Authors: Linda Barnes
Coyote (28 page)
Like sleeping with a brother, I tell him whenever he asks me out.
Other than my feeling that intimacy would be incestuous, I have nothing against Mooney. He's good-looking if you like them tall, solid, and Irish. He's got deceptively mild brown eyes that can freeze you with a glance. He's close to forty, but you can only tell by the fine little crinkles at the corners of his eyes. His waistline hasn't expanded.
Mooney explains our lack of romance in other terms. He says I flat out prefer outlaws to cops anydayâmy current beau, Sam Gianelli, son of a Boston mob underboss, is a case in point.
Mooney said a few words to the officers who'd brought us in and they made apologetic noises. Dee's accuser wound up with a lecture on public intoxication that he was too far gone to understand. The cops offered him a ride back to the park, which I thought was decent of them.
Mooney said he'd be more than happy to drive me and my friend. I would have opted for the smelly cruiser and a quick escape from his close scrutiny, but before I could decline, Dee said thank you in a fervent tone. Mooney hustled us out the back door and commandeered a new unit with working A/C. His old Buick is a wreck.
Dee kept her face shielded from the light, grabbed the back door handle, and ducked quickly inside. I sat up front and aimed all the vents full on my face.
We drove back to the scene of the non-crime.
Dee mumbled her thanks to Mooney as she left the car, head bent, cape fastened, dark glasses in place.
“I sure like your new stuff, Dee,” Mooney said with a warm smile. He squealed the tires when he pulled away. Boys will be boys.
“Shit,” Dee said, with a pleased grin, as she squeezed behind the meter into the front seat of my cab. “How'd he recognize me?”
I didn't answer because I was busy staring at the red ticket plastered to the cab's windshield. Parking at a hydrant is a hundred-buck fine, and the cab company sure won't pay it.
Like my mother always used to say, “Don't mix in.”
Three
I started the motor. Dee pushed back the torn sleeve of her shirt and a thin red trickle oozed down her arm.
“Got a Kleenex or something?” she asked.
“Try the dash.” My pal, Gloria, dispatcher and co-owner of the Green & White Cab Company, stocks the cabs with first-aid kits, but some of the bozos who pilot them steal anything, including Band-Aids.
Dee rummaged in silence for a while, then said, “Here's one of those things you clean your hands with after you eat Kentucky Fried Chicken.”
“If it's still in the wrapper, use it,” I advised.
Caught by a traffic light near the Public Garden, I watched as Dee wiped her arm and cranked down the passenger window, presumably to toss the used towelette. Instead she kept a tight grip on it, leaned back, and giggled. The sound echoed off the dividing shield.
“Something funny?” I asked.
“I was just thinking I'd probably get arrested for littering,” she said. “Jesus,” she gasped, squeezing out words between eruptions of laughter, “of all the cabs in all the cities in all the world ⦠Is that how it goes? You know, that line from
Casablanca
. Bogie says it. âOf all the gin joints in all the cities in all theâ'”
“âYou had to walk into mine,'” I quoted with feeling. “Calm down.” Some people throw giggle-fits when they realize they won't have to spend the night in jail. Relief takes mysterious forms.
“Shit, I'm sorry, Carlotta. Not recognizing you right off, I mean. I wasn't expecting ⦠What I mean”âher laughter took on a bitter, self-mocking toneâ” I mean, here I go skulking out of the hotel, all incognito and anonymous, and first thing, right off, I take a cab with you at the wheel. I mean, I'm doing everything just right, you know?”
Her voice had begun to waver.
“Lose a lot of cash?” I asked.
She hesitated. I gave her a raised eyebrow and she apparently decided that saving her ass twice in a single night gave me the right to a question or two.
“Around a hundred bucks,” she muttered. “Maybe two.”
My eyebrow went up another notch. I know what's in my wallet down to the last dime.
“Back to the hotel?” I asked her.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You staying there? Nice place,” I said.
“Remember my apartment on Mass. Ave.? What a toilet that was.”
“But the parties were good,” I said. You get enough people together in a one-room dive and nobody notices the decor.
We drove another three blocks. The silence grew as heavy and uncomfortable as the heat.
“Carlotta,” Dee said slowly, “that license you showed the copsâare you the kind of investigator who finds people?”
“I'm a private investigator. I do missing persons work.”
“Can you get rid of the cab?”
“I suppose I could,” I said doubtfully.
She was suddenly eager. “Come upstairs. You can help me out. I mean, you're perfect. You're like a gift. I'll pay for your time. I'll pay for what you lose tonight with the cab. I'll pay your damn parking ticket. I mean, even if you won't do it, I'll pay.”
I pulled up in front of the Four Winds. The doorman hurried down the walk, but Dee waved him off.
My hand hovered at the ignition. I straightened up and turned to look at her. I could feel my jaw muscles clench. “Is Cal with you?” I asked finally, breaking a long pause.
She looked searchingly at my face. I concentrated on a nearby traffic light.
“He left,” she said. “Long time ago.”
“You don't want me to find him, do you?”
“Hell, no.”
Buy
Steel Guitar
Now!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There comes a time in the development of a manuscript when the author needs to view it with eyes other than her own. I'd like to thank Richard Barnes, Susan Linn, James Morrow, and Karen Motylewski for providing that critical vision. I'd also like to thank Gladys Roldan for correcting my fledgling Spanish, and John Hummel for his contribution.
I am grateful to my agent, Gina Maccoby, for her unflagging support, and to my editor, Brian DeFiore, for his expert judgment.
Sometimes events in life as well as in literature warrant acknowledgment. I extend my deepest appreciation to Dr. Benjamin Sachs, Dr. Judith R. Wolfberg, Dr. Johanna Pallotta, and Alexandra Paul-Simon for helping to make the dedication of this book possible.
About the Author
Linda Barnes is the award-winning author of the Carlotta Carlyle Mysteries. Her witty private-investigator heroine has been hailed as “a true original” by Sue Grafton. Barnes is also the author of the Michael Spraggue Mysteries and a stand-alone novel,
The Perfect Ghost
.
A winner of the Anthony Award and a finalist for the Edgar and Shamus Awards, Barnes lives in the Boston area with her husband and son. Visit her at
www.lindabarnes.com
.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Plane Wreck at
Los Gatos
(Deportee) lyrics by Woody Guthrie, music by Martin Hoffman. TROâ© 1961 (renewed) 1963 Ludlow Music, Inc., New York, N.Y. Used by permission.
Love You Like a Man
written by Chris Smither. Copyright © 1970
UNITED ARTISTS MUSIC CO., INC.,
Rights assigned to
EMI CATALOGUE PARTNERSHIP
. All Rights Controlled and Administered by
EMI U CATALOG INC
. International Copyright Secured. Made in USA. All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1991 by Linda Appleblatt Barnes
Cover design by Andy Ross
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1444-1
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
EARLY BIRD BOOKS
FRESH EBOOK DEALS, DELIVERED DAILY
BE THE FIRST TO KNOW ABOUT
FREE AND DISCOUNTED EBOOKS
NEW DEALS HATCH EVERY DAY!
THE CARLOTTA CARLYLE MYSTERIES
FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA
