The building on the corner had once been a gas station, probably dating back to the days when the term “service station” was still in use and guys in crisp uniforms and caps came running out to clean your windshields and check your tires, water, battery, oil. That was in the days when the idea of filling your own tank seemed absurd. What were we, farmers? Now the structure was a ghost of that curved ’50s architecture that said the future was here—well, it was…a future with its windows painted out, black, giving no view onto the space where once you paid for your gas with cash more often than credit card, and bought candy bars and chewing gum before helping yourself to free road maps.

One of those blacked-out windows had white lettering saying KRAFT AUTOMOTIVE—APPT. ONLY with a phone number. I tried the door and found it unlocked. Just barely ajar. Cracked it further, hollered, “Hello!” and got no response. I pushed it open and stepped inside.

No counter remained in a gutted sales area that was now an office with a metal desk, several filing cabinets and old shelves used to stack automotive catalogues and instruction manuals where cans of oil and other supplies had once lined up like military. Closed doors at left and right still said MEN and WOMEN.

I moved into what had once been the service area, and still was to some degree, with two car lifts, workbenches along the walls, tools on pegboards and the smell of oil. But the garage was clean, almost surgically so, cement floor included. Behind the lifts, and in front of the back workbench, a black full-car cover shrouded a shape that, with the distinctive half-showing star-shaped hubcaps, told a story.

I pulled off the car cover and the red Ferrari said hello. My mouth dropped. I was looking at the fastest, most powerful, and for that matter most expensive car Ferrari ever made.

I checked the passenger side of the vehicle for signs of exterior damage, but there were none. I’d driven stock cars in my reckless youth, but sports cars were out of my league, and that midget with the newsstand knew a hell of a lot more about them than I did. Still, my eyes told me that maybe—maybe—some bodywork had been done around the front right headlight.

Back in the office, I did what any self-respecting private detective would do in a place of interest whose front door was left unlocked. I snooped, starting with the filing cabinets, which held old invoices in their upper drawers and nothing in the lower ones.

On to the desk.

There, the usual business junk shared space with a few surprises, like the .38 Police Special in the right-hand drawer, and a box of ammo in the drawer beneath. Well, a small businessman had the right to protect himself, didn’t he? Of more interest, and much more suggestive, were three items in the bottom left drawer—the only items in that drawer.