Only a few days later, the detectives came back.
But they came singing a completely different song. An angry one.
After that morning, Zack and I kept texting each other about what the detectives had talked about with Mr. Vinton, making up theories about the lead they had and what could have been the incident at the junction.
We were pretty sure it had been another crash, but the fact that the map of the city showed there were train lines and bridges around the area made our imaginations swell with ideas.
Finally, night arrived, and after a nice day of school projects and conspiracy theories, I sat on the couch to watch the news with my parents. I was excited to see if the local news mentioned the accident.
Just as with the previous incident on Friday, the crash was mentioned briefly, but as the detectives didn't say much, I listened excitedly, absorbing all of the details given. The blonde news lady explained that the incident had happened under the bridge close to East Washington Boulevard. A car had crashed into one of the pillars of the bridge.
At first, I expected the car to have crashed similarly to the small Chinese car that had crashed on Fruitland, but as news footage began to roll, showing the aftermath of the incident, I realized it had been different, quite different.
"How terrible," Mom gasped, looking at Dad. "So this is what the detectives mentioned to you?"
"Yeah, it just happened last night," Dad answered.
It had been a strange side crash.
The car was a new, cherry-colored BMW. Most of it stood a few feet away from the bridge pillar, close to the train line, but its side door was left behind at the pillar, as well as significant dark marks on the cement of the construction.
I moved closer to the screen to look better at the footage.
"Hey, dummy, you are not transparent," Dad complained to me, laughing a bit. I turned and saw him waving at me to move aside.
"Sorry," I apologized, smiling, embarrassed.
Unlike early theories, it didn't look like the driver had crashed because they were racing or were distracted. The more I glanced at it, the more I noticed that the car had these weird bright scratches on the other door, the good one, you could say. That was very strange, but the person narrating the footage made no reference to it. They probably didn't notice, as they were enthralled with the fact that the car had stopped before being hit by an oncoming train.
"Maybe it tried to stop before getting hit?" I asked myself, a bit doubtful.
After the news ended, I went back to my room and decided to text Zack, theorizing a new timeline with the help of the details given by the news and the Internet. Zack then sent me images from an online newspaper, which were better for analyzing the crash site. It was clear that the car had crashed on its side, but I still doubted whether it could have been on purpose or involuntary.
Zack had the idea that the car might have had a malfunction and tried to stop, crashing against the pillar, to prevent it from going over the train tracks.
"I mean, it's the most logical decision to me," Zack said in a voice message. "Perhaps it was so fast, it tried to stop but couldn't?"
"Yeah, but I noticed these scratches on the other side, the side that was left mostly untouched. It looks like something rubbed up against it," I answered him.
"Could it have happened before the crash?" He texted me. "Maybe it rubbed up on something else?"
"Perhaps, yeah." I texted back, but I wasn't sure.
I had other suspicions about what those scratches were. They looked like something had bumped the side of the car, and I suspected it had to do with another vehicle.
I knew I had heard about something similar before, but couldn't remember where.
Then I finally remembered when the detectives came back.
Thursday arrived, and after visiting Grandma, I took the bus to the street closest to the shop and walked from there.
As both Zack and I had homework that day, we both sat on the stools in front of the counter. We helped each other out while we listened to the tunes from the fake jukebox and the sounds that emerged from the repair shop.
Around a quarter to five, as we worked on my math problems, we failed to listen to the door of the building opening. Only when Zack looked at the jukebox as it changed tunes and noticed the tall shadow reflected on it did we turn to see that the two detectives were back.
At first, we were happy, but we became worried when we realized how serious they looked.
Detective Diaz told Zack to call his father and leave the room. Zack nodded, turning a bit pale. He then gestured with his hand and told me to follow him.
I placed my notebook back in my bag, and we walked out the side door to the garage. As Dad asked me what was happening, Zack talked to his father about the two detectives showing up, and Mr. Vinton quickly walked inside.
"I don't know what's going on, but it doesn't look good," I told Dad and Pedro, who were standing up next to the Thunderbird, trying to listen to what was being said.
I could see the other mechanics, who were now working on an old eighties jeep, standing still, watching it unfold.
We suddenly heard the music from the jukebox get cut off, and a few minutes later, the side door to the building opened up, and both detectives and Mr. Vinton, now looking both upset and pale, walked out.
"Detectives," Dad said. "What seems to be the matter?"
I could see in my father's eyes that something was terribly wrong with this whole visit. The detectives were not here to communicate any information. They were here looking for answers. And they were in no mood for niceties.
Mr. Vinton looked away and moved to the side as they walked forward.
"Mr. Curry, right?" Detective Hudson asked my father.
"Yeah?"
"You were with Mr. Vinton the other day we came," the detective said, "you and your daughter."
Dad nodded and wrapped his long arm around me.
"Could you tell us where you were on the night of the sixteenth?" Detective Diaz asked, looking at my dad with all the seriousness in the world.
"This was an interrogation, wasn't it?" I thought to myself. "But why?"
"Why do you wanna know?" Dad asked, a bit offended. He then looked at Mr. Vinton. "Cam, what's going on?"
"Please respond," Detective Diaz said. Dad sighed.
"At my house, with my wife and my kid," he said, pointing to me with his head. I held him tighter as I could see the detectives were hesitant to believe him.
"Do you have any way to prove this?" Detective Hudson said.
"No," Dad scoffed at the detective's question. "Can you please tell me what's going on? Because I'm not answering anything else if you don't."
"Well, we have finally received enough information from all the incidents to make connections of any type of illegal activity that might be happening in the streets of Vernon and Los Angeles."
"Alright," Dad said, nodding. "What does it have to do with us?"
"We have analyzed evidence from police car footage from Sunday's incident and new security cam footage from Fruitland," Detective Hudson told us. "We have concluded that there is a clear connection between the incidents and the one on Central Alameda."
"As bizarre as it might be, we are pretty sure that the same car has been in all three incidents," Detective Diaz said.
"As bizarre as it might be?" Dad asked. "What does that mean?"
Detective Díaz then took a large envelope from her jacket pocket. The envelope was white and folded in half. She opened the envelope and pulled out two photos. She gave one of them to Hudson, and both detectives showed us the images simultaneously.
All of us, including the two mechanics in the back, came closer to the pictures, leaning in to know what the hell these two were talking about.
At first, I didn't notice the similarities. But then, as I compared the two vehicles in the images, I realized they could be the same car, or at least the same model, even with the subtle blurriness.
"Wait...," Zack said, looking up at the tall black detective. "That's not..."
"We believe it is," Detective Hudson said, "even if it sounds far-fetched."
"No," Dad said, frowning. "It can't be! It has to be a mistake."
"What?" I asked, staring at the two cars as hard as I could.
And then it hit me.
I quickly turned back and looked at my dad, mouth open, startled. I then moved left and stared at what seemed to be the truth, looking at us right in the face.
It was the damn Thunderbird.
The first picture had a car with a faded black coat, and the newest one had a white one, just like the colors the Thunderbird had worn on those two days. The old black color of the original car and the white base currently covering it.
But it couldn't be.
"It's just an old car", I thought.
"Wait, is that the Thunderbird?" Pedro asked, confirming what we were all thinking.
"It's a Thunderbird. But I told them it's impossible," Mr. Vinton said, crossing his arms and shaking his head. "The damn car hasn't left the shop! How can it be?"
"We don't know," Detective Hudson said. "That's where you come in."
"What about other Thunderbirds?" Dad asked.
"How many mid-1950s Thunderbirds exist in the county of Los Angeles?" Detective Díaz asked my father, who still looked baffled by the idea. "Probably not many."
"What about the Plymouth Fury?" Asked Zack. "Weren't you going to look for that one?"
"Ah, yes. The blue 1961 Chrysler Plymouth Fury, belonging to an Oswald Tully," said Detective Hudson. "We visited Mr. Tully's home, and after obtaining a warrant, we searched his car."
"There's no evidence of what we were looking for. Also, unlike the cars in these pictures, that car still has a blue cover." The young female detective said, putting both pictures back in their folder.
"What do you mean, 'what were you looking for?" Mr. Vinton asked.
"The vehicle that crashed on Sunday had marks, white marks on the side that was still intact, which indicated to us that there was a moment the white car crashed against it."
"Like it was trying to push it aside," I whispered.
I then remembered where I had heard about the tactic. It was in the old producer's story. It had been what the old owner had done to one of the boys from his high school.
"Yes," Detective Díaz said, frowning. "How do you know?"
I looked at her, horrified, not saying anything. I honestly didn't want to answer her as it connected the crash with the car, and I feared it could get the shop in trouble. Thankfully, she was interrupted by Pedro before she could ask for more.
"So what are you trying to imply? That one of us took the car out?" He asked, confused.
"Is that why you are asking me where I was that night?" My father asked. "Because I work here?"
"Partly. A police officer who was interrogated about the chase on Sunday managed to identify the driver as a tall male," Hudson told him.
"Well, it's not me. And I don't know how to prove it besides you asking my wife," Dad told them and shrugged.
"He was home," I said, protectively hugging my father. "We had dinner, and he drank a beer while watching the game."
"Nobody here has taken out the car," Mr. Vinton told the two detectives, putting his hands on his hips, trying to sound like an authority.
"Well, what if it wasn't one of you?" Díaz asked him. "It could be someone else. I mean, you live a block away. You have two entrances, one connected to an alley, and windows on the roof. Anybody could try to garner access to the garage."
Mr. Vinton explained that it was impossible, as he used padlocks on both doors, and the windows didn't open. Unless someone had a copy of the padlock keys, there was no way someone besides him could get access to the garage. The man looked at both detectives, visibly frustrated with all the questioning.
"There is no way this Thunderbird could be used to race against anyone! Look at It! It's in impeccable shape!" He shouted, upset.
Silence fell into the garage after the little outburst, and we all looked at each other.
The detectives sighed but said nothing.
I then stared at Zack, scared.
That's when Pedro raised his hand, looking unsure.
"Eh...boss?" Pedro asked.
"What, Pedro, what?!" Mr. Vinton shouted at him.
"I..." Pedro said, lowering his hand, his eyes darting around nervously. "I think we might have a problem."
Dad and Mr. Vinton then looked at him, their skin turning white. I could tell they were praying for Pedro not to say something they all could regret. But sometimes, the truth had to be said, even if it hurt.
And the truth about the situation was pretty bad.
Mr. Vinton stumbled a bit as he walked toward the part of the car that Pedro pointed at. He rubbed his eyes and looked at it, sighing hard.
Dad rubbed his face with both his hands and groaned.
"Are you telling me that you found a scratch on the side of the Thunderbird, and you just sanded it and painted it over it without telling me?" He asked, whispering, clearly trying not to explode in a ball of rage.
"Why the hell didn't you tell us, man?" Dad asked him.
"I thought one of you had hit it by accident!" Pedro exclaimed, justifying his decision. "I didn't want to get someone in trouble!"
Dad shook his head and angrily threw the rag in his hands across the room.
Detective Hudson raised his hands, trying to calm everybody, and told them that things would be alright. Nobody was in trouble. He then walked to Mr. Vinton and asked if he believed someone could have copied his keys.
"A client, a visitor perhaps? Anyone?" Hudson asked.
But Mr. Vinton shook his head, saying he did not know, as he spent most of his time in the garage with the other men. Then Hudson asked him how many clients or visitors they had gotten recently, to which Zack's father told him that a few, mostly visitors, who come to take pictures of the small car museum.
"Well, do you have any video footage of those people?" Díaz asked. "Perhaps if we saw who has gotten in or out..."
"No, we don't have cameras. My son usually guards the museum and the gift shop and works fine most of the time," Mr. Vinton said, saddened. He covered his face with his hand and groaned, tired and annoyed.
Díaz sighed, disappointed, and looked at his partner.
This was bad. There was a clear lead to what might be happening around Vernon, which was a good thing, but that lead had taken the law right to us, and I was sure we didn't know anything about it.
It was a dead-end for the time being. I was sure of it.
I let go of my dad and walked toward Zack.
"What do you think is going to happen?" I whispered into his ear as I walked behind him.
Zack shrugged and looked at me, unsure. I then stood next to him and patted him on the shoulder, trying to cheer him up. He seemed really worried, and who could blame him? His father's workplace had been compromised in a criminal investigation.
"Maybe it's time you get yourself some security cameras," Detective Hudson said, placing a hand on Mr. Vinton's shoulder, trying to reassure him. "At least then we can prove if this is happening to your shop. We might even catch the person doing it."
"Yep," Mr. Vinton said. "I need to get on it."
The two Detectives then walked along with Mr. Vinton back into the building.
Dad went back to work, even though he now seemed to despise the car he was fixing, his eyes shooting darts at it. Before he began working on it again, he took his cell phone and started to take pictures of the car, walking around it, taking several shots of all of its sides. He even ordered Pedro to do so as well.
"Why?" Pedro asked.
"In case something changes or moves. Better to keep a record now," Dad said, staring at him, clearly angry with him, "We don't want anything being changed without our knowledge, do we?"
"No," Pedro said, still ashamed, and began taking pictures.
After a few minutes, I felt I was suffocating inside the garage, so I walked out, closely followed by Zack, who asked me what was happening.
"I can't breathe in there," I whispered.
"Oh, well...," Zack said as we sat on the ground. "Let me sit with you."
I closed my eyes briefly as I breathed in and out, trying to clear my head. Then I sighed and looked at Zack.
"What the hell are we going to do now?" I asked him. "What if someone is messing with the shop?"
"Well, I bet my dad is going to install cameras here and there," Zack said, trying to smile, "I'll probably have to be more careful about who enters the building."
"Do you really think it is the Thunderbird?" I asked him in disbelief. "It just sounds so impossible."
"Maybe? I don't know."
"I feel this is my fault for caring too much about the crash," I said, knowing it sounded stupid, but I couldn't shake the feeling.
"Don't be silly, Tammy. Things happen," Zack said, putting his arm around me, which made me blush. I looked at him, and he smiled, "It's not your fault if you care about things. I like that you care and that you are curious."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because it makes you interesting, at least to me," he said.
I smiled back and leaned against him, putting my head on his shoulder. Zack and I stayed in that position until my father's work hours ended, and we finally drove back home. But in the meantime, my mind focused on only two things.
The first was that Zack's neck smelled lovely, like lavender soap.
The second was that the whole time I sat on that sidewalk, I could sense something looking at me from behind.