Page 21 of One Night Rendezvous

“I can’t make that promise. All I can do is tell you that I will have your back and vouch for you. I know you’re doing what you can to keep on the straight and narrow.”

Ford is silent for a long moment beside me. I reach across the seat and take his hand in mine, squeezing it. It’s a gesture of reassurance between friends. That’s what I tell myself. It doesn’t stop my heart from skipping a beat or my mind to instantly recall what it felt like to have his hands on me.

He takes a deep breath, and then lets it rush out. “I do some side jobs out of the shop. Stuff that people need to not be reported to their insurance companies or their spouses. Maybe they had a little fender bender that would raise their rates too much. Maybe they were somewhere they shouldn’t have been when it happened. It’s not illegal, but it’s not really on the up and up either.”

“Everybody in town knows about that, Ford. We let it go because it’s a piddling offense unless the vehicle in question was involved in a crime. Is that what Doogie did? Brought in his car to cover up a crime?” Cam asks.

“I don’t know. He said it was a hit and run, but what he hit … fuck if I know,” Ford says.

“Paint chips?” There’s something in Cam’s voice. He’s onto something.

“Blue. And not like what you’d see on a car. I thought maybe he hit a mailbox,” Ford admits.

Cam shakes his head. “He hit someone, Ford. And I know who … Taylor Hinkley was bicycling on Route 12. Someone hit her, knocked her into a ditch and then left her for dead.”

“Jesus,” I mutter. “When did that happen?”

“Two days ago,” Ford says. “That’s when he brought the car in.”

Cam nods in confirmation. “It’s been all over the news.”

“No TV,” I reply. “And I’ve been off work so not hearing the local gossip from customers.”

“We just watch DVDs. No cable,” Ford says. “I clued in that it would be something big because Doogie is in a hurry for the vehicle. And he’s threatening to hang Ashley out to dry if I don’t come through.”

“Is there enough evidence on the car?”

Ford shakes his head. “They scrubbed it down pretty good before they brought it in. I found a few paint chips, but any good lawyer would argue that was planted. You’ll have to get a confession. And that’s not fucking likely.”

“So what are you proposing, Ford? You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want something.”

“I’ll get him to talk. I’ll get him to tell the truth. I just need you to hear it when he does. I guess, Officer Fellows, I’m turning into a narc.”

“No,” Cam says. “Not a narc. A man. A man who does what’s right, even when it ain’t easy. That takes a lot of guts.”

I’m sitting here in this seat, next to this amazing man, and I’m being nothing but a fucking coward. Not even sure what the hell to say to him, and definitely not willing to fumble through it with Cam present, I keep my mouth shut. It’s not the time. Not yet.

EIGHTEEN

Ford

I have never in my life worn a wire, never thought I would be in a position to do so. It's weird how things work out. Here I am, at the garage, finishing up the work on Doogie's car, running through all the ways this shit could go south. There are a multitude. The only thing keeping me positive is that I know I can get this man put behind bars, and hopefully if that happens, Ashley will be able to live the life she's always wanted to.

At the same time, maybe I can convince her to live that life with me.

I've purposely set this up to happen before the garage opens. In my ear, I can hear Troy. "Doogie's parking down the block, whatever you have planned, just know you've got limited time before he shows up."

Troy is the only person in law enforcement I trust. The only one I've ever trusted. He's one of the only people I also respect. So I know if he's telling me this I need to take heed. "Thanks, I'll be ready as soon as he gets here."

Doogie doesn't even knock, just walks in like he owns the fucking place. I guess though, that's what he believes about everything. "Got your message last night, Ford. My ride is ready?"

I wipe my hands on a rag, and lean against the fender. "Yup, it's been a fuckin' pain in my ass. What the hell did you hit? I assumed a mailbox or some shit like that. Let me know what it was so I can stay far away, I do not want to have to fix my own if I happen to hit it. The shit I had to do—I don't think you understand. I should be charging you double what I did."

The thing about Doogie? Although he should keep his mouth shut half the time, he just can't. He's a talker, and he likes to brag. Self-preservation isn't a thing for him, he'd much rather be seen as what he believes himself to be—a badass. "Mailbox? That's what you think I hit? C'mon Ford."

"I have not a clue. The shit people have brought to me over the years runs together, and with these new composites, I mean you never know. It's just a question. You can answer it or not." I act like it doesn't matter to me either way. This is going to make him want to talk, and give it all up.

"Wasn't a goddamn mailbox, Ford. I'd think someone who's done bodywork his whole life would know that, but I guess you aren't as smart as I gave you credit for."

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