twenty feet high.”
“They don’t advertise their location, but a relative of mine, Ranger—you saw him back at your nursery—works for the Birdsong Racing Team. This is their local headquarters,” he answered.
Ranger, wearing coveralls with “Blueeyes” embroidered above the pocket, came through the gate in the interior fence to meet them as they stepped out of Max’s truck. The men nodded to each other but didn’t shake hands.
Without preamble, and possibly because she was standing right there, Max asked Ranger about local performance shops with dubious reputations.
“The closest of these shops is a few miles farther down the highway, just outside Bloomfield, across the road from the cemetery and adjacent to the Wildcat Drilling Company’s yard. The shop has a really bad reputation among serious independent repair shops, especially when it comes to their sources of used and rebuilt parts. The guy who owns it, Jerry Parson, has gotten busted several times for possession of stolen property. He seriously hates cops, so watch yourself.” He cleared his throat. “A few months ago, some poor jerk tried to offer Parson some stolen headlights. He got mistaken for a cop and ended up on the banks of Farmington Reservoir, naked, unconscious and beaten half to death. He refused to press charges, but the story got out anyway.”
Max nodded. “That’s undoubtedly what Jerry wanted—the PR.”
“You’ve heard of him?” Ranger asked.
“Sure, back when I was a police officer. But I never met him. Good thing, considering where I’m going next.”
“There’s a guy inside our shop who knows Parson well enough to give you some up-to-date background. You might want to talk to him before you set out.” Ranger glanced at Kris. “It would be better if he went in alone, Ms. Reynolds. Joe won’t say much around people he doesn’t know.”
“No problem,” Kris answered, wondering how long ago Max had told Mr. Blueeyes her name.
MAX WENT INSIDE THE GARAGE. In an adjacent bay were two mechanics working on a high-performance carburetor. When he got closer, Max recognized one of the Navajo men, a warrior he’d previously known only as Smoke. His last name, embroidered on his work overalls, was Yazzie.
“I needed to get you away from the woman, Thunder,” he said as Max joined him. “I have a message for you from Hastiin Bigodii. He recommends that you concentrate on Harris first, then the platinum.”
“I agree. That’s why our current plan is to draw him to us, make the collar, then worry about the recovery.”
“Hastiin Bigodii also wanted me to remind you that if you need backup, help won’t be far.”
“Understood.”
Smoke then handed Max a newspaper photo of Harris, not so much for him, but for Kris. Judging from the background it had probably been taken during the Police Athletic League’s charity baseball game a few years ago.
Thanking him, Max walked back outside. Kris was already seated in his truck when he opened the door and slipped behind the wheel. “You understand the kind of place we’re going into, right?” he asked.
“Yeah. Otherwise I’d have suggested we stop for dinner first. I’m starving, but I’d hate to get into a fight on a full stomach. I’m assuming we’re liable to get jumped once we start asking questions, right?”
“That’s the way I see it, but don’t worry, I have a plan.”
“I’m all ears.”
After he filled her in, she said, “Okay. Let’s go for it.”
He was really beginning to like her. Instead of inundating him with questions about his plan, she was willing to play things out and roll with the punches. Before switching on the ignition, Max reached under the seat for his gun, removed it from the holster and stuck it into his waistband. It was uncomfortable there, but a holster was something a cop would have, not an amateur thief.
They were underway a short time later. Then less than a mile away from the shop, they stopped on a deserted road. Taking water from a bottle he had behind the seat, he prepared some sticky mud and smeared it over the plate, partially hiding the numbers and letters.
“This should work with our cover as amateurs,” he said.
“Do these kinds of places—like the one we’re going to—close at regular hours?” Seeing the surprised look he gave her, she added, “You know, to blend in.”
“If they’ve got cars to work on, they’ll be there.”
A drilling company yard, with its stacks of drill casings and other heavy gear, nearly hid the old, converted gas station. They saw a cemetery and funeral home across the highway but almost drove past the garage before seeing the small sign that read Power House.
Max pulled in quickly and parked in front of a battered tow truck. Two sedans, probably belonging to the mechanics, were parked on the west side of the building, and a large blue pickup was on the east side.
There were four bays, one of which was open to the street. Two men were working on an old sedan, one gunning the engine while the other took a look beneath the hood. They could see shelves of auto parts taking up the far bay, and two more men were removing the tires from another sedan up on a lift.
“Here we go,” Max said. “It’s show time.”
As they wandered toward the open bay, Max placed a casual arm around her shoulders. A spark of desire rippled through her from the close contact between their bodies. She pressed herself against his side, enjoying the warm sensations, and smiled at him.
“Making it look good as ordered,” she whispered.
“I need to talk to the owner,” Max yelled to one of the men, trying to be heard over the machine gun rattle of the air hammer being used to remove the car wheel nuts.
An overweight, heavily tattooed man wearing a dingy white T-shirt came out of the office area, looked at Max, then gave Kris the once-over.
“Nice set of wheels, man,” he said, glancing at the truck. “But we don’t have parts for something like that.”
“Not looking for parts, dude. I came to sell it—cheap,” he said.
“Before the owner finds out, I’m guessing?” the man surmised, then gave Kris a longer look this time.
“If your ole lady is nice to me, we might still be able to cut a deal.”
“Watch your mouth,” Max growled.
“Just playing with you, dude,” the man said, putting his hands up in the air. “But tell me, what makes you think I’d be interested in a hot truck?”
“Hot? Hey, I just can’t find where I put the papers, and I need some cash, you know? A guy I know said you’d do business without a bunch of questions, so how about five thousand? Cash,” he added. “Heck, you could get twice that for the parts.”
Max got a look at the last vehicle in the garage, a van that could have been the twin of the hopped-up job John Harris had used. He stepped forward
