Glen was reasonably sure he'd done the right thing.  He had seen deep, deep insanity in Lexi's eyes, the sort of temporary insanity that might get one acquitted of murder charges, and was thus content not to have been in the Town Car with her when she drove it away.  Somewhere, something bad was likely happening, and while the reporter in him wanted to be there to see it, Glen's inner engineer was happy to observe this particular psychological failure mode from a safe distance.

Of course, this also meant that when she rammed her car through the door of the warehouse and drove off, he was somewhat stuck here.  The second vehicle that had pulled up outside drove off in pursuit before Glen could signal them. 

It was likely to be at least a mile walk to a pay phone, so he settled himself down in the storage area's little office, which was thankfully heated and protected from the cold that was now sweeping gleefully in through the broken door. 

The office was cheerfully drab, with a pair of folding chairs next to a scarred cafeteria table, an unplugged Coke machine and a Steelcase desk that dated to the Fifties.  The walls were decorated only with taped-up notices about shutting off the lights properly and generic accident-safety posters.  Glen sat on the Steelcase desk, dropped his bag next to him, and drummed his knuckles rhythmically, looking at nothing.

Oh, well, might as well do something constructive with the time, since there was no telling how long he might be here.  Hopefully if Lexi got arrested, she'd remember to send someone for him.  Otherwise, it was going to be a long walk out to the road, and likely a long wait for a car to pass.  It was about two miles' walk into Frankfort, which was big enough that he could be assured of finding a phone and civilization, but he hadn't really worn the right shoes for traipsing around in twenty inches of snow, and his feet would freeze.  Best to wait a few hours.  If Lexi hadn't returned by two or three, then he'd set out walking so he could get to town before it got dark.

He had half an interview, anyhow.  Glen opened his bag to get a legal pad out.  He had left the laptop in his car, but he never went anywhere without some means of note-taking.  As he pulled the pad out, a large manila envelope sighed to the floor.

Frowning, Glen hopped off the desk to pick it up.  There shouldn't have been anything in the bag except his camera, the notepad, a book he was reading and a few copies of Late Apex that he carried to hand out.  He'd have certainly remembered an envelope.  Tearing it open, he found a sheet of glossy paper, torn out of a magazine, a newspaper clipping and a sheet of copier paper.  He recognized the magazine page momentarily as one of the acknowledgements pages from the booklet that had been handed out at the auction of Lexi's cars--one of which Lexi herself had just found a few minutes ago, in fact.  It had been torn roughly out, and a name had been highlighted:  David R. Frederick.  Glen frowned at it, turned it over to see if anything was written on the back, then set it aside.

The photocopy was of a police report.  A brand-new Subaru wagon had been found in Toledo, burned.  Tennessee license plates.  Registered to Albert Jaxon…Lord, that was Molly's friend, the one who'd disappeared.  His car had turned up, and its condition didn't bode well for its owner.  The police report said nothing of any search for Ajax; it was just a routine bit of impound-yard paperwork.

The news clipping was a brief biography of Bobby Silver, a Canadian expat living in the Detroit area (with a vacation home in the Keys, of course), acquitted of smuggling charges.  According to the article, the FBI suspected Silver of bringing weapons into the United States, but lacked sufficient evidence to indict.  

"Dammit, Langdon," Glen said, knowing that the envelope full of mysteries had to be the shadowy man's doing.  "I'm a car writer, not an investigative journalist."