The place was dark and, despite the sultry night, dank, a scent of fuel in the air. I found the light switch, but when I flicked it, nothing happened. I pulled the compact flashlight out of my pocket, Whip did the same, and we slowly swept cone-shaped beams over the deserted space and along the craggy walls caked with decades of motor oil, exhaust grunge, and city muck. The place reeked of man sweat and gasoline, the floor felt slick with it, like they’d had some kind of spill. No sign of Buddha, or anyone else, thankfully. Whip might have been able to take him after a couple rounds, but I didn’t want him to have to. In and out—that’s what I wanted, hopefully after finding something here that confirmed the links I thought I’d made, something that would put Leon back in a cell.

The cars were gone, except for one left behind. It was hidden under a canvas tarp, up on blocks. There’d be no VIN, no plates, no easy way of finding its owner. It was now an orphaned auto ready for the scrap. Nothing about Fleet Transports was legit. Besides the chop shop component, it was also a place you could come to get an untraceable car with few questions asked, for a price. That’s how Darby ended up in one of Leon’s dodgy vehicles.

“If Spada owns this, then that’s how he knows Leon,” I said.

Whip swept his flashlight around the garage. “He’d have the scratch, that’s for sure, but so would the kid’s brother. Like I said, gut feeling.”

I grinned, but didn’t say anything. Whip was a better con than he was a cop. He’d overlooked motive, opportunity.

“But, for sure, Leon would need a boss,” Whip said. “He’s cutthroat and mean as a junkyard dog, but he’s no entrepreneur.”

We picked our way in, careful where we put our feet. “I ran the building. Spada’s name wasn’t on it. It came back to a company called Tavroh. He could own that, though. I asked Ben to check it out.”

Whip ran the beam of his flash along the ceiling. “Rich folk got all kinds of ways of hiding dirt. If he owns it, he sure wouldn’t want to advertise. Chop shop and insurance don’t really go together.”

I ran my flash briefly over the tarp, then turned away from it.

“The office,” I whispered as I headed straight there, Whip following.

“You aren’t going to find anything. I was in there, remember? This is a chop shop, not a Honda dealership. No paper trail. They drive the hot cars in, they dice them up, and the parts go adios.”

I slid him a sideways glance, smiled. “I know how a chop shop works.”