I reached down below the driver’s seat and pulled the lever that popped the trunk. I swung the trunk lid wide, scanned inside. It was clean. I lifted up the flooring, exposing the spare tire, a tire iron, and a jack. The painted metal was shiny under there, never having been exposed to the elements, and the spare tire was one of those mini ones that lasted only a few miles until you could get a proper replacement. The tread was jet black, never touched pavement.

I ran my fingers under the bottom side of the tire, looking for I didn’t know what. But there was nothing there. I reached into other nooks and crannies, but couldn’t find a thing. I opened the back door, reached into the seat crevices, got down on my knees and peered under the two front seats.

There was nothing to be found. Of course, if whatever I suspected was in this car had been in plain sight, then the feds would have found it before selling it to me and Lawrence, wouldn’t they?

“What are you looking for?” It was Trevor.

“Whatever’s in this car. There’s got to be something in it somewhere.”

Trevor said, “I bet they took her thataway.” He pointed west.

“Is that the way they drove off?”

He nodded. “I’ll bet, if we drove around, maybe we could find them.”

I was back on my feet again. “Trevor, it’s a big city. They could be anywhere. We’re going to have to wait for their call. They’ll tell us where to go.” I slammed the doors shut on the Virtue. “If there’s something in that car, I don’t know where the hell it is.”

“Did you look in the rocker panels?” Trevor asked.

“The what?”

“I don’t know what they are, but in The French Connection? That was where they hid all the bags of heroin. Down in the rocker panels.”

“I don’t think I’ve got the equipment on me to start cutting through sheet metal,” I said, just as my cell phone went off in my jacket pocket. “Hello?”

“Walker, Sarah left me a message, and Nancy says you may know something about this thing that happened to Stan.”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Colby. The edition is gone, but I’m still working this thing. What did you have for me?”

“Nothing, Dick,” I said.

“What do you mean, nothing? I was told you had something that connected this thing that happened to Stan to this Bullock guy. Am I wrong about that?”

“I can’t do this now, Dick.”

“Excuse me? One of your coworkers gets his head smashed in, and you’re too busy to help us find out who did it? What kind of asshole are you?”

“The worst possible kind, Dick.” I hung up.