"Which car?" Remo asked.
The man took a second look at Remo and then said, "Well, I'll be damned if it wasn't yours."
"Mine, huh?" Remo said. "Do they know how it happened?"
"I don't think so. I ain't heard nothing yet."
"But you will, won't you?" Remo asked, slipping the guy a five spot. "Eventually you'll hear all about it?"
"I sure will, mister."
"Well, there's ten more in it for you if I hear about it right after you do."
"You got it."
"Good. Do you think you could go out front and have a cab meet me there? I forgot something upstairs."
"Sure, my pleasure."
Remo took the elevator up one flight and got off at the lobby. He didn't want to be seen walking through the garage with all the ruckus that was going on, and he didn't want to have to take the time to answer questions. As it was, the police were bound to find out that the car had been rented by him, and he'd be answering their questions soon enough. Right now, however, he had a few of his own to get answered.
The cab was waiting out front. He got in and told the driver to take him to the National Motors plant. He was going there to talk to some of the people who worked with Allan Martin, Billy's father.
During the ride, he contemplated the possibility that his rented car had blown up for some reason other than that somebody wanted it to— preferably with him in it. After all, if someone had indeed planted a bomb, they'd done a rotten job because the thing had gone off prematurely… luckily for him. Still, that was the likeliest explanation. At least whoever had done it had saved him the trouble of trying to explain to the rental agency what had happened to the hood ornament.
At the plant Remo presented himself to the girl at the reception area, who was in charge of dispensing security clearance badges to visitors. The girl was young and very pretty, with long blond hair and green eyes. And she was obviously interested in Remo. It took little more than flattery and a few gentle touches, strategically placed where Sinanju had taught him women were vulnerable— for him to appropriate a pass that gave him the right to go anywhere in the plant. He also managed to squeeze out of her the name of Allan Martin's immediate superior. It was Jack Boffa, the assembly line foreman.
"You make sure you stop back this way before you leave," she said hopefully when he was through with her.
"Of course," he said in his most charming manner. "I'll have to return the badge, won't I?"
He wandered through the plant until he was finally able to locate the assembly line, taking the time to observe how the thing was run.
From what he could see, more than a few of the men working the line were pretty drunk, and the ones who weren't drunk were pretty damned sloppy. Unlike Japan, where auto workers took great pride in their work and everyone on the assembly lines sang the company song and committed seppuku if one car was defective— or so he had heard— this looked like the kind of outfit where they called it a good day's work if no more than half of the cars manufactured were recalled for potentially fatal defects.
It was enough to make one seriously consider taking up bicycle riding.
Off to one side he spotted a man who had to be Jack Boffa. He was a tall, solidly built man standing with his arms folded across his chest and a clipboard dangling from one hand. Remo knew that a clipboard always signified authority.
"Excuse me," he said, approaching the foreman.
The man looked at Remo, frowned when he didn't recognize him, and asked, "How did you get in here?"
"I'm authorized," Remo said, touching his badge.
"I guess you are," the man replied, studying the plastic square on Remo's jacket. "What can I do for you?"
"Are you Jack Boffa?"
"That's me."
"Things are run a little loose around here, aren't they?"
Boffa's head swiveled, and he looked hard at Remo. "What are you, an inspector or something? We usually get some kind of warning. We pay enough—"
"Hold it. I'm not an inspector."
The tension eased from the man's face, and he said, "Well, then, who are you?"
"Somebody interested in what happened to Allan Martin and his family."
"Jesus, that's no secret. Him and his old lady were killed by their own son, and then the boy got himself killed."
"I'm interested in why the boy killed his parents, and who killed the boy afterward."
"I can't help you with that, mister. I ain't no cop."
Remo caught the look Boffa was giving him then and said, "I'm not a cop either, but I'd still like to ask you a few questions."
"What are you, private heat?"
"Something like that."
"I don't know much," the foreman said with a shrug.
"You knew Martin, didn't you?"
"Yeah, like I know my other workers. There was something, though."
"Like what?"
"Well, the last few months, Al Martin seemed a little jumpy, you know? Like something was really bothering him."
"Did you ask him about it?"
"Once, yeah. I'm interested in anything that keeps my men from working at peak efficiency, you know?"
Remo cast a dubious glance at the men on the assembly line and said, "That's obvious. What did Martin say it was?"
"Nothing. He said nothing was wrong at all."
"You didn't press him?"
"He did his work. If he wanted me to mind my own business, that was okay with me."
"Did he get a big raise anytime during the past few months?"