“I think what?” She snuck up and put her hands on my shoulders. “I put the computer under the bed.”
“And the gun?”
She smiled. “The thirty-eight? Where I can get it if I have to.”
They’d released the pistol as well. With five shells left. There was a verbal warning to get it registered, so apparently no one had claimed ownership. And since there was no evidence that she’d shot anyone, they gave it back to her. I decided she was the perfect person to be the keeper of the pistol-KOTP.
“I was just telling James that you thought the timing of the fishing tournament and the boat coming to dock at three thirty might be tied together.”
“Just a thought,” she said. “And, by the way, I’m going to the drugstore. Got to get a new nail file after my last one went to the good of the cause. Want to come?”
What I really wanted to do was drive. Her Carrera was hot and I’d never been behind the wheel of a Porsche. The black beauty had three hundred forty-five horsepower. The powerful V-6 was meant for speed, but during our short trip to the store she kept it at forty-five. No, she did not let me drive.
“It’s brand-new, Skip. You know how I am with my cars.”
I did. She rode them hard, kept them for a year or two until she was tired of them, then got rid of them. And when she would go on hiatus during our relationship, I was always afraid that was what she was doing to me.
She pulled into the parking lot and I grabbed her arm.
“Check it out.”
Parked on the right side of the store was a black Harley with a gold fender.
“There’s got to be more than one, Skip.”
“Park in the other row so we can see who gets on it.”
“What if this person works here? We could be waiting a long time.”
She pulled in and we waited. Ten minutes went by and we looked at each other.
“Private investigators do stakeouts that last hours. Days.”
She was right. The two of us were impatient after ten minutes.
“Give it another ten.”
“I guess my nails can wait that long.”
Ten minutes to the second he walked out the door. Slight build, in a short-sleeved shirt and jeans. I studied him as well as I could, trying to see if he resembled Todd Markim, Weezle’s partner. He had a similar look, but I’d only seen the Internet Yellow Pages ad, and at this distance I wasn’t quite sure. What we both noticed was his right arm.
From his wrist to his elbow it was wrapped in gauze and bandages.
“Could’ve had an accident and scraped it pretty bad,” I said.
“Could have scalded it. Maybe he was cooking and accidentally spilled boiling water on it.”
“Maybe he was working on the bike and-”
“Let’s say it, Skip. Could be a flesh wound from a bullet.”
The man pulled on his helmet, gingerly, and headed out into traffic.
“Okay, okay, the nail file can wait.” Em gunned the engine and we were in pursuit.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
We left Islamorada, heading south. Em put two or three cars between us and the biker, but considering there is only one road and just two lanes almost all the way to Key West, hiding from anyone was going to be tough. At least the rider didn’t know the Carrera. We didn’t think he did.
“This could be a wild-goose chase.” She kept her eyes on the road, looking very sexy behind the wheel of her new sports car.
“Could be. But we’re kind of at a standstill until we read that piece of paper tomorrow.”
“If this guy is Todd Markim, have you thought about what you’re going to do? I mean, you have nothing on him except that he’s a private investigator who’s gone missing. He didn’t steal anything from Mrs. Trueblood, did he? I mean, he’s allowed to walk off the job, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You have no evidence that he murdered the guy in your room?”
“No.”
“We’re really not sure he was the one trying to get into our room this morning.” She hesitated. “The one I think I shot.”
“No.”
“Just wondered what you were planning.” She never looked at me, just kept her eyes on the traffic up ahead.
But of course, this was a jab to let me know that I never plan. Whatever happens, happens. I don’t know if it’s my philosophy of life, or if I just don’t bother. Either way, it’s probably not a good strategy for a PI.
“Maybe I’ll talk to him. Ask him if he or his partner were the ones who threw paint at the truck and took a shot at us in our room. I’ll ask him if he’s the one who bashed in his partner’s head.”
She smirked.
The speed was about sixty and with no lanes for passing, everyone evened out. Our myopic view was caused by mangrove trees growing high in the water on both sides of the road, so we just stared ahead. At more road. Crossing a bridge, I finally got a view of the open water, a brief look at where the blue sky met the blue of the gulf on the horizon. Florida was full of visual delights.
From a side road a box truck pulled out, blocking our view of the cars and the bike up ahead. A crudely painted sign was scrawled on the side.
HAULERS
“Damn.”
“Skip, it’s not like he’s got the option to lose us. I mean, we’ll see him if he gets off the road.”
And we did. But too late.
We passed a sign that said: LOWER MATACOMBE STATE PARK AND CAMPGROUNDS. A moment later, we drove by the paved road that exited right, into that very park, and we saw the motorcycle as it rounded a curve on that road and was lost in the trees. He’d gotten away.
“Damn.” This time it was Em. “I’ll find an exit and turn around.”
Thirty seconds later she braked and pulled the Porsche off onto a bare patch of earth. Spinning around, she pulled up to the highway and waited another two minutes while a stream of vehicles paraded by. Finally, we crossed the road and reversed direction. This time she made the exit, slowed down, and drove back into the trees that had swallowed the biker and his ride.
She stopped the car and while the engine idled, we took stock of the park. In front of us was a scattering of tents and booths-signs of an art festival or craft show. The closest paintings were hanging from the sides of a tent and they appeared to be crude oils of African masks.
To our right was a small concrete block restaurant with a sign that said: HOMEY KEYS COOKING. There was a scattering of pastel yellow, blue, and pink tables down by the water. A family of four sat at a blue table, eating sandwiches and watching pelicans scoop fish from the water into their deep bills.
“So, where did he go?” My eyes swept the location.
To our left was a gravel parking area where maybe twenty cars and trucks rested, two of them with trailers and boats rigged for fishing. There was no sign of the black bike. A young man with a long-billed cap and a deep tan stepped out of a pickup at the end of the row and walked toward us. As he passed I shouted out the window.
“There’s a campground here?”
“There is.”
“Where?”
He pointed to a narrow road back between some more trees.
I nodded and Em eased the car in that direction.
“Your Porsche is going to stick out like a sore thumb.”
