Driven to Ink

the Gremlin.”

Tim mulled this proposal. “That sounds like a plan.”

“That’s Amore?” Sylvia looked from me to Tim and back to me again.

“Someone’s over there shooting at cars,” I said.

“What on earth for?”

“We have no idea,” I said. “Where did Bernie go?”

“I have no idea,” she said, echoing me. “And I don’t care.” She stuck her chin out defiantly.

“What’s wrong?”

“You know,” Sylvia said cryptically.

“No, I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”

“You found the receipt.” She said it as if I was some sort of idiot for not knowing this by osmosis.

Receipt? Oh, right. The bank receipt. “What about it?”

“The man stole ten thousand dollars from me. I made him bring me home because I wouldn’t go home with him. I’m getting a divorce.”

“Ten thousand dollars?” I asked.

She made a face at me. “You knew about it,” she said accusingly. “You asked me about it when you came to Rosalie’s earlier. But I didn’t take that money out of the bank. Bernie did. I should never have gotten a joint account.”

“Did you ask him about it?” Tim asked. He’d been in the background, but now he stepped forward, interested in what Sylvia was saying.

“Sure, I did. He said he needed it for a new car or something. He wanted to surprise me. I didn’t want any new car. I’ve got my Gremlin. Although on the way over here, I realized it might need some fixing after all. There was an awful scraping sound.”

A thought flashed through my brain.

It couldn’t be.

But maybe it was.

I took a step toward the door.

Tim was on the same wavelength. He was already outside.

“What’s going on?” Sylvia called from behind us.

Tim jogged up the alleyway. I discovered my body was really starting to rebel against any sort of movement whatsoever. A soak in a hot tub was what I needed about now, but the adrenaline was pushing me forward anyway.

Tim was leaning down over the hood of the Gremlin. When I approached, he straightened up and said, “This car definitely hit something.”

“Or someone?” I asked, remembering that the car that killed Lou Marino was blue. Or maybe an odd shade of purple.

Chapter 60

Sylvia stood with her hands on her hips. “Someone?” she asked. “Who did it hit?” And as it sunk in, she gave a little “Oh!” then asked, “You don’t think someone used this car to kill Lou?”

Tim and I exchanged a look. I knew what he was thinking. The same thing I was. Bernie wanted to get rid of the car. Had he killed his son-in-law with it? He’d have had a good reason.

“It was under a tarp, you said?” Tim asked.

“That’s right.”

Even though Sylvia said she was washing her hands of her new husband and that he’d stolen ten grand from her, I didn’t want to believe it. How could a cute little old deli owner do such things? Maybe we were wrong. I hoped we were wrong.

He shook his head. “You can’t use this car. You both have to come with me. I’m going to send someone over here to check the car out. Impound it.”

“Do I need to use Jeff’s car? I hate that thing,” Sylvia said.

I didn’t really want to tell her that Jeff’s car was pretty much totaled.

“Come on,” Tim urged.

Sylvia put on a fleece pullover and locked up the shop, and we went around the side of the building between Murder Ink and Goodfellas Bail Bonds. When we got to the Impala, Sylvia climbed in the back. I tried to argue with her, but she said she was little and not to worry.

“Do you really think Jeff will be all right?” Sylvia asked when we were on the road.

“He’ll be fine. I know he will.” I was trying to convince myself as much as Sylvia. She leaned forward and patted my shoulder, sending waves of pain through my neck. I tried not to wince. She was just trying to comfort me.

The scene around the wedding chapel was crazy: flashing blue and red lights from the cruisers; spotlights sending pools of light across the white stucco, making it look less washed out somehow; cops scurrying about, most wearing bulletproof vests outside their shirts. I glanced over at Tim, bare chested underneath his button-down shirt. I’d already seen a friend shot tonight; I didn’t want to make another visit to the hospital because Tim got wounded.

Tim parked the car behind a couple of cruisers near the sawhorses that had been set up along the entrance to the chapel’s driveway. The chapel looked deserted-dark and quiet-despite all the activity outside.

“Stay here,” Tim instructed as he climbed out of the Impala.

“Why do men think they can tell us what to do?” Sylvia asked.

“Because they do,” I said.

“Well, I don’t want to just sit here,” Sylvia said. “Let’s go.”

I wasn’t quite sure I wanted to this time. Had something finally snapped? Had my curiosity been sated by everything that had happened? Had I finally become a normal person, who doesn’t stick her nose into things that are best left to the police?

Sister Mary Eucharista was telling me I was having a breakthrough.

Sylvia, on the other hand, was pushing open the back door and climbing out, slamming the door behind her. She took a few steps toward the chaos, then turned and beckoned me to follow. When I shook my head, she shrugged and continued on. I watched her through the windshield.

Maybe this was what it was like on a movie set, except this was all real. I watched as Tim approached Flanigan, who held a bullhorn. They had a few words; then a uniform came up to Tim and handed him a vest. I sighed with relief. Good. Now at least Tim would be protected. Except, of course, if he got shot in the head or something awful like that.

I kicked myself for even thinking that.

Sylvia had approached Tim and Flanigan, who didn’t look happy she was there.

My cell phone startled me. I reached inside my bag and pulled it out, not recognizing the number on the screen.

“Yes?” I asked tentatively as I flipped it open and held it to my ear.

“Brett? It’s Colin.”

Bixby. My heart started to flutter, but not in a good way. Rather, in a nervous way. While I wanted him to call me about Jeff, I wanted good news. I wasn’t sure I could handle it if it wasn’t. I swallowed hard, then tried to make my voice sound normal as I asked, “Oh, hi. Do you have news about Jeff?”

“He’s out of surgery, and everything went well.”

I smiled involuntarily and took a deep breath. I blinked a couple of times to keep from crying. Seemed good news and bad would make me cry today.

Bixby was still talking. “The bullet lodged itself in his neck, but they got it out, and they think he’ll have a full recovery. He’ll need some physical therapy for a while.”

For the first time it dawned on me that he’d been shot in his right shoulder. He was right handed.