A Finder's Fee by Jim Lavene, Joyce Read Free Book Online Page A

going on. Tonight, for instance—”
    “You know the proper channels would’ve been too slow to stop this.” I felt some of my old fire. “Once it’s lost, you can’t get it back.”
    “There’s still the issue of proper permits.”
    “That wouldn’t have gone through until after tomorrow. Besides”—I smiled at him—“we found the car with a corpse in it. That must count for something.”
    He drew a deep breath and looked toward the heavens briefly. “It certainly does. That, and purchasing a permit for the work you’ve already done, plus paying a fine for digging on town property without permission, will keep you and your friends out of court.”
    “As to the matter of the car you found . . .” Luke wanted his say before the chief could pile any other accusations against me. “It seems this car has been at the center of an open murder investigation for a long time. Have you all ever heard of Lightning Joe Walsh?”

Chapter 4

    E veryone from Duck knew the legend of Lightning Joe Walsh. It came from back in the 1970s when local moonshine runners turned to racing. For a while, there was even a small racetrack in the Outer Banks. Nothing elaborate—just a dirt track and people sitting in lawn chairs watching and cheering local drivers.
    The big local name at that time was Mad Dog Wilson. He drove his number twelve race car like a wild thing, uncaring if he rolled the car or skidded off the track to win the race. There was no real competition for him. He was the king.
    Lightning Joe appeared out of the blue one day. No one knew who he was or where he came from. They said Mad Dog couldn’t beat him because Joe was even crazier than him. What added insult to injury was that Joe didn’t care about winning—at least not the applause, the trophy or the cash prize. He only seemed intent on being first, and making Mad Dog’s life miserable.
    Their final race seemed to bear out this conclusion. Mad Dog wrecked his car. It wasn’t even as bad as other wrecks he’d had, but he was seriously injured. He gave up racing and had to walk with a cane after that. His badly broken leg had healed poorly. Mad Dog’s number twelve car was hauled away by a wrecker and never seen again.
    People thought for sure Lightning Joe would stop at the end of that race. His opponent was down and it would have been the sportsmanlike thing to do. He didn’t stop—not for the thousand dollars in prize money or to see if Mad Dog was hurt. His car never returned to the racetrack either. No one ever saw hide nor hair of him again.
    “Joe wanted to show up Mad Dog.” Gramps finished his version of the tale for the people who weren’t from Duck. “We always wondered what happened to him, the faceless driver who didn’t care if he won or lost.”
    “How did you know his name if he never stopped?” Ann asked.
    “It was written on the side of his black car with the number twenty-three,” Gramps answered. “We never found out if he was local or not. He was gone with his car, and so was Mad Dog. Racing died out around here after that.”
    “Thank you, Mr. O’Donnell.” Luke stopped the reminiscing. “We believe the skeleton you found in the number twelve car by the town hall may be that of Joe Walsh.”
    Gramps scratched his head. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would he be in Mad Dog’s car instead of his own?”
    “You remember the report that was filed when Mad Dog’s car went missing?” Chief Michaels asked him. “Someone stole the car right off of the flatbed. People thought maybe fans did it, because Mad Dog swore he never saw it again. According to the mechanic who looked at it on the track, it was still running and could have been driven.”
    “That’s right.” Gramps snapped his fingers. “A lot of people thought Joe had taken it as a souvenir.”
    Luke pulled a thin file from his briefcase. “This report has been buried since that time. It’s possible it wasn’t ever received by the sheriff’s