My investigation led me to an entrance long forgotten. It wasn’t hard to find, since it was in plain sight: a doorway off a side street with nothing more than a rusty padlock—nothing a pair of bolt cutters couldn't handle.

On a dark night when no one was around, I got in and descended the cold, dark stairs to the tunnel, relying on my police-grade flashlight. I followed the tunnel for some distance until it suddenly opened into what was to have been the main terminal. My light fell on a light switch. Taking a chance, I flicked it on. To my surprise, the whole room was filled with vintage cars from the 1960s and '70s, all in pristine condition, preserved by the dry desert air—not what the stories had led me to believe. This was a gold mine of two dozen cars.

I later learned that they had been purchased new and stored there; some still had the window sticker prices on them. The owner had died in 1983, and no mention of the vehicles was included in his estate, which had long since been settled. They were considered abandoned property with no claims on them. According to the 1932 Finders Keepers Law, they were now mine.

I brought them out one at a time so as not to raise suspicion, and over the next few months, all had been sold at auction, except for a blue '65 Mustang convertible and a green-and-white '72 Chevy C20 pickup with a 5-speed manual transmission. Not to mention a hefty bank account to show for it.