Hot Rocks (9 page)

nineteen

I managed to get
to my car and drive away without another catastrophe—or another free skin show. While I replayed the incident, the
Anvil Chorus
clanged away in my head. Was it Maria Garcia, or whatever her name was, driving the Toyota? Did she try to kill me? It was possible. The bash I received in Jacobs’ room was no accident. Maybe my head was so hard, the assailant didn’t realize a simple sledgehammer wouldn’t do me in. My stomach roiled with the realization I might be a target, while common sense said there was only one solution. Find her and her accomplices before she found me again. Simple to say. Accomplishing it promised to be far more difficult.

Once I accepted the premise that Garcia came after me, the question became how she knew I’d be there. The only possibility was she saw one of my flyers. That solution led in two directions. The first was that someone I’d questioned didn’t level with me. Possible. Especially when I considered no one in the strip mall owed me any loyalty. The other was she returned to one of the shops and was not recognized. Mr. Homeless told me the picture wasn’t right, her hair was different from the way she normally wore it. I knew from personal experience how a woman can change her appearance by changing her hairstyle. It was one of my favorite tricks when conducting surveillance.

There are times a person needs someone else to discuss a situation with—a partner, a husband, or a best girlfriend. This was such a time, but I had none of them. Since escaping Sonny-the-Bunny, I had shied away from close relationships, concentrating instead on establishing independence and enhancing my reputation as a PI. My caseload said I’d been successful. At that moment, though, I’d have exchanged some of my success for a friendly ear. David came to mind, but I nixed him. Far too spooky to share with a new love interest. Probably scare him back to North Carolina.

I shuddered. If Garcia tried once, how soon before she tried again? I’d have to stay on my toes. Be alert or be dead would have to become my mantra. Maybe I’d invent a fancy logo to represent it. A round yellow face with big searching eyes. Stupid? Yeah, but in spite of my predicament, I could still make myself smile.

The smile disappeared when I noticed a broken fingernail and scratches in the polish on several others. Talk about adding insult to humiliation to injury. Was this the same day that started on such a high?

I grabbed my cell phone, called my manicurist, and explained my dilemma. She understood and said I needed to get to her shop as fast as I could. She had a small window she could fit me in if I hurried.

I briefly considered that the homeless guy’s shirt was all that stood between my bare butt and the world, but priorities were priorities. And perfect nails for the evening were my priority. I made a beeline for her emporium where she put me through triage and restored my dignity.

Once at home with beautiful new wicked nails, I took Mr. Homeless’ shirt from around my waist and dropped it in the washing machine. I stared at it a moment, then set the machine for large load, hot wash, hot rinse, heavy-duty action, and super ultra-clean minutes. I put in a full complement of soap and bleach, then added more. I wasn’t taking a chance that anything living in that shirt would survive. If the whole thing disintegrated, the residue would at least be clean and sanitized.

After feasting on three extra-strength Tylenol—and not once considering my liver—I wandered into the bedroom to examine the damage to my wardrobe. Turning my backside to the mirror, I saw the view I gave my homeless contact. As advertised, the slacks showed everything, the panties hid nothing, and both cheeks glowed with scratches and abrasions from the slide along the sidewalk. Although I wanted to scream at the destruction of my clothing and bruising of my body, I had to smile at the compliment he gave me. Maybe I did have a nice tush. After a last look, I dropped my clothes in a heap and headed for the shower. Time to get ready for my big evening. Judging from the way the day had gone, perhaps picking blood-red polish was an omen—a bad one. Made me wonder if I should warn David and postpone our date. That took a microsecond to consider. Not a chance.

_____

Dinner with David wasn’t all I hoped it would be. Oh, he was handsome, gracious, and funny, but the pounding in my head returned with a vengeance, and my irritated backside kept me squirming. I caught myself fingering the lump and tried to hide my actions by stroking my hair. I wondered if I’d done serious harm to myself this time, but sloughed it off behind a big smile—or so I thought. Apparently, my eyes refused to smile with me.

During dessert, mixed fruit for me and double chocolate cake for David, he said, “You’ve been squinting and fidgeting all evening. And I can see a vein jumping in your forehead. In most people, that means a headache—major pain. What’s wrong?”

“Huh?” There I went again with one of my
I’m-an-idiot
responses. I bit my lower lip while trying to find something intelligent to say.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” he said, a note of compassion in his voice. “Is this a condition you get often—migraine, sinus … guilty conscience?”

I jumped. “What makes you say guilty conscience? I have nothing to hide. It’s just a headache. Nothing special. Well, maybe a touch of sinus, but nothing more.” Oh, darn. Could I have spouted words that sounded more stupid?

“Uh-huh.” He stared at me. “Did you forget I’m a doctor? I spend every day looking at people’s faces expressing their pain.”

“You act like I’m trying to hide something from you. Is that what you think? Well, I’m not. Well … not really.” I felt my voice getting weaker. I was always a lousy liar. All my mother had to do was give me
the look,
and I crumbled.

David pulled on his earlobe, then gave me the eyebrows waggle. “Okay, I believe you.”

That did it. I couldn’t keep up the façade. I caved and gave him a sanitized version, playing down how close the Toyota came and leaving out my exercise in mooning Boca Raton. When I finished, he sighed. “I wondered why your hair looked … uh … less under control tonight, especially in the back.”

My hand shot to the offending spot. It felt like a bird’s nest. Bedroom hair I’d have called it except I hadn’t had my head on a pillow since that morning. I grinned what I knew was a weak attempt and shrugged. What could I say?

“Okay, let me check your head.” He rose and came around the table. Once again, we did the
he rummages through my hair
routine. And once again, no one seemed to find it unusual. Kinky world out there.

twenty

David returned to his
seat. “The lump doesn’t look too much worse. I can tell it got an extra bang, but I think you’ll live. If you were a normal human being, I’d suggest you check into the hospital for tests, but I assume that would be wasting my breath.” He stopped and gave me a quizzical look, then added, “And the medical facilities can be used by someone who appreciates them.”

“Hey, I am normal—just like my parents. They didn’t believe in hospitals either.” I hesitated. “Uh … do you have any aspirin?”

David ran his hand over his face while peeking at me through his fingers. “Can I afford to get involved with you? If my interest continues to grow as fast as it has so far, must I pack a medical bag every time we meet?”

I shrugged.

“I don’t suppose you called the police.”

“What would I tell them? They already have me on their persons of interest list. If I came in with a story about an attempted hit-and-run, they’d assume I was trying to mislead them. No, I didn’t call them.”

It was David’s turn to shrug. “Come on. I’ll take you home. Then I want you to take your painkiller of choice—not too many of them though—and go to bed. I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”

I protested, but he insisted.

He was quiet as he drove toward my place. When we pulled into the driveway, he turned to me. “I don’t suppose you’d give up your hunt if I asked you to let the police handle things. Seems to me someone might be playing a game with you, and they’re pitching a shutout. This latest is just another example. I don’t want you hurt anymore.”

I took his hand and held it between mine. “David, please try to understand. I can’t stop. This is what I do. I’m a private investigator. The only difference this time is I’m also the client. Garcia and whoever she’s working with set me up to take a fall for murder. I take that personally.”

David rubbed his thumb along the back of my hand in a soft caress. “That’s what I expected you to say. I suppose the question I must answer to myself is whether I can handle your lifestyle and the danger you put yourself in.”

We walked to my front door, and he turned me toward him. His kiss was a soft, gentle buss with little romance, leaving me wondering if it would be our last. However, his hug was long and possessive.

I pressed myself into his chest. “I’m not always getting banged up in my job. I go days, even weeks sometimes without anything happening.”

“Uh-huh. Goodnight.” He kissed the tip of my nose. “Sleep well and sleep late. I’ll call you mid-morning.” He walked away shaking his head.

twenty-one

The next week was
uneventful. Each day, I drove to the shopping center, hoping someone had information. Each day, I received the same headshakes. My Ms. Garcia had not shown herself. If she had, no one was admitting it. Fortunately, no one tried to run me down again.

My taskings from Bergstrom and Bergowitz were minimal, taking little time. I suspected that Sly was taking it easy on me, knowing my head was engrossed in tracking Maria Garcia.

David and I went out three of the intervening evenings. His pretense was he wanted to keep an eye on my lump. Mine was more direct. I wanted to be with him. I hoped he was trying to be funny and being with me went beyond a medical reason. I didn’t want to be his lab mouse. I wanted to be his woman, but he kissed me goodnight on the wrong side of the door each night. My invitations for him to come in for a nightcap went unaccepted.

My dreams persisted. In one, he stood at the altar waiting for me to walk down the aisle. In another, I held a baby in my arms while he stood by, grinning from ear to ear. Each of the others was more of the
live happily ever after
variety.

At two on Monday, a full week since my meeting with Ms. Garcia, I headed toward the strip mall, hoping my posters would produce results this time. I came to a stop near my homeless recruit, realizing for the umpteenth time I didn’t know his name. His back was to me as he talked to a motorist. Somehow it didn’t seem appropriate to roll down my window and say, “Hey, you,” to get his attention.

After a moment of indecision, I rolled down my window. “Hey, you.”

In days past, he simply looked at me and shook his head. This time his face lit with recognition, and he rushed to my car. “Ah, lovely lady. Hoped you’d come by today. My palm’s been itching. That’s a sure sign there’s money coming in, ain’t it?”

I studied him. He looked different, not as beaten down as before. He wore a clean shirt and jeans and the beard stubble was gone. He even smelled better, but that might have been because my air conditioner was blowing cold air past my nose. “Do you have anything for me?”

He smiled. “Great question. But if you want a great answer, you gonna have to meet me at Bobby’s Bar, two blocks up. Beer’s on you.”

“I’m not going into some bar with you.”

“Your loss. Guess you’re not interested in that woman in the picture you gave me. Must not want to know who and where she is right now.” He moved toward the next car in line. “Paper, sir? Can’t know what’s happening without a paper.”

Damn him. He had me, and the light was going to change any second. “All right, the bar—Bobby’s, you said. Your info better be good.”

His grin said he liked winning, even a small matter like this. “I figger it’s so good you gonna wanna pay me double.” He forgot to smile.

The light changed and a horn sounded behind me. I gave Homeless a last look, more like a glare, and drove away, my good feelings toward him in the landfill.

Since I didn’t know which side the bar was on, I’d have to be ready to turn either way so I swerved into the center lane. A driver who was now behind me didn’t seem pleased with my move. The one-finger wave he gave me probably was not a
hello
. Ah, one of the glories of living in paradise. My spirits lifted a bit when I saw the sign on the right. It read
Bobby’s Bar
, words spelled correctly and no foreign translations. The parking lot held a couple of cars, neither of them junkers. Maybe it wasn’t a dive catering to the homeless like I’d envisioned. I pulled into an empty space and got out to wait for my contact. There he came, huffing up the sidewalk.

“Hey, missy, you found it. Of course, I knew you would—being a smart PI and all.” He stopped talking and gave me the once over. “You don’t look happy. Not to worry, I’m well-known here.”

I bet you are, I thought. “Let’s get this over with. But you’d better have some news I can run with.”

He grinned. “Follow me.”

We walked into the bar, and I was surprised again. Nice place, well lighted, everything spic and span. My homeless guy was way ahead of me, and I don’t mean just in entry position. I looked at the back of his head and realized he had a fresh haircut to go with his fresh clothes. Apparently, he’d had an appointment with his grooming consultant.

He signaled the bartender. “Judy. I’d like a Killian’s.” He turned to me. “What would you like?”

“Water with lime,” I said to Judy. “I’m working.” I didn’t want her to think I was with Homeless for social activities.

“We’ll be in my office,” he said and led me to a booth in the back corner, farthest from the entrance. He paused and motioned for me to sit first.

I sat, not sliding across the seat. My intent was to
not
leave space beside me. Either he got my message or had no such intentions in the first place because he took the bench across from me.

Judy showed up with my water and his beer, a frozen mug dangling from a finger. After setting the water down, she laid a bar napkin on the table, then picked up the salt shaker. Without hesitating, she sprinkled salt around the napkin, then set the mug on it. She gave him a big smile while pouring the beer, tilting it so the head was negligible. “How’d I do?” she asked.

While I examined him, wondering if there was more than my eyes had initially seen, he checked the beer and nodded. “You’re improving. Not like that first one you poured when the foam overflowed onto the table.”

They enjoyed a laugh while I sat and wondered just what was going on. Judy walked away, and he returned his attention to me. “Now, Ms. Bowman, before we start, why don’t you level with me? I spent my business life listening to people, having to separate their truth from their fiction. What you’ve been telling me smacks of a lot of fiction, or my talent is slipping.” He leaned back and gave me the proverbial
I’m ready to listen
look.

Now he really had me going. His demeanor and his language had reversed itself. He was no longer the helpless beaten-down man I faced previously. He was confident, in control of himself, and thought he was running the meeting.

“Mr. … What is your name? I can’t sit here with you unless I know what to call you.”

“Names aren’t important for homeless people. We’re just blank faces in a sea of urban living. You didn’t need a name that first day when you demanded I drink a latte. And you haven’t needed a name when you’ve driven by me each day. But, if you think it’s important, you may call me Bob.”

His smirk said he thought he was scoring points in whatever game we were playing. And the hell of it was, he was right. Somehow, the meeting had swung against me. I felt like a teenager applying for a job. My palms had slickened with sweat as I stared into his confident eyes. I couldn’t let the situation stand. It was time to regain control.