Only on the North Shore would the floor of an auto mechanic’s shop be clean enough to eat off. When I showed up at North Shore Motors in Lake Bluff Monday morning, I marveled at the spotless floor and shiny equipment. The Lake Bluff village board must have outlawed every drop of grease north of the county line.
The car dealership sprawled across several acres on a private street off Green Bay Road. On one side of the street was the showroom, where gleaming sports cars with unpronounceable names seduced customers. On the other was a cavernous hangar where sports cars occupied a dozen bays. Hydraulic lifts had raised the cars to different levels, revealing their undercarriages, and some of the wheels were detached. A car door leaned against the wall. Even those cars looked clean, and there were no grease spots, dirty tools, or oily rags to be seen.
At one end of the shop was a counter, behind which was an office of several desks, chairs, computers, and phones. Five or six men in striped shirts and painters pants drifted in and out. A couple wore billed caps. Their shirts, emblazoned with their names, were immaculate.
As I approached the counter, a man named Greg was checking off a form. I remembered a mustard stain on my shirt and unobtrusively put my hand over the offending spot.
“Good morning,” I chirped.
Greg looked at me with a puzzled expression. “Are you all right?”
I realized he was staring at my hand, which was draped across my stomach, as though it ached. I slipped my hand into my pocket and smiled. “Are you the manager?”
“Naw.” He yanked a thumb toward the back and called out, “Hey, Tim. Some lady to see you.”
A man who’d been leaning over a computer printer looked up. I smiled at him. He scooped up his printout and ambled toward the counter. He was wearing the same striped shirt as the others, and it, too, was immaculate. Did these guys change clothes every fifteen minutes? As he drew closer, though, I thought I saw a smudge on his pants. I felt a little smug.
“What can I help you with, Miss?”
“Good morning, Tim,” I said and launched into my cover story. “I’m a writer, and I’m working on a spec article for North Shore Magazine about luxury sports cars.”
“You came to the right place.”
I smiled gamely. “You bet. I just wish I knew what I was looking at. Now, my husband loves sports cars. He talks about Aston Martins, Lamborghinis and Lotuses”— I’d boned up on the names last night—“all the time. Anyway, I’m looking to find a couple of owners to interview for the article. You know, why they love their cars. How they feel and handle. I could even include something about this place. It’s the only one in Northern Illinois, I understand.”
“That’s right,” Tim’s face relaxed. Not quite a smile, but I’d take it.
“And you service customers from all over the Midwest?”
“I just got an Aston Martin from St. Paul the other day,” Greg was hanging around, eavesdropping.
“That’s exactly what I mean.” I looked around admiringly, hoping a little ditz would be disarming. “Of course, St Paul isn’t our target audience. Our readers are, well, from the North Shore.” I paused. “Anyway, I was wondering whether you might have a list of North Shore customers I could take a look at.”
Tim’s eyes narrowed, on their way to a frown.
“Of course, I don’t want their phone numbers or addresses,” I added. “That’s confidential, I realize. But if I could check the names and the type of car they have, it would really help. Who knows? Maybe I already know them. Or maybe you could recommend someone from the list. You know, whether they’d be a good interview.”
Tim shook his head. “I don’t know. We have thousands of customers.”
“Hmm.” I furrowed my brow and pretended to think. “Well, what if we generated a list by car instead? Wouldn’t that narrow it down?”
Tim and Greg exchanged a glance.
“It would be great to get a couple of names for each car.”
Tim’s face assumed a pained expression.
“Oh, I’m sorry. That would take too much of your time, wouldn’t it? I wasn’t thinking.” I hesitated, then smiled brightly. “Well, let me ask you this. If you could print out a list, say, of your customers who have an Aston Martin, I might be able to track them down myself.”
Tim and Greg exchanged another glance. Tim shrugged. “I guess.”
“Hey, that’s great!” I dug out a business card from my wallet. “By the way, I’d be happy to give you a plug in the article.”
Tim examined it, then handed it back. He elbowed Greg. “Get her what she wants.” He turned around.
“Thanks again, Tim. I really appreciate it.”
He waved and headed out to the shop floor.
“So,” Greg asked. “What kind of cars are you looking for?”
“Well, why don’t we start with the Aston Martin? You know, the names of people who own them.”
He nodded and went to one of the computers. I waited at the counter trying to contain my excitement. It was a safe bet that anyone who spent fifty grand on an Aston Martin would probably spend more to maintain it. It was also a safe bet that they’d bring it here to be serviced. With a list, I could start to winnow them down to see who knew Chris Messenger.
I watched as Greg pulled up a couple of screens. Then a few more. He scowled. “I’m having a hard time separating out Aston Martin customers on the North Shore from our entire Chicagoland database.”
Damn. In my haste I hadn’t considered that Chris Messenger’s boyfriend might not live on the North Shore, but in Oak Park or Hinsdale or even downtown. Greg didn’t realize it, but he had just saved me. “Um, that’s all right,” I stammered.
“It could be over four hundred names.”
“I’ll deal with it.”
He shrugged and went back to the computer. I hoped I wasn’t cutting off my options—what if the boyfriend lived in Indiana or Wisconsin? I chased the thought away.
Eventually, ten sheets of paper spooled off the printer. Greg scooped them up and brought them to the counter. “Here you go. Have fun.” He grinned. “What did you say your name was?”
“Ellie Foreman.” I hurriedly whisked the sheets off the counter, in case he had second thoughts. “Thank you so much. I really appreciate it. I’ll send you a copy of the article when it’s done.”
• • •
I scurried out to my car clutching the print-outs. Before starting the engine, I scanned the sheets. There had to be close to five hundred names, mostly men, listed alphabetically. I started skimming the first page. At the top of the second I saw the name that made me gasp.
I rummaged in my bag for my cell and punched in Georgia’s number. It rang once and went to voice mail. Tapping my toes impatiently, I listened to her message. When I heard the tone I said, “Georgia, call me right away. I’m at the Aston Martin dealer and I found out who Chris Messenger’s boyfriend is. It’s—”
My call-waiting clicked in. “Shit. Hold on. No, I’ll call you back.”
“Mom?” Rachel’s voice sounded close to panic.
“What’s wrong, Rach?”
“It’s Fouad. He was here working in the yard, and he collapsed. I called 911 and they’re coming to take him to the hospital. Please come home right away!”