Metro Girl

by Janet Evanovich

  Slick looked up just as we blew by them, and I saw the shock of recognition register.

  “I think we got busted,” I said to Hooker.

  He looked in the rearview mirror. “They still have to get the tire on. Maybe we can get off the Keys before they catch us. Once we pass Largo I have more road choices.”

  A half hour later, just when I was beginning to feel comfortable, Todd saw the car behind us.

  “Your friends have caught up to us,” Todd said. “This is turning into one of those days, isn’t it?”

  It was midmorning, midweek and there weren’t a lot of cars on the road. Three rolled by going south. The road behind them was empty. No cars behind Slick and Gimpy.

  “Here’s where they’ll make their move,” Hooker said. “This is going to be fun. Slick’s going to force us to pull over.”

  The white Taurus swung out to pass, and Hooker smiled and watched his side-view mirror.

  “Gimpy’s got a gun sighted on us,” I said. “I don’t think it’s a dart gun.”

  “I see it,” Hooker said.

  Todd ducked down below window level. “Criminy!”

  They were directly abreast of us, and Gimpy was motioning with the gun to pull over. Hooker nodded acknowledgment and dropped the Mini back a couple inches.

  “It’s all in the timing and placement,” Hooker said. “Hang on.” Then he jerked the car to the left and slammed into the Taurus.

  “Omigod,” Todd said, head still down. “What are you doing? This isn’t a demolition derby!”

  The Taurus careened across the road, caught air going off a small embankment, rolled once, and came to a smoking stop, tires up, in a strip of mangrove.

  “Amateurs,” Hooker said, back in his lane, his foot still steady on the accelerator.

  Todd popped up in time to see the roll. “Ouch.”

  “It was a good hit, but it seems pretty lame compared to blowing up a billion-dollar ship,” Hooker said.

  “I didn’t do that,” Todd said. “I was never there.”

  “Do you think we should go back to see if they’re okay?” I asked.

  “Darlin’, they just pointed a gun at you,” Hooker said. “If we go back for anything it’ll be to set fire to their car.”

  “I’ve still got my lighter,” Todd said.

  We passed Largo and stayed on Route 1. Hooker pulled into a strip mall when we got to Florida City, so we could stretch and check the damage to the car.

  I was out, but Hooker couldn’t get his door open and his window wouldn’t slide down.

  “Sit tight,” I said. “I’m good at this.”

  I poked through the junk in the cargo area and came up with a big ass screwdriver. I shoved the screwdriver between the door and the frame and pried the door open.

  “Lesson number one from my father,” I told Hooker. “Never go anywhere without a Maglight and a screwdriver. The bigger the better.”

  “Lesson number one from my father had to do with opening a beer bottle,” Hooker said. He got out and looked at the Mini. “This is a tough little car. Considering how small it is, it really stood up. The side needs some body work. Well, okay, Bill probably needs a whole left side.”

  “Nothing structural,” I said, on my back, under the car. “At first look, I don’t see any damage to the frame or wheel wells.”

  We all went into a convenience store, got some cold sodas, and came back to the car.

  “I’m cutting north here to the Tamiami Trail,” Hooker said to Todd. “I’m taking Barney to Naples, so we can check on Bill. I have some of my crew in Homestead. Some sort of schmooze thing going on at the track. I can get one of them to pick you up here and take you back to Miami Beach, or wherever. Since you just destroyed Flex you might not want to go home for a while. Not until we get this straightened out.”

  “Thanks. That would be great. I have someone I can stay with in North Miami.”

  Hooker used Todd’s phone again, and ten minutes later he swung the Mini out of the lot and back to Route 1.

  “I’m taking the Trail instead of going all the way up to Alligator Alley. It’s a slower road, but the distance is shorter. We should make Naples in two hours,” Hooker said.

  The Tamiami Trail cuts across the bottom tip of Florida, running through mile after mile of flat swampland, the tedium occasionally broken by signs advertising Indian-guided airboat rides. For the most part, it’s a two-lane road used by people who aren’t in a hurry. Hooker didn’t fall into the not in a hurry category. Hooker was doing ninety, weaving in and out of traffic like this was just another day at the job. If anyone other than Hooker had been driving, I would have had my feet braced on the dash, ready to escape the car at the first opportunity.

  “What’s this schmooze thing going on in Homestead?” I asked him.

  “Some kind of a preseason sponsor event. They wanted me to participate, but I refused. The season is long and hard, and I never shirk my corporate responsibilities, but this is my time, and I’m not giving it up. I told them to send a car instead. We have a couple cars that roll around in a transporter and are used for this stuff. They look like my car, but they can be used to give rides to the fans. They’re cars we’ve raced and retired so they’re pretty authentic.”

  Hooker dropped to the speed limit as we approached Naples, the scenery suddenly changing from swamp to civilization. Movie theaters, shopping malls, golf course communities, high-end furniture stores, and car dealerships lined the Trail. I’d called ahead and gotten an address for the hospital. I’d been told Bill was in his room but sedated and not able to talk.

  By the time we got to the hospital Bill was more or less awake. He was hooked up to an I.V. and a respiration monitor. I’d learned from a nurse that no vital organs had been damaged, but he’d lost some blood.

  “I know my eyes are open,” Bill said, his words soft and slurred. “But I’m feeling a little slow.”

  “We aren’t going anywhere,” I told him. “Take a nap. We’ll be here when you wake up.”

  It was early evening when Bill opened his eyes again. “Hi,” he said. His voice was stronger, and his pupils were no longer dilated to the size of quarters. “How did you know I was here?”

  “That’s a long story,” I said. “We might want to save it for another time.”

  “Yeah, and parts of it are too good to waste on you in your drugged-up condition,” Hooker said.

  I was standing at bedside, and I could feel Hooker pressed into my back with his hand lightly resting at the base of my neck. Probably worried I’d faint. I was pretty sure his fear was ungrounded, but it was still nice to have the support.

  “They found us,” Bill said. “I don’t know how. The helicopter probably. It did a couple flyovers when we were in the Gulf. I didn’t think they saw me go into Gordon Pass, but hell…”

  He was white again and his breaths were shallow.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. “Are you in pain?”

  “Pain that you can’t fix, Barney. They’ve got Maria, don’t they? We were in the house I rented, in bed, sleeping, when they came in,” Bill said. “Two Cuban guys. They grabbed Maria. She was screaming and crying, and I tried to get to her, and they shot me. That’s the last I remember.”

  “There’s a cop outside, waiting to talk to you. He said you were shot in your driveway.”

  “I guess I dragged myself out there.”

  Good thing, too. The cop in the hall told us Bill was found by a passing motorist who saw him lying on the driveway. If Bill had stayed in the house, no one would have found him. He most likely would have bled to death.

  “I’m going to tell the cop about the Cubans and Maria, but not about the gold,” Bill said. “You need to go to the house and see if the gold is still there. I left it on the boat. The boat is tied to the dock directly behind the house.” His eyes filled. “I love her, Barney. I really love her. It’s going to work out okay, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it’s going to work out okay.”
<
br />   “We’ll get her back, right?” Bill asked.

  I nodded, barely able to speak. “We’ll get her back.”

  TEN

  I talked to Bill’s doctor while the cop talked to Bill. If Bill’s signs stayed stable he’d be allowed to go home tomorrow. He had a flesh wound in his upper arm, and the bullet in his chest had cracked a rib but missed everything else. Bill had been lucky…if you can call getting shot twice lucky.

  The cop was expressionless when he left Bill. I don’t imagine he was all that happy. He had a kidnapping and shooting without motive. It didn’t take a genius to figure out there were holes in the story.

  I could have told the cop I’d been kidnapped and threatened by Salzar. I could have told him Salzar had photos of Bill and Maria. Problem was I didn’t have the photos in my possession. And the kidnapping was Salzar’s word against mine and Hooker’s. And our only witness was a guy who blew up a billion-dollar boat.

  So, I didn’t especially want to talk to the cop. Not to mention, my cop experience to date wasn’t impressive. What I really wanted to do was scoop Bill up and take him someplace where he’d be safe. And then figure out a plan to defuse everything.

  We stayed until nine. Bill was sedated and drifted off to sleep. Hooker and I dragged ourselves out of the hospital, into the parking lot.

  “I’m adding this to my list of really shitty days,” Hooker said. “I’ve had a bunch of them. Not a lot of people get shot in NASCAR, but people get hurt and people die. It’s always awful.”

  “Why do you drive?”

  “I don’t know. I guess it’s just what I do. It’s what I’m good at. I used to think it was for the fame, but it turns out the fame is a pain in the ass. I suppose it could be for the money, but the truth is I’ve got enough. And I still keep racing. Crazy, hunh?”

  “You like it.”

  Hooker grinned. Boyish. Caught by the simple truth. “Yeah, I like it.”

  “You’re a good driver.”

  “I thought you didn’t follow NASCAR.”

  “I was at Richmond last year. You were brilliant.”

  “Damn. I’m all flummoxed. I’m not used to you being nice to me.”

  “You have a short memory. I kissed your dart wound.”

  “I figured that was a pity kiss. I was pathetic.”

  “Well yeah, but I was still being nice to you.”

  We got into the battered Mini, and Hooker drove south toward town.

  “I haven’t spent a lot of time in Naples, but I think I can find my way to the house,” Hooker said. “Bill gave me directions.”

  Hooker turned right at Fifth Avenue and drove past blocks of restaurants and shops. People were eating at outdoor tables and strolling into art galleries. The pace was slower than South Beach. The dress was more conservative. Palm trees were wound in twinkle lights. Cars were expensive.

  We took a left onto Gordon Drive and watched the houses get larger as we drove south. No more restaurants or shops. No high-rise condos. Just block after block of expensive houses and professionally landscaped yards. And beyond the houses to our right was the Gulf of Mexico.

  When we reached the Port Royal Beach Club, Hooker turned left into a neighborhood of curving streets that we knew followed a series of man-made canals. Half the houses were 1970s ranches and half the houses were new mega McMansions. The McMansions filled their lots and were hidden behind wrought iron gates that opened to brick drive courts and lush gardens. I suspected there were some older residents of Naples who might roll their eyes at the McMansions. I thought the McMansions were glorious. For that matter, I thought the ranches weren’t bad either.

  In my mind I imagined movie stars living behind the wrought iron gates, or possibly Fortune 500 CEOs. The reality was probably much less fun. Probably these houses were all owned by realtors who’d made a killing in the grossly inflated housing market.

  Bill had rented one of the ranches. It was easily recognized by the yellow crime scene tape stretched across the front of the property, preventing people from using the circular drive.

  Hooker parked at the side of the road, and we ducked under the tape and walked to the front door. Even in the dark it was possible to see the bloodstains on the yellow brick drive and concrete front porch.

  “Maybe you should go back to the car,” Hooker said. “It’s not necessary for both of us to do this. I’m just going to collect Bill’s things and check out the boat.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “but I’m okay.”

  In the absence of fake dog poop, Bill had hidden the key under a flowerpot on the front porch. Hooker found the key and opened the door. We stepped inside, and Hooker hit the light switch. The foyer was white marble and beyond that beige wall-to-wall carpet. There was a grisly trail of blood through the foyer to the carpet. The blood was smeared where Bill had fallen and dragged himself up. In the middle of the foyer was a perfect bloody handprint. Bill’s handprint. Drops splattered out in an arc.

  I felt my stomach sicken, and I went down hard on my knees. I was on all fours, fighting back nausea, shaking with the effort.

  Hooker scooped me up and carried me into the powder room off the foyer. He sat me on the toilet seat, shoved my head between my legs, and draped a soaking wet hand towel over my head and neck.

  “Breathe,” he said. His hand was on the towel at the back of my neck. “Push against my hand. Push.”

  “I guess I wasn’t okay,” I said.

  “No one should ever be okay when they see something like that.” He replaced the towel with a fresh one, and water ran down my neck and soaked into my shirt and my shorts. “I’m going to leave you here while I get Bill’s things. You have to promise me you won’t move an inch.”

  “I promise.”

  Ten minutes later, he came back for me. “I have Bill’s and Maria’s things in the back of the Mini. Can you stand?”

  “Yes. I’m horrified and disgusted and angry, but I’m not sick. And I’m not going to turn to mush when I see the blood on the way out. It caught me by surprise.”

  Hooker took my hand and led me past the blood in the foyer and out the door. He turned the lights off, locked the door, and pocketed the key.

  “I want to show you something out back,” he said. “Take a walk with me.”

  We followed a footpath around the side of the house, past trees filled with oranges and grapefruits and flowers that were still fragrant in the warm night air. A pool stretched the width of the yard, and beyond the pool was a swath of manicured lawn and beyond the lawn was a dock and beyond the dock was the canal. A full moon hung in the lower sky, reflecting light that shimmered across the black water.

  “It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Hooker said.

  It was more than pretty. It was calming. Standing there, looking out at the canal, it was hard to imagine anything bad had happened in the house behind us.

  “No Sunseeker,” I said.

  “No. But then we already knew they had the gold.”

  We returned to the car and left Port Royal. Hooker retraced his route and got back onto the Trail, heading north. This part of the road was clogged with traffic. Professional buildings, strip malls, furniture stores, and chain hotels lined both sides of the highway. Hooker pulled into the first hotel he came across and parked in the unloading zone.

  “I’ll run in and see if I can get a room,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’d want to sleep with me?”

  It was said with such little boy hopeful hopelessness that I laughed out loud. “I’m not ready for that,” I told him.

  He curled his fingers into my T-shirt, pulled me close to him, and kissed me. His fingers were pressed into my breasts, his tongue slid over mine, and I felt my engine turn over and hum.

  “Let me know when you’re ready,” he said. “Because I’ve been ready since the first day I met you.”

  Okay, so maybe I wanted to rethink the little boy part. I wasn’t seeing any evidence of a little boy here. In fact, I was thinking Hooker showed the s
ame single-mindedness of purpose when he focused on a woman that he showed on the track. Hooker kept his eye on the prize.

  Hooker gave the battered door a good hard shot with his fist to get it to open. He angled himself out of the Mini and jogged to the hotel’s revolving front door. He came back ten minutes later and got our bags out of the trunk.

  “Darlin’, we’re in business,” he said. “We’ve got rooms without bad guys.”

  The next morning, Bill’s doctor assured me that Bill’s signs were all good and he was strong enough to leave the hospital. You wouldn’t know by looking. Bill was still pale. His arm was bandaged and in a sling. His chest was wrapped and double wrapped. He had blood caked under his fingernails and a bump on his forehead the size of a walnut. I had him dressed in khaki shorts and an orange-and-blue flowered shirt, hoping it would cheer him. It turned out Bill didn’t need anything to cheer him because Bill was shot up with painkillers and happy juice for the ride home.

  The hospital and police had assumed Bill was returning to the rental house. Hooker and I hadn’t said anything to change their minds, but we had other plans. We loaded Bill into the front seat of the Mini, and we took off for Miami Beach.

  It was noon when we rolled across the Causeway Bridge and into South Beach. It was a brilliant blue-sky day with temperatures in the low eighties and not a breath of air stirring. Hooker turned onto Alton Avenue and drove straight to Judey’s condo building.

  “We’re leaving you with Jude,” I said to Bill. “Do you remember Jude?”

  “Ju-u-u-de,” Bill said.

  Bill was wasted.

  “I don’t know what they gave him,” Hooker said. “But I wouldn’t mind having some.”

  Hooker parked in the condo garage, we maneuvered Bill out of the car, and we locked arms around his back and steered him to the elevator.

  Hooker hit the button for the twenty-seventh floor and looked over at me. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “Sure. Twenty-seven. Piece of cake.” I was just grateful it wasn’t thirty-two.