Back Where She Belongs(34)

“Let’s go take a look,” Dylan said. He picked up a wheeled cart, probably to look at the undercarriage, and Tony grabbed a toolbox and a jack. They met the manager in his tiny office and the guy led them to a cement slab with several wrecked cars. “Adjuster did his thing,” he said. “I expected demo orders by now, but that’s the insurance company’s call. They pay us either way. That’s it.” He pointed at a dark blue vehicle. “You need me, I’m in my office.”

Tara gasped at the battered car. She refused to picture how it had gotten that way. She was determined to be brave.

Tony pried up the hood, bracing it open with the crowbar. Tara and Dylan joined him, Dylan holding the camera, running video, she assumed.

The engine was surprisingly clean, though much of it was bent and crumpled. “Looks pretty jammed up,” Tony said. “Not sure how much I can see without a cutting torch and major equipment.”

“Really?” Tara asked, disappointed.

“The radiator’s been shoved into the block,” Tony said, banging on the metal with a wrench, “so I can’t get at the pistons.” He tapped the lid of a crunched-up black box behind the battery. She saw the edge of a label as bright as the nail polish she’d used on Faye. “The controls are electronic. I’d need to check the programming to see if it fouled up or shorted out.”

“We’re looking for anything that might have malfunctioned or been tampered with,” Tara said, finding it hard to speak.

“Brakes, drive train, steering,” Dylan said.

“I’ll do what I can,” Tony said. He turned to look through his toolbox. Tara and Dylan stepped back and surveyed the car. What remained of the windshield was a mosaic of shattered safety glass. The other windows had only pebbled chunks remaining. The dented driver’s door hung from its hinges. “How could anyone have survived?” she said. She felt dizzy and inhaled quickly, but oxygen seemed to elude her.

“You sure you want to be here?” Dylan asked.

She nodded, but she couldn’t face the interior yet. “Let’s check the back bumper for dents.” If she kept moving, she’d do better.

They found part of the bumper missing, the rest crushed. Both taillights were broken. “They must have been hit from behind. Something tore that bumper apart. And look at the dent.”

“The damage could have happened when it tumbled downhill.”

“But a collision would explain the speed when the car hit the barrier.” She knelt to look closer and saw scrapes of pale-blue paint. “Take pictures of this,” she said, excited by the find. “This could be from the car that hit them.”

Dylan dropped to a crouch and snapped shots. “It could be the primer under the Tesla’s topcoat, too.”

“We need to see the missing piece of bumper. It would have more paint scrapes. I hope it didn’t fall off when the car got towed. If it was at the crash site, Fallon should have it in evidence.”

“I’ll see what he’s got,” Dylan said.

“He parks at town hall, right? Could you check his car for dents or scrapes? I know you don’t think he did anything, but he was at the scene....”

“He drives his cruiser for personal use. Police cars get pretty beat-up.” He looked at her face. “I’ll check,” he said finally.

“Thanks.” He’d meant it when he said he’d help, even when he didn’t agree with her. She felt a surge of gratitude.

The trunk latch had been sprung. Dylan helped her try to lift it. With a shriek of metal against metal, it rose. She smelled sweet pickles. Then she saw the trunk was scattered with the contents of a plastic sack from Crowley’s. Cans, tortilla chips, a jar of olives, a broken jar of salsa and two broken bottles. She turned over a piece with a label. Pinch. Her father’s brand of scotch. “This is why the car smelled of liquor,” she said. “No one was drunk. He bought whiskey at the store.”

“It’s a possibility, certainly,” Dylan said. Dylan kept holding back on agreeing with any of her conclusions. She knew he thought she was overstating things and assuming the worst. He was helping her. That was enough.

They checked the photos Dylan had taken, making sure they were in focus and well lit. Their gazes met and held.

“We need to look at the interior,” she said shakily.

“I can do it. You can take a walk.”

“I need to see for myself,” she said.

“Right.” He braced her with a hand to her back and they headed for the driver’s side of the car. She locked her mind into fact-finding mode, not allowing horror or panic to interfere with the examination of the car.

Inside, side and front airbags sagged and a white dust coated every surface. “The powder’s from the airbags,” Dylan explained. There was no blood visible. Whew.

She noticed the placement of the seats. “The driver’s seat is too far back for Faye’s short legs. Dad must have been driving.”

“The EMTs might have moved the seat to get the driver out.”

“But both of them were outside the car, according to Fallon.” She pictured the ragged pool of dark soil where her father’s blood must have mingled with Faye’s, and where she’d found Faye’s missing shoe. Her vision swirled.

“Tara?” Dylan reached for her.

“I’m all right.” She shifted her gaze to the passenger seat. “Less foot room there. See.” Then she caught sight of a few strands of fiber hanging from the broken safety glass still in the window. She looked closer, squinted. Not fiber. Hair. Dark, curly hair. Faye’s hair. Tara gulped and stepped back, bumping into Dylan, turning toward him. “It’s Faye’s hair,” she gasped. “It’s caught in the passenger window. She wasn’t driving. There’s the proof.” Her stomach churned and she tasted bile. She refused to throw up again. “Think I’ll take that walk. Get pictures.” She stumbled off, blindly weaving among the broken vehicles stacked and scattered throughout the salvage yard, taking deep breaths, forcing her stomach to settle down.

Tara had walked a long way before she felt normal again. When she returned, Tony was rolling out from under the car. He handed up Dylan’s camera, then got to his feet.

“Brake lines look okay,” he said, wiping his hands on a red rag. “Oil pan’s dented from striking the railing, I would guess.”

“Can you tell if the brakes were slammed?” Tara asked. “There were no skid marks on the highway near the rail.”

“No way to tell. Discs are smooth, pads fine. The mechanism’s functional. Hang on.” He looked in the driver’s side. “Emergency brake’s on. There should have been skid marks.”

She hadn’t noticed the emergency brake. Thank God Tony was here.

“So the emergency brake didn’t hold?” Dylan asked.

“The parts look fine. Something overrode the brakes. The accelerator might have jammed. Some circuitry went haywire.”

“Or they got hit from behind,” Tara said. “Could that explain it?”

“Don’t know the physics on that. I could check the circuitry in my shop. Do more with the engine, too. Be good to check for any recalls on the car.”

“We’ll get it towed to your place,” she said. “Would that work?”

“It should.” Tony nodded, then left them to gather his tools.

“You were right about Tony. He’s good,” she said to Dylan. “We’re finally getting somewhere. We can talk it over tonight. Want to grab supper?”

“Sorry. I’ve got a meeting, Tara.”

“Oh, sure.”

“I need to convince the town council to annex more land on the outskirts of town. It’ll mean taxes to fund utilities. I’ve got the votes even without the mayor, but the more support the better off we’ll be.”

“You don’t have to explain it to me. I know you’re busy.” She was surprised at how disappointed she was.

Dylan frowned. “I’m busy, yeah. Maybe too busy. What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Not much. Getting the car towed. Visiting Faye. Making calls for Mom’s charity banquet. Some client work. Waiting for Joseph to hire me.”

“Sounds like a busy morning. Could you free up the afternoon? I’ve got an idea. I’ll pick you up at one. Wear jeans and athletic shoes.”

“What are we doing?” Her heart lifted with delight.

“Trust me.”

“I almost do.”

Sadness shadowed Dylan’s smile. Trust between them was a fragile thing. Maybe it always would be.





CHAPTER TWELVE



DYLAN PRESSED THE call button on the Wharton gate. Tara had sounded so bereft when he couldn’t have dinner with her that he’d taken off a half day to make it up to her. He hadn’t realized how much of his free time had been tied up in meetings. He deserved a life, too, he realized.