We strolled down the first aisle of vintage cars, stopping every few feet so Jupe could ooh and ah. The fourth car we came to was a red convertible GTO. “Look, Dad! It’s just like my car!”

“I see.”

Jupe leaned over the engine, craning his neck to peer inside as the owner, a middle-aged Indian man with a light blue halo and matching blue-framed glasses, walked up. “Did all the work myself,” the man said, proudly.

“Cool. I’ve got one, too!” Jupe blurted. “Mine’s a ’67. What year is this? ’70?”

“You’re close. ’71.”

Jupe backed up to look at the grille. “Wire mesh. I should’ve known.”

“Ah, very sharp. I’m Nihal, by the way,” he said, offering his hand to Jupe.

“Jupiter.”

“You restoring yours, too?” the man asked.

“Sure am. It’s a hunk of junk right now, but I’m going to get it in shape like yours. Hey, how long did this take you, Nihal?”

“Eight years, I—”

“Eight?” Jupe’s horror-striken eyes were big, green grapes. “Man, it better not take me that long. How much did it cost you?”

“Jupe,” Lon chided. “That’s rude.”

Nihal grinned. “No, that’s okay. He’s a fellow GTO-lover.” He walked with Jupe, who was now checking out the driver’s seat. “I bought it for $18,000 and put about $15,000 into it.”

Jupe mouthed the amount to Lon.

“But I’ve insured it for $55,000. That’s how much it’s worth.”

“Holy sh—”

“Crap,” Lon and I both spoke over his response.

Jupe frowned at us. “I was going to say ‘shamrock.’ Geez, give me some credit.”

Nihal grinned.

“He was raised by wolves,” Lon said to the car owner.

“Oh, please,” Jupe said. “Don’t flatter yourself.” While Lon shook his head and slowly inhaled, Jupe ran a slender finger over the leather headrest. “Hey, Nihal. You wouldn’t happen to know about a blue Road Runner that shows here?”

Nihal’s eyes tightened briefly, then his brows shot up. “Sky blue? Black stripe on the hood?”

“That’s the one,” I said.

“Sure, I’ve seen that here before. I think someone bought it at last month’s rally.”

Dammit. “Do you know the owner’s name?”

“His first name was Dan, I think. But I never knew his last name. Ask Freddie—he’s the guy at the end of the row standing next to the white Barracuda. Freddie’s a Plymouth man. I’ll bet he knows.”

“Thanks, man!” Jupe said.

“No problem. Good luck with your restoration. If you need any pointers, I usually come here every month. Stop by and see me again.”

“I will, thanks.”

We strolled away from Nihal, heading toward the man he’d pointed out, but stopped a few cars away for Jupe to inspect another Ford.

“So Nihal was being honest?” I asked Lon.

“Completely,” Lon said as Jupe ran a hand over white-walled tires.

Kinda figured he was, but you never knew. Lon often busted my bubble when it came to trusting people—not that I need much help in that department. But because of his knack, I no longer ate at the sweet little fish-and-chips restaurant near Tambuku with its nicer-than-pie elderly owners. Lon informed me that they were lying about their spotless food safety inspection scores; the grade A posted in the window, much like my own birth certificate, had been falsified.

We made our way down to the Plymouth expert, Freddie. He was in the middle of a conversation with someone. Jupe wandered off, chatting up another muscle car expert, while Lon took a work phone call.

I glanced toward the racetrack and felt the ground-shaking rumble of rusty old beaters steering into place behind the starting line. It was almost eight. About time for the races. I wanted to have the name of the Plymouth owner before they started. Feeling antsy, I swung my attention back to Freddie, who was facing the other way. As he laughed, he leaned against a shiny yellow car, allowing me to see the person with whom he’d been conversing. Not a man, but a boy. A blond boy with a pale green halo. He adjusted the fit of his crimson Speed Demon baseball cap, pulling it down tighter . . . which made his ears fan out like two pale seashells glued to the side of his head.

Well, well, well. Theater makeup or not, it was the blond elf who robbed me.

The boy laughed at Freddie. As he did, his gaze drifted to mine. His eyes widened for a moment. Yeah, that’s right. Recognize me, don’t you? He spun on his heels and took off.

“You little pig fucker,” I mumbled as I bolted after him.

The boy was young, skinny, and fast. He wove in and out of the crowds mingling near the cars on display, heading toward the back of the lot. Adrenaline spiked through my body as I pushed myself to catch up. I heard Lon yelling my name, but I didn’t look back.

He made it to the end of the lot. Towering in front of him was a wall of cement bricks painted with the Morella Racetrack logo. Beyond it was a garage for the racecars. No way he could scale the thing. Either he could head to the left behind the grandstands, or turn around and try to make his way past me, back through the lot.

He did neither.

Instead, he made a sharp right turn, heading for a rusty chain-link fence that separated the showcase lot from the main dirt parking lot outside the racetrack. With feline grace, he jumped several feet and grabbed the top of the fence, then pushed himself over it.