Nate was surprised at the interior. He'd expected to see a bunch of bays with cars suspended in midair. Instead, they stepped into a nice lobby area with upholstered chairs and magazines on the tables. Two men sat in the chairs, both wearing business clothes. One was typing on a laptop, the other scrolling on his phone. A faint scent of paint mingled with air freshener coming from one of those plug-in things on the wall between the two men. A receptionist looked up from her desk behind a glass-fronted partition.

"Can I help you?"

Garrison stepped forward. "Looking for Russell Anderson."

"Sure thing." She picked up a phone, spoke into it, and hung up. "He'll be out in a sec. Have a seat. You need something to drink? There's coffee in the corner and sodas in the mini fridge."

"Great. Thanks."

Garrison chose a water bottle out of the fridge. "Want something?"

Nate sat in one of the chairs. "I'm good."

Garrison unscrewed his water and sipped it. He'd barely gotten it re-screwed when a man opened the door that separated the lobby from the area beyond. He wore a pair of khakis and a blue golf shirt. His hair was neat and cut short, and his face was clean-shaven. Nate had assumed the guy worked on cars. Obviously not. The man stepped out and looked around. His gaze landed on Garrison.

Garrison stood. "Russell Anderson. You remember me?"

"Unfortunately."

Nate stood. "I'm Nate Boyle."

"We'd like a few minutes of your time." Garrison stepped toward the man. "It won't take long at all."

Anderson looked at the other men in the waiting area, who were watching the exchange. "Fine. Come on back." He turned and led the way.

Through the door, the scene changed. The left-hand side of the long hallway was lined with windows showing men working on cars in various states of disrepair. The scent of paint and the sounds of pounding and drilling and shouting drifted through the glass. On the right, past the receptionist's office, Anderson stepped into a small, cluttered room that held a big wooden desk. He sat in a leather chair on the far side. Garrison took the chair that faced the desk. With no other seats, Nate closed the door behind them and leaned against it.

"Whatever it is you think I did," Anderson said, "you're wrong."

"That's what I hear," Garrison said. "And you should know, I'm no longer with the FBI."

"Oh. What's this about?"

"Marisa Vega."

Anderson's perplexed expression turned to a scowl. "What about her? They find her yet?"

"Somebody found her," Garrison said. "Any idea who it might have been?"

"How would I know?"

Garrison didn't answer. Instead, he took in the windowless office. Posters of muscle cars had been tacked to the walls. A few awards Nate couldn't read hung behind Anderson's head. Files were stacked on the desk, and a black computer monitor sat on the far corner, angled toward the chair.