Driven to Ink

Chapter 59

I had a vision of a bloody Dean Martin in a torn tuxedo waving a gun around, taking potshots at unsuspecting brides and grooms. Now that would make an interesting horror movie. Probably would be a blockbuster.

“Is it Dan Franklin?” I asked. Maybe all the killing had finally gotten to him.

“No one knows. The shots are coming from inside.”

“How?”

“Through the drive-up window.”

“Has he hit anyone?”

“Not so far, but Flanigan doesn’t want to waste time. He’s got the cavalry out there.”

We made our way back down Charleston, past all the strip malls and the Terrible’s, and turned down Las Vegas Boulevard. The lights at Fremont Street, flashing every which way to entice late night revelers, were bright enough to warrant sunglasses.

As we passed Murder Ink, I saw a light on.

I grabbed Tim’s arm. “Stop,” I said.

“What?”

“Someone’s in Murder Ink. We know it’s not Jeff.”

“We don’t really have time for this. Doesn’t he have a security service?”

“I don’t know. But I feel like something’s wrong.”

Tim gave a heavy sigh that indicated I was being a royal pain in his butt, but he eased the car over against the curb and cut the engine.

“You stay here,” he instructed.

“No way,” I said, opening my door at the same time he opened his. “This isn’t a place where I want to be alone at this hour.”

He couldn’t argue with logic, so he agreed and I followed him across the street to Murder Ink. We peered into the front window and saw that the light was coming from the back room. Tim put his arm out and said, “Stay behind me.”

We went around to the side alley and around the back. The smell from the Dumpster back here was overwhelming, and I put my hand up against my nose.

“What are they dumping back here?” Tim muttered.

“It’s the Chinese take-out place,” I said, indicating the screen door and the clanking of pots and pans inside.

Murder Ink’s back door was ajar.

Tim pushed the door in slowly. We could hear rustling, as if someone was going through papers, and then something fell with a thud.

Tim’s hand was on his gun at his hip, ready to pull it out if necessary. I made sure I stayed behind him, but the curiosity was killing me. Who was in there?

In a smooth move, Tim shoved the door open, and we both bounded inside.

Sylvia looked up, frowning, as she held a box of baby wipes.

“You’re not supposed to come through the back way,” she admonished, as if it were every day someone broke in through the back door.

I took a deep breath, relieved it was her. “You’re okay,” I said.

“Why wouldn’t I be, dear?” she asked. “Except Jeff left this place a mess. Where is he, anyway? I thought he was with you.” She cocked her head toward Tim. “What’s he doing here?”

“Where’s Bernie?” I asked, not answering her questions.

Her mouth set in a firm line. “He brought me home, but I couldn’t just sit around. I’ve got insomnia, you know.”

I didn’t know, and it didn’t seem relevant right now.

She was still talking. “Bernie said the Gremlin was in the shop, but I found it in the carport like usual, but he’d covered it over with a tarp. I drove that over here.”

I’d seen a car in the alley, but it hadn’t registered. Unusual, because it’s such an unusual-looking car.

“Where’s Jeff? I thought he was with you,” Sylvia said, indicating me.

Tim and I exchanged a look. She noticed.

“What’s going on? Where’s my son?”

I sighed. “He’s in the hospital. There was an accident.”

All the color drained out of her face, and it was almost as if her tattoos went black and white for a second. She dropped down into the swivel chair next to her, all her defiance gone.

“Is he okay?”

I nodded. “He’s in surgery.”

“What happened?”

I couldn’t sugarcoat it. I told her what happened out in the desert.

She took some deep breaths, then pushed herself out of the chair. “I need to go to the hospital.”

I looked at Tim. “Why don’t you head over to That’s Amore, and I can take Sylvia to the hospital. We can take 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.