do you think that if we had done something to a federal agent we would be doing business as usual with the door open so any FBI man could walk in?”

Bursaw and Vail looked at each other and shrugged in agreement that it was