T. Parker - Cold Pursuit

McMichael asked what some of the standing disagreements were, but Farrell said there weren't any. Fishing, McMichael asked if everyone agreed on the direction of the dealership.

Farrell laughed. "Around here you either agreed with Pete or you walked. His granddaughter, Patricia, had some ideas about this place a few years back and wham - he shut her down. With Pete, you couldn't have a better friend or a worse enemy. Right now, we're still in shock. Pat's been down here talking to us, telling us things will go on like they were before. You can pass a franchise down to your children or grandchildren, long as Detroit approves it. I really don't know how it'll shake down. I think I'll hang it up next year. I'm sixty-six. I'm ready."

He told McMichael that the upholstery runs to Mexico were being handled by the same company that always handled them- Auto Leather International. He tapped his computer keyboard and printed a phone number and address for Mason Axelgaard, Vice President. The prefix and P.O. box were Imperial Beach. McMichael folded the sheet and put it in his pocket.

"We have seven cars going down tonight, and six coming back," he said.

"Mace will be here then, what?"

"Around seven, every Wednesday." Farrell pursed his lips, tapped his desktop with a pen. "Jimmy Thigpen used to work for him. I guess you know Jimmy."

"We all know Jimmy."

"Bad thing. You had to like him. I got the impression he needed the extra money. To be working with the cars, I mean."

"How come they take Victor down for that?"

"I think just to be nice. Victor likes it. Pete never minded. You know, he's supposed to wash the cars, but he only gets a few done and the windows are usually pretty streaked."

McMichael gave the GM one of his business cards. "Can I ask you a favor?"

"Sure," said Charley Farrell.

"Tell me if you guys sold a wine-colored SUV recently. And if so, to whom."

"Escape, Explorer, Expedition or Excursion?"

"Any and all."

"We move a lot of SUVs these days. Give me a day, will you?"

The flagship for Pete Braga's burial at sea was a one-hundred-and-fifty-foot motor yacht owned and named by Garland Hansen's failing beach products company, Shred! McMichael wondered if using the boat was a promotional stunt arranged by Garland – getting a little exposure during this time of anguish and grief.

McMichael and Hector stood near the Tuna Harbor dock and watched the mourners board. There were reporters and cameras set up near the bottom of the ramp. McMichael recognized the local TV reporter, and one of the Union-Tribune guys who covered the cop house.

"You weren't hoping for an invitation, were you?" asked Hector, fingering McMichael's suit coat.

"Not really."

"Just paying respects?"

"That's all."

"Or maybe Rainwater likes you in basic black."

"You're annoying, Hector. Is that how you get all those confessions?"

Paz smiled. "Just looking out for my partner. You still hot for her?"

"The other night we got together. I like her."

Hector said nothing for a while. "She tell you about getting shot?"

"No. We tried to keep it light."

"Hard to get heavy when you're ripping someone's clothes off."

"True. We talked about Pete a lot. No, she wasn't doing him."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Unless she flat-out lied."

"Naw, she wouldn't do that."

"Hector, what do you have on her?"

He shrugged. "I didn't trust her that night and I still don't. Maybe she didn't conk him, but I think she had something to do with it. She doesn't sit right with me, Tom."

McMichael tried to revisit his old suspicions of her, but he couldn't. When he thought of Sally Rainwater he thought of beauty and brains and enough guts to try to save the old man's life. Thought of her tongue going down his back.

"Hey," said Hector, "there's Patricia. Umm-hmm."

Patricia came down the boarding ramp, arm in arm with Garland. She was wearing a trim black skirt and jacket, and a veiled hat. McMichael could tell by the cant of her head that she saw him, but that was all. Garland 's hair was bright white in the winter sun. Victor shuffled along behind her. His suit pants were too big at the waist so he had to keep hoisting them up. He examined his zipper. Next to him was a stocky balding man with a mustache and cool sunglasses.

"One of Pete's guys on the TJ runs is an Imperial Beach cop," said McMichael. "I think that's him with Victor."

Hector was quiet while Victor and possibly Mason Axelgaard stepped aboard. "Doesn't sound right. Two cops and a sixty-three-year-old boy, running cars back and forth to TJ. How much money did Jimmy say he made?"

"He didn't. Just said Pete overpaid him. Roundabout thanks for watching out for Victor."

"Why use cops for a trucker's job?"

"Jimmy said Pete wanted some security for his cars."

"Cops shouldn't moonlight," said Hector.

"Maybe they ought to pay us more."

"Pay what it's worth, at least. You risk your life for these citizens, and they try to lowball you. They're lowballing themselves, but they don't realize it. Maybe we should ask Malcolm Case for a raise, since he employs us."

"I felt like kicking his ass."

"I felt like stealing his wife."

"Remember she can't cook," said McMichael.

"Except I don't think she wants to be stolen," said Hector. "A guy like that, though? He'll step in it someday. You'll see. I wonder if he watches his wife's movies."

McMichael watched as Assistant Chiefs Jerry Bland and Ed Almanza arrived together in dark suits and sunglasses. Barbara Givens walked between them.

Then Henry Grothke Jr., walking slightly ahead of his wheelchaired father, who was pushed by a black man heavy with muscles.

"I did some work on Junior," said Hector. "Couldn't nail anything. Clean with the bar, no complaints. No record with us. But he's got no wife, either. Never has, and he's fifty-two years old. I asked around with some of my fag friends but they didn't know anything about him. It bugs me that he lost those letters."

"It bugs me, too," said McMichael. He watched Patricia and Garland disappear into the crowd. "Maybe Patricia knows something."

A while later, Shred! eased off her moorings and started out across the harbor. Half a dozen ancillary ships followed respectfully in her wake, five heavily filled with mourners, one bristling with cameras and mikes and windswept reporters.

At seven o'clock they were parked in the darkness across from Pete Braga Ford, watching Victor as he sat on the curb outside the showroom, eating a bag of chips. Victor's earphones were clamped to his head and a CD player rested in his lap.

The new cars sat in orderly rows, orange windshield letters proclaiming today-only discounts. The evening salespeople loitered at the various doorways, eyes on the lot. The floodlights made an island of brightness in the winter dark. McMichael noticed that the wind had changed to the west. The weather station said a new storm was headed in tomorrow.

"Amazing you can be a full-sized adult and have the mind of a ten-year-old," said Hector. "I have a nephew like that, but he writes kids' TV shows, makes tons of money."

"Maybe Victor's smarter than we think he is," said McMichael.

"Look at the way he studies each chip before he eats it."

Ten minutes later a new black SUV pulled into the service area and Victor's companion from the funeral got out. Thirty, McMichael figured- thick and strong but light on his feet. He nodded at the sales force, then walked over to Victor and clapped a hand on his shoulder. Victor offered him some chips. Mason Axelgaard helped himself, then walked into the wide driveway between the showroom and the service department.