“So you know about his fits of temper.”

His laugh was abrupt, cutting itself off. “Recent days, I’ve been on the wrong end of them, yes, a few times. And let me tell you, Mr. Hammer, this is something very new, and most disturbing. I’ve known some cool cats in my time, but few cats are as cool, and collected, as Vincent.”

“That’s the impression I got from his father. Losing that cool of his seems out of character for Vincent Colby.”

The blond broker squinted at me, as if trying to bring me into focus. “So what’s the connection here between Vincent’s hit-and-run and my Ferrari? You can’t be implying that it was my car that gave him that narrow escape. My F40 is in the shop and has been for a good month.”

That didn’t mean someone else couldn’t have used it.

But I kept that thought to myself and instead asked, “Did Vincent mention to you that a red Ferrari was the vehicle in question?”

Frowning, nodding, Owens said, “He did, actually. He…he even kidded me about it. ‘Where were you at the night of November whatever-it-was?’ But, Mr. Hammer, there must be a hundred red Ferraris in New York!”

“Actually, four hundred and seventeen.”

His head rocked back a little. “Wow. Well, I admit I’m surprised. I thought I was in rather select company.”

“You are. There are only two F40s in Manhattan.”

His eyebrows went up; they were so blond, they were barely there. “Oh. Well. I can see why you’re here, then.”

“Would Vincent be familiar with your car? Has he ridden in it?”

With a slow, thoughtful shake of his head, Owens said, “No. Not that I can think of…no, never.”

“You said a few moments ago you’re friends.”

Now he nodded, giving it a little more than was necessary. “We are. But we work together. Rarely socialize these days. And when we do, it’s in the city. The only time I drive that car in town is when I’m heading out into the country. And Vincent hates the country.”

“So he wouldn’t have recognized the F40, even if he’d seen it coming.”

His eyes tightened as he thought about that, or pretended to.

“I don’t know that he’s ever seen it,” Owens said, “but he’s heard me talk about it enough. The way a proud father talks about his kid, I suppose. I don’t have any…kids I mean. Mr. Hammer, that vehicle is being worked on. It’s a fantastic machine in many ways, but the brakes are frankly shitty.”

Some proud father.

He went on: “The rotors and calipers, too, aren’t what you’d expect from something so high-end. I’ve had to have a frustrating amount of maintenance done on it. But I have a top guy who does the work for me.”

“High-maintenance ride, huh?”

“Afraid so, but worth it.” He grinned puckishly. “Like some females—worth the misery.”

I gave that more of a smile than it had coming. “It’s in your mechanic’s possession now?”