An open door led from the showroom into the first of the three connecting bays, where one of the two men looked up. I pegged him in his mid-thirties. He was medium height, clean-shaven, his complexion ruddy. His hair had the kind of blond streaks that women pay money for. He wore it parted in the middle with strands falling loosely on either side of his face. Most of his teeth were good. There were creases around his mouth where his smile had made inroads. His hands were dirty, his nails permanently underlined with black like a lady’s French tip manicure in reverse. Blue-plaid flannel shirt, jeans, desert boots. He was built like a high school football player— which is to say, some guy who’d get creamed if he played football today. I tried to decide whether I’d have been attracted to him when I was sixteen. He looked like the type I’d have had a crush on from a distance. Then again, most guys in high school were like that as far as I was concerned.

He was using a crescent wrench and a pair of pliers to dismantle a car seat that was propped up in front of him. The workbench, which extended the length of the wall behind him, was stacked with bolts of vinyl, hoses, coffee cans, sheets of foam rubber, toolboxes, cans of latex paint, tires. Two fans were blowing, thus circulating the smell of synthetics. Beside him there was a garbage bin full of scraps. A second ripped and cracked auto seat sat on a counter nearby. He was smoking a cigarette, but he put it out casually before he spoke to us. “Help you?”

Dolan put his hands in his pants pockets. “We’re looking for Ruel McPhee.”

“That’s my dad. He’s retired. Who are you?”

“Lieutenant Dolan, Santa Teresa Police Department. This is my colleague, Ms. Millhone. I didn’t catch your name.”

“Cornell McPhee. Are you the one who left the phone message?”

“That’s my partner, Detective Oliphant. As a matter of fact, he left four and says your father never called him back.”

“Sorry. I didn’t realize it was urgent. I gave Dad the messages and he said he’d take care of it. I guess it slipped his mind.”

The second man in the shop was older, possibly in his fifties. He’d returned to his work as soon as he figured out the conversation had nothing to do with him.

“Your dad still in town?”

Cornell put down his crescent wrench and wiped his hands on a rag. “Sure. What’s this about?”

“We’re hoping to track down a vehicle stolen from his shop in 1969.”

Cornell’s brow shifted slightly. “That car was recovered. It belonged to a guy in Arizona.”

Dolan smiled briefly. “We know about him. DMV says the car’s now registered to Ruel McPhee.”

“What brought this up again?”

“We’re looking at the possibility of a link between the car and a homicide back then.”

“A homicide?”

“That’s right,” Dolan said. “We’re taking another run at it.”

“I’m still not clear why you want to talk to him.”

“We have a witness who says he saw a red Mustang in the area shortly before the body was found. We’re wondering if the vehicle’s the same one stolen from his shop.”

“You can ask him if you want. He and Mom live on Fell. 1520. It’s just a few blocks away. You go down two blocks, take a left at Ruby. You’ll find Fell five blocks down. You want me to call and make sure he’s there?”

“That’s fine. We can swing by later if he’s out somewhere,” Dolan said. He indicated the seat Cornell was working on. “How long’s it take to do a job like that?”

“Couple of days. Depends on the condition. You have some work you need done?”

“Might.”

“What kind of car?”

“Chevy. 1979.”

“Leather seat?”

“No, cloth.”

Cornell smiled. “Throw a bedspread over it. You’d be better off.”

“That’s my idea. I just wondered what you’d say. Appreciate your help.”

“Sure, no sweat. I wish you luck.”

The house at 1520 Fell was a redbrick ranch with a detached two-car garage on the right-hand side of the drive. Behind the house, at a distance, I caught sight of the rear of an outbuilding that looked like a large storage shed or second garage. A basketball backboard was still planted in concrete on a wide asphalt apron set aside for guest parking. Cornell probably spent his leisure time in high school practicing his free throws. I imagined him lettering in three sports, elected pep king or treasurer of his senior class. A check of the yellow pages had indicated that McPhee’s was the only game in town, so he must be doing well financially even if his job lacked glamour and pizzazz.