“Hello?” I asked.
The man glanced at me, then went back to staring at the Jeep. I waited for him to speak, but he never did, not even when I cleared my throat awkwardly.
“I’m Hollis Bisbee. I work for the Chron—” I caught myself. “For Knock ‘Em Dead podcast.”
“Whatever it is you’re selling, I’m not buying.”
“I’m not here to sell you anything. I’m a reporter, and I’m hoping you can talk to me a little bit about this Jeep.”
“What about it?”
“Has it been in an accident recently?”
He looked me up and down. “Why?”
I fought the urge to squirm, reminding myself of the time I had to ask a crime boss if he knew anything about an explosion in a mattress warehouse. This twerp made me uncomfortable, but he was nothing compared to that completely terrifying guy. You’ve stared down known killers, Hollis. You’ve got this. You are a hardboiled reporter, and your podcast audience is depending on you to bring this story to light.
Not exactly true—my audience was depending on lemon curd tips—but now was not the time for reality.
I swallowed, pulled myself to full height, and tilted my chin up professionally to give myself confidence. “I’m investigating a story that might feature this Jeep.”
Wordlessly, he went back to peering at the grill of the Jeep.
“Sir? Excuse me?”
He grunted again. I felt like I was back at square one. I took a deep breath. When in doubt, just dive on in.
“Can you tell me why this Jeep is here? I’m reporting a story about a hit-and-run. It looks to me like this Jeep was involved in an accident recently. Do you know what happened?”
Most importantly, was there any blood on the fender? I tried to casually look, but didn’t see anything. Paulie Henderson was not an idiot, and his father knew his way around crime scenes. Most likely, any blood that might have been involved had long since been wiped clean. I was sure of it.
Also, I couldn’t help noticing the damage to the front of the Jeep wasn’t very extensive. I made a mental note to research how much damage a hit-and-run would do to the front of a car.
The man took his toothpick out of his mouth and used it to point to the grill. “Looks to me like he hit a bird.”
“A bird?” Not the response I’d thought I would get.
“Happens pretty often out on the country roads. Birds get a little too big for their britches, end up getting blown up by the front end of a car.”
I studied the grill a little harder. The damage seemed like a little too much to have been made by a bird. Unless it was a giant bird like…an emu.
Were there wild emu in Parkwood?
“So you don’t think this damage could have come from, say, hitting a man in a parking lot?”
He studied me intensely. “Who did you say you are again?”
The air around us began to feel weighty, uncomfortable. “Hollis Bisbee.” I took a breath and tried to add some confident conviction behind it. “I’m with the Knock ’em Dead podcast.” I pulled out my notebook and pencil.
“Uh-huh,” he said. “I heard about you. You’re that fancy big city reporter. I haven’t got anything to say.”
Stonewalled again. It was harder to get this town talking than that time I had to get a story on a murder inside a monastery.
“I—I’m not—if you don’t mind just telling me—”
He pointed to the side of his head with one finger, the way Mary Jean did when she told me to read my work aloud and listen for too many giblets. “Can’t you hear? I said I’m not talking.”
“Can you at least tell me if the Jeep has been here before today for any other body work—”
“Nope.”
“Especially in the past week or so—”
“Nope.”
“Fine.” I crammed my notebook and pencil back into my bag. “Are you the only body shop in Parkwood?”
He thought this one over, then peered at the ceiling. “Yep,” he finally said.
“Thanks for your time.” I turned on my heel and walked away.
And nearly tripped over a pair of big feet in shiny black shoes. I stopped short, started to apologize, then realized who I’d tripped over. Brooks was standing just outside the bay doors, his arms crossed, his legs splayed confidently. He was in uniform.
“You have got to be kidding me. Not right now, okay?”
“I just happened to be driving by and saw your car. Thought I’d stop in to make sure everything’s okay.” He looked over my shoulder. “Hey, Mark.”
“Hey, Brooks,” the mechanic said.
“Everything’s fine,” I said. “Thanks for your concern.” I was so frustrated at this point, I almost didn’t notice how it felt kind of nice to see him. Almost.
“I know what you’re worried about, and I haven’t said one word to Paulie Henderson,” I said.
“Not for lack of trying.”
Well…that was true. Which reminded me… “Please step aside, Officer, I need to get to that gas station.”
He didn’t step aside. “Why?”
It was my turn to cross my arms. We looked like two children having a pouting stand-off. Which would have made me smile if it weren’t for my extreme frustration with everything that ever had to do with Brooks and Chief Henderson and Mark the tight-lipped mechanic and the whole impossible system. “I don’t need to divulge that to you.”
“No, you’re correct, you don’t need to. But you might want to.”
“Why on earth would I want to?” I pointed at him.
“You know, I’m starting to think you’re actually a spy.”
“Is that so? Why would I be spying?”
“You’re as eager to find out what I know as I am to find out what you know.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he said, but something about the way he set his jaw made me think I was closer to the truth than I realized.
“But you’re planning on talking
