Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [87]
MacPherson laughed. “Do you have a lawyer?”
“No.”
“Then let’s stop playing games. You know anything about a dead body in a car down in Tucker’s Ravine?”
Shit. That was too damned fast. “Nope. What kind of car?”
MacPherson laughed. “Trust you to get to the essentials. Some kind of Volvo, they think. It’s pretty welled burnt, and it must have been stolen in the first place. Someone’s filed the VIN numbers off it, not to mention anything else that might identify it. Done by a professional, my men say.”
“I haven’t stolen a car in almost ten years, Lieutenant.”
“And I’m supposed to believe you? As a matter of fact, though, I do. I just thought you might know who in town was in the habit of boosting cars.”
“One stolen car doesn’t make it a habit.”
“It’s not the only car that’s gone. The Volvo was found last night, and then this morning we got word that an Audi was stolen. The damned car was loaded with every antitheft device known to man, and it was still taken.”
“What does the owner say?”
“The owner’s in the hospital with a fractured skull, and we’re not allowed to talk to him until he stabilizes. We figure he came across the thief at the wrong moment. Lucky he’s still alive—he was pretty badly beaten.”
Dillon shrugged. “That’s a shame.”
“He’ll survive. I just kind of remembered that you used to specialize in Audis, back in the day.”
“Nothing was ever proved. You know that, MacPherson.”
“Yeah, I know that. I also know how to add two and two.”
“I didn’t steal someone’s Audi and beat the shit out of the owner.”
“I’m not saying you did. I’m just thinking you might have a good idea who did.”
“Can’t help you.”
MacPherson crossed the littered floor to the sink and ran water over his cigarette butt, rendering it useless. Just as well—if he’d simply stubbed it out Dillon would have probably salvaged it and smoked what was left. He was that desperate. “No,” MacPherson said, “I didn’t imagine you could help. I just figured it was worth asking.” He headed back to the door, the broken dishes crunching under his feet. “Oh, and one more thing.”
“Yeah?” He knew cops, and specifically MacPherson, well enough to know that this one would be the zinger.
“We’re thinking of doing a DNA test on some of the evidence from Kincaid’s murder. We’re thinking it might not have been as straightforward as we thought.”
“I identified the body. Are you saying I lied to cover for him?”
“We both saw the condition of the body. His own mother wouldn’t have been able to recognize him. No, I think if it’s not Kincaid, that you probably made an honest mistake.”
“You think I’m capable of honest mistakes, MacPherson?”
“I think you’re a testament to the powers of redemption, Gaynor. You were a loser punk, throwing your life away, and now you’re a productive member of society. I don’t want to see you get into trouble again.”
“I’m not about to.”
MacPherson stared at him for a long moment, then nodded. “Take care of yourself, then.”
Dillon locked the door behind him. He had no cigarettes, no wallet, but he kept a wad of cash in his safe for emergencies, along with a phony driver’s license and registration for half the vehicles in the garage. He hadn’t ever thought he’d need it, but a lifetime of habit couldn’t be changed.
With luck he wouldn’t need it. With luck he’d drive to Connecticut, to the ruins of the Dungeon, and have a final confrontation with his old buddy Nate. He’d been hoping Nate would be coming to him—he’d be easier to deal with on his own turf, but he should have realized it wasn’t going to be that easy. The bloody word on the floor was a summons, as were the bloody scratches on Jamie’s soft skin. The Audi was the final message.
Dillon had been adept at stripping down the Audis that Nate had brought him. Other people brought in Mercedes, Ferraris, even classic American cars. Nate only stole Audis.
His only consolation was that Jamie was safely out of the way. She didn’t even know what the Dungeon was. By now she should be halfway home, and by tomorrow she’d be letting the Duchess fuss over her, and she’d be counting