Driven to Ink

Chapter 12

The fact that I started to hyperventilate did not escape the man in the tux as he handed Jeff his change. He leaned into the window and cocked his head at me as he asked Jeff, “Cold feet?”

I’d say freezing feet was more like it.

“Do you have a ladies’ room or something where she might be able to freshen up?” Jeff asked, his voice perfectly normal. As any groom would be concerned about his bride.

At the thought, even more panic bubbled up in my chest, and I tried to catch my breath.

“Your head between your knees,” Jeff said, his hand on the back of my neck, forcing me down. “Breathe deeply.”

With my head down, I couldn’t see him, but I heard him say, “I think we really do need a ladies’ room.”

“Park over there,” the man said, “and go in the front door.”

The car jerked around and then stopped again, and Jeff cut the engine.

“Kavanaugh, that was brilliant,” he whispered.

I peeked up over my knee.

“You paid him,” I said, barely able to hear myself over my pounding heart.

“Best way to get information,” he whispered. “Now get out of the car and keep pretending like you’re going to be sick.”

“Who’s pretending?” I hissed as I pushed open the car door.

I missed the glass doors in the front because potted palms practically covered them. I guess they didn’t want just anyone wandering in and preferred that patrons stay in their cars.

The foyer was dingy white with a pink tinge, the color of underwear that got caught in the color wash. I could hear the strains of “That’s Amore” coming from somewhere, probably the Dean Martin outside. I wondered whether it was Dan Franklin.

The man in the tux materialized suddenly next to me. He took my arm and led me to a door with a cutout image of a bride on it. “Here you go,” he said.

I glanced back at Jeff, who nodded. I didn’t want to go in there. I wanted to stay out here while Jeff asked this guy questions. But maybe this was Jeff’s plan all along. I was only a pawn in his own investigation. He certainly couldn’t come to a wedding chapel all by himself.

I went into the bathroom. I didn’t have much choice.

This room was no more inviting than the foyer. The same dingy walls, old-fashioned sink and vanity. It was a one-seater, everything in one room. It was clean; had to give them that.

But it wasn’t soundproof. I could hear Jeff outside.

“Heard that one of your singers got murdered.”

Silence for a second, then, “Oh, yeah, Ray. He was an ex-con.” He said it as though all ex-cons find themselves murdered at some point. “The cops were here all afternoon yesterday. Bad for business.”

“Who owns this place? Seems like it would be a gold mine.”

“It is. And I do. Own the place. Anthony DellaRocco.”

“Great idea with the Dean Martins.”

“A wig and a tux, and any guy can look like Dino.”

“But they all can’t sing, can they?”

“They can all act drunk.”

I wished Jeff would get on with it. All this chitchat about Dean Martins and who owns the place-who cared? We were here to find out about Lucci, weren’t we?

“So Lucci was an ex-con?”

“Um, yeah.” I could tell Jeff’s change of subject threw DellaRocco for a second. “He stole cars. I got a little worried with him here because every now and then he’d talk about how great a car that came through was. Like that red Mustang Bullitt a couple days ago. I was sure he was going after that one.”

I froze. That was what Dan Franklin had said, that Lucci was eyeing my car.

“That’s the car he was found in,” Jeff said casually.

“Really? How do you know that?”

“I’ve got a friend on the police force. He told me a few things off the record.”

“Like what?” Everyone liked a bit of gossip.

“He and another guy named Dan Franklin had some sort of rift. Franklin works here, too, right?”

It dawned on me that if I could hear them, they could hear me, too. Or not hear me, since I wasn’t doing anything. I turned on the water, which, unfortunately, drowned out the conversation.

Another glance around told me there was another door on the other side of the bathroom. Turning the water on a little higher to make more noise, I tiptoed over to the other door and tugged on it.

It swung open, and I peered around the corner. Seemed like it led into a sort of dressing room, although instead of a wide mirror across one wall, there was only a long vertical one stuck on the back of a door across the room, like you’d see in a store dressing room. A clothes rack was a sort of open closet; tuxedos hung side by side. Must have been ten of them. On a table that reminded me of those you see at a church craft fair, foam heads wore black wigs. Lockers lined the far side of the room. Must have been where the Dean Martins stashed their stuff while they were crooning to newlyweds.

A quick look around, and I stepped into the room, quietly closing the door behind me. Even though the cops had already been here, I wondered whether they missed something that Ray Lucci had left behind.

A rat’s cage, maybe?

As I stepped closer, I saw masking tape with names stuck on the locker doors. WILL, ALAN, DAN, LOU, and RAY. Dan must have been Dan Franklin; Ray was Lucci. I didn’t know whether I should care about the others, but I went over the names a few times in my head so I wouldn’t forget them.

I paused, trying to hear whether anyone was coming. I couldn’t hear Jeff and DellaRocco anymore, and the other door to the ladies’ room must have been more soundproof because I couldn’t hear the running water, either.

I didn’t want to tarry too long, so I stepped up to Ray’s locker and pulled it open.

Nothing inside. Not a scrap of paper or even a crumb. It was as though someone had vacuumed it. Like the cops. Who’d been here yesterday, interrupting business.

I shut the door.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I moved to the locker marked DAN. There were clothes in here: jeans, a T-shirt, a pair of running shoes. Because I’m almost six feet tall, I didn’t even need to stand on my toes to see what was on the shelf.

A wallet.

Must have been pretty trusting.

I snatched it down and opened it. Credit cards, a few dollar bills, and a driver’s license.

Dan Franklin should have had his picture taken again.

Because he was the spitting image of Ray Lucci, the guy in my trunk.

While I was always a fan of the Rat Pack, Dean Martin wasn’t my favorite. I had a soft spot for Sammy. Maybe it’s because I have two left feet and am tone-deaf, but Sammy’s moves have always impressed me. Dino, on the other hand, was Frank’s sidekick, the amusing drunk who seemed to be along for the ride.

It was interesting how That’s Amore was breathing new life into him.

I stared at the picture of Dan Franklin and could totally see how Ray Lucci could pass himself off as Franklin. Who would know?

I was about to put the wallet back when I noticed a plastic card that didn’t look like a credit card. I slid it out. An ID card from the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. Laboratory Animal Care Services.

Dan Franklin was wearing a lab coat in the picture. He looked less like Ray Lucci here.

As I studied it, I flashed back to the rat found with Lucci in my trunk.

Rats are lab animals, aren’t they?

A banging startled me. Tossing the wallet back in the locker and shutting it as quietly as I could, I tried to figure out where the banging was coming from.

It was the ladies’ room. Jeff must have been wondering where I was.

In a few strides, I was at the door I’d come in from. I put my hand on the knob and turned it.

But nothing happened.

I shouldn’t have let the door close. Because it was locked. From the inside.