“Interesting stuff,” he said.
“I don’t have time for that now,” I said, launching into what Joel told me about Will Parker being here with Ray Lucci.
A few words in, Tim pulled himself up and looked like a cat about to pounce. “Where is he now?”
“He left,” Joel said from the doorway.
“How long ago?”
Too long ago, but I didn’t want to burst his bubble if he thought he could catch up with him. “I don’t know, a few minutes,” I said.
Tim grabbed my arm.
“Hey!”
“You have to come with me. I only saw him for a few seconds; I don’t know if I’d be able to pick him out of a crowd,” he said.
We passed Bitsy, whose expression was asking what the heck was going on. I said, “Joel will fill you in,” just as Tim pulled me out of the shop.
Once on the walkway, we stopped abruptly, Tim’s head swiveling from right to left and back again.
“Do you see him anywhere?”
It had really been too long. I doubted we’d track him down now, but it was worth a shot. However, all I saw was tourists. I shook my head. Something told me to go toward St. Mark’s Square, toward where the Renaissance dancers perform, and I started to walk in that direction.
A gondola sailed past, the gondolier’s even strokes moving it along the canal. With Tim following, I went up the small footbridge over the canal. From the top of the bridge, I could see farther, so I scanned the crowds on both sides of the water and then in the square. There was no music now; there were no dancers prancing about, only the sound of chatter and a line at the gelato place.
“I think it’s a lost cause,” I told Tim. “I should’ve immediately gone after him, after Joel told me. But I didn’t quite understand at first what he was telling me.”
Tim tugged my arm and led me over the bridge. “Come on,” he said. “You never know if he stopped somewhere along the way.”
“Right. He probably went to the garage and got his car.” As I spoke, Tim and I stared at each other.
“Well, that was pretty stupid of us,” I added. “Considering one of us is a police officer. A detective, no less.”
Tim rolled his eyes as we went back over the bridge and weaved our way around one of the small walkways that led away from the canal. I didn’t have a chance to ogle the shoes in Kenneth Cole, as I usually do, although I did see Ace at the oxygen bar again. There should be a twelve-step program for air addicts.
We rounded the corner, passed the newsstand and kiosk, and pushed the glass doors open, making our way down the ramp and then through another set of glass doors into the parking garage. We stared at the concrete and the lines of cars.
“Another brilliant idea, Watson,” Tim said.
The parking garage was huge. He could’ve parked anywhere.
Tim’s Impala sat nearby.
Tim crossed the pavement toward the car. I scurried to keep up.
As we reached the door, the roar of an engine echoed through the garage, and I gave a little jump. A blue car screamed around the corner and sped up as it came toward us. Tim grabbed my shoulders and pulled me farther into the parking spot, wedged between the Impala and an SUV. The blue car flew around the corner and out of sight.
My heart was pounding, and from the way Tim was clutching his chest, I could tell his was, too.
But my heart was pounding because it was a total deja vu.
“It was a blue car that tried to run me and Bitsy down yesterday,” I whispered.
Tim’s head whipped around, and he stared at me.
“Was it the same car?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Both times the car was moving so fast, I didn’t have time to even notice the make of the car.”
“It was a Ford,” Tim said. “I only caught half of the license plate.”
I regretted the snide teasing about him being a detective and not thinking clearly. This was why he was the cop and I wasn’t.
He was already walking back toward the Grand Canal Shoppes. I skipped along behind him.
“So what do we do now?” I asked.
“Now I try to find out the rest of that license plate and who was driving that car. As for you, well, I think you have work to do, don’t you?” he said matter-of-factly, holding open the glass door for me. Our mother would have been pleased. But then again, she was always pleased with her only son.
“But I’m a witness, too,” I tried. “And what if it was Will Parker? I know what he looks like.” I paused. “Will Parker does drive a blue car.”
He stopped short, outside Kenneth Cole. There was a new pair of red patent leather pumps in the window. For a second I was distracted.
“You’re sure he drives a blue car?” Tim asked.
I nodded. “I saw it the day I met him at the wedding chapel.”
“Well, that makes it easier,” Tim mused.
“Because you can check out Will Parker’s driver information now, right?” I asked, pretty pleased with myself.
Tim started walking again. “You think you’re smart, don’t you?” he teased.
“We
We’d reached the shop, and Tim pulled the door open.
“You never know,” he said.
Bitsy hopped up from her seat at the front desk.
“Did you find him?” she asked.
We shook our heads.
“Don’t you have your clients fill out forms with all their information?” Tim asked.
Bitsy nodded, knowing what he was looking for. She reached for the file folder with Will Parker’s information in it. She handed it to Tim.
He opened it, scanning the forms, then looked up at Bitsy. “Credit card?”
Bitsy shook her head. “He paid in cash.”
“I need a little privacy. Can I use the computer in your office?” Tim asked.
“Sure,” I said, following him down the hall and into the office next to the staff room. I indicated the laptop on the desk.
Tim gave me a look.
“What?” I asked.
He knew he wasn’t going to get rid of me. He sat behind the desk and booted up the laptop. After a few seconds, he connected to the Internet and pulled up Google Maps. I looked over his shoulder as he put in Will Parker’s address.
Tim zoomed in to the location, then leaned back in his chair and pointed at the screen. “What’s wrong with this picture?” he asked.
I peered at the screen and did a double take. It wasn’t a residential neighborhood.
The address was for an In-N-Out Burger.
On Dean Martin Drive.
Chapter 38
