The Chance (Thunder Point #4)(42)

“I sent him an email,” she said with a shrug. “Asked him if he was the John Doe who entered a lottery contest in California three years ago at that last known address and promised to send a representative to his place of employment with the paperwork so he could collect.”

“Paperwork?”

“I created a form. Easy.”

“And he bought that? That you were from the lottery?”

“He didn’t ask for ID.”

“And what if he’d figured you out? What if he realized he was being tricked?” Eric asked.

“That would have been totally awkward....”

“Or dangerous?”

“Nah. I wasn’t confrontational. I would’ve gone away quietly.”

“How did you know? About the chop shop?”

“I could smell it. They weren’t open for business. No sign, no opened garage doors, nothing—yet they were full of late model vehicles in varying states of dismantling. Not a big chop shop—a nice small one. So I interviewed him a little—that lottery prize was going to come in handy. I mentioned to him I knew pay on a mechanic’s salary could be tight especially with a family, et cetera. Did he want the prize money deposited or mailed to him by special courier? And the idiot asked if he could get the prize in cash because car thieves live on cash. But don’t worry, Eric. I was vigilant. Cautious. And armed.”

He was quiet. Then he smiled and touched that little dimple in her cheek. “I’m so glad I’m not running from the law....”

“I just wanted a deadbeat dad. I didn’t want all that felony drama. This is supposed to be part-time!”

“Scary...”

She didn’t respond. Then she said, “Are you in the mood for steak soup? You love steak soup.”

“I have a new employee. A former employee, actually. He’s worked for me on and off since I got into this business. He showed up out of the blue, which he usually does, but today it was just when I was really needing someone like him. His name is Al Michel—damn fine mechanic. I told him I’d see if you have plans and if you’re busy—like with steak soup or something else—I can take him to Cliffhanger’s for dinner. Oh, and I gave him my motel room.”

She grinned at that. “So. You’re finally ready to commit?”

“I’ve committed to bringing the last of my clothes. Come here,” he said. “Come closer. I want to feel your na**d slippery body up against me.”

“I’m not ha**ng s*x in the tub.” She laughed. “I was relaxing. I’m okay with you asking Al over for dinner.”

“Are you sure?”

“You have to go get one more bread bowl from Cliff—I stopped and got two. And you can’t let him stay too late.”

“I’ll get the bread bowl. I’ll get rid of him early. But you’ll like him. He’s one of those easy, laid-back wrenches. He’ll be good to have around the garage. He’s an uncomplicated guy—kind of sticks to himself, but he’s not unfriendly at all. You’ll see. Just a good old Midwestern farm boy.”

* * *

Al wasn’t old or young, Laine realized immediately. He looked to be in his fifties with a toned body and full head of brown hair threaded with gray. He was very pleasant, had an easy smile, a sense of humor, made eye contact and yet didn’t have a lot to say. He came from a small farm town—Boone, Iowa—but left there as a young man. Growing up, they called him Mick, short for Michel. He’d been married once, when he was a very young man, and he must not have been very good at it because his young wife invited him to depart. He’d been single since. He had worked in many different areas—construction, mechanics, the occasional factory, drove a semitruck and did farm work as a fallback. He lived cheap and traveled when he could. He had one sister who was busy saving the human race, one third-world country at a time. She worked for a Christian charity and moved around the world. She was single, as he was, and there was no more family in Iowa, but he still went back there about once a year, just to check in with his hometown.

Then he left to go back to the hotel, thanking her for the great soup. Eric walked him to his truck, then came back to Laine.

“He said to thank you again,” Eric said. “And he asked if you were a cop.”

That sent up red flags. “Ohhh, he might be hiding something if he caught on to my questions. I’m sorry, I tried not to do that, it’s just so automatic!”

“I told him you were a psychologist.” Eric laughed. “And he’s not hiding anything.”

“How do you know?”

“He was one of my first employees in Eugene and my parole office had to approve every one. Al is exactly what he appears to be—a good old farm boy who travels, takes jobs when he needs to, moves around.”

“Women?”

“I’ve seen him with a woman or two,” Eric said. “That’s all I know. That’s all I want to know. Seriously.”

“You really like him,” she said.

“He’s always looking out for me. He was working for me when I found out about Ashley—he thought that was very cool, that I was getting a second chance. I didn’t know he’d been married once. Men don’t ask those kind of questions, in case you haven’t figured that out. I asked him all the places he’d worked and lived and he got a very big kick out of it since I was an ex-con kid and he’s fifteen or twenty years older and hasn’t been in any trouble. That I know of.”