“No, thanks,” Pitt said. “I actually live within walking distance of here. After being cooped up the last few hours, I could use a good stretch of the legs.” He turned to say good-bye to Ann.

“Good luck with the investigation.”

Ann threw her arms around Pitt and gave him a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks,” she whispered.

“You take care of that leg.” He helped her into the car, and waved as they drove off into the gloom.

Pitt’s left leg ached from the bullet wound, while his right shin was still tender from his boat collision in Chile. He paused and sucked in a deep breath of the night air, cool and crisp from a recent rain shower. Hoisting his duffel bag over his shoulder, he ambled across the tarmac, his tight limbs slowly loosening as he moved.

The whine of engines sounded from across the tarmac as he made his way past a row of private jet hangars toward a little-used section of the airport. He crossed an empty field and approached a lone hangar that looked as if it hadn’t been occupied in fifty years. High weeds surrounded the structure, which was coated in equal parts of rust and dust. A bank of windows beneath the roof’s eaves showed a continuous web of cracks, with shards of glass scattered on the ground near a battered trash can. Only an expert eye examining the building up close could discern that the derelict appearance was in fact a façade designed to deter attention.

Pitt stepped to a side door illuminated by a dim yellow bulb and reached for an industrial-grade light switch. The switch assembly flipped open on a hinge, revealing a concealed keypad. Pitt entered a code that deactivated the alarm system and opened the door’s lock.

He stepped inside, turned on the lights—and was greeted by a fleet of gleaming antique cars parked in rows across the hangar floor, their polished chrome glistening under the overhead illumination. The culmination of a lifelong passion for the fast and the beautiful in automotive design, he had assembled an eclectic collection that spanned the dawn of the twentieth century through the 1950s. The museum-like appearance was augmented by a Ford Trimotor aircraft parked to one side near a beautifully restored Pullman railroad car that his adult kids occasionally used as a temporary apartment.

Pitt drifted across the hangar, patting the fender of a 1930 Packard Speedster 8 Runabout that was parked next to a workbench, the right side of its hood raised. He reached a cast-iron circular staircase and climbed to his second-floor living quarters, which he shared with Loren.

Dropping his duffel on a chair, he pulled a Shiner Bock beer from the refrigerator, then read a note taped to the freezer door.

Dirk,