After all, this young exec had a high-paying enough job to be one of that elite group of Manhattanites who could afford to own a Ferrari F40.
I had made this appointment by phone through that Red Riding Hood out there. The receptionist had checked with Mr. Owens while I waited on the line; all she had available to pass along were my name and my desire to talk to Owens about his Ferrari. I hadn’t expected that paltry info would lead to him getting on to talk to me directly, and was surprised when I got the go-ahead to come around. Right around, if possible.
Which I had.
“Obviously you’re aware,” I said to my mysteriously cooperative host, “that your associate, Vincent Colby, had a narrow scrape with a hit-and-run recently.”
His shrug was a tossed-off thing. “Of course. And I’m relieved, all of us are, that Vincent wasn’t badly hurt, although... well, we’re all relieved.”
I put an ankle on a knee. “If you were about to say that you’re concerned about the aftereffects of his concussion, that’s no surprise to me. I’m working for Vincent’s father, looking into the ‘accident.’”
The tiny mouth tightened. “Yes... I know.”
I frowned. “Vance Colby told you?”
Owens widened his eyes but they didn’t lose their sleepy look. “Well... I work closely with Vincent. He’s more the big-picture guy around here. I’m essentially the office manager. We’re friends since college. Not a lot of secrets.”
“So you know about his fits of temper.”
His laugh was abrupt, cutting itself off. “Recent days, I’ve been on the wrong end of them, yes, a few times. And let me tell you, Mr. Hammer, this is something very new, and most disturbing. I’ve known some cool cats in my time, but few cats are as cool, and collected, as Vincent.”
“That’s the impression I got from his father. Losing that cool of his seems out of character for Vincent Colby.”
The blond broker squinted at me, as if trying to bring me into focus. “So what’s the connection here between Vincent’s hit-and-run and my Ferrari? You can’t be implying that it was my car that gave him that narrow escape. My F40 is in the shop and has been for a good month.”
That didn’t mean someone else couldn’t have used it.
But I kept that thought to myself and instead asked, “Did Vincent mention to you that a red Ferrari was the vehicle in question?”
Frowning, nodding, Owens said, “He did, actually. He... he even kidded me about it. ‘Where were you at the night of November whatever-it-was?’ But, Mr. Hammer, there must be a hundred red Ferraris in New York!”
“Actually, four hundred and seventeen.”
His head rocked back a little. “Wow. Well, I admit I’m surprised. I thought I was in rather select company.”
“You are. There are only two F40s in Manhattan.”
His eyebrows went up; they were so blond, they were barely there. “Oh. Well. I can see why you’re here, then.”
“Would Vincent be familiar with your car? Has he ridden in it?”
With a slow, thoughtful shake of his head, Owens said, “No. Not that I can think of... no, never.”
“You said a few moments ago you’re friends.”
Now he nodded, giving it a little more than was necessary. “We are. But we work together. Rarely socialize these days. And when we do, it’s in the city. The only time I drive that car in town is when I’m heading out into the country. And Vincent hates the country.”
“So he wouldn’t have recognized the F40, even if he’d seen it coming.”
His eyes tightened as he thought about that, or pretended to.
“I don’t know that he’s ever seen it,” Owens said, “but he’s heard me talk about it enough. The way a proud father talks about his kid, I suppose. I don’t have any... kids I mean. Mr. Hammer, that vehicle is being worked on. It’s a fantastic machine in many ways, but the brakes are frankly shitty.”
Some proud father.
He went on: “The rotors and calipers, too, aren’t what you’d expect from something so high-end. I’ve had to have a frustrating amount of maintenance done on it. But I have a top guy who does the work for me.”
“High-maintenance ride, huh?”
“Afraid so, but worth it.” He grinned puckishly. “Like some females — worth the misery.”
I gave that more of a smile than it had coming. “It’s in your mechanic’s possession now?”
“It is. His name is Roger Kraft.” He reached for a notepad and pen, started scribbling. “I’ll give you the address.”
He tore off the slip of paper and passed it to me across the desk.
“I appreciate this, Mr. Owens,” I said, pocketing it. “What does Kraft look like, by the way?”
“Look like? Well, he’s about forty. Your size, a little heavier.”
“Pony tail? Beard?”
“Heavens no. Neither! Not Roger. He’s an ex-Marine.” That pinched mouth managed a grin. “He would gladly pummel any man who wore a pony tail.”
“If that ever comes up,” I said, “I’ll know who to ask.”
I thanked him and stood.
He got to his feet as well and said, “I can’t imagine how or why my F40 could have been used in that despicable way. But on the very long shot that it was, Mr. Hammer, would you please let me know?”
“You’ll be the first,” I said.
I was barely out the door when the Ice Queen guarding Vance Colby’s gate called out, “Mr. Hammer! A moment please!”
I walked down to her desk. She’d pretty well melted by now, and seemed downright pleasant, saying, “If it’s at all convenient, Mr. Colby would like a few words.”
“Any particular ones?”
That got a real smile out of her. Every secretary and receptionist in town loved me now.
She said, “You can go right in.”
I did.
Vance Colby was seated on one of the facing couches near the fireplace again, flames going full-throttle. People his age get cold easy — really cold when they stop breathing.
“Please join me, Mr. Hammer.”
I went over and did that, sitting opposite him. He had a snifter of brandy waiting. We’d graduated from coffee. He poured me a glass and I accepted it. Tasted fine, although what does a beer guy know about brandy?
The plump little man with the trim mustache, wrapped up in another well-tailored pinstripe, poured himself some brandy but set the glass down.
“I am surprised to see you back at Colby so soon,” my client said. “Have you something to report?”
I hadn’t come to report at all, of course, but he did have ten grand’s worth of my time.
So I said, “Just an interesting wrinkle or two.”
I told him that I’d confirmed the NYPD was not exactly setting up roadblocks to nab the hit-and-runner; his assumption that they were blowing off the incident would seem to be right on. I also let him know that a specific, rare model of Ferrari had been the vehicle.
Then I informed him of the Ferrari F40 whose owner was parked down the hall.
“You’ll most likely find,” the old man said, unimpressed, “that’s merely a coincidence.”
Everybody today was telling me what to think about coincidences.
“William Owens is a good boy,” he said, as if I’d suggested otherwise. “He and Vincent were at Harvard together. Met on the rugby team. They think the world of each other. Those two are the future of this firm.”
“Well, it’s an odd turn of events,” I said, then sipped the sweet stuff he’d poured me. “I’ll have to look into it.”