Hot Rocks (6 page)

eleven

After parking my car,
I surveyed the strip mall and the few patrons within view. I was overdressed, no doubt about it. My jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers would have fit in better with most of the places. However, my target was the dress shop, and I felt certain the owner would respond better to professional attire.

I walked in, exuding an air of confidence. I’d had enough wealthy female clients to know just how far upward to tilt my nose and how to look down it without coming up cross-eyed.

I stopped and scanned the area. The shop was neat, the clothing nicely arranged with hanging garments through the middle of the area. Shelving along the walls displayed more items, giving the store a significant inventory. Other than the clothing, the most significant thing were the sale signs. Apparently, everything in the shop had reduced prices. I fingered a blouse. The so-called sale price was a budget buster for me, making me wonder what the original cost might have been and what the mark-up percentage was.

A young woman stood near the rear unpacking a box, shaking the items as she pulled them out. They appeared to be simple scoop necked, single color tops. From my vantage point, there was nothing special about them, but she handled them as if they were spun from golden threads.

A well-preserved woman, perhaps in her fifties, approached me. “
Bonjour, Mademoiselle
. May I be of assistance?”

She gave assistance the French pronunciation—emphasis on the last syllable. I drew my lips into a line I hoped passed for arrogance, then gave her
the
look. “Yes. Are you the proprietress?”

I looked her over, giving her my superiority scan. She dressed the part of a successful women’s shop owner. Her attire was upscale, screaming expensive, yet simple in dark green. She wore a single strand of pearls and when she fluttered her hand, a diamond glittered. Enough to show style, but not so much it looked ostentatious.

She bowed her head a bit. “
Mais oui. Je suis Madame Bergeron
. How may I aid you?”

Her French accent had a bit of country hidden in it. I figured she was playing a role as phony as I was. With a flourish I had practiced many times, I flashed a business card, one of my good ones. “I am Elizabeth Angeline Bowman, a
confidential
private investigator.” I lowered my voice on the last words and leaned into her just a bit. I’ve learned in the past that the snootier the woman, the more she loves to be cut in on something
confidential
. Madame Bergeron struck me as such a person.

My guess proved correct when her eyes sparkled, and she returned my lean in. “And what can I do to help you? Are you on a case now?”

“Is there some place we can talk … in private?”

“Oh, yes. My office.”

Lots of country came through that time. I knew I’d have to not overplay my hand. If what I thought about
Madame
Bergeron were true, she knew as much—maybe more—about playing the game as I did. She hadn’t risen out of her heritage without being a savvy operator. I’d have to keep that in mind.

She spun and with a conspiratorial wave, motioned me to follow. We walked through the dressing rooms, then passed through a door she unlocked, and entered a small cubicle of an office. I scanned the wall, wondering if there was a peephole where she could keep an eye on her employees while they assisted customers with the expensive frocks. Not that I thought she was a voyeur, but much of her merchandise would fit in a small bag. A perfect way for a minimum-wage clerk to earn a few extra dollars. Seemed like a sensible precaution to me. When I turned back to her, I saw her examining me with a critical eye. Had she seen through my façade?

She smiled and offered a seat in a straight-backed chair, then took a position behind a small desk. Her raised eyebrows told me I had her attention.

The chess game was on. “For obvious reasons,” I said in a whispery voice, “I cannot reveal the circumstances behind my being here. You do understand, don’t you?”

“No … uh … I don’t. What do you mean?”

“My client …” I hesitated, pretending to look for words. “I can only say she is in a position where no one must know. She swore me to secrecy. Anything I tell you must remain in this room. I’m looking for someone who may be one of your customers. Will you help me keep her secret?”

“Uh …”

Her expression said she had no clue I was playing on her superiority complex. She wouldn’t dare let on that she had no idea what I’d said. “Well?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll keep your secret.”

Glancing around the little room, I opened my briefcase and pulled out one of Jake’s sketches, one without my name, phone number, and mention of reward. “Do you know this woman?” I slid the picture across her desk.

She picked it up and examined the image as if she were studying for her citizenship test. “She … she looks familiar. Did you say she shops here?”

“I’m led to believe it’s possible.”

“Can I show it to my girl?”

I hesitated, like I was considering the question. “Yes, but no mention that I gave it to you. For her, I don’t exist. I can only deal with you.”

For a brief moment, I wondered why I was playing it so spooky, but gave a mental shrug when no good reason came to mind. I wrote it off as simply my dislike of phonies, even if they were no phonier than I. Plus, the deeper I got into the routine, the more fun it was. Besides, I might be able to learn more if everyone I spoke with thought they were unique. Anyway, Miss Snooty Drawers was eating it up.

“Of course,” she said, rising. “You stay here. I’ll find out if this woman has visited my shop.” She came around the desk, then exited the office.

I relaxed, thinking I’d planted the first seed. If my Ms. Garcia had ever been near this store, I’d soon know who she was and each appearance she’d made. It felt good to have my brain on full function again. That caused me to touch, then caress the lump. Definitely smaller and no wet feeling. Yeah, I was back on my game. I took out one of the pictures and studied it, attempting to capture points I’d missed that might make it more accurate. There was something that bugged me, but I couldn’t pinpoint it. I stared, searching my mind. Jake had followed my description, but there was something just below the surface that refused to pop up.

Madam Bergeron bulled her way back into the office. “My girl, Sarah, doesn’t know her. However, she says the woman looks familiar, like she’s seen her somewhere before. Maybe a window-shopper here in the store or some other place. No clue on a name. Sorry, that was as much as I could get. I told her to keep an eye out for her. Maybe, if I keep the picture …”

Madam Bergeron appeared to love a good mystery. She was ready to give her all.

“I’ll do better than that,” I said. I pulled copies from my case. “Here, are some with my name and contact info. Maybe you could give them to your clerk, and she could ask your customers.”

A look of disappointment flashed across her face causing me to think she didn’t like losing her exclusivity. Then a spark showed in her eyes. “Wonderful idea. With my help, I’m sure we’ll find her.”
Sherlock
Bergeron was back.

As we reentered the display area, my hostess reverted to her phony French character. “
Au revoir, ma cherie
. We meet again soon,
n’est-ce pas
?”

I smiled while shaking her proffered hand and gave her a conspiratorial wink. “You can depend on it.”

twelve

I spent the next
couple of hours going from business to business with my stack of pictures. I was vague about why I needed to locate the woman, but continued to hint that it was important to a
rich
client of mine. No luck, although I thought I saw a flicker of recognition in a few eyes. Each place took one or more copies of the flyer. I promised to check back daily.

There were a couple of times my eyes betrayed me as I thought I saw her on the sidewalk in front of me. But each time when I caught up, I realized it was just someone with a similar trait. One time it was the hair and the other it was the way she walked. Perhaps I was trying too hard, willing myself to see her where she wasn’t.

The last two stops were the Starbucks—a different set of teenagers on duty, so no help there—and the Chinese restaurant where Ms. Garcia and I talked. The waitress remembered my being there with the woman in the picture, but could add nothing more. It was, as far as she knew, Garcia’s only visit.

Not a great day, but one that might lead to something if Ms. Garcia showed her face again. And I’d pretty much established she wasn’t a regular anyplace—unless folks were lying en masse. And with forty or so mini-posters with the promise of a reward laying around, results could follow. It was still early, only four-thirty, so I went to my car and took out the book I’d been reading. With it in hand, I headed back to Starbucks for a latte. Maybe I’d get lucky and my target would walk past the window as she had two days previous.

A familiar sight caught my eye—a man standing in the median with an armload of newspapers. When cars stopped for the traffic light, he walked along the driver’s side, waving a paper, making it obvious it was for sale. As I watched, most people ignored him as if he were invisible. I wondered if the drivers were invisible to him.

I spent a few minutes watching the vendor. As he peddled his newspaper, I saw that his technique was to attempt to lock eyes with the driver, while most of the drivers tried to avoid eye contact. His sales were slow. Not surprising since there were no afternoon papers published in the area, so he had to be pushing a morning edition.

He fit the profile of homeless—scruffy, several days’ growth of beard, long, shaggy, greasy hair sticking out from a dirty baseball cap, unkempt clothes in layers. He was a clone of people you see panhandling on corners all over South Florida. After a moment, I stepped into the street, dodging traffic until I stood on the median. “Excuse me, sir. Do you have a minute?”

He gave me a look that asked what I was bugging him for. “What you want? I ain’t botherin’ nobody.”

“I agree, but sales appear to be slow. Maybe I could buy you a coffee or something.”

He stepped toward me. “Maybe you buy my paper. Fifty cents.”

Backing off a step to lessen the smell, I fumbled out a dollar and handed it to him with my best smile. He gave me a paper with no offer of change and no smile.

The light flipped to green, and cars surged forward, the breeze from the more aggressive ones fanning my hair. “I’d really like to talk to you—preferably where there’s less danger of becoming a statistic.”

“Lady, you wanna talk, talk. I gotta make enough for dinner. You think they give me these papers? Or maybe you want to give me fifty bucks for the whole bunch.”

Actually, I’d heard the publisher donated papers to the homeless, but I didn’t tell him that. Instead, I looked at his stack on the curb and figured he had no more than twenty. “Five dollars and you keep the papers,” I said.

He gave me a
You gotta be nuts
look. “Hey, it’s your money. Let’s talk—cash up front.”

I handed him a fin, and we crossed the street, ducking the rush-hour drivers. He stopped on the sidewalk.

“Starbucks?” I said. “It’s just a few stores away.”

He looked around, a frown on his face. “There’s a bar down the block. I could use a beer.”

“And I could use a latte. Since I’m picking up the tab, it’s coffee or nothing.” I had learned the best way to deal with men, no matter what their financial status, was to grab control and hold it. No way was I going to let Mr. Homeless make the decisions.

“Waste of money,” he mumbled, but followed me, proving my theory correct. When we walked in, we were instant celebrities. Everyone turned to stare. That’s when I remembered he wasn’t as fresh smelling as he could be.

“Maybe you should find us someplace outside to sit,” I said. “I’ll get the coffee. Vanilla latte okay?”

He gave me a look and left. Standing in line, I thought, that was stupid. He’s probably off to his bar with my money, and I’ll be stuck with enough caffeine to keep Dracula awake all day.

thirteen

I slipped sleeves on
the two cups and walked outside, hoping my newspaper vendor was there. And he was, holding a table just like I asked him to do. I noticed we’d have no problem with eavesdroppers. There were ample empty chairs around him.

Stepping up to the table, I slid a cup of coffee toward him along with several packages of the pink stuff.

He frowned and glared at me. “Ain’t they got no sugar? If I gotta drink this stuff, I need lots of sugar.”

“Suffer,” I said. While he stirred in three packets, I opened my attaché case and pulled out a picture. “Have you ever seen this woman?”

He picked it up and studied it. “How much reward?”

“Depends on how much you tell me. Do you know her?”

“Nah, but I see her two, three times a week. Why?”

“Because I want to find her.”

He stared at the picture, then at me. “She drives through my intersection.” He stopped and resumed his glare.

“So?”

“How much reward?”

“Keep talking. The amount goes up with everything you add.”

“Going up is fine, but let’s see it start? Lay a ten spot on the table.”

I went into my purse and took out my wallet, then selected a ten. Ripping it in half, I placed the unserial-numbered piece on the table. “That’s where we start—and end unless you start telling me something.” I sipped my coffee.

Homeless nibbled at his thumbnail, then fingered the half bill. “Okay. First thing, your picture ain’t right. She don’t wear her hair that way. Too fancy for her. Most of the time, it’s just pulled back with one of them butterfly things.”

“But you’re sure it’s her?”

He glared at me. “Said it was, didn’t I? You got a problem believing me, I go back to work. You ain’t got no right to insult me. I’m an honest man. I got pride, you know.”

“Easy,” I said, softening my voice. “No slight intended. I really need to identify her.”

“That’s better. Gits a bit old having people like you look down their noses at me. Treat me like a man, I’ll act like one. You need me. I don’t need you.” His eyes locked on me and stayed that way until I nodded.

He looked at the sketch again. “Yeah, that’s her. Even the do. She had it that way last Monday, and wasn’t dressed like usual.”

That got my attention. Had he been on the corner when I came to meet her? I didn’t know. Like I said, the homeless are often invisible. “You’re doing fine. The reward just went up an extra ten-spot.” I took out another and tore it in half as before. “Explain how she was different?”

“Lay down the other halves or I walk.”

I frowned, not wanting to give in, but I was too close to let him slip away. I complied with the two missing sections.

He grabbed them. “Most times, she’s in shorts and a low-cut top. Lots of good-looking cleavage. You’d be surprised what you can see when you’re looking in the car window at some of them women. Yes, ma’am. A real pleasure. Of course, not them big SUVs. Too danged high. The best is the low-slung sports cars—Corvettes, Hondas, like them.” His eyes shifted to my chest. “Nice rack, real nice. You ever show much?”

My hand jumped to cover myself before I remembered I wore a blouse that buttoned high. “Knock off the bullshit,” I said with a snarl, tapping the picture. “This woman. What else do you have on her?”

He grinned as if he knew he’d scored on me. “Hey, lady, I just stand there and sell papers. She ain’t never bought one, just stops at the light or drives by.”

“What kind of car does she have?”

“Been a long time since I had a good steak. There’s a place up the street that has a good one with all the trimmin’s for …” He eyed me. “’Bout thirty bucks.”

Yeah, sure, I thought. “Go cheap. Get one for ten.” I slid another bill toward him. “Talk.”

He grabbed the sawbuck, folded it, and with deliberation, stuffed it in his grubby T-shirt pocket where the halves had gone. His look made me feel like a lamb in front of a ravenous wolf. He couldn’t wait to take advantage of me. “White Toyota, I think.”

“License number?”

“What you think? I write down all them numbers come by me? No idea. But, if that reward’s big enough, I might could watch for her. I’m real good at memorizin’ numbers.” He went quiet.

“Anything else about the car you can remember?”

He leaned his head to the right, then to the left, the appearance of stretching his neck.

I got the message and laid a five on the table. It sat there, untouched. A game of patience that he won. With a shrug, I picked up the bill, went back into my wallet and found a ten to further enrich him. This time, he appeared happy as the bill joined the others.

“It might be an Avalon model. That’s the expensive one, ain’t it? How much if I keep an eye out for it?”

It was my time to examine him. If he was on the level, I could nail the bitch who set me up. Of course, he might see me as a pigeon he could con for cash. I hesitated, wondering where the truth lay. I didn’t have a cheaper source. In fact, I didn’t have any other source of information. What the hell. I’d bargained for a bigger pig in a poke. “You get her license number, and I’m good for a hundred bucks. But no pay until I verify the plate.”

“Easy money,” he said, pushing his untasted coffee aside. “Now I gotta get back on my corner. I leave it too long and some asshole will grab my spot.”