Motor Mouth - Janet Evanovich [83]
The BMW worked its way through traffic and, true to form, we lost them after a couple blocks and a couple traffic lights.
“Okay,” Hooker said, “here’s my assessment of the situation. If Gobbles is in the trunk, they’ll find him and probably his status won’t change much. At least not for a while. And as far as we’re concerned, we’re screwed.”
“Anything else?”
“We need to find Ray. And we need to identify the chip buyer. And before we do any of those things we need to go back to Felicia’s because I’m out on my feet.”
FOURTEEN
I woke up with Hooker on top of me, and Beans breathing Saint Bernard breath in my face. The disturbing thing is that I didn’t mind either. I slithered out from under Hooker, went to the Ibarras’ bathroom and took a fast shower, got dressed, grabbed some gallon-size plastic bags from the kitchen, and took Beans for a walk.
It was a little after seven and Felicia’s neighborhood was on the move. Pickup trucks and secondhand sedans motored down the side streets, people stood in line at the bus stop, dogs barked from postage-stamp backyards, and cats sat on stoops, soaking up the first sun of the day. The language spoken was Spanish, the kitchen smells were Cuban, and the skin tones were darker than mine. The rhythm of life felt normal and comforting, the setting seemed exotic.
Felicia’s niece was manning the Ibarra stove when I returned. Hooker was at the table with a pack of kids and an older man I didn’t know. Beans slid under the table, waiting for food to drop to the floor.
“Finish your breakfast,” Lily said to her youngest. “The bus will be here and you won’t be ready again.”
Hooker had coffee, juice, and a breakfast burrito in front of him. He had his hand wrapped around his burrito and his phone to his ear.
“Sure,” Hooker said into the phone. “You bet.”
I poured myself a mug of coffee and took a chair at the table.
“That was Skippy,” Hooker said to me when he disconnected. “He wanted to remind me that it was Tuesday.”
I was surprised Skippy was up this early. Skippy was known to come to track meetings in his pajamas if the meeting was called before nine o’clock.
“Skippy’s starting to sound nervous,” Hooker said. “There’s a ton of media scheduled for tomorrow, including the parade of cars that starts at Times Square.”
It wouldn’t be good for Hooker to miss the parade of cars. This is where the top-ten drivers get into their race cars and drive them through midtown Manhattan. It’s televised and photographed and thousands of fans line the parade route. “Maybe we should go to New York.”
“I’ll get arrested and charged with multiple counts of—” Hooker looked at the kids at the table—“misbehaving.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” I said to Hooker.
“Even if I’m just called in for questioning, it’ll create a ton of bad press. And if they decide to hold me, you’ll be left on your own to get us out of this disaster.”
Lily put a massive breakfast burrito in front of me and refilled my coffee. I ate half of the burrito and gave the other half to Beans.
Forty-five minutes later, Hooker and I were in the marina parking lot. The black BMW had returned and was neatly wedged between two other cars. We parked the SUV at the edge of the lot, far away from the BMW, and got out to take a look, bringing a tire iron with us.
“No blood dripping from the trunk,” Hooker said, standing to the rear of the car. “That could be a good sign.”
Hooker rapped on the trunk and called hello, but no one answered. I tried the door and found it locked, so Hooker rammed the tire iron into the crevice by the trunk lock and popped the trunk open. Empty. No blood. Hooker mashed the trunk down to make it catch.
I peeked through the driver-side window. “No blood on the seats or splattered on the windshield. The floor mat is missing from the back. Probably Rodriguez bled on it big-time. There are a few smears on the carpet but nothing major. Maybe they just drove Rodriguez to a doctor. Maybe they didn’t whack them or anything.”
“I can’t decide if I’m relieved or disappointed.”
We crossed