Inside the trees the night sounds were more pronounced, the traffic roar muted. I heard an owl hoot as I moved carefully to the truck, the flashlight from my glove compartment in hand. I tried three keys in the door before I found the right one. Finally the lock clicked. I reached for the handle when a voice in my head stopped me.
The bulls and the lab boys will get around to finding the truck sooner or later. They’ll be dusting for prints, so you don’t want to leave any behind.
“How—”
Use the material from your blouse like a glove—
You want me to take it off ?”
I didn’t say that, but now that you mention it . . .
“Don’t worry, Jack. I’ll manage.”
I stuck my hand into the tail of my shirt. The door opened with a metallic groan. In the dim glow of the roof light I could see the messy interior of the cab, which smelled of oil, turpentine, and fresh paint. There were tools and boxes of nails between the two bucket seats, sheets of sandpaper scattered on the floor, and several old copies of the weekly penny-saver newspaper.
“Jack, what are we looking for?”
Won’t know until we find it, cupcake.
I crawled inside the cab, careful not to touch anything with my hands. I used the flashlight to check the back of the pickup, which was filled with building materials, a toolbox, some electrical drills and saws, a portable lathe, cans of paint, and bundles of rags. I also spied coils of yellow rope—probably the same type found wrapped around Angel Stark’s throat. Since it was nearly impossible to squeeze into the open bed of the pickup from the cab, I focused my attention on searching the driver’s area. As I rifled through the glove compartment, I moved my leg and several tiny metallic objects clattered to the floor. I played my flashlight along the floor mat until I saw them—two bullets, with brass casings and silver tips.
Bingo, dollface. Those are .38 caliber slugs. Didn’t Johnny-boy say that trampy Emily Dickinson threw bullets in his face?
“That’s right! What do we do? Call the police?”
Nix to that. Best that we were never here, officially anyway. Johnny will tell his side of the story. When the coppers come up here, they’ll find a bullet and know that part of his story is true, anyway.
“There are two bullets, Jack.”
We’re going to take one slug and leave the other. That way, if the fix is already in on Johnny-boy, you can go to Chief Ciders and admit you were here first and show him what you found.
“The chief would only say I made a story up to protect Johnny.”
Possible—unless you find Angel’s gun, and they can lift prints off one of the bullets. So let’s hope we never have to go that route. Now, grab one of those slugs with your blouse, wrap it up real gentle like, so if there is a print on it you don’t smear it.
There was no way I was going to reach one of the bullets with the shirt still on my back. I sighed and stripped it off, then wound the material around my hand. Dressed only in my khaki pants and white cotton bra, my skin prickled in the night’s slight breeze and I felt Jack’s eyes on me—which was, of course, patently ridiculous.
Now that’s what I call broadening my horizons, baby.
My cheeks flamed. “Cut it out, Jack.”
My fingers closed around the slug and I grabbed it, wrapped it, then I climbed out of the cab, closed the door, and made sure it was locked. I felt naked and vulnerable and I nearly screamed when headlights flashed through the trees—not from the direction of the service road, but from whatever that building was beyond the trees.
Then the headlights went out and I swore I heard voices, faintly and far away. That got me curious. I moved away from my own car, toward the light peeking through the trees. I found a path and followed it, my flashlight beam stabbing through the darkness.
Another pair of headlights shone through the woods, and I soon realized I was approaching the parking lot of the Comfy-Time Motel. Lit up beyond the trees was the very vending area where I’d found the cell phone earlier in the day.
“Jack . . .”
I know. This doesn’t look good for Johnny-boy. Victoria Banks was snatched less than a hundred yards from where he stashed his wheels—too close to be a coincidence, the coppers will insist.
I sighed. It was after midnight, and I was lurking in the woods near a motel parking lot in my bra with my blouse wrapped around a bullet.
“I think I’ve seen enough, Jack.”
I turned and panned the trees with my flashlight—the light caught the edge of a dingy white rectangle, and I saw it was that old rusting Private Property sign hanging from one nail on the giant oak tree that split the single trail in two.
I retraced my steps down the trail where I had come from but more paths branched off and I realized that it was easier to find a building in the darkness than a car parked in the woods.
“Oh, God, Jack . . . I think I took the wrong path . . . I think I’m lost . . .”
Don’t panic, kid.
But I did. I turned around and retraced my steps once more and started again. I began moving so quickly I almost outpaced my own flashlight beam. The column of light danced with my every step, throwing crazy shadows. My heart raced as I stumbled along. Suddenly my foot caught something and I went down onto my hands and knees. I still clutched the bundled blouse with the bullet, but the flashlight flew from my hand.
It landed off the path, rolled and stopped. The beam of light fell on what looked like a squirming black mass. I blinked as a cloud of flittering night bugs rose from the heap on the ground. I looked closer, saw a length of yellow rope encircling puffy black flesh, straw-blonde hair pulled into a tight ponytail, and pale, mottled skin still crawling with insects.
Then I screamed.
CHAPTER 20
The Getaway
I’m the sucker in this deal. You’re the smart guy.
—Raymond Chandler, “Blackmailer’s Don’t Shoot,” Black Mask magazine, 1933 (featuring Philip Mallory, the precursor to Philip Marlowe)
I WAS SICKENED, horrified, panicked. I picked up the flashlight and blindly ran. Branches clawed my head and arms, scrub brush tore my slacks, stones invaded my sandals.
Baby, wait! Slow down!
Jack tried to stop me, but I wasn’t a hardened ex-cop turned P.I. with a hundred crime scenes in my past and a gun strapped under my shoulder for protection. I was a widowed single mother completely lost—and in over my head.
Penelope!
The sound of my own name finally broke through. I couldn’t remember the last time Jack had called me anything but doll or baby. My steps slowed.
“Jack . . . it was . . . Victoria Banks . . . ,” I rasped, trying to catch my breath. “She was strangled, just like Angel . . . with yellow rope . . .”
I want you to calm down, go back to that body, and take a closer look.
“No, Jack. I have to get out of here. I have to call the police.”