Hot Rocks (7 page)

fourteen

My homeless recruit walked
away, leaving me to wonder if he was dependable. No reason he should be except the promise of a hundred bucks. I’d have to be careful. I figured he’d feed me information. The only thing in question would be its accuracy.

I sipped my latte and kept an eye on the folks walking through the area. Not much chance I’d spot Ms. Garcia, but maybe lightning would strike. Besides, with my social life, I had nothing better to do. I could kill more time here, then find some place in the area to have dinner. Maybe in another strip mall. Mr. Homeless said there was a bar nearby. I pictured Ms. Garcia nursing a cold one, waiting for some mysterious man to show up—her accomplice in crime. Or I could walk up the street and hit the ice cream parlor. Maybe Ms. Garcia was a freak for a soft cone or a dish of rocky road. Plus, for some reason I couldn’t identify, I pictured a hot fudge sundae with my name on it.

A cell phone rang. I looked at my purse, waiting for a second ring. I usually carried it there, but with the way things had gone in the last couple of days, who could say. It might be off in la-la land, or the police station with my primary revolver. The phone’s soft sound echoed again from the bag, penetrating the leather. Amazing. At least one thing was normal in my world. I fumbled it out and gave the caller ID a quick glance. Not familiar. “Hello.”

“Ms. Bowman? This is Dr. Rasmussen. I’m driving home, so thought it would be a good time to check in on my favorite patient. You are the one I gave a pedicure, aren’t you?”

The mood behind his words came through loud and clear. His jocular tone was wonderful medicine. “Yes, and I’m unhappy with the color. Black and blue does not become me. Do you guarantee your work?”

“Hmmmmm. I’ll have to check with your insurance. I view pedicures, like lobotomies, as irreversible. No do-overs allowed.”

I chuckled, couldn’t help myself. “Thanks, Doc. You may be just what the doctor ordered.”

“Oh, bad. Leave the funnies to me. How do you feel? I could swing by and check that lump if it’s bothering you.”

“I have a better idea,” I said, feeling emboldened. “If you’re off work, you could buy me a sundae. I checked my horoscope this morning. It said eating hot fudge with a person in the medical profession would give me long life and utter brilliance. I’m on Military Trail in Boca Raton, and there’s an ice cream parlor calling to me.”

“That bump on your head must have made you clairvoyant. That’s what I’ve been craving—ice cream, a banana split. Give me the address.”

I did, and he came back with, “I know where the place is. Used to know a delectable Jamoca that chilled out there. It’ll take about thirty minutes in this traffic. How about you?”

“I’ll be waiting. Heck, I’ll even buy. Since I have to pay your tab on the installment plan, this can be the first payment.”

Soft laughter answered me. “Thirty minutes. I’m crazy about hot fudge and women who eat sundaes.” He disappeared from my ear.

I felt myself smiling, my body relaxing, the tension of the day draining away. My problems hadn’t changed, but I felt better. Since I’d never met a doctor who made house calls, much less ice cream parlor calls, I wondered if Dr. David Rasmussen had another reason for phoning. Hell, I hoped he had another reason for phoning. It was worth the price of a banana split to find out.

_____

We settled at an outside table covered by an awning to protect our ice cream from the sun, he with his banana split and I with my hot fudge sundae. Before I could take my first bite, he offered to examine my head. Now, you might think folks would find it strange to see a man fingering his way through the back of a woman’s hair at a sidewalk ice cream parlor. Nope. They just traipsed on by as if it was the most common of all occurrences. They didn’t even give me the eye like I might have cooties or something. Proves one more time the saying,
It’s South Florida,
covers all situations.

Dr. Rasmussen, or David as he insisted I call him, said, “The lump is looking better, not near as red and angry as it was. But the best news is, your roots won’t need touching up for a couple of weeks. They’re in great shape.”

My hand jumped to my hair. “My—! Watch your mouth. I’m a natural redhead.”

“Could be. But not that shade of red. More like strawberry-blond, I’d say.”

I grinned. “You’re impossible. How’d you ever become a doctor? You’d make a much better hospital clown. You know, going from room to room to make patients laugh.”

“Yes, but the pay wouldn’t be as good. My way, I get to help them heal with a taste of laughter thrown in on the side. Of course, I save my best for special patients. How’m I doing?”

“Great.” I took a spoonful of my sundae. “I feel much better. Now, eat your banana split before it melts and all the flavors run together.”

“Ah, a great prescription. Have you ever considered medicine?”

“Only from the being-jabbed side.”

We ate in silence for a few minutes while my curiosity about and interest in Dr. David Rasmussen grew. I eyed him while
trying not to get caught doing it. My guesses were thirty-five to forty, six feet tall, hundred and ninety pounds. The rest was fact. Good-looking in an outdoorsy way, wavy brown hair worn moderately long over the ears, and no visible puncturings or tattoos.

I figured he had a little black book the size of the tri-county yellow pages. Miami-Dade, Broward, and Palm Beach Counties housed thousands of beautiful young women with enhanced body parts looking for an available doctor—and not just for plastic surgery. He probably dated overtime just to please the most demanding. My entry was most likely the newest in his phone listing and would soon be the most ignored.

I must have sighed because David said, “What produced such a forlorn sound?”

Rats. Caught in the act. Thinking fast, I said, “Frozen brain syndrome.”

“Uh-uh. Too lame. The ice cream’s not that cold, and you’re not eating that fast.”

He had me. May as well give it up. “I was wondering about you. Are you a native Floridian?”

“No. North Carolina.”

With that began the usual
I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours
routine. By the time we reached the bottom of our dessert dishes, I’d told him enough to chase off any man. He didn’t run, but he did ask why I referred to my ex-husband as Sonny-the-Bunny. I must have been high on artificial sweetener because I told him that was my special behind-his-back nickname. He was on and off in a flash—and it didn’t matter whom he was on. Of course, the whom-he-was-on was any female he could lure into bed, and there had been many of them. Several came forward after I filed for divorce. They were all apologetic, saying they didn’t know he was married. Yeah, right. Anyway, the judge sided with me, and I moved away from the embarrassment of Dallas.

In exchange, I learned the most important thing a woman needs to know about a good-looking man. Dr. David Rasmussen was single. Better yet, he’d never been married. He picked up a bachelor’s from the University of North Carolina along with an ROTC commission in the Army. Following his four-year hitch, he returned to UNC and entered medical school. Then he set up shop in South Florida, waiting for me to come along. Well, I might have added the last part.

I studied him, remembering my dear mother’s advice. Marry a lawyer or a doctor. Since Sonny-the-Bunny was a lawyer, perhaps I could look forward to a change of luck with a doctor. Okay, so I was jumping ahead a bit. But, you can’t be a good PI without imagination. And he had mine working overtime.

Then he wrinkled my bridal gown by asking, “So, why were the cops after you when we met?”

“Uh …” I reflected a moment, fiddling with my spoon, wondering how much I should tell him about my being duped. May as well find out if he scared easily. I gave him the whole story, including footnotes, finishing with, “I feel so stupid. She played me like a cheap keyboard, and I sang to her tune. Karaoke is not my normal style.”

“So,” he said, studying my face, “what are you going to do about it?”

“Do? I’m going to find her and pull her hair out by its mousey brown roots. After I’ve jerked her bald, I may hurt her. Then, if my cravings for revenge are satisfied, I’ll turn her remains over to the cops as an accessory to murder. That’s what I’m going to do—dead or alive.”

He chuckled, returning to the personality I found more enjoyable each moment. “Sounds like a plan. Should I infer that you’re upset with her?” His eyes shifted from jolly to serious. “And I bet you’re tough enough to do it.”

“You bet I’m tough enough. She can run, but there’s no hole deep enough to hide her. I’ll find her and when I do …”

We lapsed into an uneasy silence.

I wondered if I’d come across as too bent on revenge, too forceful. I should have known better. I had chased men off before by intimidating them. But he didn’t make an excuse to leave, just raked his spoon across the bottom of his dish. That changed my thinking to whether he’d jump and run if I asked him to dinner. No, that would be stupid. A good-looking, single doctor in South Florida? He was probably booked solid for the next year. And, while I considered myself moderately attractive, no one had ever accused me of being a beauty queen. I resigned myself to finishing my sundae, then he’d ride off into the night for his next rendezvous.

“Beth,” he said, staring at his dish. “I don’t usually mix my medical practice with my social life, but you pique my curiosity—and you definitely stir my interest. Since I referred you to a colleague for follow-up, I feel unencumbered by medical ethics.” He stopped and scraped his spoon along the bottom of the banana split boat. “I’ve never met anyone quite like you. Are you free for dinner tonight? I know it’s late, and I’ll understand if you already have a date, but—”

“Oh, hush,” I said, relief flooding over me. “I was afraid you’d never ask.”

“So, do you have a favorite place?”

Remembering my earlier conversation, I said, “I understand there’s a steak house nearby. Can’t vouch for it, but it received a solid recommendation from a homeless guy I recruited to help me find Garcia.”

“A what?” He laughed. “Yeah, I suspect hanging with you will teach me a whole new world. I love it. It’s about time I took off my stethoscope and enjoyed life as a normal South Floridian. Let’s find that restaurant.”

We did. It wasn’t a Morton’s, but not as bad as it could have been. Several steps up from Joe’s, you know the one with the big neon sign flashing,
FOOD
…
FOOD
…
FOOD
. We laughed, ate, chuckled, drank, chortled, and, at least for me, had a wonderful evening. When he dropped me at my car, his lips felt wonderful on mine—warm and caressing, as if they belonged there. He promised to check the lump on my head again in the next couple of days if I wanted. I most certainly wanted and told him so. I missed him even before he drove out of the parking lot.

fifteen

Unlike the previous night,
I had no problem sleeping drug free. Not even an aspirin crossed my lips. There was one minor situation, but I managed to work my way through it. Brushing my teeth was difficult because of the smile dominating my face. Yeah, I know it was stupid, but I kept thinking, maybe Mom was right after all—Ms. Dr. David Rasmussen. I felt like a freshman in high school, and the starting quarterback had asked me to the prom.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t some young thing with no experience. I told you about Sonny-the-Bunny. That was marriage, the whole
till death do us part
bit. And there were times when death,
his
, would have pleased me. But I lived through it and put him behind me. In addition, there had been a few other men in my life, pre and post marriage—none while married. I was mature enough to know it was only one brief evening with David, but it was sufficient to send my heart in hot pursuit of Tchaikovsky’s
Romeo and Juliet
.

After dressing, I settled with a cup of coffee at the kitchen table and checked my calendar. It was nails day, a standing appointment every two weeks. There are some luxuries a girl should never give up, and I didn’t plan to. Not that my manicures were a luxury. More like a necessity. Other than that, my day was empty until late afternoon. That’s when I planned to tour the mall again, hoping someone had news for me.

Just as I poured a second coffee, the phone rang. I jumped to answer, hoping it was David.

“Ms. Bowman? This is Detective Bannon. Is it okay if Detective Sargent and I stop by to chat?”

Talk about dumping ice in your bathwater. The cops were about the last people I wanted to hear from. “Why? Sargent think up some new insults?”

“No, ma’am, nothing like that. We have news for you.”

“So tell me.” If he could do it over the phone, I was pretty sure it wasn’t an arrest warrant.

He chuckled. “I told Major, uh, Detective Sargent that might be easier, but he said he owed it to you to go face to face.”

Crap. It was an arrest warrant. “Sadistic bastard, isn’t he?”

“Believe it or not, he’s a good cop. Best I ever worked with. Now, what time would be convenient for us to stop by? Or, if you’d prefer, you can come to the station.”

Sure. I was going to rush downtown so they could clang a cell door on me. They must believe the red on my neck came from my heritage rather than a normal reaction to Sargent. Maybe I should explain to them I was not a redneck. I checked my watch. “It’s eight thirty now. I have an appointment at ten. Your window is one hour until the door will hit you in the ass.”

“We’re on our way.”

Fifteen minutes later, the doorbell rang. Through the peephole, I saw Bannon and Sargent standing there, each wearing a grin. As I peered, Sargent waved. I didn’t see any papers, but they could be in a pocket.

“Get in here,” I said, swinging the door open. “You’ve got ten minutes.”

“My watch says thirty,” Bannon said. He led the way with Sargent on his heels. Sargent stopped, looked around the room, then sat on the sofa. Bannon took the most comfortable chair. That left me the third seat in the room—an ugly thing I hated. I picked it up at a yard sale because I thought the room needed something. Only when I moved it in did I realize why it was so cheap. Green and brown plaid velour clashed with everything. However, at that moment, I was glad I bought it. Without it, I’d have had to sit beside Sargent.

Bannon said, “My friend has news for you.” He nodded at Sargent. “Don’t you, Major?”

“Ms. Bowman, I’m here to apologize. I came on a bit strong, and I’m sorry.”

I looked from one to the other. “I know good cop–bad cop. I took a class in how to play on a guilty conscience. I’ve heard of rubber hoses. I read about water boarding. I’ve even been on both sides of a two-way mirror. But what the hell is this routine?”

That brought laughter from both of them while I sat and seethed.

“Maybe this will help,” Sargent said. “Your gun fired the bullets that killed Jacobs.”

“Oh? That’s supposed to make me feel better?” I said, wondering where they drank breakfast.

“Yes, because someone wiped it clean. There wasn’t the slightest hint of a print. Since you had a significant lump on the head and a concussion, we’re pretty much convinced you didn’t do the Windex routine. Ergo, you didn’t kill him. Your story might sound strange, but it’s wacky enough to be true.” He paused, then added, “Lady, someone did a job on you.” The smirk on his face said he was enjoying himself.

I stared at him, debating whether to shout hurray or be insulted. I compromised on sarcasm. “It’s nice to know you can arrive at the obvious … given enough time. Seems like that’s what I told you yesterday. Now, have you located Ms. Garcia?”

“Uh … no,” Sargent said, ducking his head. “Without something more than a name, it will be very difficult. We’d like you to come down to the station with us. We’ll hook you up with one of our sketch artists. If you can give a good description, we’ll have something to put out.”

“Idiots,” I mumbled, shaking my head. “Maybe I should look at your badges.”

Bannon quit grinning. “Why? You saw them before.”

“Yeah. But then I assumed you were on the level. Now I think there’s a good chance you’re imposters.” I couldn’t help it. A chuckle escaped me when his face went red.

“Here.” He handed me his credentials case.

I examined the picture, looking back and forth several times between him and his image. “It looks enough like you to qualify for a government ID. How about your partner’s?”

“Give her your creds, Major,” Bannon said in a resigned voice. “After she gets her jollies, maybe we can head downtown and get some work done.”

“Ah, shit,” Sargent said, handing over his case.