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engine. I should be looking at a Willys F head.”
    “Yeah. Doesn’t it look like a Ford?”
    “Sure does. Could be the 170 but we’d need to drop the pan and look underneath.” Roy backed away from the front of the car. “Want me to put it on the lift?”
    She chewed at her lower lip. “Tomorrow. For now I’m going to check the serial number on the engine plate. Then I think we can both call it a day.”
    “I was just cleaning up. The Tempest is good to go.”
    “Thanks, Roy,” she murmured, already focusing on the engraved number plate attached to the engine.
    It looked authentic, but she’d need to verify the codes in the serial number.
    She limped back to the office, reciting the number repeatedly until she had a chance to write it down. A sudden cramp in her calf muscle reminded her she had been on her feet too long today. She hoped to work out some of the kinks later at rehab.
    A comparison of the serial number against her list of codes confirmed Sally’s suspicion. She grabbed her Polaroid from the file cabinet, checked for film, then hobbled back to the garage to photograph the engine and engine plate. Someday she’d buy one of those digital cameras—just as soon as Mustang Sally’s joined the information age and could afford a computer.
    Back at her desk, she rummaged through her middle drawer until she found the government bulletin she’d received the previous month. Debating whether she should talk to Joe first, she read through the notice again. Leo Desalvo had bought the Darrin then killed himself. Sally couldn’t ignore the possible connection. What if Leo had been involved in interstate fraud?
    No. She couldn’t dump that on Joe without more information. She called the contact number on the bulletin, certain that everyone had long since left the office.
    “Ferguson,” answered a mechanical voice.
    She waited for a voice mail or answering machine announcement.
    “Hello?”
    “Uh, is this a live person?” Sally asked.
Duh!
    Without inflection, the voice answered, “This is Special Agent Adam Ferguson. How may I help you?”
    “Actually, I may be able to help you.” Sally identified herself and her auto restoration business. “About the flyer you sent out.”
    “Irregularities in expensive collectible automobiles?” An excited voice replaced the man’s monotone. “Have you found one?”
    “Yes, sir.” Her heart sinking, she thought about Joe. “I’m afraid I have.”
    When she described the counterfeit engine plate and mentioned Leo Desalvo’s name, the FBI man said, “I’m going to need your help, Miss Clay.”
    “Of course, but how can I help?” Even as she said the words, a knot of dread formed in her stomach. She had a feeling she wouldn’t like his answer.

Chapter
THREE
    Sally entered the kitchen, locked the deadbolt on the back door, then dropped her gym bag by the washing machine. The house she shared with her father was in old J-town, less than a mile from the garage. Called a story-and-a-half, it had once been a neat, cozy house. Sally’s father slept upstairs in the master bedroom, leaving her the downstairs bedroom and bath. In recent years, clutter and neglect reigned.
    Clothing piled on the linoleum floor begged to be washed, but would have to wait. First a shower. “Dad?”
    No answer. Drifting in from the living room, an announcer’s voice spoke over sounds from a televised basketball game. Sally tracked down her father slouched in his recliner in the living room.
    “Dad? Have you eaten?”
    He gripped a beer can. “I drank my supper.”
    She bit back a reprimand. If she lectured her father about his health, they’d end up in an argument. She couldn’t bear quarreling with her dad. His drinking disgusted her, but she could hardly blame him, not when it was her fault he drank.
    “Let me make you a sandwich. I’ll bring it in here, and you won’t miss any of the game.”
    He shrugged, then took another sip of his beer, his eyes staring at the