“He’s in there?” asked Gertrude. She seemed to be having problems standing and she was definitely having problems breathing. I was worried for her, but she didn’t complain.
I nodded, and she set her jaw determinedly.
“With her?”
“And one other,” I said.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m confused,” she said.
“So am I,” I said.
Minutes earlier she had parked across the street, and I had led her back here to the alley behind the auto shop. Before us were two massive fold-up doors, so big they could have housed a dirigible. Lights flickered beyond the dirty windows. I heard voices, laughter. As far as I was aware, only three people were inside.
The back alley was similar in layout to Hero’s; meaning, the space behind the shop was also a small parking lot that bled into a much darker alley. If I hadn’t been so tough, I might have looked nervously down the alleys.
I was, and I didn’t.
The air was heavy and still. Mrs. Shine was sweating profusely and waving her hand in front of her face. It was time to get on with it.
“So, you have no idea who owns this building?” I asked.
“None.”
I went over to the first of the garage doors and studied it. Two big padlocks. I reached down and gripped the handle.
“But isn’t it locked?” asked Gertrude, stepping behind me.
I was feeling sassy and impatient and even small lies seemed a waste of time.
“Not anymore,” I said, and yanked hard on the handle. Both locks held tight, but I couldn’t say the same for the latches. They ripped apart and tumbled to the cracked concrete, even while I continued pulling up the rolling door.
Light spilled out.
Blinding light.
Behind me, Mrs. Shine gasped. I didn’t gasp, but my jaw did drop open.
Chapter Nine
Three people jumped in unison.
One of the guys who jumped was unfortunately working under what appeared to be a massive propeller. As he leaped, he slammed his head hard, instantly opening a gash along his hairline. Blood poured freely from his skull and he cursed. Before I could stop myself, I licked my lips.
“Jesus H. Christ!” he shouted, holding his head.
We seemed to have caught the young woman, who had been kneeling next to him, in the act of handing him a tool. Holding a wrench, she gasped and spun around. She was, of course, the baker’s assistant. Apparently, she was also a mechanic’s assistant, too.
The baker himself had been lying on a tarp and painting the hull of what I could see now was a good-sized boat. In his alarm, he had kicked over the can of paint which spilled across the tarp and over onto the oil-stained cement floor.
The young guy holding his bleeding head marched over to us, holding his wrench rather threateningly. I was still stunned, still soaking in the scene, still realizing I had made an egregious error.
So had Gertrude Shine.
The young man with the wrench said, “What the hell’s going on here?”