LITMIR.BIZ

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      This time Becca heard a low, nearly inaudible moan.

      Her heart glitched. She stopped dead in her tracks.

      “Mitch!” Hudson shone his light in the direction of the sound. The beam tracked over a stained cement floor to a man’s legs poking from beneath the weight of a sporty red car crushing his chest, pinning him beneath. “Shit!”

      They ran to the mechanic’s—Mitch’s—side. “He has to be alive. Has to,” Becca whispered, trying to convince herself. As she peered beneath the car and caught a glimpse of Mitch’s face, a mask of death, his eyes closed, only the raspy sound of his breath indicating there was a bit of life in his body.

      Hudson was kneeling by Mitch’s side. “Hit the lights!” he ordered Becca, shining the beam of his flashlight onto the far wall where a switch was visible. “And call for help.”

      Becca was already on her feet, fumbling in her purse, retrieving her cell, dialing 911. She hurried across the concrete, nearly tripping on a drain before she reached the switch and threw it. Immediately, flickering fluorescent overhead lights cast a bluish glow over the garish scene.

      “He’s still alive,” Hudson said as the 911 operator answered.

      Becca wasted no time. “I need an ambulance immediately.”

      “What is your name and the nature of your emergency.”

      “I’m Rebecca Sutcliff and I’m at Mike’s Garage, off Canyon Boulevard. There’s been a horrible accident, Mitch Bellotti—he’s trapped under a car, he’s bleeding and…and…send someone to…” She turned anxiously to Hudson.

      “The cross street is Eighty-sixth or seventh!” Hudson had jumped to his feet, heading for the roller jack.

      “Did you hear that? Eighty-sixth or seventh and Canyon. Send someone quickly.”

      “The victim is alive?”

      “Barely. Send an ambulance now!”

      “There’s a squad car in the area, if you’ll please stay on the line. Ma’am, please stay on the line and—”

      Screw that! Becca hit the speaker option on her phone and left the cell on the hood of a Ford Escape. She couldn’t waste time talking.

      Hudson’s hands grabbed the jack’s lever and he rapidly pumped it upward. Slowly the car began to rise off Mitch’s broken chest. In tandem they grabbed the creeper and pulled him from harm’s way.

      Blood covered the front of Mitch’s garage jumpsuit where metal had punched through his skin, smearing his name. His entire abdomen looked as if it had fallen in on itself.

      The sound of sirens split the air and Becca thought she’d never been so relieved in her life as she and Hudson eased Mitch out from under the car’s carriage. Hudson found the button to raise the garage doors and hit it. The doors on all three bays began grinding upward as a squad car—lights flashing, siren screaming—flew into the lot. The driver stood on the brakes and two officers emerged.

      “What the hell happened here?” the taller of the two cops asked. Another siren sounded—the ambulance, thank God!

      Hudson said grimly, “We found him this way.”

      “Alive?” the shorter officer, a woman with a blond ponytail, looked at Hudson from beneath the brim of her hat.

      “I think so, but he’s in bad shape.”

      While her partner knelt at Mitch’s side, she was on the phone, barking orders, talking to the EMTs as the ambulance roared into the parking lot. A crowd had begun to gather, traffic slowing and snarling around Mike’s. Within minutes another squad car arrived, and while the first officers interviewed Becca and Hudson and the EMTs worked over Mitch, the newly arrived cops worked to hold back the crowd and keep the traffic moving.

      Becca and Hudson were asked to stick around while Mitch was placed on a stretcher, wheeled into the ambulance, and whisked away. The owner of the garage was called and the area roped off with crime scene tape.

      Hudson and Becca, standing beneath the overhang, were barraged with more questions but finally allowed to leave. They headed directly to the hospital, and on the way, Becca called as many of their friends as she could. The EMTs hadn’t given them a diagnosis, but both Becca and Hudson realized that Mitch was hanging by a thread. Hudson didn’t say it, but Becca read it in his eyes. He didn’t think Mitch would make it through the night.

      “Glenn…Renee…and now Mitch?” Becca whispered to Hudson.

      “It’s not a conspiracy,” he said, but she sensed he was trying to convince himself as much as her.

      “What is it, then?” she asked, but he couldn’t come up with a response.

      Mac was on the phone when Gretchen, who’d been slipping into her jacket and getting ready to leave, received a call on her cell phone. She was halfway to the door but she stopped in the act of pushing her arms through her sleeves and turned to meet Mac’s eyes.

      Mac glanced away, needing all his attention for the phone call he was already handling. But Gretchen wouldn’t be put off. He heard her say grimly, “Thanks for the heads-up,” then marched back to Mac’s desk and stood in front of it. He lifted an impatient hand to her. She could just damn well wait for once.

      “Mitch Bellotti died tonight,” she told him loudly. The other officers still in the station turned to look.

      Mac was taken aback. “Something’s come up,” he said into the phone. “I’ll call you back. Mitch Bellotti died?” he demanded as he hung up. “How?”

      “At his job. Got crushed by a car that slipped off a jack. It fell on his chest before he could get out. Punched right through his chest and broke his ribs.” She went on with other details she’d obtained from a Beaverton police officer she was friends with, and Mac learned he was found about an hour or so after the incident by Hudson Walker and Becca Sutcliff, who had called 911. The EMTs who worked on Bellotti got him to the hospital, but he died within five minutes of arrival, the broken ribs having penetrated other organs. There’d been too much damage and he’d bled out before they could save him. “Unconscious the whole time,” Gretchen finished. “Last person to see him alive was a guy who worked with him, Phil Reece. All the stories jibe according to the Beaverton PD.”

      “It’s been ruled an accident?”

      “So far.” Her tone suggested it was just a matter of time until they learned otherwise.

      “Jesus,” Mac said. He could hardly take it all in.

      Gretchen pointed out, “Someone’s killing your suspects.”

      “Someones, maybe.”

      She cocked her head. “You know something.”

      He shook his head, sorry he’d said anything so soon. “You’ve got friends with Beaverton PD, I have friends with Portland.”

      “Give,” she demanded.

      “When there’s corroboration.”

      “You’re talking about the arson at Blue Note. Know who set it?”

      “Not for sure.”

      “C’mon, McNally. We were making so much progress.” She slipped a hip on his desk and looked at him through her lashes.

      Mac yanked out the sheaf of pages trapped by her hip. “Go home, Sandler,” he growled.

      “You’re starting to like me. I can tell. What are you doing?” she demanded as Mac started searching through the thick file labeled Brentwood.

      He ignored Gretchen. He needed to sort through the information that seemed to be coming at him from all sides, none of which connected. He needed to be alone. He needed quiet.

      “You’re a glutton

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