Okay . . . “Yes, please. This is my partner, Special Agent Croft.”

Merle sighed again. “I guess I knew this was coming. Doesn’t make it easier. Follow me.”

“Thank you,” Tom murmured as he and Croft followed Merle into the foyer, where they were met by Merle’s wife Joni, who patted her husband’s arm sympathetically.

“I’m glad you called him, honey,” she said. “It was the right thing to do. And you’ll get it back, eventually.”

Merle’s eyes dropped to his feet. “I . . . well, I didn’t exactly . . .”

“Merle Belmont,” Joni scolded. “You didn’t call him? You promised me. Now this will be a mess.” She looked at Tom and Croft apologetically. “Please come in. Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Lemonade?”

“We’re fine, but thank you for offering,” Croft said. “I’m Special Agent Croft, ma’am.”

“My wife, Joni,” Merle mumbled, then followed his wife, his shoulders slumping.

When the couple’s backs were turned, Croft gave Tom a what-the-hell look. Tom shrugged.

“Well,” Joni said brightly when they were all sitting in the living room. “I suppose you’ll be wanting the keys.”

“I want a receipt,” Merle said, his chin coming up. “And if there’s one scratch on that car when I get it back . . .”

“Merle,” Joni hissed, then sighed. “Please excuse my husband. He’s just disappointed.”

“I don’t understand,” Croft said. “Agent Hunter?”

“I don’t understand, either,” Tom admitted. “What is this about a car?”

Merle visibly brightened. “You’re not here for the car?”

“What car?” Tom asked slowly.

Merle and Joni exchanged a long glance. “Well,” Joni said again. “We assumed you were here to take custody of the Camaro. You know, Waylon’s Camaro. We just got it back from the nice policemen in San Francisco. Merle hasn’t even driven it yet.”

Tom frowned, then remembered the set of GM keys they’d found in Ephraim Burton’s pocket and the very hot car he’d extorted from Waylon Belmont. They must have been one and the same. “I see. Where was the car found?”

“At the airport,” Merle said. “It had been parked there for several weeks before one of the security guards ran a check on the VIN and saw that my father had reported it stolen.”

Makes sense. Tom kicked himself for not thinking to check the San Francisco airport himself. Using his tablet, he pretended to be taking notes as he typed out a message to Croft.

Ephraim Burton had a set of GM keys in his pocket when he died. He left out of SFO when he flew to New Orleans to stalk Mercy last month. This has to be the car he took from Waylon.

He angled the tablet so that Croft could see, and her small nod indicated that she’d read and understood. “When was the car reported stolen, sir?” she asked.

“Almost thirty years ago.” Merle exhaled, his expression becoming pained. “My father had loaned it to DJ’s mother because she wanted a night on the town with her friends. She had DJ with her. Said she was taking him to a babysitter.”