Jimmy Dinsmore was an old friend of Morgan’s from way back when. They’d met at a bar long, long ago when Morgan used to hang out and get some breathing space. Usually when Rachel was busy and there was nothing better to do than sit on a stool and sip at an overpriced drink. It was always lonely until you got talking to people, and that was one thing Morgan was good at.
It was a good thing too—Jimmy had handed over his business card for the custom tire shop he owned, and Morgan had studied it with great interest. Just like anything else of an entrepreneurial nature, it fascinated him that a man could choose something so unique and craft an entire business from it. As far as Morgan could see, a man only needed two things to succeed in such a venture: start-up funding and knowledge.
It was the knowledge he wanted.
The sun was inching over the horizon when Jimmy turned up in a car that looked like something from The Fast and the Furious. The engine roared like an angry god while the lime-green car that Morgan couldn’t identify rolled into a spot beside the shop. Music blared from the speakers, but it died with the engine. Morgan slid out of his own car and locked up fast, hurrying toward his old acquaintance.
“Jimmy, I need your help.”
Spinning around, Jimmy’s eyes lit up when they caught sight of Morgan. He was a gangly kind of man with short, dark hair. There was a long tattoo of a snake that covered one cheek and trailed down to his chest where it hid behind his tank top. It made him look threatening. Morgan knew better than that—the many conversations they’d had over the years were proof that he was a nice guy.
“It’s real early,” he said, locking his car with a quick press of the key fob and then wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “I got a busy day ahead of me too. Can it wait?”
“Not really.”
Jimmy sighed. “Come on, then.”
Morgan went with him into the shop. It was a large, dank mechanic’s garage where tires lined the walls on multiple shelves for as far as the eye could see. He leaned against the counter, watching while Jimmy yanked the chain to open the shutter, orange morning light flooding in to light up the long, wooden bench that separated the desk from the customer entrance. When he was done, Jimmy slipped into the desk chair and tapped rapidly on the keyboard, opening up the system and then turning. “Right, I’m all set. You want coffee?”
“Can I get it to-go?”
“Sure.” Jimmy pointed to a small machine on the corner of the bench. It was covered in dust, and the small paper cups had dirt smeared around the rims. “But between you and me, I haven’t changed the supplies in there since 2004.”
“Then I’ll pass.”
“Good choice. Anyway, what can I do for you?”
Morgan slipped the cell phone out of his pocket and opened up the photos from last night. It felt like days ago that he’d investigated the boatyard, and how time was dragging. Tiredness was catching up to him, leaving an awful taste in his mouth as he swiped through the photos and held them out for easy viewing. “These tracks were found at a crime scene. If you can, I’d really like help identifying the type of vehicle that made them.”
“Could be tough. Let’s see.” Jimmy slid a pair of cheap glasses from an alcove in the desk and made a show of putting them on. He leaned over the counter, cupping the phone in both hands and looking down his nose at the screen. “Squigglies.”
Morgan cocked his head. “Excuse me?”
“The tires. They’re called squigglies.” Jimmy fell back into his chair and hit some keys on the keyboard. The screen flickered as bright images flashed at the speed of his navigation, not stopping until an image of a tire appeared. “See here? The lines zigzag and cross over like an audio wave. They don’t have any special perks, but they look cool.”
“How do you know this?”
“Because I designed them.”
Morgan recoiled, astounded. “You designed these particular tires?” He raised his cell phone, pointing a finger at the screen where the photographs still showed the tracks from the boatyard.
“Did I stutter?”
“Damn, that’s lucky. So, can you tell me who they were made for?”
“Yep. I made them for stock.”
“Meaning…?”
Jimmy snickered. “Meaning I’ve had over six thousand sets of them made, and I keep them on hand for over-the-counter purchases. If you’re looking for the owner of that car, it could be any one of them, and I wouldn’t necessarily have the name of the person who bought them.”
Morgan’s heart dropped into his stomach. How could he feel so lucky and disappointed at the same time? Sure, the tracks could’ve belonged to anyone—even the yard owner, for all he knew—but that detail was lost on him now. This was nothing but dead end.
“The good news,” Jimmy said, taking off his glasses and folding them before placing them to one side, “is that I only make them for one car model: the 2004 Nissan Maxima. Pretty average car. A lot of people own them.”
“Which is no good to me.”
Jimmy shrugged. “Sorry.”
“Forget it. Thanks for your help.” Morgan watched Jimmy’s arm extend over the counter, his fist closed. He pounded it and left the shop. While he trudged through the dirty gravel track back to his car, he wondered if the killer had arrived at the boatyard in that Maxima, studying his surroundings before he killed Dusty Young.
He hoped so—because otherwise he was dealing with a spontaneous maniac.
And that would make it impossible to catch him.