I stuffed the pills in my pockets. Leon was napping in the car. As we sped away, I called

Mordecai. He'd found the accident report; it listed a Hundley Towing as the wrecker

service. Hundley Towing used an answering machine for most of its calls. The streets

were slick, lots of accidents, a busy time for people who owned tow trucks. A mechanic

had finally answered the phone around three, but proved to be completely useless.

Leon found the Hundley place on Rhode Island near Seventh. In better days it had been a

full-service gas station, now it was a garage, towing service, used-car lot, and U-Haul

trailer rental. Every window was adorned with black bars. Leon maneuvered as close as

possible to the front door. "Cover me," I said, as I got out and dashed inside. The door

kicked back when I walked through, hitting me on my left arm. I doubled over in pain. A

mechanic wearing overalls and grease rounded a comer and glared at me.

I explained why I was there. He found a clipboard and studied papers stuck to it. In the

rear, I could hear men talking and cursing---no doubt they were back there shooting dice,

drinking whiskey, probably selling crack.

"The police have it," he said, still looking at the papers.

"Any idea why?"

"Not really. Was there a crime or something?"

"Yeah, but my car wasn't involved with the crime."

He gave me a blank look. He had his own problems.

"Any idea where it might be?" I asked, trying to be pleasant.

"When they impound them, they usually take them to a lot up on Georgia, north of

Howard."

"How many lots does the city have?"

He shrugged and began walking away. "More than one," he said, and disappeared.

I managed the door with care, then bolted for Leon's car.

It was dark when we found the lot, half a city block lined with chain link and razor wire.

Inside were hundreds of wrecked cars, arranged haphazardly, some stacked on top of

others.

Leon stood with me on the sidewalk, peering through the chain link. "Over there," I said,

pointing. The Lexus was parked near a shed, facing us. The impact had demolished the

left front. The fender was gone; the engine exposed and crushed.

"You're a very lucky man," Leon said.

Next to it was the Jaguar, its roof flattened, all windows missing.

There was an office of some type in the shed, but it was closed and dark. The gates were

locked with heavy chains. The razor wire glistened in the rain. There were tough guys

hanging around a corner, not far away. I could feel them watching us. "Let's get out of

here," I said.

Leon drove me to National Airport, the only place I knew to rent a car.

* * *

The table was set; carry-out Chinese was on the stove. Claire was waiting, and worried to

some degree, though it was impossible to tell how much. I told her I had to go rent a car,

pursuant to instructions from my insurance company. She examined me like a good

doctor, and made me take a pill.

"I thought you were going to rest," she said.

"I tried. It didn't work. I'm starving."

It would be our last meal together as husband and wife, ending the same way we'd begun,

with something fast and prepared elsewhere.

"Do you know someone named Hector Palma?" she asked, halfway through dinner. I

swallowed hard. "Yes."

"He called an hour ago. Said it was important that he talk to you. Who is he?"

"A paralegal with the firm. I was supposed to spend the morning with him going over one

of my cases. He's in a tight spot."

"Must be. He wants to meet with you at nine tonight, at Nathan's on M."

"Why a bar?" I mused.

"He didn't say. Sounded suspicious."

My appetite vanished, but I kept eating to appear unmoved. Not that it was necessary.

She couldn't have cared less.

* * *