Bob Butler made a tamping-down gesture with both hands. “Enough! Enough, for crying out loud! We’re all getting off on the wrong foot here. Jesus, Galen, Mr. Weaver’s already proved his value to us. Jeremy took off and Mr. Weaver here tracked him down and brought him home. Put yourself in Jeremy’s shoes. Coming up the street and seeing this goddamn car. He hasn’t seen it since the night everything happened.”

“Fine,” Galen said. “But I’m telling you, I didn’t know. I got the car out of the shop this morning, wanted to give it a good run. I had papers for you to sign and your office said you were up here. So shoot me.”

I was tempted. But I hadn’t brought my gun with me today.

“And Mr. Weaver is not a bodyguard,” Bob said. “He’s a private investigator.”

“Oh, are you now?” Broadhurst said. “What are you investigating? You gonna find out who’s making all these threats against Jeremy?”

“No,” I said. “You’d need every police department in the country to deal with those.”

“Mr. Weaver’s going to keep an eye on Jeremy till things settle down,” Bob said. “Just an hour ago someone went by and threw a rock through the window.”

Instead of looking back at the house—Broadhurst had probably already seen the broken glass—he glanced at the Porsche, then up and down the street, probably worried about whether his recently repaired car would get caught in the crossfire of the next act of vandalism.

“That’s terrible,” he said. “It’s terrible, and my heart goes out to you.” His tone softened. “God, all the things that get triggered from one incident.”

“Hardly a minor event,” I said.

“True, true,” Broadhurst said. “A great many lives impacted, especially the family of that poor young girl.”

“If it was me,” I said, “I don’t know that I could ever drive that car again, knowing what happened.”

“I hear what you’re saying,” Galen Broadhurst said. “To be honest, now that it’s out of the shop and good as new, I’m thinking of selling it. It’s got a tragic history, and I suspect I’ll be reminded of that fact every time I get behind the wheel.” He gave me a smile for the first time. “Interested?”

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?”