Perfect Crime by Jack Parker Page A

Reverent hands caressed the steering wheel. He pushed the seat back as far as it could go, happy that there weren’t any passengers to accommodate behind him; Mustangs weren’t especially renowned for their leg room. The evening air was cold, and the heavy engine required a little food to stay running. Scott kept a gentle foot on the accelerator, urging the idle intermittently, the resulting growl of the motor egged on his growing excitement.
    “I’m impressed.” It was obvious the car was kept original, the radio and dash components appeared to be in mint condition; even the leather of the seats appeared almost new.
    Another surprise.
    He gave Tessa a curious glance as they moved away from the curb. “You don’t strike me as a car buff.”
    “Depends on the car,” Tessa said.
    He could understand that. His own inclination was towards foreign models. Notably Italian.
    Looking back to the windshield, he tried not to think about other Italian things he liked. It was easier when he didn’t have to see how good Tessa looked in the sweater.
    “We’ll do at least a drive-by,” he said. “Check out the restaurant and talk about what to do next.”
    The ride to the restaurant was fairly short. Traffic was light, and the glow from the street lamps lent softness to the inside of the vehicle. However, the streets and occupants of the sidewalk could be easily seen through the windows. It only took one pass around the block to know, Gino’s was not set for business-as-usual. The closed sign still hung on the door, but the windows were lit. A small welcoming committee hovered outside the place of business. Six men, dressed in white shirts and black pants, all eagerly scanning the street.
    “Nice uniform,” Tessa grumbled.
    Scott didn’t quite understand the quip, but had to smile when she added, “And I was so looking forward to spaghetti.”
    He cruised past, slowing a bit, but didn’t stop. Making a right, he said, “We need to think about how to approach this.”
    “Again with the ‘we.’ You’re not really stuck with me. Maybe—”
    “No.”
    “G.J. and I go back a ways.” Tessa explained. “I think I can trust him when he says, I deliver and we’re square.”
    “We need to figure out what’s really going on,” Scott said. “You don’t need six guys to take a piece of paper from a woman.”
    “You might be surprised,” she said.
    Scott rescued the postcard from his pocket. He took a look at the photograph and the writing. “I can’t say that I see what all the fuss is about. Any fingerprints are long gone.”
    Tessa leaned forward to reclaim the card, but Scott shifted it from his right hand, taking the item out of her reach, saying, “Have you given some thought to what I said before? That maybe it’s about you and not the card.”
    “No, as a matter of fact, I have not considered that. I don’t have anything in common with those women. I mean…” she stammered, “I’m not a waitress.”
    He stopped at a red light and took another look at his passenger. She sounded so uneasy; a small crack in her tough exterior, though he supposed that wasn’t too hard to understand why. “I don’t know. It’s still the 19th—maybe they just need another woman to round out the numbers.”
    “Are you trying to make me feel better?”
    The light changed. Scott drove straight, not making the final turn to complete the loop back to the restaurant . “Maybe you were on to something with the windows. Perhaps a chat with the priest from St. Joe’s would shed some light. Should we take a chance that he might still be at the Basilica?”
    “No, he won’t be there. On weeknights, he does some volunteer work.” She pointed to her left. “Go ahead and turn on Regent. We can backtrack.”
    “If you don’t go to church any more, how do you know his schedule so well?”
    “I volunteer at the same place. Only, I go on Saturdays.”
    “You…volunteer?” Scott said, considering another piece in a