another drink, told herself that she was being a little foolish, because there were any number of people she did actually want to hear from. Certainly she hoped that Susan Fletcher would follow up on their dinner. And then there was the hope that Will Goodwin would call for that second date. In fact, as she went through a mental list, she thought that it was truly dumb to allow Michael O’Connell to isolate her. And, she told herself, she’d been pretty straightforward with him the other day, and maybe that would be the end of it.
The more she replayed the conversation in her mind, the more it took on a forcefulness that it probably didn’t deserve.
She kicked off her shoes, slid into her desk chair, punched on her computer, and hummed to herself as it booted up.
To her surprise, more than fifty new e-mails were waiting for her. She looked at the addresses and saw that they came from virtually everyone that she had in her electronic address book. She moved the cursor over the first, from a coworker at the museum, a girl named Anne Armstrong, and opened the e-mail. Ashley leaned forward to see what her acquaintance had to say. Except the e-mail wasn’t from Anne Armstrong.
Hello, Ashley. I’ve missed you more than you can imagine. But soon we will be together forever, and that will be great. As you can see, there are fifty-six e-mail messages after this one. Do not delete them. In them is important information that you will need.
I love you more today than yesterday. And tomorrow I will love you even more.
Forever yours,
Michael
Ashley wanted to shriek but no sound could rise through her throat.
At first, the garage owner was not particularly eager to help.
“Let me get this straight,” he said, wiping greasy, oil-stained hands on an equally filthy rag. “You want to know something about Michael O’Connell? Tell me why.”
“I’m a writer,” I said. “He figures in a book I’m working on.”
“O’Connell? In a book?” The question was followed by a short burst of forced laughter. “Must be some sort of crime story.”
“That’s right. It’s some sort. I’d appreciate any help.”
“We get fifty bucks an hour here to fix your car. How much time do you think you’re gonna need?”
“That depends on how much you can tell me.”
He snorted. “Well, that depends then on what it is you want to know. I worked side by side with O’Connell the entire time he was employed here. Of course, that was a couple of years back, and I haven’t seen him in a long time. That’s a good thing. But, hell, I was the one that gave him his job, so I could tell you some stuff. But then, I could also be fixing the transmission on this Chevy, too, you get what I mean?”
We had circled around my question, and I thought we would find ourselves nowhere in a couple of minutes. So I reached into my back pocket, grabbed my wallet, and rapidly counted out $100. I put this down on the counter in front of where I was standing. “Just the truth,” I said. “And nothing that you don’t know firsthand.”
The man at the garage eyed the money. “About that son of a bitch, sure.” He reached out his hand, and like some hard-bitten character in a million Hollywood potboiler movies, I placed my palm down on the money, holding it on the counter. The mechanic grinned, showing white teeth with gaps.
“One question first,” the man said. “You know where O’Connell is now?”
“No. Not yet. But I’m going to find him sooner or later. Why?”
“He’s not the sort of guy I necessarily want to piss off. Come looking for me with questions of his own. Like why I talked with you in the first place. He’s not someone you would want asking you those types of questions. And unhappy about it, too.”
“I’ll keep this conversation confidential.”
“Those are big, fine words. But how do I know, Mr. Writer, that you’ll do what you say?”
“I guess that’s the chance you’re going to take.”
He shook his head, but at the same time eyed the money. “Bad odds. Especially where that guy is involved. Wouldn’t want to be trading peace of mind for a lousy hundred bucks.” He took a moment, muttered, “Screw it,” under his breath, then shrugged. “Michael O’Connell. He worked here for about a year, and after about two minutes I made damn sure that he worked the same shift that I did. I didn’t much want him stealing me blind. He was the smartest bastard that ever changed some spark plugs in here, that’s for damn certain. And very cool, too, about how he stole money. Mean and charming as hell, all at the same time, if you can imagine it. Like you would hardly know it when you got taken. Most of the guys that I hire to pump gas in this place are either college kids trying to make a little extra money, or guys that couldn’t pass one of the mechanics certification courses at the big dealerships, so they end up here, instead. Either they’re too young to know how to steal or too dumb. You know what I mean?”
I didn’t answer that question, but took a long look at the gas station owner. He was probably close to my own age, but too much time underneath a car in the summer heat and winter frost had given him creases around the eyes and at the corners of his face. Smoking, too, hadn’t helped, and he took the moment to stick a cigarette between his lips, ignoring his own NO SMOKING sign prominently displayed on the back wall. He had a way of speaking directly toward me, but twisting his head slightly, so that it seemed as if whatever he said came out sideways.
“So, he started working here…”
“Yeah. He worked here, but he wasn’t really working here, you get my drift?”
“No. I don’t.”
The gas station owner rolled his eyes. “O.C. put in the hours. But fixing old carbs and doing inspections wasn’t really his thing. Not exactly where he figured his future lay.”
“What was?”
“Well, replacing a perfectly good fuel pump with a rebuilt one was. Then selling the good one and pocketing the difference. Taking an extra twenty bucks in cash from whoever walked in to make sure some old clunker passed its Massachusetts State emission test was another. Whacking a front ball joint with a hammer and then telling some Boston College kid they needed a new set of brakes and an alignment was.”
“A scam artist?”
The mechanic smiled. “That was it. But you’re just scratching the surface with O’Connell.”
“Okay, what else?”
“He took computer courses at night, and he was into every damn thing you could do with a laptop. The boy was a regular fountain of knowledge. Credit-card fraud. Identity theft. Double billing. Telephone cons, you name it, he had a handle on it. And in his spare time, he used to scan every damn website, newspaper, magazine, whatever, looking for new ways of stealing. He used to keep folders filled with clippings, just to keep himself up-to-date. You know what he used to say?”
“What?”
“You don’t have to kill someone to kill them. But if you really want to, you can. And, if you really know what you’re doing, ain’t nobody going to catch up with you. Not ever.”
I wrote that down.
When the gas station owner saw my pencil scratching across the notepad, he smiled, and he reached out and took the money off the counter. I let him pocket the $100. “You know what the damn stupidest thing was?”
“Okay, what?”
“You’d think that a guy like this would be looking for some big score. Trying to find a way to get rich. But that wasn’t exactly it, with O’Connell.”
“What was it, then?”
“He wanted to be perfect. It was like he wanted to be great. But he wanted to be anonymous, too.”
“Small-time?” I asked.
