“Hate to break this to you, but it’s not your car.”

Theo’s mouth fell open, as if he were about to utter “Et tu, Brutus?” “Not mine? I washed this baby with my own hands. When it purred, I smiled. When it whined, I fixed it. What did you ever do? Put gas in it and pay the insurance? You wouldn’t even buy it a garage. A fucking porta cochere is all you gave it. I think that’s French for ‘park your shitty Chevy Vega right here.’ ”

“You think I didn’t love that car? I was the one who-”

“Boys!” said Sofia.

Jack and Theo turned to see her standing on the other side of the Mustang’s charred remains. She walked around it, dragging her index finger across the soot-covered metal as she spoke. “Are you two grown men actually having an argument over who loved a car more? Hello-oo-o. It’s a car, guys. In the big scheme of things, how important is that?”

Silence fell over them. Finally, Theo looked at Jack, his expression deadpan. “Is she high?”

“She must be.”

Sofia rolled her eyes and went back in the house.

They shared a little laugh, then Jack turned serious. “I mean it, Theo. It sounds like the musical cast from Stomp is out here. Can’t you do whatever it is you’re doing another time?”

“Do you want to find out who torched your Mustang or don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do. That’s what the police are for.”

“The police. Puh-lease. Just tell the cops to stand back and let me do my job.”

“You think you’re going to figure out who torched my car, do you?”

“Yup. Just follow the parts.”

“What are you talking about?”

Theo slid the wrench into his pocket and leaned against the car, his arms folded. “Here’s the deal. For the past three days, I been askin’ myself: How does a guy walk up to an amazing car like this and just burn it? It’s such a waste.”

“Some people love to watch things go up in flames.”

“True. But more people love to make a quick buck.”

“Meaning what?”

“The parts, Jacko. That’s why I been banging away here. It’s burned pretty bad, but I can tell you right now: Somebody walked off with some parts before they put a match to this baby. Definitely took your pony bucket seats. Probably got the rally pack gauges, wood steering wheel, shifter console. I can already see he got the four barrel carb and manifold from the engine compartment, and I’m just getting started in there.”

“What would he do with all that stuff, sell it?”

“Duh. We’re talking a vintage Mustang convertible. You can easily haul away a small fortune in parts.”

“So the guy stole some parts? Where does that get you?”

“Like I said: Follow the parts. I just do some checking around with repair shops that specialize in collector cars. See if anyone unloaded some Mustang parts in the last few days.”

Jack nodded, following his logic. “Actually, there aren’t that many. At least not that many good ones. I can tell you that much from experience.”

“Exactly. So, all I gotta do is go around shopping for the right parts. When I find the guy who has them, I just get him to tell me who sold him the parts.”

“Sounds good on paper. But no grease monkey is going to tell you where he bought stolen parts.”

“Wrong again, Jacko. No grease monkey is going to tell you where he bought the stolen parts.” He slid the big wrench out of his pocket, then tapped it into his open palm as he spoke. “But he’ll tell me. Trust me. He’ll beg to tell me.”

“I didn’t hear that,” said Jack.

“I never said it,” said Theo.

32

The morning was all about bodily fluids. Jack had been expecting blood-crime-scene photos, spray-pattern analysis, that sort of thing. The prosecutor had something else entirely on tap.

Torres said, “Dr. Vandermeer, would you please introduce yourself to the jury?”

A small man with neatly cropped beard and mustache leaned toward the microphone. The witness box almost dwarfed him, and Jack had the sense that he should have been sitting on a phone book or something. He leaned toward Lindsey and whispered, “You know this guy?”

“Never seen him before,” she said.

The witness cleared his throat and said, “My name is Timothy Vandermeer. I have a Ph.D. in psychology, and I am an M.D. who specializes in treatment of patients with problems of infertility.”

“Are you board certified in this area?”

“Yes. I am an American Board of Obstetrics and Gynecology Certified Diplomate. I am also board certified in the subspecialty of reproductive endocrinology.”

“What other experience and education do you have in this area?”

His response went on and on, everything from his undergraduate dual major in biology and psychology to the numerous scholarly articles he had written for medical journals around the country. Jack stopped taking notes when Vandermeer mentioned a research piece entitled, “It’s a Boy/It’s a Girl-The Joy of Spinning Sperm.”

The prosecutor glanced toward the jury, as if to make sure they were still with him. He seemed satisfied. “Doctor, you mentioned earlier that you have a Ph.D. in psychology. Do psychological factors ever come into play in your treatment of patients with infertility problems?”

“Oh, yes, absolutely. You don’t need a Ph.D. in psychology to know that emotional factors, such as stress, can affect one’s ability to procreate.”

“Does that hold true for both men and women?”

“Surely. It works both ways. Men, however, can generally be less willing than women to talk about these psychological factors. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”

Again the prosecutor checked the jury, perhaps to make sure he wasn’t embarrassing anyone. Then he shifted gears. “Doctor, was the defendant, Lindsey Hart, ever your patient?”

“No, she was not.”

“Was her husband, Captain Oscar Pintado, ever your patient?”

“Yes, he was.”

There was a quiet rumbling in the courtroom, and the judge perked up a bit, too. Jack managed to cut his visible reaction to a sideways glance at his client. He could see in her eyes that she had no idea.

The prosecutor said, “Tell us how that came about, please.”

“Captain Pintado first came to my office in Miami about a year ago. He was on military leave with his wife and son. But they weren’t with him. In fact, I should point out that Captain Pintado specifically asked me not to tell his wife that he was consulting me.”

“What was the purpose of his visit?”

“As he explained it, he and his wife had been trying to have a child for many years. They adopted a son, but they had not given up hope of getting pregnant. He told me that he and his wife had seen an infertility specialist together. Unfortunately, that doctor was unable to help them.”

“Did he tell you why he came to see you?”

“Yes. His father recommended me. Alejandro Pintado-or perhaps Mrs. Pintado-happened to see me on a television talk show discussing my latest research on infertility issues.”

“Briefly, doctor, could you please describe the nature and findings of that research?”

His face lit up, as if he would have liked nothing better. “Gladly. In the most general sense, the nature of my research was sperm analysis. I compared two groups of men. In the first group, I analyzed the sperm of men who were in a completely monogamous relationship with a woman, either married or with a long-time partner. The other group was made up entirely of men who admitted to having sex with women who had multiple sexual partners.”

“Let me make sure I understand this second group. It was not the man who had multiple sexual partners. It was the woman.”

“That’s correct. I was looking for a one-woman man, so to speak, where the woman had made no commitment of exclusivity to that particular man. Frankly, most of the men in this category were single men who were in a relationship with a married woman.”