Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(67)

“You think he’ll cry?” she asked.

“What?”

“When we destroy that car.”

Nothing. Not even a smile.

“Were there any problems?”

He shook his head, a million miles away.

“So no snags?” Still unconvinced.

“What?” he asked, a faint trace of annoyance in his voice. “No, we got it.” He hitched a thumb toward the back of the van as if she’d lost the power of sight.

She looked in back, but it didn’t look like much. Hard to believe it might be the answer to their problems, but she would give Gibson the chance to prove it. He’d earned it. If she were honest, what she’d read about her new partner online hadn’t exactly bolstered her confidence, but tonight had earned him some leeway in her book. He’d talked a big game, but he’d also delivered, so she would go another round with him.

When they reached Dette’s Auto Wrecks, Swonger was waiting for them, Mustang idling outside the salvage yard’s gate.

“Wasn’t going in there alone. Spooky as hell,” Swonger said.

Lea couldn’t say she blamed him. Beyond the gate, the junkyard was pitch-black. They drove in cautiously, headlights casting medieval shadows off canyons of rusted cars. A vast wasteland of amputated vehicles stretched out of sight on both sides—trunks and hoods all open, scavenged for doors, hubcaps, windshields; carcasses picked over by crows. As they approached the main office, a pair of Belgian Malinois appeared from the shadows and trotted alongside. Powerful-looking dogs with black muzzles that accentuated curved ivory teeth. Gibson pulled up behind the Mustang and killed the engine but left his headlights on. The dogs, positioned between the office and the vehicles, watched them speculatively. Not hostile but not nearly welcoming enough for Lea to open her door. A whistle split the night, and the dogs retreated under the covered porch of the office.

“You can come out now,” a woman’s voice called. And when they didn’t move fast enough for the voice’s liking: “Well, come on, now. I got things to do.”

Floodlights lit up the junkyard, and Lea’s hand went up to shade her eyes. Up on the porch sat an older African American woman, matriarchal and stern, with stately gray-white dreadlocks that swirled above her head like a nest of snakes. She set down an e-reader, took off her glasses, and rubbed her eyes. Nearby, a shotgun and a sledgehammer leaned side by side against the doorframe. The dogs flanked her, one by each knee, and as the three visitors approached the porch, the animals tensed and showed their teeth. The woman touched each dog’s head gently, and they crouched, obedient but alert.

“They don’t mean nothing by it,” she said. “Not used to company this late is all.”

Lea didn’t entirely believe that and lingered at the bottom of the stairs, feeling like a rib eye hanging off the edge of a kitchen counter.

The woman looked them over. “The name is Claudette Noble. This is my place. You must be Swonger,” she said as if she’d just found something stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

“That’s right.”

He stepped forward, but Claudette’s attention had moved to Lea, ignoring Gibson altogether. “Come up here, girl. Dogs won’t bother you ’less I tell them. This here the Mustang?”

“Yes,” Swonger said.

“Hush, boy, no one’s talking at you,” Claudette snapped.

Lea took a step up. “It is, yes.”

“Look me in the eye and tell me these boys didn’t bring back the same Mustang, thinking they’d put one by on old Claudette?”

“No, this is the car,” Lea said, glancing over at Gibson and Swonger for confirmation. Both men chimed in that it was.

“Well, all right, give me your arm and let’s go take a look. Just us girls. What do you say?”

Lea helped her up, wincing under Claudette’s iron grip, uncertain whether she was helper or hostage. Certainly, the old woman needed no help standing or walking. Claudette gestured at Swonger and Gibson to stay put, and the dogs came forward to the edge of the porch and sat on their haunches.

Claudette opened the Mustang’s driver’s door to read the VIN off the frame. Never loosening her grip on Lea’s arm, the old woman produced a knife—Lea couldn’t say from where—and pried at the VIN, testing to see whether it had been tampered with. Satisfied, Claudette shut the door; the knife disappeared from her hand, and she took Lea back up to the porch.

“Good. Looks good. Everything smooth, I trust?”

“Like clockwork,” Lea said.

A look passed between Gibson and Swonger that she couldn’t interpret. Swonger looked away while Gibson nodded confirmation. It gave Lea a bad feeling, and the junkyard fell silent in solemn agreement.

The old woman sat back down and looked them over. “All right, then,” she said finally. “On your way. I’ll pass it along.”

They mumbled a good-bye and backed away. Halfway back to the van, the office door opened. “A word,” Deja Noble said and stepped out onto the porch.

Lea didn’t know the kind of pistol, but it looked enormous and lethal in Deja’s small hand.

“Aunt?” Deja said, the muzzle tapping her thigh inquisitively.

“Niece,” Claudette replied. “There a problem?”

“Yeah, there’s a problem. Swong, my aunt asked you a question, but she didn’t hear an answer. Asked if everything went smooth. Now what’ve you got to say to her?”