Hot Rocks (11 page)

twenty-four

I called Detective Bannon
and filled him in on the death of Deborah Ann Goldstein, aka Maria Garcia. He uh-huh’d me several times, then asked if I was sure. I assured him I was. After that, he promised to coordinate with the Deerfield Beach police and see what they knew. Like me, he hoped they had an ID on the driver.

After a moment of inner debate, I told him about my near miss with the white Toyota Avalon. I gave him time to chew on what I’d said, then let him know I considered it strange the woman that I sought had died on the bumper of a hit-and-run vehicle. I sealed my deal by saying, “Maybe her accomplices had the idea I was getting close, so they took her out.”

The line stayed silent for a moment, then I got a noncommittal “Uh-huh. We’ll look into it when we have time. Busy week here.”

“Thanks, Detective,” I said. “It’s been a pleasure talking to you.” There may have been a drip of sarcasm in my voice. After clicking off, I stared at the wall a moment, wondering about the whole strangeness of my life. Such a short time ago, I’d been a normal, messed-up PI trying to make my mark in the world. Now, I was befriended by a presumably homeless man I’d probably driven by numerous times without noticing, hounded—or so I felt—by the police who had me on their short list, and totally befuddled by what swirled around me. My life was under control—yeah, right.

The clinking of glasses in Judy’s hands took me out of my melancholy. She was keeping busy behind an empty bar. The other patrons had left while Bob kept me engrossed with his story. I rose and walked to where she worked, then slid onto a stool. “I have nowhere to go and an urge to chat. Got a moment?”

Her head was down and stayed there. I thought I saw a drop of water fall.

“Any friend of Bob’s is a friend of mine,” she said. “Besides, he says a good bartender is there to listen, like a good therapist. Helps sell drinks and makes the drinkers feel like somebody cares.”

I grinned at the homespun philosophy, even as she sniffled. She was right on both counts. But something had gotten to her. I know of nothing else that drips like tears. “Judy. Look at me. Is something wrong?”

She turned red-rimmed eyes toward me. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I was listening when you and Bob was talking. It was hard to hear, but I heard most of what he told you. I had no idea.” A tear carved its way down her cheek.

“You mean what he told me about his past?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Damn. Another question mark. Did he make it up just for me, or was it the truth that he didn’t share easily? Judy’s red-blotched face told me she wasn’t faking. Her crying was not contrived.

Time to move on. “How long have you worked here?”

“Two years.” She sniffled again, then blew her nose in a bar napkin. “I came here right after Bob rescued me off the street.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Sure.” A big smile broke through, not just lighting her face, but putting a glow in her eyes. “I want everyone to know what a wonderful person he is.” She paused, as if gathering her thoughts. “But first, he must think an awful lot of you. I don’t think he ever told anybody about his past.”

She wiped her cheeks. “Not very professional, am I? Bob would give me a lecture. But …” She sighed. “Did he tell you he took over Jupiter’s corner as a tribute to him? Did he tell you he splits the profits from the bar and his paper-selling among homeless charities—all as a tribute to Jupiter?”

“No,” I answered. “I guess he was too modest. But where do you fit in? Are you just a bartender, or is there more to your story?”

She twirled a glass in her hands and got a thoughtful look on her face. I could tell she was looking backward, and the furrows in her forehead said the memories were not all good.

“I ran away from home when I was sixteen. You don’t need to know why or what I did to stay alive. It wasn’t the glamorous life I thought it would be. Anyway, Bob found me huddling in an alley on a cold night and brought me here. I lived in his female dorm for a year until he got me straightened out. Now I have my own apartment. It’s not much, but it’s mine, and I pay all the bills. If it hadn’t been for him, I’d probably be dead by now—or in some condition worse than death. He dried me out, got me medical care, and, well …” She seemed to search her mind. “It sounds so melodramatic, but he saved my life. Now he wants me to go to college, says he’ll help me with the tuition.”

My cynicism jumped up. “What do you do for him in return?”

“Do?” Her face changed, pain, then anger taking over. “Don’t you ever say stuff like that. I do nothing for him except be the best bartender I can be. Understand when I say I’d do anything he wants. All he has to do is drop a hint. Why not? I did it for other men. You name it, I’ve done it. I know how to please a man. But Bob won’t consider it. I know because I offered—more than once. He’s the only true gentleman I ever met.” She took a couple of deep breaths. “Now, ma’am, if you don’t mind, I need to get back to work.”

There may have been extra emphasis on
ma’am
this time. I had obviously jumped the fence with her. “Thank you, Judy. I guess I’ve seen too much of the dark side of the world. You’re a lucky young lady to have a friend like him—and so am I.”

I slid off the stool and headed for the front door, not sure what my next move was. It had been a strange afternoon. Some of her words came back to me in the form of a question mark.

“Judy, you said you lived in his female dorm. What did you mean?”

Her face took on an unsure look. “Didn’t he tell you? He has rooms in the back, each with bunks. One for men and one for women.” She shrugged. “Anybody who needs a bed gets one.”

“Why? Why would he do that?”

She shook her head. “I asked him once. He said he helped kill a friend who had nowhere to live. If he had had a room nearby, Jupiter might still be alive, maybe wouldn’t have tried to cross that street.” She shrugged. “Guess it’s just part of paying off his obligation to Jupiter.”

“Thank you,” I said, then turned toward the door, my mind swirling around this man who had befriended me. Could he be for real, or just another South Florida scammer?

twenty-five

Immersed in what I’d
heard from Bob, then Judy, I pushed through the front door of the bar into the bright sunshine. Squinting, I headed toward my car while digging to find my sunglasses in the clutter of my purse.

An engine raced, then I heard the squeal of tires. Turning, I saw the blur of a vehicle coming at me from the back of the parking lot. A rush of wind pushed me as I dived between two vehicles, landing on hands and knees. More skin off my palms, and I felt my slacks give. Thank God for my quick reflexes, which were almost too slow.

Scrambling to my feet, I screamed, “Come back here, you bastards. I’m tired of this crap.” Simultaneously, the thought jammed its way into my head that a new line of work might be a good idea. Followed by, did I really want them to come back?

I looked for the car, but saw only a flash of white as it tore out of the parking lot and hid itself in the far lane behind a huge SUV. It caught the left turn signal and raced away. My closest guess was a Florida plate. Beyond that, nothing except it was white. It might have been the Toyota again, but I couldn’t be sure. I hoped it was. The thought of another car trying to run me down was discouraging. I didn’t have that many enemies—or did I?

I checked my hands, seeing new scratches, but nothing severe enough to justify calling David. Darn. What was the point in getting hurt if you couldn’t consult your favorite physician? I wiped my palms against my hips, thankful I hadn’t landed on my butt again. First, it didn’t need any more punishment and second, I was still embarrassed about mooning Boca Raton the last time I encountered a white car.

“You all right, ma’am?”

I started, then spun and saw what under any other circumstances I’d have called a reprobate. Today I wasn’t sure. “Yeah, I’m fine. Who’re you?”

“Bob told me to watch for you. Said take care of you. Folks call me Street.”

I studied him. Dirty beard, disgusting dreadlocks, a penetrating smell, and clothes from a low-class dumpster. Teeth that hadn’t visited a toothbrush in a long time. Had to be one of Bob’s friends. “Nice to know you, Street. I’m okay. Just getting tired of jumping for my life. Did you see that vehicle?”

“Yes’um. One of them Toyota Avalons. White with gold trim. Lot of ’m ’round here. Two men in the front seat. Couldn’t tell about the back. Windows too dark.”

I figured he was of the
short-choppy sentences school of education—
or lack thereof
.
What the heck? Who needed subjects and verbs? “Don’t suppose you got the license number.”

“Yes’um. QQ3984. Florida, with one of them oranges in the middle. Bob said I should watch for it and ’member the number.”

If Bob had been there, I would have kissed him. I suppose I should have offered one to his friend, but I couldn’t find that much gratitude. I dug into my purse and came out with pen and paper. “Give me the plate number again.”

He did, and I wrote it down, a grin splitting my face. With this, I could burst the case wide open. My grin faded. Unless the license was stolen. But I wouldn’t know until it was run. And even if it didn’t match the car, it would prove once and for all that someone was out to get me. And if they were trying to get me, it meant I was innocent. Even Bannon and Sargent could follow that logic—if they believed me. I shook my head. Too many ifs. I was making myself dizzy.

I flipped open my cell phone and punched in Detective Bannon’s number. Just my luck. He didn’t answer. I left a message and hung up feeling better than I had in several days. Then I checked my knees. Another pair of ripped slacks. I needed to solve the case soon. My wardrobe was taking a beating, and it had its limits.

After assuring Street at least five more times that I was okay, I offered him a five-dollar bill and thanked him.

“Oh, no, ma’am. You Bob’s friend. I do anythin’ for him. You won’t see me, but when you in this area, I be nearby. Don’t you worry none.”

I climbed into my car and headed out of the parking lot, my mind working to find a crease in the zone of confusion that clouded it. Twice, three times if you count my meeting with Deborah Ann Goldstein, aka Maria Garcia, I’d had opportunities to land solid clues to the mess. Each time I failed. Either I was slipping or the bad guys were lucky. I refused to consider they might be faster and smarter. Not a chance.

I replayed the two attempted rundowns. Nothing I could hook my blouse on. White Toyota Avalons were a dime a dozen in South Florida, and every car had tinted windows. The bright spot, if I could call it that, was they might try again and my luck might improve. I frowned, realizing that if they tried again, their luck could improve. Since the choice of time, place, and method was theirs, they held the advantage. All I had was … was … not much. Then I remembered Bob and Street, and my spirits lifted. Were there others? Maybe I wasn’t as alone or as helpless as I felt.

As I drove south on Military Trail, my cell phone played its ditty. A quick look at the caller ID window brought a smile. “Hi, David. I was hoping you’d call.”

“Are we still on for dinner, or are you on your way to the emergency room?”

I heard humor in his words, or hoped I did.

“I’m headed home to get ready to spend the evening with my favorite doctor. When are you making my house call?”

“Suppose I meet you there. I’m only a couple of blocks away. I can kick back and rest while you change. It’s been one hell of a day. Do you have a beer?”

My heart jumped, hoping this meant he’d decided I wasn’t too big a risk. “Extra key under the flowerpot. Beer’s in the fridge. Go ahead in and get comfortable. I’ll be close behind you.”

“Don’t be long. I’m counting the minutes.”

He clicked off, leaving me hovering above the seat, my foot barely touching the accelerator—or so I felt. I had a wonderful night with a gorgeous doctor in front of me. Life was good.

Thirty minutes later, I reached my house, parked, and rushed toward the front door. The grin I wore was so big I could feel it. An evening with David seemed far more important than a trivial thing like white cars trying to run me down. As I walked, I unbuttoned the top two buttons of my blouse. Yeah, it was a cheap move, but tonight I felt lucky and wanted every advantage. And I was sure David would appreciate a nice cleavage. Don’t all men?

I popped open the door. “David, here—” The words froze in my throat.

David sat in a straight-backed chair facing the door. The chair belonged in the kitchen, not situated as a key part of my living room décor. Gray tape covered the lower part of his face. In the next moment, I realized it was duct tape, and it also bound his hands and legs to the chair.

“Good evening, Ms. Bowman.”

Those words came from a man leaning against my bookcase. His manner appeared as relaxed as his clothing—tan slacks and a dark blue pullover. He was clean-shaven, no visible scars or tattoos, nothing about him to scare me, yet he did. Perhaps it was the pistol he held in his right hand, its barrel angling downward. Common sense told me he could rectify that situation long before I could reach into my purse.

I grappled for calmness while forcing my eyes away from the revolver. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“You may call me Bruce, but I am unimportant. Only the man I work for is important, and he wants to talk to you.”

I studied him, wondering if he was as laid-back as he acted. “Your boss has an interesting way of extending an invitation. Was it his idea to truss my friend like something from a bad movie? Or was that yours?” As I said it, I looked at David. He did not look happy.

Bruce smiled, showing a lot of white teeth, a nice smile. “Your friend is an accident. We didn’t expect him to come prancing in on us. Then he chose not to cooperate when we invited him to have a seat and keep quiet. Seems to be a real loyal type. He thought he should warn you. I hated to do it, but he needed convincing. Pistol barrel beside his head seemed to calm him a bit. But I believe in going the extra mile, so … I couldn’t take the chance he’d get you excited before we had an opportunity to extend the invitation.”

I noticed a bruise forming on David’s temple. My first impulse was to rush to him, but I swallowed the urge. Probably best not to let Mr. Charm know I had strong feelings for David. That could make him a bargaining chip. I went for tough, not caring. “This is a bunch of crap. Turn him loose. He’s a friend who drops in sometimes to filch an after-work beer from my fridge. I have nothing to say until he’s free and out of here.” To David, I said, “Sorry. Today’s not a good day. Maybe some other time. But call first.”

More smile, more casual leaning on the bookcase. “Nice. I bet you had the lead in your high school play. Suppose we compromise. I’ll remove the tape from his face—that does look uncomfortable—and undo his arms and legs from the chair. Of course, I’ll have to re-tape the hands for our trip. But if he promises to keep a civil tongue about him and not interfere, I’ll leave his mouth untaped.”

Was it possible his relaxation had increased since I entered? Perhaps my tough-gal persona wasn’t working. He didn’t seem to perceive me as much of a threat. Time to step it up a bit, and let him know I was not impressed. I took a deep breath and forced my voice down an octave. “Let me guess. You drive a white Toyota Avalon and specialize in running down pedestrians. But since your aim is not very good, you miss a lot. I bet your boss was so unhappy he sent you to ambush me here at my house. How’m I doing?”

He frowned, then laughed. “Great theory, but doesn’t work for me. Do you write pulp fiction when your PI cases dry up? If so, I suggest you plant a dead body somewhere. Folks like that.”

His body language had not changed. He was as cool as if leaning on a bar in his favorite pub. Now I was the one frowning, while trying not to. Had I run into a different someone who didn’t like me? I mean, I knew I was a nice person. How many people could want me dead? Nah, had to be the Toyota gig. “I’m on to you. You made two runs at me and missed, right?” I said, not really wanting the truth.

“No. But if you’re on the level, I’m glad you survived. My boss does not like disappointment. He’s not prone to quick forgiveness.”

This guy was just too cool. There must be some way to rattle him. I had to recover lost ground, make a dent in his façade. I walked to my couch and sat down. “I hate to make your boss unhappy or get you in trouble, but we’re not going anywhere with you. Furthermore, I suggest you take yourself out of here on the double. It just so happens that Detective Bannon of the local police is on his way over.”

“Ah, Ms. Bowman, you disappoint me. Your reputation says you’re more imaginative than that. If it were true, would you really tell me? Tsk, tsk. You must have a case of the shilly-shallies, as you girls say around the bridge table. Now, do I turn your friend loose so we can leave, or will you continue to argue?”

It only took a moment to figure he had insulted me, inferred I was a coffee klatscher who spent her time gabbing with the girls. The truth was I had few close female friends. Everyone I knew had a husband or children. The lucky ones had both. “Dream on, Brucey. I’m not leaving this house with you.”

If my words had any impact, he didn’t show it. “Oh, my. I was certain we’d be able to skip the false bravado part. I know you’re going, your friend knows you’re going, and, of course, you know you’re going.”

“How ’bout me? Don’t I know they’re going?” a new voice said.

I looked and saw another man had entered the picture. He stood just inside the doorway, carrying a pistol like the first thug. However, the barrel of his weapon stared straight at me, reminding me of the one-eyed bogeyman I feared under my bed when I was young. For reasons that made no sense at all, I noticed he was dressed different—blue jeans with sneakers and a button-up shirt. Somehow, his attire made him seem more sinister. Maybe it was the grubby week-old beard.

Bruce said, “Have the car brought up, Gerald. We’ll be ready to leave in a moment.”

Gerald flipped open a cell phone and punched at the numbers. “Lodo, bring the car into the driveway. We’re almost ready.”

Their use of names bothered me—along with their nonchalance about my seeing their faces. I hoped it didn’t mean they figured I wouldn’t have a chance to pick them out of a lineup.

“Untie the doctor, then redo his arms,” Bruce said. “Leave his mouth untaped. I’ll gamble he learned his lesson.”

A muffled sound came from my purse, my cell phone ringing.

“Must be Detective Bannon,” I said. “Told you he was on his way. Want I should answer it? If I don’t, he’ll know something is wrong.”

For the first time, I saw a slight crease in Bruce’s affectation, a hint of hesitation. His eyes flicked toward Gerald, at David, then back to me. “Ah … yeah. Answer it.” His voice picked up strength. “But make sure all that comes out of that bag is your phone. Gerald, be ready to shoot her boyfriend if a pistol appears.”

As the phone rang again, I glanced at Gerald. He had stepped forward, only a couple of feet from David, his gun pointed at David’s head. Bruce’s barrel now stared at me. “Relax,” I said, forcing strength into my voice—more strength than I felt. “Only the phone.”

The fourth ring sounded as I fumbled it out. “Hello.”

“It’s me, Detective Sargent, returning your call to Bannon. What’s this about somebody trying to run you down again?”

“Hi, Detective.” I covered the phone and whispered at Bruce, “It’s the cop I told you about. He’s on his way.”

“Get rid of him,” he replied, “or your boyfriend dies before he gets here.”

Into the phone, I said, “Sorry, but I can’t talk now. I have company and the steak is about to burn.”

“Steak? Ms. Bowman, what are you talking about? I don’t have time for games. Call me when you’re sober.”

The phone clicked in my ear. You handled that well, I thought. Some investigator you are.

“So?” Bruce said.

“He thinks I’m drunk.”

Bruce laughed and lowered the gun. “Me, too. Steak? That may be the lamest excuse I ever heard. Now, back to our preparations to get out of here.”