Driven to Ink (33 page)

I’d been trying to eavesdrop on Tim, so when she spoke, it caught me by surprise.

As did another thought I had. Something about her story didn’t add up. Something was off. I couldn’t put my finger on it, though. My head was all jumbled up like a jigsaw puzzle that had too many pieces missing.

Before I could question her, though, Tim strode back into the room, clipping his phone back to his belt. He cocked his head at me.

“We’ve got to go.”

I stood up, a little too quickly, because the little daggers were back. It had been okay while I was sitting, but too long in one position seemed to exacerbate the situation.

Tim didn’t seem to notice this time, however. He nodded at Rosalie.

“I’ll be back, probably with another detective, to take your statement. Make sure you don’t go anywhere.” It was not a request.

Rosalie, who was plainly very susceptible to direct orders from men, nodded meekly. But as Tim started to turn, she said, “What if my father calls? Shall I tell him you’re looking for Sylvia?”

Tim’s jaw tensed. “That would be a good idea,” he said curtly. “Come on,” he said to me.

I shrugged at Rosalie as I followed my brother out the front door and to the Impala. He held the door open, but it was clear if I didn’t get in quickly he might leave me here.

“What’s the hurry?” I asked when we were both settled and he started the engine.

“That was Flanigan. He’s over at that wedding chapel.”

“That’s Amore? Why?”

“Someone’s shooting at the cars driving up.”

I
had a vision of a bloody Dean Martin in a torn tuxedo waving a gun around, taking potshots at unsuspecting brides and grooms. Now
that
would make an interesting horror movie. Probably would be a blockbuster.

“Is it Dan Franklin?” I asked. Maybe all the killing had finally gotten to him.

“No one knows. The shots are coming from inside.”

“How?”

“Through the drive-up window.”

“Has he hit anyone?”

“Not so far, but Flanigan doesn’t want to waste time. He’s got the cavalry out there.”

We made our way back down Charleston, past all the strip malls and the Terrible’s, and turned down Las Vegas Boulevard. The lights at Fremont Street, flashing every which way to entice late night revelers, were bright enough to warrant sunglasses.

As we passed Murder Ink, I saw a light on.

I grabbed Tim’s arm. “Stop,” I said.

“What?”

“Someone’s in Murder Ink. We know it’s not Jeff.”

“We don’t really have time for this. Doesn’t he have a security service?”

“I don’t know. But I feel like something’s wrong.”

Tim gave a heavy sigh that indicated I was being a royal pain in his butt, but he eased the car over against the curb and cut the engine.

“You stay here,” he instructed.

“No way,” I said, opening my door at the same time he opened his. “This isn’t a place where I want to be alone at this hour.”

He couldn’t argue with logic, so he agreed and I followed him across the street to Murder Ink. We peered into the front window and saw that the light was coming from the back room. Tim put his arm out and said, “Stay behind me.”

We went around to the side alley and around the back. The smell from the Dumpster back here was overwhelming, and I put my hand up against my nose.

“What are they dumping back here?” Tim muttered.

“It’s the Chinese take-out place,” I said, indicating the screen door and the clanking of pots and pans inside.

Murder Ink’s back door was ajar.

Tim pushed the door in slowly. We could hear rustling, as if someone was going through papers, and then something fell with a thud.

Tim’s hand was on his gun at his hip, ready to pull it out if necessary. I made sure I stayed behind him, but the curiosity was killing me. Who was in there?

In a smooth move, Tim shoved the door open, and we both bounded inside.

Sylvia looked up, frowning, as she held a box of baby wipes.

“You’re not supposed to come through the back way,” she admonished, as if it were every day someone broke in through the back door.

I took a deep breath, relieved it was her. “You’re okay,” I said.

“Why wouldn’t I be, dear?” she asked. “Except Jeff left this place a mess. Where is he, anyway? I thought he was with you.” She cocked her head toward Tim. “What’s he doing here?”

“Where’s Bernie?” I asked, not answering her questions.

Her mouth set in a firm line. “He brought me home, but I couldn’t just sit around. I’ve got insomnia, you know.”

I didn’t know, and it didn’t seem relevant right now.

She was still talking. “Bernie said the Gremlin was in the shop, but I found it in the carport like usual, but he’d covered it over with a tarp. I drove that over here.”

I’d seen a car in the alley, but it hadn’t registered. Unusual, because it’s such an unusual-looking car.

“Where’s Jeff? I thought he was with you,” Sylvia said, indicating me.

Tim and I exchanged a look. She noticed.

“What’s going on? Where’s my son?”

I sighed. “He’s in the hospital. There was an accident.”

All the color drained out of her face, and it was almost as if her tattoos went black and white for a second. She dropped down into the swivel chair next to her, all her defiance gone.

“Is he okay?”

I nodded. “He’s in surgery.”

“What happened?”

I couldn’t sugarcoat it. I told her what happened out in the desert.

She took some deep breaths, then pushed herself out of the chair. “I need to go to the hospital.”

I looked at Tim. “Why don’t you head over to That’s Amore, and I can take Sylvia to the hospital. We can take the Gremlin.”

Tim mulled this proposal. “That sounds like a plan.”

“That’s Amore?” Sylvia looked from me to Tim and back to me again.

“Someone’s over there shooting at cars,” I said.

“What on earth for?”

“We have no idea,” I said. “Where did Bernie go?”

“I have no idea,” she said, echoing me. “And I don’t care.” She stuck her chin out defiantly.

“What’s wrong?”

“You know,” Sylvia said cryptically.

“No, I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”

“
You
found the receipt.” She said it as if I was some sort of idiot for not knowing this by osmosis.

Receipt? Oh, right. The bank receipt. “What about it?”

“The man stole ten thousand dollars from me. I made him bring me home because I wouldn’t go home with him. I’m getting a divorce.”

“Ten thousand dollars?” I asked.

She made a face at me. “You knew about it,” she said accusingly. “You asked me about it when you came to Rosalie’s earlier. But I didn’t take that money out of the bank. Bernie did. I should never have gotten a joint account.”

“Did you ask him about it?” Tim asked. He’d been in the background, but now he stepped forward, interested in what Sylvia was saying.

“Sure, I did. He said he needed it for a new car or something. He wanted to surprise me. I didn’t want any new car. I’ve got my Gremlin. Although on the way over here, I realized it might need some fixing after all. There was an awful scraping sound.”

A thought flashed through my brain.

It couldn’t be.

But maybe it was.

I took a step toward the door.

Tim was on the same wavelength. He was already outside.

“What’s going on?” Sylvia called from behind us.

Tim jogged up the alleyway. I discovered my body was really starting to rebel against any sort of movement whatsoever. A soak in a hot tub was what I needed about now, but the adrenaline was pushing me forward anyway.

Tim was leaning down over the hood of the Gremlin. When I approached, he straightened up and said, “This car definitely hit something.”

“Or someone?” I asked, remembering that the car that killed Lou Marino was blue. Or maybe an odd shade of purple.

S
ylvia stood with her hands on her hips. “Someone?” she asked. “Who did it hit?” And as it sunk in, she gave a little “Oh!” then asked, “You don’t think someone used this car to kill Lou?”

Tim and I exchanged a look. I knew what he was thinking. The same thing I was. Bernie wanted to get rid of the car. Had he killed his son-in-law with it? He’d have had a good reason.

“It was under a tarp, you said?” Tim asked.

“That’s right.”

Even though Sylvia said she was washing her hands of her new husband and that he’d stolen ten grand from her, I didn’t want to believe it. How could a cute little old deli owner do such things? Maybe we were wrong. I hoped we were wrong.

He shook his head. “You can’t use this car. You both have to come with me. I’m going to send someone over here to check the car out. Impound it.”

“Do I need to use Jeff’s car? I hate that thing,” Sylvia said.

I didn’t really want to tell her that Jeff’s car was pretty much totaled.

“Come on,” Tim urged.

Sylvia put on a fleece pullover and locked up the shop, and we went around the side of the building between Murder Ink and Goodfellas Bail Bonds. When we got to the Impala, Sylvia climbed in the back. I tried to argue with her, but she said she was little and not to worry.

“Do you really think Jeff will be all right?” Sylvia asked when we were on the road.

“He’ll be fine. I know he will.” I was trying to convince myself as much as Sylvia. She leaned forward and patted my shoulder, sending waves of pain through my neck. I tried not to wince. She was just trying to comfort me.

The scene around the wedding chapel was crazy: flashing blue and red lights from the cruisers; spotlights sending pools of light across the white stucco, making it look less washed out somehow; cops scurrying about, most wearing bulletproof vests outside their shirts. I glanced over at Tim, bare chested underneath his button-down shirt. I’d already seen a friend shot tonight; I didn’t want to make another visit to the hospital because Tim got wounded.

Tim parked the car behind a couple of cruisers near the sawhorses that had been set up along the entrance to the chapel’s driveway. The chapel looked deserted—dark and quiet—despite all the activity outside.

“Stay here,” Tim instructed as he climbed out of the Impala.

“Why do men think they can tell us what to do?” Sylvia asked.

“Because they do,” I said.

“Well, I don’t want to just sit here,” Sylvia said. “Let’s go.”

I wasn’t quite sure I wanted to this time. Had something finally snapped? Had my curiosity been sated by everything that had happened? Had I finally become a normal person, who doesn’t stick her nose into things that are best left to the police?

Sister Mary Eucharista was telling me I was having a breakthrough.

Sylvia, on the other hand, was pushing open the back door and climbing out, slamming the door behind her. She took a few steps toward the chaos, then turned and beckoned me to follow. When I shook my head, she shrugged and continued on. I watched her through the windshield.

Maybe this was what it was like on a movie set, except this was all real. I watched as Tim approached Flanigan, who held a bullhorn. They had a few words; then a uniform came up to Tim and handed him a vest. I sighed with relief. Good. Now at least Tim would be protected. Except, of course, if he got shot in the head or something awful like that.

I kicked myself for even thinking that.

Sylvia had approached Tim and Flanigan, who didn’t look happy she was there.

My cell phone startled me. I reached inside my bag and pulled it out, not recognizing the number on the screen.

“Yes?” I asked tentatively as I flipped it open and held it to my ear.

“Brett? It’s Colin.”

Bixby. My heart started to flutter, but not in a good way. Rather, in a nervous way. While I wanted him to call me about Jeff, I wanted good news. I wasn’t sure I could handle it if it wasn’t. I swallowed hard, then tried to make my voice sound normal as I asked, “Oh, hi. Do you have news about Jeff?”

“He’s out of surgery, and everything went well.”

I smiled involuntarily and took a deep breath. I blinked a couple of times to keep from crying. Seemed good news
and
bad would make me cry today.

Bixby was still talking. “The bullet lodged itself in his neck, but they got it out, and they think he’ll have a full recovery. He’ll need some physical therapy for a while.”

For the first time it dawned on me that he’d been shot in his right shoulder. He was right handed.

“Do you think he’ll be able to tattoo?” I asked.

Colin was quiet a second. “I’m not sure. That’ll be up to the physical therapist to see what sort of motion he’ll have at first.”

“Is he awake now?”

“No, he’s still in recovery. The anesthesia should wear off in a little while.”

“I’ll be bringing his mother over there,” I said, glancing back up, but Sylvia was now nowhere in sight.

“I thought you were going home,” he said. “You should be, you know. You got banged up pretty bad. You need to heal.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah,
was what I wanted to say, but it would have been way too sarcastic, and he wouldn’t have understood, since he had no idea what was going on, and I didn’t think this was the time to enlighten him.

Flanigan was shouting something through the bullhorn, but I couldn’t make it out. It was facing the wrong direction, so the sound was distorted.

“What’s that?” Bixby asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “TV.”

“Awfully loud.”

He was buying it.

Flanigan was saying something else now.

“Listen, Bixby, I’ve got to go,” I said. “Will you be around later, when I bring Sylvia over to see Jeff?”