The building contained only a garage. There was no separate office. In the dimly lit automobile repair bay, Mildred saw a man in blue coveralls working on a Toyota Celica. The mechanic was hanging down inside the engine well of the Toyota, a single incandescent bulb hanging by a cord lighting his work. Mildred could not see the man’s face, only the pale blue smoke of a cigarette, which rose lazily from the engine well.
Mildred stood at the entrance to the garage, wringing her hands in concern and helplessness.
In a tiny voice, Mildred said, “Sir, can you help me?”
No response.
In a louder voice, but still extremely polite, Mildred again said, “Sir, can you please help me?”
The fortyish, blond-haired automobile mechanic untangled himself from the Toyota engine and looked toward the pleasant looking older woman, who obviously was distraught about something. Wiping his hands on an oily rag, he calmly put his cigarette out in an ashtray and walked over with a measured cadence to where Mildred stood.
Tim Walsh’s pale blue eyes fixed on Mildred. He had yet to say a word.
Mildred said, “Hi, I’m Mildred Lutsen from Milwaukee. I came to Minneapolis to see my daughter, but my car started acting up just now. I just don’t know what to do.”
“Let me see your car, Mrs. Lutsen.” His pale blue eyes remained fixed. Mildred felt his eyes boring into her. It was quite uncomfortable.
Walsh followed Mildred out to the stranded automobile. He got into the car and tried to get it started. The starter ground, but the car would not start. Walsh got out of the car and went over to Mildred.
“How long have you had this problem?”
“I don’t know, I rented this car from Avis last night. It started acting up just after I turned on to Lake Street.”
“Have you called them?”
“No, I was hoping that you could do something. I’m in such a hurry.”
Walsh just stared at Mildred with those pale blue eyes. Mildred couldn’t discern any emotion, just the two pale blue eyes that bore right through her.
“Is there anything you can do to help me?” said Mildred in her most sincere grandmotherly fashion.
“Let me try one more time.”
Walsh once again got into the Ford Taurus, placed the key into the ignition and started the car. The car hesitated and the starter whined, then the car coughed and started with a heavy knocking sound. Walsh drove the car into the empty automobile bay and pulled it over the lift. After stopping the car, he pulled the hood latch and got out of the car. He then lifted up the hood and hung the mechanic’s lamp on the raised hood.
Mildred continued to stand at the doorway to the automobile bay, generally looking concerned and worried. When Walsh disappeared into the engine compartment of her car, Mildred took the opportunity to visually inspect the garage. It was a typical garage, nothing to give a hint as to the relationship between Julie Davenport and Walsh Auto Repair. Mildred decided this was a dead end.
Walsh tried a few things with the ignition and the carburetor settings. After working at this for about ten minutes, Walsh emerged from the engine compartment and walked over to Mildred. His pale blue eyes fixed once again on Mildred’s eyes. Mildred found this to be particularly upsetting and avoided his glaze.
Finally, Walsh spoke. “As far as I can tell, you probably have some bad gas. Have you filled the tank at all? What we’ll do is put some gas conditioner in the tank and run it for a few minutes. That should clear up the problem.”
“Oh, thank you so much, Mr. …eh?” said Mildred.
“Walsh, Tim Walsh.”
“How long will this take, Mr. Walsh?”
“About twenty minutes, Mrs. Lutsen. Would you care to sit down?” He directed Mildred to the only seats in the garage, which were in front of a small gray metal desk at the front of the store.
Mildred took a seat and as she was sitting down, Walsh pushed the papers on top of the desk into the top middle drawer. As the papers disappeared from view, Mildred saw one sheet of paper from a memo pad with some pencil markings on it. The printed logo on the memo sheet said, “Reedy Securities.”
Mildred immediately averted her eyes, and then she saw the little white stuffed bear. It was sitting on a shelf, behind the desk.
Walsh finished clearing off his desk and then went back to working on the Toyota Celica.
After a short while, the engine of the Ford Taurus was running smoothly. Walsh detached the mechanic’s light and closed the hood with a solid metallic thud.
“She’s ready now, Mrs. Lutsen.”
“How much is it, Mr. Walsh?”
“That’ll be twenty dollars, including the gas conditioner,” said Walsh. “You were very fortunate to have the engine act up right outside my door. A tow would’ve cost you another fifty dollars.”
“Uffda,” said Mildred. “Boy, am I glad you were here. Thank you, very much.”
After handing Walsh twenty dollars, Mildred got into the rented Ford Taurus, backed it out of the garage repair bay and turned back on to Lake Street. Through the window, she waved to Walsh. He did not return the wave, he merely looked at her with his pale blue eyes, turned around, and walked slowly back to the Toyota Celica.
Mildred picked up the house telephone in the lobby of the Hyatt Regency Hotel in Bethesda, Maryland. “Mike?”
“Mildred, how are you doing?”
“I need to talk to you, are you busy?”
“Why don’t you come up to my room?” he said.
“Be right there.”
The knock on the door coincided with Mike just having finished pulling the coverlet over his bed and pulling on a pants and tee shirt. He opened the door and Mildred walked in.
“Been busy, eh?” he said.
“You bet — you’re bleeding!”
“Mildred, do you know how hard it is to commit suicide with a safety razor? Next to impossible,” said Mike, smiling.
“Yeah, it just doesn’t work,” said Mildred knowingly.
Mike stopped smiling.
“So what do you have on our Julie Davenport?” said Mike.
“A real mystery. Her life in Des Moines was as sterile as can be. No friends, no life, just puzzles. For example, I think she had some kind of relationship with an auto mechanic in Minneapolis, named Tim Walsh. Strange man, doesn’t say much, just stares through you with his pale blue eyes. One thing that is puzzling. He either has the same white stuffed bear that I saw in Davenport’s personal effects in Des Moines or has an exact duplicate for some reason. He also had a sheet of paper with Reedy Securities printed on it. What troubles me is how he might have obtained the stuffed toy right after I saw it the day before in Julie Davenport’s office.”
“Adams is having Davenport’s birth certificate checked. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out she’s an impostor like Jerry Mitchell.”
“I wouldn’t either. What do you think we have here, Mike?”
“I see two problems. First, how do these people know when we’re traveling? Two, who are these people? Despite what George thinks, there has to be a connection, because the attacks on our people have always involved travel. Let’s find out how travel arrangements are made. I think we have to wait until Adams finds out more about some of these names, including Davenport and Trent.”
“Who’s Trent?” said Mildred.
“Apparently, this guy Trent arranged survivalist training sessions in which Mitchell participated. His full name is John Trent. He has also disappeared,” answered Mike.
The telephone rang and Mike walked across the room to pick it up.
“Hello.”
“Mike? This is Herb. We have a new mystery. According to InfoNet, Julie Davenport’s manager at Reedy Securities, Steven Clark, was killed last night. Looks like a robbery, but given the weird things that have happened recently, I just don’t know.”