Behind the main building was a large, enclosed work yard surrounded by secondary buildings, some of which were open sheds containing various pieces of unidentifiable equipment and a few cars in different states of beautification or repair. To the left of the yard, Clyde's repair shop was closed off by a wide metal door. At the end of the shop, facing the showroom, a second garage door led to the drive-through. This door was closed. And the drive itself was enclosed by two chain-link, padlocked gates.
The yard was completely shut away from the surrounding streets except for this fenced entry, and for a narrower passage at the back, a slim alley which was also secured by two locked, chain-link gates. That passage led through to a narrow parking strip facing Highway One. Both wire gates hugged the concrete paving, and their tops touched the roof of the walkway.
They had seen, as they circled the block, that other businesses backed up to the rear automotive buildings. The row of separate stores facing the highway included a hobby shop, a quick-stop grocery, a photo shop, a laundry, and a restaurant. The intruding passage ran between the restaurant and the photo shop. Joe knew that in the daytime, when the gates were unlocked, agency employees went regularly through from their work yard to the side door of Mom's Burgers for coffee breaks and lunch. Clyde usually had a late breakfast there, as did Jimmie Osborne. Midmorning breakfast at Mom's had been a ritual with Samuel Beckwhite.
Standing against the front glass studying the showroom and the gleaming cars, they stiffened suddenly and ducked as a car turned onto Haley.
It was a wedge-shaped red sports car, long and low and sleek, and was running without lights, headed from the residential section toward Ocean. It turned right toward the automotive shop. Joe thought it might be a Lamborghini, an elegant Italian job that would mean really big bucks. "Get down. It's slowing."
They crouched behind the bougainvillea vine as the sleek vehicle slowed before the entrance, then moved on. Seconds later another car followed: Wark's black BMW, also unlit. Both cars cruised slowly past and turned onto Ocean toward the shop driveway. The instant they passed, Joe and Dulcie swarmed up the bougainvillea and onto the tile roof.
Trotting over the low peak, they crouched at the edge looking down on the lit inner courtyard. A tow truck was parked beside the repair shop, close against the wall, a gleaming tan vehicle with Beckwhite's logo on the side. Dulcie said, "Why do they need a tow truck, when these are all such expensive cars?"
"I guess any car can have a problem on the road, maybe a flat tire. Anyone can have a wreck." Both cars had pulled into the drive. Wark got out and unlocked the wire gates, then slid back into the driver's seat. The two cars pulled in, followed by a low yellow roadster also running dark. When the three were inside, Wark closed and locked both gates.
"I think that's an antique Corvette," Joe whispered.
"The yellow one?"
"Mmm. A collector's model." He was surprised at how much he'd picked up from Clyde, and from reading over Clyde's shoulder.
Yes, the red car was a Lamborghini, a vintage model. He recognized the hubcaps from pictures, and he could vaguely remember the names of some of the antique models, Miura, Espada, Islero, because the words appealed to him; he didn't know which model this was, but it was bucks, all right.
Jimmie Osborne got out of the Lamborghini, and a woman emerged from the Corvette, her long blond ponytail, secured high on her head, bouncing like a tassel. She wore skintight black jeans and a black lace blouse that left nothing whatever to the imagination.
Crouched at the edge of the roof, the cats watched Jimmie unlock the door into Clyde's shop and wheel out a metal cart, its shelves fitted with tools. Jimmie laid a folded paper drop cloth on the ground beside the Corvette, and Wark slid into the front seat.
There he scrunched down nearly on his back and placed his feet, clad in black running shoes, up on the car's windshield.
The cracking glass sounded sharp as a gunshot, and the windshield popped out. Jimmie removed it and laid it on the drop cloth as Wark pried at something on the dashboard.
"He's removing the VIN plate," Joe said. "The identification number, it's on a metal plate. They're stealing cars, all right. I wonder if Beckwhite knew."
"Does the agency sell those cars?"
Joe licked a whisker. "Clyde was talking about VIN numbers on the phone just…" he stared at her, his eyes round. "He was talking to someone about stolen cars just before Beckwhite was killed."
Her eyes grew wide. "You mean Clyde's part of this-this car ring?"
Joe shook his whiskers. "Not old Law-and-Order Damen. No way. I think maybe he suspects something-he's been really irritable, coming home from work. And he hasn't seen Jimmie and Kate much lately. And he's been keeping some kind of list in a little notebook."
"Could Jimmie and Wark have killed Beckwhite because he found out? How could he sell cars in his agency, and not know they were stolen?"
"I guess if Wark had false papers, they could make it look legit. They killed Beckwhite for some reason. There's a lot of money down there, I'd guess the Corvette way up in the six figures, and the Lamborghini more than that."
"Maybe that was why Wark hid the wrench. Because they thought Clyde knew something. Maybe Clyde was nosing around." She looked at him thoughtfully.
He tried to remember Clyde's phone conversations over the last weeks, but he'd had no reason to listen carefully. The usual banter with his women friends, a complaint to the cleaners for losing a button on his sport coat, a call to his accountant. Dull stuff. He flicked a whisker and hunched lower, watched with growing interest as the men worked on the Corvette. He hadn't pictured Wark as a careful person, but the man was careful now as he installed the new VIN number. "I expect they got that plate from a wrecking yard, from an old wrecked Corvette, same model, same year."
"How do you know so much?"
"From Clyde. And from the late shows. What do you watch, late at night?"
"Wilma reads to me. Or if we're watching TV, I'm looking at the clothes and the beautiful houses."
As, above them, the sky began to pale, they drew back away from the roof's edge. From down in the yard, if one of those three were to look up, they'd see two cats as stark against the sky as gargoyles on a gothic roof.
They watched Wark rivet a new metal strip to the dashboard, working as carefully as a surgeon, while Jimmie removed a new windshield from the backseat of the BMW.
When the men were ready to install the windshield, Wark squeezed cement from a tube, around the edge of the Corvette's window frame. The smell rose up to the cats, making their noses itch and their eyes blink. As the men set the windshield in place, Joe could see a heavy bulge, like a gun, in Wark's pocket. He didn't mention it to Dulcie. She'd been through enough with Wark's poison and Wark nearly pushing her off the cliff. Even if it was a gun, why make a big deal.
Dawn was pushing into brightness as Wark and Jimmie cleaned up the edges of the glass and cleaned the new windshield. Dulcie crept forward, flattened against the roof, staring over. "What's the woman doing, rooting around inside the yellow car?"
"Sheril. That's Sheril Beckwhite."
The blonde was leaning into the Corvette, feeling under the seat. She had been rummaging through the interiors of all three cars as the two men worked. She seemed to be filling a canvas tote bag. When she backed out of the Corvette, rear first in the tight black jeans, the bag was fat and heavy. She was barely out of the car when Wark snatched the bag from her and headed for the small gate that led to the restaurant.
"Where's he going? What's in there?"
"Come on," Joe said.
"But it's…"
"Shh. Come on." He backed away from the edge and led her across the roof until they were over the repair shop. The sky above them was bright with pale, swift running clouds.