Mariah Stewart - Cry Mercy

She pulled up a map of Maryland on her laptop, and charted her drive. If she left Conroy immediately after dropping off Chloe at school, she'd be able to make it to Nick Perone's by ten in the morning. Giving herself an hour there, she could be in Eastwind by one. If her meetings with both Chief Dietrich and the roommate went well and were conducted in a timely fashion, she'd be back in Conroy before five to pick Chloe up at school.

She typed up her notes and printed them out after forwarding a copy to the main file, which would be accessible by all the members of the team. Emme didn't mind sharing her thoughts with the others-as far as she was concerned, if anyone had a better idea than she did, she'd want to hear it. At ten till five she lifted the pages from the printer's tray and clipped them together. Tucking the pages first into a plain folder, then into her bag, she turned off the desk lamp and looked around the office that would be, for a while anyway, her daytime home. It was all so much more than she'd expected, more than she dared hope for. Over the weekend, she'd begin the search for a place for her and Chloe to live, and while she knew that Mallory had stressed the provisional nature of her position, Emme knew that if her luck held as it had so far that week, she and Chloe would be hanging their hats in Conroy, Pennsylvania, for a good long time to come.

Nick Perone's auto-repair shop in Khoury's Ford, Maryland, near the mouth of the Susquehanna River, was a fancier affair than Emme had expected. Set at the back of a wide parking lot, the building was red brick, the windows shuttered and the front door painted shiny black, and looked more like a Colonial-style home than a place where cars were fixed. She parked in the shade of a tall maple to the right of the door, and gathered her bag and notebook. She wasn't sure that Nick Perone would have something to say that wasn't reflected in the file he'd submitted to the foundation, but if he did, she wanted it committed to paper rather than memory.

A brass sign on the door welcomed her to Perone Automobilia and invited her in. She found herself in a well-decorated reception room complete with cushy sofas and chairs and a large flat-screen TV. A counter with a granite top separated the room from the receptionist's desk. Emme glanced over the counter but the desk was unattended. She leaned on the cool stone and looked around, thinking perhaps she'd misunderstood what Nick Perone had told her on the phone the day before. When he'd given her an address and driving directions, she'd asked if they'd be meeting at his home.

“No,” he'd replied, “I have an auto restoration business. I get in early, so whenever you arrive, I'll be available.”

A door on the left opened and a man in a light blue button-down shirt entered the reception area.

“Mr. Perone?” Emme asked.

“No,” he replied. “Can I help you?”

“I have a meeting with Mr. Perone this morning.”

“Oh, you're the investigator from the Mercy place.”

“Mercy Street Foundation. Is Mr. Perone here?”

“He's in the back, said to send you on in when you got here.” He opened the door and held it for her. She stepped into a large warehouse-type garage-so well camouflaged from the exterior-where several old cars were parked here and there in various stages of disassembly.

“Where?…” she asked.

“Last bay there on the right.”

Emme walked the length of the garage, ignored by the mechanics she passed, who appeared oblivious to her presence. The air smelled of grease and heated metal and something that reminded her of glue. The last bay held the chassis of a white car up on concrete blocks, the hood of which was open. The back of a pair of worn jeans appeared to be draped over the grill. As she drew closer, Emme could see the jeans were worn by a dark-haired man who was leaning as far into the car as one could without actually being part of the engine.

“Mr. Perone?” she called over the sound of a saw that seemed to echo through the high-ceilinged space.

“Yeah,” he replied without raising his head.

“I'm Emme Caldwell. We spoke yesterday on the phone.”

“Oh. Right. You're here about Belinda.” He withdrew from under the hood and turned. There were dark streaks on his chin and over one very blue eye. Emme extended a hand but he held up a dark-stained cloth. “Sorry. I'd shake but I don't think you want to be wearing this for the rest of the day.”

“It's nice to meet you all the same,” she replied, feeling a bit awkward. “Is there a place where we can talk?”

“We can go in my office.” He draped the cloth over the hood of the car and headed toward the office.

“I didn't realize there were still this many old cars on the road.” She tried to lengthen her stride to keep up with him.

“What?” He stopped and turned and for a moment she felt trapped and held by those deep blue eyes.

“All these old cars.” She averted her gaze and gestured toward the lot of them. “Do you think more people are keeping their older models rather than buying newer ones because of the economy?”

He looked at her as if she had two heads. Then, with studied patience, he said, “These are classic automobiles. Collectors items.”

“Sorry. They just look… well, old to me.”

“Yeah, well, that ‘old car’ I'm working on will be worth about a quarter of a million dollars when I'm finished with it.” He opened the door and held it for her.

She stopped and turned back to look at the car in the last bay.

“You're kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Why?”

He paused in the doorway. “That's a 1956 Porsche 356. Back in 1969, the original owner parked it in one of several garages on his property and dropped dead the next day. The family kept the property as a rental all these years but no one bothered to look in those locked-up garages until they decided to sell the whole parcel. When they finally opened the doors, they found that”-he nodded toward the Porsche-“and a 1955 Thunderbird. Mint.”

Emme looked blank.

“Never mind,” he said, holding the door for her. “You're here to talk about my niece.”

“Right. Belinda.” She followed him into an office that was as comfortably furnished as the reception area.

He gestured for her to sit at one of the club chairs that faced his desk. He held up his hands and said, “Give me just a second to clean up a bit.”

He ducked out of the room, and Emme settled into the chair, grateful for a moment to be alone. Nick Perone was nothing like she'd expected. There was a vibration of sorts that seemed to emanate from him and it unsettled her. That he was really good-looking was obvious, but she'd met a lot of really good-looking guys. It was this other thing-this vibe-that set her on edge.

She looked around the room, taking in the décor. On the walls were rows of photographs of-what else? she thought wryly-cars. Lots and lots of cars. Old cars, mostly, as best she could tell. She wondered if any of them had passed through his garage.

“Sorry,” he said as he returned and took his place behind his desk. “Now. About Belinda…”

“I've read through the file you sent to the foundation, of course, but I wanted to get some facts nailed down. You're Belinda's legal guardian-”

“Until she turns twenty-one, yes,” he nodded.

“She'll be twenty-one in…?” She looked through her notes to avoid making eye contact.

“In two years. And while I appreciate you speaking of her in the present tense, I understand the odds of finding her alive.”

“Well, I think we both realize the odds, Mr. Perone. I'm not going to try to build up your hopes. Your niece has been missing for five months and there's been no word from her. Could she still be alive? Possibly. Is it likely? No, but stranger things have happened.”