Kathy Hogan Trocheck - Truman Kicklighter 02 - Crash Course by Kathy Hogan Trocheck Page A

fence.”
    “He’s lying,” Jackie burst out. “Jeff stole my car, and I can prove it. That’s why he killed Jeff. Ask him who stole my car. If he didn’t steal it, how come it’s inside in that garage? Who put the body in my car? Ask him that.”
    “Deranged,” Ronnie said. “Drugs, maybe. You see that a lot in my business, kind of clientele I’m forced to deal with. I’d suggest a drug test. But first I want these two off my property.”
    “Mind if we check the premises?” the black cop asked. “We’ve got a report of a possible homicide. We need to check, get the paperwork taken care of. Before the homicide detectives get called out and all that kind of thing.”
    “Go ahead,” Bondurant said, crossing his arms defiantly across his chest. “But she’s not going in there. In fact, I want her removed right now.”
    The cops all looked at each other. Finally, the black one who was in charge stuck his writing pad in his hip pocket.
    “Sorry. She’s a witness. She called in the complaint. He stays here,” he said, nodding toward Ollie. “She shows us what she thinks she saw.”
     
     
    It was fully dark now, and the back part of Bondurant Motors, the part the public did not see, was not all lit up and flagged and shiny like the front. It was dark back here, and the asphalt was broken and uneven and the air smelled sour, like rust and motor oil.
    “Right in there,” Jackie said, pausing in front of the chain-link fence. “The door’s closed now. It was open before.”
    The black cop, whose nameplate said “Hilley,” played his flashlight over the fence, letting it linger on the top. “How’d you get in there, ma’am?”
    He was nice, calling her ma’am.
    “She broke in,” Bondurant said, catching up with them. “Trespassing, they call it.”
    “I could see my car through the door,” Jackie retorted. “My car was in there. They had my car.”
    “Bullshit,” Bondurant said. “This girl is crazy. First she comes around, complaining we sold her a lemon. She made a disturbance, caused us to lose a couple sales. Then she comes back, says somebody stole her car, accusing me, us, of stealing the car we just sold her. She was probably doped up and wrecked it somewhere. Just wants to get off the hook for the payments.”
    “You got a key to this gate?” Hilley asked.
    Bondurant unlocked the gate. With Hilley leading the way with his flashlight, they picked their way through the debris. At Hilley’s request, Bondurant produced yet another key. He unlocked the door to the garage, pulled it open, and reached around inside. He fumbled a bit before finding the light switch.
    Then he stepped aside, bowed low at the waist, and swept his arm out wide in a mocking invitation to enter.
    “Be my guest.”
    Hilley had his hand on his holstered gun as they walked inside the garage.
    The silver van was there, its headlights and blaring alarm gone silent. There was a sizable work area, a red metal Craftsman tool chest, more stacks of tires, and on the wall, a calendar with a generous-busted girl whose cleavage spilled out of an unzipped Snap- On tool jumpsuit.
    In the same exact spot where Jackie had seen the red Corvette barely an hour ago, now stood a tired- looking two-tone olive green and wood-grain station wagon, its hood raised, more tools littering the floor around it.
    “Where was this car you mentioned, ma’am?” Hilley asked, turning to her.
    Jackie’s mouth hung open.
    “Ma’am?”
    “It was right here. The Corvette. Jeff was stuffed inside the hatch. Part of his body was covered with garbage bags. Black ones. It was right here,” she said, thumping the door of the station wagon.
    Hilley turned to Ronnie Bondurant.
    “Do you know this Jeff she’s talking about?”
    “Absolutely,” Ronnie said easily. “Jeff Cantrell. Hell of a salesman. He used to work for me. Hated to lose the guy.”
    “He quit?” Hilley said. “When was this?”
    “This afternoon,” Bondurant said. “He said