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ON THE PATIO, AMES thought things had reached an all-time low; he couldn’t get any lower if he dug out the bottom of the barrel and sunk his black hands into the dirt beneath it. And then Susan remembered.
She told him about her dream. In this vision, she saw the blood on the door handle and the seat. She remembered the car distinctly, and from her description of the car, and the amount of care put into its upkeep, Ames made the connection even before she put things together for him.
A Mustang Obsidian was not the kind of car you could purchase any day of the week from your local car dealership. In fact, Mustang stopped making the Obsidian in 1999, and even high mileage vehicles were selling for more than $25,000. The car was true American muscle and was one of the most coveted by car enthusiasts.
Ames knew all about street racing—it was all the rage with the younger generation who all thought they were trying out for a part in the next installment of The Fast and The Furious—and he knew that most parts used to upgrade those vehicles were aftermarket parts. Aftermarket parts were purchased mostly from online websites, or from reputable tuner shops specializing in import tuning. If the killer relied on the internet for his purchases, there was little chance in uncovering his identity any time soon. If he were anxious for his parts, though, he wouldn’t wait for them to be shipped. And there was only one place close enough for the 2 Fast 2 Furious rejects to purchase parts like those. One-Six Motors, LTD.
Twenty miles out of Jasper, One-Six sat on a sprawling piece of land, about the size of one city block. The main showroom was the size of an Olympic swimming pool, and almost any aftermarket accessory you could want was displayed in glass cases or hanging from stainless steel hooks. The floors were done in gleaming white tiles, and the walls were painted white with the logos of some of the high-end import parts providers painted every ten feet. In the center of the floor, the company logo was spread out, about twelve feet in diameter. In the rear, the parking lot covered half of the space, while the rest of the space was dedicated to the two dyno-machines that measured vehicle horsepower and aided in fuel tuning.
At any given time, the store was crowded with teens, gawking at the shiny new equipment. It was like one huge wet dream for these kids, whose entire lives were dedicated to owning an import tuner car and modifying it ridiculously, to the point which it was no longer safe to drive anywhere but on a track. Today was no different than any other. When Ames, followed closely by Susan and David, stepped inside there were at least twelve teens wandering around.
They moved over to the counter where the owner was just finishing checking out a patron. The kid looked too young to even drive, yet he moved pass Ames and company carrying a box full of aftermarket parts. When the youth was past them, Ames stepped up to the counter and cleared his throat.
“Be with you in a second, dude,” the owner said without looking up. He was writing something into a log. When he finished making his entry, he placed the log beneath the counter and said, “What’s up?”
“Business is booming,” Ames said. He took off his Stetson and held it in his left hand. Susan and David stood behind him, letting him do his work.
“Yeah it is. Something I can do for you, sheriff?”
“So much for small talk,” Ames said to Susan then turned back to the owner.
“I hope you’re not here to harass me about some stupid kids speeding around in your neck of the woods. I just sell the equipment. I don’t condone breaking the law.”
“Now Mark, don’t get so defensive. I don’t see how anyone can hold you responsible for selling a 100 shot NOS kit to a 15-year-old that ended up blowing up his grandmother’s car.”
“Hey, I had no idea he was going to strap the kit on to his grandmother’s Caprice. What they do with their parts is their business. I’m not doing anything illegal.”
“No, according to the judge, you’re not,” Ames said. “But I’m not here to lecture you about the dangers of the equipment you peddle. I’m here to ask you for help.”
“Dude,” Mark said. “What do you need, someone to go undercover and narc on tuners? I’m not your man.”
“Stop watching those movies, Mark, you’re having delusions of grandeur.”
“Hey, little dude,” Mark yelled, looking past Ames. A young blond kid turned toward them with a look of innocence on his face. “Don’t touch unless you’re gonna buy. That’s some sensitive shit, man.”
“Mark, let me have your attention for a second, please,” Ames said patiently, like a schoolteacher trying to get a rowdy student’s attention.
“I’m kind of busy here. Are you gonna tell me what you want, or do I have to guess?”
“I’m looking for someone. A young man who drives a 2008 black Mustang Obsidian.”
“And...”
“And I want you to tell me who drives this car.”
“Okay, I think we’re done here, sheriff. I don’t have to give you any information without a warrant or subpoena. Have a good one, dude.”
Ames moved closer to the counter now, just a few inches away from Mark’s face. At this close distance, he could smell the other man’s aftershave and sweat. “See that young lady there,” he whispered so only Mark could hear. “That poor girl was assaulted by the man who drives that car. I’m just asking you to give me a name, so I can investigate the claim. This has nothing to do with you or your shop. No one will ever know where I got the information.”
Mark thought for a second and said, “What did he do to her? She looks fine to me.”
“I don’t even want to say, it’s so horrible. I think you can guess what a man can do to a woman and not leave a mark on her body.”
“No shit,” Mark said. He looked at Ames for a long moment, and then he slid further down the counter, away from Susan and David and the other patrons, motioning for Ames to follow him. When he was a comfortable distance, out of ear shot, he said. “No one will know I told you, right?”
“Right,” Ames said.
“This guy did something bad to this girl, huh?”
“Something very bad.”
“I believe you. This guy, he always gives me the creeps when he comes in here.”
“So, you know who I’m talking about?” Ames asked.
Mark said, “I know the guy. He’s about 5-9, has long black hair, average build. His name is Paul.”
“Paul, huh?” Ames took out a small notebook and jotted down the name. “Does this Paul have a last name?”
“Yeah, I’ll find it in my books. He left his name and address at one time when I had to order a part. He was all pissed off that I didn’t have it in the store, like I can fit every damn part in the world in here. I’ll get it, just wait here and don’t look like I’m cooperating with you, okay?”
Ames smiled and watched Mark move back to the register. He yelled at some youngster again who was touching some expensive piece of equipment. From below the counter, Mark pulled out a box that held 5 x 8 index cards. He rummaged through the box for a few moments, pulled out a card, read it and placed it on the counter. He replaced the index card box, picked up the card, and returned to Ames.
“Here’s what you want,” Mark said, handing Ames the index card. “You can keep that; I don’t want that creep’s information in my store. I hope he never comes in here again. I don’t want pervs in here, checking out the kids instead of the equipment.”
“You’re a good man, Mark,” Ames said, putting the index card into the inside pocket of his coat. “I owe you one.”
“Yeah, right.”
“No, I’m serious. You need my help, just ask.”
Mark eyed Ames suspiciously for a second, and then decided that the man was serious about his offer. “Well, I’ll keep that in mind, sheriff. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to business.”
“Go to it,” Ames said. As he turned to go, Mark stopped him by grabbing his arm.
Mark said, “Tell the lady I’m sorry about what happened to her. I know it’s probably not any consolation to her now but let her know I won’t sell parts to that perv anymore.”
“I’ll tell her, and it will be some consolation.”
“Later, dude.”
“Yeah, see you later.”
Ames turned and motioned for Susan and David to follow him. They left the bright interior of the tuner shop for the bright exterior of the cool fall day. It felt good to be outside again, breathing in the fresh air. More than that, it felt good to have a solid lead sitting right in his pocket.
“So, what happened back there?” Susan asked. “It looked like you guys were sharing a moment or something.”
“We got what we came for,” Ames said, and took the index card out of his pocket. “Paul Hapscomb. Lives right in Jasper.”
“So, what do we do now?” David asked.
“We’re going to pay Mr. Hapscomb a visit,” Ames said.