When I’d eaten enough to raise my blood sugar to the functioning point, I called Luke to get the word on my car. My better mood deflated rapidly: he estimated repairs at twenty–nine hundred.

“Freddie towed it to Cheviot for you, but he took a look at the damage when he unloaded it. You bent the front axle and stove in the radiator for starters. And when Freddie got there he found the neighborhood helping themselves to the battery, the radio, and a couple of tires, so I’ll have to repair the dash. And before you squawk, let me tell you that a big shop would charge at least a thousand more.”

I slumped in the hard chair. “I wasn’t squawking. That gurgling noise was the last of my pathetic assets being sucked into the Gulf of Mexico. Does this estimate include the kind of professional courtesy I gave you when I drove those creeps away from your yard?”

“You didn’t do anything for me I couldn’t do myself, Warshawski, but I know you don’t know what it takes to fix this car.”

I bit back an acid rejoinder. “What about your forensic buddies? What are they saying about inspecting the front end?”

“The earliest they can get to it is tomorrow afternoon. And I have a note here from Rieff at Cheviot. He says they need the autopsy report on the hit–and–run victim. And they ideally need the clothes she had on when she died. Their analysis is going to run you another grand, easy, probably more. Of course I won’t start repairs until after they’ve finished. And until you give me the go–ahead. But tell you what, Warshawski, being as you helped me out with those kids, I won’t charge you for the tow.”

“Luke, you’re a prince.”

Irony was wasted on him. “One good turn deserves another.”

I pressed the END key before I let my temper get the better of me. I’d spent three nights in his alley, nabbed a group of teenagers, put the fear of God into them sufficiently to make sure they didn’t return, and then stupidly gave Luke a courtesy discount in the belief he would reciprocate on future repair bills.

Twenty–nine hundred in repairs plus another grand for a forensic inspection. And yet another thousand or two for a replacement? Maybe I’d be better off renting by the week. Of course, I could let the Trans Am go for scrap and buy a used car with more oomph than the ones Mr. Contreras was investigating, but I loved my little sports car.