I shook my head, tipped my head at my aging Honda. “In my line of work, I’m better off with something that blends into the scenery.”

He laughed. “Yeah, like, remember Magnum, driving around in that red Ferrari? Great car for detective work, that.”

“What’s a vehicle like this worth?” I asked.

“You’re looking at a 1978 911 Targa, excellent condition. It’d probably run around fifty, sixty grand, maybe a little less. All depends on the market. A car’s really only worth what someone will pay for it, regardless of what the book says. Am I right, Bob?”

“That’s for sure, Galen,” Bob said.

“I would have thought it’d be even more than sixty,” I said.

“Plenty of classic Porsches out there that could run you a quarter-mill.” He smiled “And I’ve got a couple. But I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for this one.”

“It was Galen’s wife’s car,” Bob said.

“That’s right,” he said. “Amanda. She passed away six years ago. Big C. This was her pride and joy, and it’d be hard for me to get rid of it. I’m a sentimentalist, but sometimes you have to accept that things are the way they are and move on. Am I right, Bob?”

“You’re right, Galen.”

Bob seemed to have the starring role here as Galen’s yes-man.

“Anyway,” Broadhurst looked at me, “if you should change your mind and think you might want to buy it, or know anyone who might, here’s my card.”

He handed it to me. I slipped it into my front pocket.

“Well,” he said, “in spite of things going a bit sour here, the documents I needed to have signed are signed, we’ve done our business, and I can be on my way.”

“The two of you work together a lot?” I asked.

“We’ve done a few deals,” Broadhurst said, smiling. He laid a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Just doing what I can to make Bob here a rich man. Isn’t that right, Bob?”

Bob offered up a smile that looked as genuine as a spray-on tan. He said, “Last year Galen bought several blocks in downtown Albany. It’s part of a proposal for some new state government offices.”

“Well,” I said. “I’m sure it’s all over my head.”

“I would imagine so,” Broadhurst said. He reached out a hand to Bob for a farewell shake, but did not bother with me.

He got in behind the wheel of the Porsche, fired it up, then eased it into first and pulled away from the curb. We listened to the car work its way through the gears until it reached the end of the street, turned, and disappeared.

Bob said, “He’s kind of an asshole.”

“Thanks for telling me,” I said.

SEVENTEEN

DUCKWORTH did not need to look up Craig Pierce’s address.

He knew where he was living, and it wasn’t at his own apartment. He’d given that up after the incident, and now—like Trevor—was back living with his parents. Thank God that was the only thing about their situations that was similar.