Motor Mouth - Janet Evanovich [85]
“Don’t you hate that?” the desk clerk said. “Did you charge extra?”
“What’s his first name again?”
“Anthony.”
“Anthony Miranda. Yep, that’s the guy.” I borrowed the pen on the counter and wrote a fake number on the back of a hotel brochure. “Here’s my cell number,” I said to the desk clerk. “Tell Anthony Miranda that Dolly says hello.” I swung my ass out of the lobby, across the street, and into the SUV. “Anthony Miranda,” I said to Hooker.
“Anything else?”
“That’s it. Just a name. I probably could have learned more, but I would have needed a manicure.”
Hooker returned to the marina lot, parked, and got Skippy up on the speakerphone.
“I need some help,” Hooker said to Skippy.
“No shit.”
“I need information on a guy. Anthony Miranda. Know anything about him?”
“No.”
“Well, Google him or something and call me back.”
“Whatever happened to the good old days when all NASCAR had to worry about were pregnant pit lizards and trashed hotel rooms? Earnhardt Senior wouldn’t have called up and asked me to Google for him. He was a driver.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Hooker said, disconnecting.
“You’re a good driver,” I said to Hooker. “You just suck as a detective.”
A limo pulled into the lot and idled at the path leading to the marina. The limo door opened, and Suzanne Huevo got out. She was wearing a pale yellow suit, her hair was pulled tight, her doggie bag was on her shoulder, and her earlobes were weighed down with diamonds.
“Damage inspection,” Hooker said.
Suzanne disappeared down the path, and the limo waited at idle. Five minutes later, Suzanne reappeared, got into the limo, and the limo took off.
Hooker put the SUV in gear. “Might as well follow her,” he said. “We follow everyone else. And we haven’t got anything else to do.”
The limo rolled down Collins and pulled into the porte cochere on a condo building a couple doors down from the Ritz. Suzanne got out and strutted into the building. The limo left.
“Huh,” Hooker said. “That didn’t amount to much. This is where she’s living now.”
“Do you have any other ideas?”
“There’s a Starbucks around the corner. We could get coffee and one of those cranberry cakes with the icing on top.”
“I meant do you have any ideas about how we can get ourselves off the Most Wanted list.”
“Nope,” Hooker said, putting the car in gear, heading for Starbucks. “I don’t have any of those ideas.”
Ten minutes later I was leaving Starbucks with two large cups of coffee and two cranberry cakes. I pushed through the large glass door, took the steps to the sidewalk, and looked across the street just in time to see the SUV pull away, followed by the black BMW.
My first reaction was disbelief. For a moment the earth stopped spinning on its axis and nothing moved. Time stood still. And then a horrible ache grew in my chest, and I couldn’t breathe. And my vision blurred behind tears. And I knew it was real. Hooker was gone. The bad guys had him. And these bad guys were a cut above Lucca and Rodriguez. Lucca and Rodriguez were thugs. I suspected Simon and his partner were polished professionals.
I sat down hard on the cement steps behind me and put my head between my legs, sucking in air. Get a grip, I thought. This is no time to fall apart. I blew my nose in a Starbucks napkin. I sipped some coffee, trying to calm myself, trying to think. “Here’s what has to be done,” I said to myself. “You have to find Hooker before they hurt him. You need help. Call Rosa and Felicia.”
I was still on the steps in front of Starbucks when Rosa pulled to the curb. I was wired on two cups of coffee and a piece of cranberry cake. I’d managed to stop the flood of tears, but I was feeling horrible that Hooker had been snatched by the bad guys. And I was determined to get him back in useable condition.
Rosa was driving a magenta Toyota Camry that had been customized with a rear spoiler and a fluorescent red-orange-and-green-flame paint job. Felicia was in the seat next to her. And Beans was in the backseat, his nose pressed against the window, staring out at me.
I slid