Cardiac Arrest, page 13
“Never mind, the elevator’s good,” Summer said, quickly. At least she’d have walls around her, even if they were glass.
Inside, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to pretend she was paddling out on her surfboard in the ocean, stress-free.
“Yo, Big Bird, move your butt in,” someone behind said. Probably a bachelorette. “We need to fit four more.”
“Oh, sure.” Summer stepped back, hard, in her stiletto heels.
“Aagh!” the girl howled. “You killed my foot.”
“Oops,” Summer said. “Sorry.”
When the doors opened after what felt like forever, Summer was more than ready to exit with everyone else. “Nope, one more ride,” Dash said, catching her arm.
Summer shut her eyes again. Apparently, Aqua Marine was Milano’s version of the Knott’s Berry Farm amusement park back home.
This time the elevator opened to a dark room with a nearly empty horseshoe bar lined with back-lit blue bottles of various sizes and shapes. In alcoves along the walls, green velvet curtains were drawn back with gold ties, revealing the laser show and split level dance floors below.
The music had changed from techno to reggae, which was fine with Summer. Mellow was always good after a life-threatening elevator ride.
“Mr. Hamel! Where have you been?”
A man with bleached-out hair and a matching goatee, who had to be a good foot shorter than Summer, rose gracefully from a circular banquette filled with assorted clubgoers at the back of the room. With a flourish he snapped open a colorful Japanese fan and waved it toward them. “Come join the party, you two.”
“Wait here,” Dash told Summer. “I’ll see if I can get him to talk to us alone.”
Summer took a seat at the bar and ordered a cranberry juice with lime. She still felt dizzy from the elevator ordeal. Dash and A.J. joined her a few minutes later.
“Dewars on the rocks and a cherry Cosmo,” Dash told the bartender.
“So I hear you’re new in town, honey.” A.J. tapped his fan on Summer’s knee. “Welcome to Paradise.”
“Uh, thanks,” Summer said. It was hard to imagine tall, sulky persnickety Eduardo paired with a Munchkin-sized guy in a purple kimono and Japanese slippers. He wore more eyeliner than she did, too.
“I can’t believe you got this man out of the house,” A.J. went on, in a conspiratorial tone. “Before he settled into domestic bliss, Dash here used to be quite the—”
“Summer, this is A.J.,” Dash broke in. “A.J., Summer. We’re here because we need your help.”
A.J. sipped his drink. “Well, that’s certainly a first.”
Summer decided on a direct approach. Sort of. “So, I used to work for Tony Amoretto,” she began. No need to mention that her employment had lasted less than a day. “Before he...uh...died.”
“Yeah, I heard about that.” A.J. fanned himself, lightly. “Too bad, I understand he was a quite the multi-faceted man.”
What was that supposed to mean? Summer wondered. She was pretty sure it wasn’t a compliment.
“You didn’t bump him off yourself, did you?” A.J. seemed to find the idea very amusing. “Ooo, that would make you a real-life femme fatale, wouldn’t it?”
Summer froze over her cranberry juice. This was not going well, even if he was only joking. Or was he?
“We actually wanted to ask you about your old buddy Eduardo,” Dash said. “Been in touch with him lately?”
A.J. gave a dismissive wave. “Oh, please. I haven’t seen him for—let’s see—almost as long as I haven’t seen you and Julian.” He finished his drink and fished out the cherry settled at the bottom with a diamond-ringed pinky. “But as far as I know, he was still pretty chummy with Vince.”
“Vince?” Dash said. “Who’s Vince?”
“Oh, did I call him Vince?” A.J.’s hand flew to his mouth, in fake horror. “That was Tony’s real name, handsome. Vince Russo.”
Summer frowned. “Why would Dr. A use a different name?”
A.J. plucked his cherry Cosmo refill off the bar and waggled his fingers goodbye, swooping off in a rush of purple silk. “You tell me, honey,” he said, over his shoulder.
“That’s it?” Summer said, in disbelief. “That’s all he’s going to tell us? He’s just going to leave us hanging like that?”
“Afraid so.” Dash shrugged. “I told you, A.J. likes to be mysterious.”
“Do you think we should believe him?” Summer asked. “If Dr. A wasn’t using his real name here in Milano, he obviously had something to hide.”
“Well, it was news to me, too,” Dash said. “It’s possible A.J.’s making all that up. He took it pretty hard when Eduardo dumped him to glom onto Tony or Vince or whoever he was.”
A.J. did seem like the kind of person who might hold a grudge. Probably forever. “It shouldn’t be too tricky to dig up some dirt on Vince Russo.” She frowned as she tapped her phone. “I’m not getting any bars here. I’ll have to try later.”
Dash put his empty Scotch down on the bar and signaled for the tab. “This place ain’t what it used to be, in my opinion. Want to go somewhere else or call it a night?”
“Oh, I think we’re done. Here, anyway.” Summer reached down to slip off her heels.
No way was she getting in that dangling glass cage again. She’d rather take her chances on the catwalks.
* * *
“These things are killing me.” Summer tossed her battered shoes in the back of the Mini and pulled her flip-flops from under her seat. “Never again.”
“Well, at least you got your money’s worth out of them on the dance floor,” Dash told her. “Five clubs in less than three hours. I’m beat.”
“Too bad most of this town closes so early.” Summer sighed. “Maybe next time we can check out the after-hours clubs. I’ve been to one or two since I got here, but I can’t remember where they are.”
“They move the locations around,” Dash said. “To keep things interesting.”
“But hey, it was a fun night while it lasted,” Summer said. “Right?”
He grinned. “Definitely. I’ll be paying the piper in a few hours, though, when Juliette-Margot wants her Croque Madame and strawberry crêpes.”
“Maybe Julian can give her some cereal and orange juice or something and you can sleep in for a while.”
“Don’t think so.” Dash clicked his seatbelt. “I’m the head chef, and Saturday morning means fancy breakfast, chez Hamel-Bernard.” He grinned. “That’s how the family thing works, babe.”
She’d take a rain check on that, thanks. For now, anyway.
Clouds drifted against the moon as they joined the trail of brake lights headed north.
“Maybe you should cut over to Neapolitan,” Dash said. “Everyone seems to be taking the Trail.”
“I know a good shortcut.” Summer made a sharp left turn onto Beach Street. “See, lost them!” She gunned the gas down the formerly peaceful residential block and headed toward Milano Park. “We can drive along the water. No one goes down here at this hour.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that.” Dash glanced over his shoulder. “Someone’s coming up on us with no headlights.”
Summer checked her rear view mirror. It was too dark to make out much about the car, except that it was huge. “It better not be the cops. That’s all I need right now.”
“At least you weren’t drinking tonight,” Dash said. “Just speeding.”
The car was getting closer. Summer hit the gas pedal again and banked a close right corner, narrowly missing a fire hydrant.
“Nice,” Dash muttered. “Where’d you learn to rally drive?”
“Jersey.”
They cut through a section of the deserted Milano Park Nature Preserve before hitting the two-lane road parallel to the beach. Dark dunes loomed on one side and jagged towers of rotted pines and cypress dotted the other.
Yikes. She’d never really thought about how creepy this place could be at night—it was even creepier with someone following them. Summer checked the mirror again. The car, which had slowed to match their pace, drifted from side to side a few times.
Could be a drunk driver, Summer told herself. Not very comforting.
“Let’s head back toward the Trail,” Dash said. “At least there will be other cars there.”
“I can’t make another right turn for, like, half a mile,” Summer said, “and it’s too narrow to pull a U-ie with that guy behind me.” She gave the mirror another glance, just as the dark car abruptly zoomed up behind them again. “Is he playing some kind of sick joke?”
“Doubt it,” Dash said. “I’m not much of a car expert, but it looks like a big-boat Continental. I can’t see the driver. Whoa, he’s going to bump us.”
“I can outrun him.” Summer slammed on the gas one more time, just as the fuel light flashed on. “Crap. Now what?”
“Just stay calm,” Dash advised. “You aren’t by any chance one of those women who carries a gun in the glove compartment, are you?”
“What?” Summer jerked the steering wheel as the other driver suddenly turned on his brights.
The black car rammed the left side of their bumper, with a sickening crunch of metal. Summer corrected the wheel and held on for dear life as they spun across the road like a tiny tornado. The dark car roared past and the smoking Mini finally came to a screeching stop in a cloud of sand and engine fumes, inches from a giant sand dune.
“Are you okay?” Dash quickly unclicked his seat belt.
“I’m fine,” Summer said, but even she heard the tremble in her voice. “I think. How about you?” She took a huge, cleansing breath to calm herself.
“Just a bang to the elbow,” Dash said. “Looks like we’re both pretty lucky.”
Maybe, Summer thought. His good karma had probably canceled out her bad karma. Ugh. Now she was thinking like her mom. “Did you see the driver?”
“Not exactly,” Dash said. “We were too busy spinning.”
Summer crossed her arms tightly against her chest to stop the shaking. She was not going to cry.
“Hey, everything’s going to be okay,” Dash said. “We’re fine, and this wasn’t your fault.” He opened the passenger door. “Stay here, I’ll check on the car.”
Not my fault, Summer repeated to herself. Not my fault. As she leaned back in the bucket seat, taking another yoga breath, she spotted another pair of headlights headed their way. A thick cloud of smoke rose as Dash popped the hood, clearing just in time for her to see another set of lights above them—flashing red and blue.
She put down her window, waving away the lingering smoke, as the cop approached, carrying a flashlight. “Hi, Officer.” Her words came out in a croak. “Am I glad to see you!”
“I’m happy to hear that, Ms. Smythe-Sloan.”
Crap. And double crap.
From behind his flashlight beam, Detective Donovan stared down into the car. “Are you all right? What about your friend? Do you need medical attention?”
“No, we’re both fine. This big black car bumped us and—”
“License, registration and proof of insurance, please.”
What? Was he kidding? He wanted to give her a ticket?
“You know who I am.” Summer frowned. “And I didn’t have anything to drink.”
Dash stepped away from the hood and walked over to the driver’s side. “It’s true, Officer,” he said. “She’s my designated driver.”
Detective Donovan leaned closer, placing his hand on the base of the window. He’s checking my breath, Summer thought, indignant. Next he’d probably have her walking a straight line and counting back from a hundred by sevens. She tried to remember if she’d had any onions or garlic tonight. No. Well, that was one good thing.
“I’m going to ask you again,” he said. “License, registration and proof of insurance.”
Summer sighed and flipped the cardholder out of her evening purse. The detective studied her ID with his flashlight for what seemed like forever. “I’m not the one you should be going after,” she said. “I told you, this big black car came up and bumped us off the road. We’re lucky we’re not dead.”
“Yes,” he said. “You are. Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
She sighed. Did he think she was going to drive off? He had her license and registration.
Dash got back into the passenger seat. “Don’t say anything,” he told her. “It’ll just make things worse, okay? Be polite.”
“I know.” Summer gazed out at the endless black ocean through a break in the dunes, wishing she could just disappear. No one ever believed or trusted her. Except Dorothy, maybe.
Detective Donovan finally returned and handed back her IDs. “Just doing my job, Ms. Smythe-Sloan.”
Behind the flashlight beam, he did look kind of apologetic. And tired. Wasn’t he ever off duty? And why wasn’t he somewhere solving Dr. A’s murder, instead of putting her through the third degree for a car accident that wasn’t even her fault?
He handed her another card through the window. “You can call this number at the Milano PD tomorrow. They’ll have the information you’ll need to file your insurance claims.”
Ha. No way was she reporting anything. Her cheapo insurance company loved to up her premiums. She’d just have to drive with a busted bumper.
“Tell me about this dark car you mentioned,” the detective said. “We had a report of speeding vehicles from a residence on Sandpiper Lane.”
Between them, Summer and Dash relayed the details. “All right,” he said. “I’ll call it in and we’ll be on the lookout for the vehicle.” He started to turn away.
“Hey, wait,” Summer said. “Did you get Dorothy and Marilyn’s message from earlier, at the Pewter Spoon? You know, about the threatening notes?”
“Yes,” the detective replied. “I spoke to Ms. Marshack and we’re looking into it. You have a good rest of the night, now. Drive safe.”
“That’s it?” Summer called after him, but he didn’t turn around.
“Phew,” Dash said, as Detective Donovan got into his unmarked car. “He is one tough dude.”
“Tell me about it.” Summer glanced in the rearview mirror. “I’m not leaving till after he does,” she said. “I don’t want him driving behind me. He makes me way too nervous.”
“You’ll have a long wait, then,” Dash said. “Officer Gorgeous isn’t moving.”
Summer sighed. “Oh, all right,” she said. “He wins. Again.” Starting the car, she pulled away, to the fabulous sound of metal dragging over sandy asphalt. She’d have to get the name of Ernie’s garage.
Almost immediately, the red-and-blue lights pulled close behind, blinding her for a second or two. Finally, they disappeared, but she knew the detective was still there, following her.
Didn’t that guy ever quit? One of them needed to get a life.
Chapter Nineteen
“Now don’t you worry, Ernie,” Dorothy said, as he helped her out onto the Sixth Street sidewalk from his rental car. “This place comes highly recommended.”
“I don’t know, Dot.” Ernie stared at the square brick building with the red-white-and-blue barber pole in front. “I got my hair cut last week in the Hibiscus Pointe Salon, where I always go.”
“Oh, you’ll like Manny’s just as much, I’m sure,” Dorothy said. “According to their website, they even do hot shaves, with those nice warm towels.”
“And straight edge razors,” Ernie added. “I sure hope these guys know what they’re doing.”
Dorothy felt as if she’d stepped back in time as they entered the barbershop. Frank Sinatra crooned from a radio and the walls were lined with New York Yankees memorabilia and framed photos of the proprietors with favorite customers and questionable celebrities. In one corner, a shoeshine station was ready for business, and a glass cabinet stored customers’ personal shaving mugs. Beside the cabinet stood a huge silver urn stocked with fresh towels.
How charming, Dorothy thought. One didn’t see many shops like this anymore. Especially not in Florida.
“Welcome, sir,” a short, elderly man in a white jacket and black cap greeted Ernie. “I’m Manny, and my partner over there”—he nodded toward another older gentleman, standing between two vintage barber chairs—”is my brother, Angelo. Folks call us the Doo Wop Boys. What can we do for you this morning?”
Dorothy was relieved to see Ernie smile broadly. “This reminds me of the place I used to go as a kid back in Brooklyn,” he said. “Those were the days.”
“You got it,” Manny said. “Angelo and I moved down from Bay Ridge about fifteen years ago. We were going to retire, but we couldn’t give it up, you know? So we opened this place.”
“I’m from Windsor Terrace myself,” Ernie said. “Before it got so high and fancy.”
“No kiddin’? My cousin went to Holy Name.”
The two men headed off toward the barber chairs and Dorothy seated herself in a green, vinyl waiting chair. A side table held the daily papers and an assortment of sports magazines.
Angelo walked up to her across the black-and-white, tiled floor. “Sometimes the wives, they don’t want to wait.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” she assured him, picking up the paper. She felt herself blush at the idea she’d been mistaken for Ernie’s wife.
“It could take a while,” Angelo said. “He’s getting the Barbershop Quartet special.”
Clearly, Angelo was eager to get rid of her. She couldn’t imagine why. Perhaps Manny’s Barber Shop was a men’s-only establishment. She must have traveled back in time further than she’d thought.
“I suppose I might buy myself a new lipstick.” Dorothy rose to her feet. “But tell me, has a gentleman named Eduardo been by here recently? He was the one who told us about your business, in fact.”
