Hot Rocks (12 page)

twenty-six

“Do we have a
deal on your boyfriend?” Bruce, the chief kidnapper, said. “Does he keep his mouth shut if I take the tape off?”

I stared at David, hoping my eyes warned him to keep quiet. He was busy firing daggers at Bruce, who had resumed leaning against the bookcase in my living room.

“He’ll behave,” I said. “Won’t you, David?”

He glanced at me, then returned his glare to Bruce. Any moment I expected to see blue smoke pour out of his ears.

“Let’s find out. Gerald, prepare him for travel.”

Gerald picked up a roll of duct tape from the table and walked to David. He ripped the tape from David’s arms, leaving bare areas where I knew there had been hair. Then he demonstrated his professionalism as a thug by re-taping David’s hands behind him. David didn’t even have time to rub his wrists. I had to marvel at Gerald’s skill since not only was David still sitting in the straight-backed chair, but his ankles were attached to its legs. If I ever chose to stage a kidnapping, I wanted Gerald on my team.

Interrupting my admiration, Gerald grabbed David’s head with his left hand, and without ceremony, ripped the tape off David’s mouth. The sound of the stickum turning loose was so loud, I flinched.

“You bastard,” David said. “Undo my hands, and I’ll—”

“Shut him up again,” Bruce said, shaking his head. “Some folks you just can’t be nice to.”

In the flash of an eye, Gerald had replaced the tape, leaving David making mmmph, mmmph sounds. I hated the result, but admired the execution.

Gerald stepped away from David. “Whenever you’re ready. All I have to do is snip the tape around his legs, and he’ll be mobile.”

David quit with the mmmphing sounds and went quiet except for a soft groan.

Bruce smiled at Gerald. “In a moment.” He turned toward me. “Ms. Bowman, what will it be? Travel or argue?”

“Must be tough going through life hearing-challenged. I distinctly remember telling you I’m not going any place with you.”

Bruce sighed. “Okay. It’s on your conscience, not mine. Break his pinky, Gerald. He’s wearing his watch on his left arm. Must be a righty. Do the left hand first.”

Before I could process what Bruce said, there was a cracking sound and David let out a super mmmph, this one containing pain.

“No. Stop. What the hell are you doing?” My mouth ran ahead of my mind.

“It’s called the art of persuasion and team work,” Bruce said. “I talk, Gerald breaks, and your friend suffers. Saves a lot of arguing. He has nine other fingers before we switch to other parts of his body. Probably affect his medical practice if he loses his hands. All the trial lawyers lined up to sue him will be heartbroken.”

I looked at David, whose eyes reflected anguish, but what I could see of the rest of his face showed a determined set. He shook his head.

What could I do? What would any woman do if the man she wanted to father her babies was in that position? “We’ll go with you.”

Gerald’s cell phone rang. He looked at it. “Lodo.”

Bruce nodded. “Suddenly he can’t live without us. Answer it.”

Gerald flipped the phone open. “Yeah.” He listened, his forehead furrowing. “What? Say that again.”

More listening. Deeper furrows.

“Hold on.” He spoke to Bruce, a mystified tone in his voice. “Lodo says there’s a bunch of people headed up the sidewalk. He thinks one of them might be a guy he saw snooping around when we got here. They’re carrying sticks and other clubs.”

Bruce stared at him. “Bullshit. Give me that thing.”

Seemed like David and I had bottomed on their interest list as Gerald handed over the phone.

“What the hell’s going on, Lodo? Don’t give me any shit, or you’ll pay for it later.” He quieted, a carbon copy of Gerald’s expressions flitting over his face.

Frowning, Bruce said into the phone, “Are you drinking?”

Silence.

“You damn well better be sober. How many?”

More silence.

“Keep the line open. If they turn into the yard, we’ll go out the rear. Boss said keep it simple, don’t make a fuss. He’ll kick our asses if we end up on the eleven o’clock news. Back the car out and be ready to pick us up one block over. Then you’re going to show me your army—and they’d better be there.”

twenty-seven

Bruce returned the phone
to Gerald. “Keep it by your ear.” To me, he said, “You know anything about a bunch of bums working this neighborhood?”

“Could be undercover cops. You know, they can be pretty sneaky. Maybe the detective sent them for one of my grilled steaks.”

“No way, bitch.” He wiped his hand over his mouth, a puzzled look on his face.

I struggled not to smile. Could Mr. Cool be losing his composure? I sure hoped so. From his antics, I assumed he had not anticipated anything going wrong, especially something like an invasion by the homeless.

“They’re in the yard,” Gerald said.

“Headed for the house?”

“Yes.”

“We’re out of here. Let’s go.” He ran toward the rear door, then stopped and turned toward me, his gun waving. “This is not over. We’ll meet again.” He grinned. “It may be your loss. The boss will not be happy at this development.”

The slam of the back door found me untaping David’s wrists, then ankles. I grabbed the edge of the tape over his mouth and, closing my eyes, followed Gerald’s example. Worked like a charm.

But David would not be shaving for a few days. He’d look Hollywood scruffy. I wasn’t sure of his opinion of an unkempt appearance, but the real loss, I feared, was his sore lips would keep him from kissing any time soon.

“Owwww,” David said, rubbing his mouth. “Whoever invented duct tape should be sentenced to this chair forever.”

“How’s your finger?”

“Hurts. We need to splint it. Got a nail file or something?”

“In my purse.” I rummaged through and found an emery board. Following his instructions, I used it to stabilize his finger. I had just finished taping both to the third finger when a soft tapping sounded from the front door.

I grabbed my purse and fished out my revolver. No more surprises,
no more damn surprises
. I was up to the top of my head with surprises. If another son-of-a-bitch bothered me, I intended to blow his ass into Palm Beach County—the north end.

I sidled to the edge of the doorway, then glanced at David who sat holding his hand, his eyes wide, staring toward my pistol. After only a slight hesitation, he stood and moved to the other side of the door and nodded.

“Who’s there? Identify yourself or I start shooting,” I said. Okay, so it sounded like a B-movie. I was in no mood for originality. But I did add, “I’m not kidding. I’ll blow your ass to hell if you don’t speak up.”

A nervous voice responded, “Bob sent me. Is everything all right in there?”

Glancing at David, who still appeared fascinated with my gun, I shrugged and flipped on the front floods as I opened the door. A man fitting the description of one of Bob’s friends stood in the spotlight. Suffice it to say, he wouldn’t be welcome in any of Broward County’s finer restaurants. On second thought, fast food joints might bar the doors. He had his hands clasped on his head.

With a slight stutter, he said, “The bad guys are gone. They cut through the yards over to the next block and jumped in a car. We watched them drive away. Are you okay?”

I lowered the gun. “For the most part, yes. Come on in.”

“No’m. We’ll watch out here. They might come back.”

We? I looked around and saw no one else. “Who’s we?”

“The others are there. You just can’t see ’em. And that means the bad guys can’t see ’em either. Trust us.”

“Well …” I hesitated and looked over my shoulder at David. He held his bad hand in the good one, pain creasing his forehead. “I have to get my friend to the hospital,” I said to my benefactor. “I’ll call the police from the car.”

“We’ll hang out in case those crooks come back, keep an eye on your place until the police get here. When they git here, me and the others will disappear, if that’s all right by you. My friends can watch for my signal but not be seen. The police and us don’t move in the same circles, if you know what I mean.”

He lowered his hands, turned, and walked away, soon lost from sight around the edge of the house.

“Damn,” David said. “That was spooky. Glad he’s on our team. Now, if you have no other drama in mind, I’d really like to go to the hospital. There’s a slight debilitating throb coming from my finger. I fear my sense of humor could be seriously impaired if I don’t get medical attention.”

“I’ll call nine-one-one.”

“I don’t think so. How would that look—a doctor being carried into the emergency room on a stretcher—diagnosis, broken pinkie? I’d never live it down. I prefer to risk my life with your erratic driving.”

“Let’s roll then. Doctor, you need a doctor.”

He gave me one of his lopsided grins and waggled his eyebrows. “Better leave the jokes to me. I have a medical degree.”

twenty-eight

A couple of hours
later, David and I sat in the doctors’ lounge off the hospital emergency room. Bandaging secured David’s pinky to the ring finger. The break was not compound, but, as David said, every broken bone is serious. He figured it needed a month in the splint and another couple of weeks without stress to mend. In the meantime, the hand would limit his activities.

I was thrilled to see that his lips had regained their normal color. However, the redness and irritation around his mouth signaled that shaving soon was out of the question. Oh well, what’s wrong with beard burn from the man you crave?

Otherwise, my luck held—all bad. Detectives Bannon and Sargent had shown up about halfway through David’s x-rays, setting, and splinting. While they hadn’t exuded patience, they agreed to wait until the doctor released David.

Now they were in full interrogation mode. Note, I said interrogation rather than interview. They were not happy. Bannon didn’t say a word when Sargent took the lead.

He stared at his notes, then shifted his gaze to me. “I want to make sure I have this exactly right. Okay?”

“Of course,” I said.

“And, in chronological order?”

“Go ahead. I have no place to go.”

“Thank you, Ms. Bowman.”

His tone was officious and overly formal, as cold as a tax collector’s heart.

Bannon stood and strolled to a picture on the wall. He appeared fascinated with the cheap print of an Italian harbor scene as he examined it from different angles. I had to smile. I’d seen the same painting in numerous inexpensive motel rooms during stakeouts.

Sargent studied his notes, flipping between pages. He must have done well in the
let the suspect cool his heels
phase of his training. Finally, he cleared his throat. “A white Toyota Avalon attempted to run you down a week ago in Boca Raton alongside Military Trail, barely missing you. You believe the driver was the woman who tried to
frame
you. You have a witness, a newspaper vendor on the corner. Do I have that right?”

“Yes. That’s the meat of it.”

He looked at David. “Is that what she told you?”

“Yes. Well, close enough.”

Sargent returned his attention to me. “Since then, the lady who tried to
frame
you,” he glanced at the page, “Ms. Maria Garcia, has been killed in a hit-and-run, and is now identified as Deborah Ann Goldstein.”

He acted like I should agree with him, so I did. David stared at me with wide eyes. I remembered he didn’t know this part of the story.

Sargent must not have noticed. “Today, another attempt was made on your life. Again, by hit-and-run. This time, there was another witness, someone you call Street. He told you it was a white Toyota Avalon, license number QQ3984, with two men in the front seat. I take it I can assume Ms. Garcia, aka Goldstein, was not the driver. Is that accurate?”

“Yeah,” I said, sensing there might be a tinge of skepticism in the air. “Tough to drive when you’re dead.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” David said. “That’s the second time someone tried to run over you?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I was going to tell you tonight, but we had a minor interruption.”

“Oh.” He held up his hand. “How could I forget?”

Sargent rolled his eyes and turned to Bannon. “Looks like the new way to eliminate someone is to run them down. The anti-gun nuts will be thrilled. We won’t have to worry about shootings anymore.”

Bannon’s back stayed to us, but he ducked his head while rubbing his face. Seemed like he and Sargent found my situation amusing.

Sargent came back to me. “After the latest attempt on your life by blunt force trauma, i.e., a car grinding you into the pavement, you went home where you walked into an ambush. Dr. Rasmussen was bound to a kitchen chair with tape over his mouth.”

He glanced at his notes. “The chair had been placed in the living room facing the front door. One armed kidnapper was in the room. He told you his name was Bruce. A second kidnapper, equally armed, but more scary, joined him. Gerald, you said his name was. There was a third member of the gang in their car—someone called Lodo. The two inside guys communicated with Lodo by cell phone. Their stated intent was to take you and the doctor to some unknown location to meet
the boss
. When you refused to cooperate, Gerald broke the doctor’s finger.” He cut his eyes toward David, then back to me. “Am I on target?”

I nodded. I didn’t know where he was heading, but his skepticism had morphed into sarcasm.

“But, in keeping with your record of last-second escapes from tragedy, a mob of homeless types armed with various homemade weapons stormed the house. The three thugs panicked and ran away. One of your rescuers told you he’d keep watch until the police arrived.” He yawned. “You loaded the doc in your car and hightailed it for the hospital, calling us en route.”

“That’s right,” I said. “Just the way the evening went down.”

“And you never had the opportunity to thank your benefactors, other than the one you spoke to at the front door. By the time you and the good doctor came out of the house, there was no one in sight.”

“Yes, they had—”

“Well, one part of her story checks out,” Sargent said, looking at Bannon, who had finally turned toward us. “When the uniforms arrived, they reported no evidence of anyone in the area—and no evidence of a break-in.”

“Is there a problem?” I squeaked, realizing my story was not quite
Law and Order
material.

“No. No problem a boilermaker won’t solve,” Sargent said, closing his notebook. “Ms. Bowman, have you ever considered moving to another town, maybe one in Wyoming or Montana? Alaska is a possibility, too.”

“Now, Major,” Bannon said, walking toward us. They were his first words since Sargent began the interview. “I’m sure Ms. Bowman has a good reason for spinning her yarn. We mustn’t be too tough on her. That concussion she received could have affected her lucidity. And she did give us a license number. Perhaps we should run that before we recommend her for the loony bin.”

“That’s right,” I said, ignoring Bannon’s patronizing tone. “Find the owner of that plate, and your case is solved. If you don’t believe me, ask David who broke his finger.”

“It was like she told you,” David said. “Beth does not lie.”

Sargent gave him a look of resignation. “You may be right. But do you have any idea how many cases are charged to us now? There have been two murders and a rape since Mr. Jacobs’ death. Not to mention a dozen burglaries, car thefts, and miscellaneous felonies. Then there are the ones we had before Ms. Bowman entered our lives. Those are serious cases with real leads affecting,” he glared at me, “
real people
. My question to you, Dr. Rasmussen, is if she’s so sincere, why do I feel like a bit player in
Alice in Wonderland
?”