Page 60 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

As if he couldn’t resist, he said to her, “Now what was your question?”

32

Well.Thisis a set of wheels.”

Lyle Spencer was sitting shotgun in her red Ford Torino Cobra. They were on their way to Rhyme’s to drop off the evidence that Sachs had collected at the Bechtel Building, and then they would go on to lofty Whittaker Tower to meet with the head of the media empire.

“What’s under the hood?” Lyle asked.

“A four-oh-five.”

“Beautiful.”

“You know cars.”

“Follow Formula One.” His tone was: But then again, who doesn’t? “Used to do some showroom stock when I was upstate. I’m guessing you know what that is.”

Amelia Sachs only smiled.

Stock cars come in a number of different categories and are raced in many types of circuits. Originally “stock” meant just that—the car came from the dealer’s stock of inventory and wasn’t modified inany way. Then the various racing organizations—NASCAR being the biggest—allowed modifications. “Showroom stock” or “production stock” required that the car be nearly identical to what a consumer could buy, with only a few safety modifications, like a roll cage.

She felt his eyes on her as she slammed through the four-speed shifter, then hard dropped into second, turned and casually steered into the skid. The wheels responded handily.

Spencer was nodding. “You can see. I’m not exactly built like a jockey. My biggest problem was fitting into the cage. Wanted to have the steering column shortened but couldn’t get a ruling on that one.” He patted the dash. “I drove one of these in a couple races.”

“A Torino?”

“That’s right. A Talladega.”

Sachs exhaled a fast laugh. “No.”

“Uhm.”

There was no more famous stock car in the early days of racing than the redesigned 1969 Torino Cobra, which was renamed the Talladega, after the famed racetrack. The car dominated NASCAR in ’69 and ’70.

“You race anymore?”

“Nup. Don’t even own a car now. Sold my SUV when I moved into the city. Four parking tickets in one day. I go to Avis or Hertz if I need wheels.”

His tone was wistful. He would miss driving. She could understand. The power of the pistons, the whine, the speed, the sense of a vehicle always on the edge, always a half second away from flying out of control. The consuming feel of that car that you were a part of and was part of you … It was wholly addictive.

She said, “Maybe, it works out, you can take it for a spin.”

His eyes shone. “I may think about that.”

She swerved around a texting yellow cab driver who veered intoher lane, saw in the corner of her eye that Spencer’s left leg extended just a bit, while his right arm moved back, subconsciously mimicking her fierce clutching and the downshift.

In ten minutes they were at Rhyme’s town house.

Spencer said, “You’re going to want to check that alibi.”

Sachs slipped the shifter into first gear, killed the engine and set the brake. She tapped her phone. “I already did.” She’d texted Lon Sellitto about the man and asked him to call security at Whittaker Tower.

“That was fast.”

“We don’t have much time. I needed to know whether to trust you or bust you. I’ll be five minutes.” She stepped out then turned back to the huge man. She bent down into the open window. “I’m going to have to ask a favor.”

“Anything I find out about a threat, even if it leads somewhere in the company, I’ll let you know ASAP.”