![northeast auto lab beverly ma northeast auto lab beverly ma](https://s3-media2.fl.yelpcdn.com/bphoto/trkmxL7-8TGnrfVm_IkDHQ/o.jpg)
![northeast auto lab beverly ma northeast auto lab beverly ma](https://c8.alamy.com/comp/2CJDM13/firestone-tire-rubber-co-2CJDM13.jpg)
"I don't like you to call me here," he said. Let there be no doubt."īailey glanced at the door again. You know what he said to me? He said, 'That's between you and Lee.' We've been fucked. I told him that I had part of the action on the score. "I conned the gallery man into telling me who brought it in. "You didn't let me finish," Kreuzer said impatiently.
Northeast auto lab beverly ma how to#
"Everybody in this town knows how to play the collect-double-on-the-insurance game." "How do we know that the owner didn't rush down and peddle it five minutes after he saw that his house had been hit?" Bailey interrupted.
![northeast auto lab beverly ma northeast auto lab beverly ma](https://static.wixstatic.com/media/19f4e1_2fec38927fa048c7b9382d8df7a5eaf3~mv2_d_6016_4016_s_4_2.jpg)
The gallery man trusts me because of all the business I bring him, so he even told me what he paid for it. "I'm telling you that the same Picasso ink drawing that I saw hanging in the man's living room last week, the same one I noted on my little diagram, is right at this very moment hanging in the back room at the art gallery. "Do you think I'd tell you something like this if I wasn't sure?" Kreuzer said. "You've actually seen the item?" Travis Bailey said. The man is a weasel, a rotten fucking weasel. He's probably hit us for something or another on every score. The art gallery man has it in his back room. "I'm at a pay phone," Emil Kreuzer said with slightly less of the German accent he affected in his nightclub hypnosis act. He spent some time doodling the name Lee on a pad, then tore the sheet of paper off the pad, wadded it up and tossed it in the wastebasket.
![northeast auto lab beverly ma northeast auto lab beverly ma](https://ars.els-cdn.com/content/image/1-s2.0-S0269749117336205-fx1.jpg)
He slowly opened the desk drawer to avoid disrupting the pencils and other office supplies he kept carefully arranged and took out a perfectly sharpened number-two pencil. The corners of the stack were squared and each message in the pile bore Bailey's customary red-ink check mark. On Bailey's desk was an empty "in" basket and a message-nail piercing a four-inch stack of dated telephone messages. Instead of an electric fan wafting stale cigarette and cigar smoke, the bureau was equipped with a modus operandi computer that had been the subject of an article in a police journal, and a bank of modern-looking interview rooms furnished with two-way mirrors and upholstered chairs. Rather than brownstone tenements, the window view was of a business district made up of shops that sold ostrich leather shoes, gold toothpicks, furs. Rather than the dank, coffee-stained bullpens typically found in big-city police departments, the office was spacious and clean with colorful desk partitions. Because Beverly Hills was a rich man's city, burglary was the only crime with enough weekly activity to be charted.ĭetective Travis Bailey was alone in the handsomely carpeted third-floor office. The bulletin board in the Detective Bureau was covered with a clear-plastic burglary occurrence chart dotted with red stickpins.