Hot Rocks by Randy Rawls Read Free Book Online Page B

my car like an automaton, opened the door, and climbed in. I suppose the temperature was way up, it usually is in South Florida, but I didn’t notice. Only when a drop of sweat rolled in and stung my eye did I realize I was uncomfortable. After starting the engine, I pushed on the air conditioner, set it on recycle, then gripped the steering wheel. I squeezed so hard, the whiteness of my knuckles appeared to glow, the mad threatening to overwhelm me again.
    Many things ripped through my brain, but the main one that concerned me, other than a frame for murder, was my lack of cognitive abilities. Why had it taken me so long to remember the check and other papers? I was off my game, and that could cost me on a case, especially this one. I hoped it was the crack on the head and not some other malady—like Alzheimer’s or something worse. Next time I talked to Dr. Rasmussen, I’d have to ask.
    In the meantime, my adrenalin flow continued to dissipate, and I realized my headache had returned. The lump had that wet feeling again, like it was bleeding. I touched it, then checked my fingers. No blood, but the feeling persisted. Time for me to dash home and eat a bottle of aspirin for dinner, then get some sleep. Pulling out of the parking space, I remembered the Tylenol PM I’d bought a few months earlier. Much better idea. Two—or a dozen—of those should ease my pain and put me out for the night. Tomorrow, I’d figure out how best to find Ms. Garcia, or whatever her name was. Without a wad of her hair in my grip with her body dragging behind it, I’d never convince the cops I’d done nothing wrong.
    _____
    Thanks to the miracle of modern over-the-counter medicine, I slept well and awoke feeling better in the morning. My lump was still tender, but not as much as yesterday. The important thing was my mind seemed sharper. Even without coffee, I remembered I had to find Ms. Garcia and deliver her to the police as my unimpeachable witness. Then—proof that my brain was working again—I realized I needed to move fast. The retainer I collected from Bergstrom and Bergowitz paid the basics, but extra cases provided the cash for frills that made life more enjoyable. A shortage of clients had reduced my checking account and credit cards to the point I couldn’t tolerate unemployment too long. Then there was the matter of legal fees if Sly came through for me.
    After I cleaned up and dressed for the day—jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt—I sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and a note pad. I figured inspiration was just around the corner, rushing my way. All I had to do was show patience, and I’d get a message on how to proceed. I waited, pen poised, ready to write. Nothing. No inspiration. I was at the same place as when I went to bed last night. One idea finally popped in. Time would tell if it was a good one—go to the strip mall where I’d met Ms. Garcia and hope it was a favorite hangout of hers. Could be. She picked it.
    I spent another hour reconstructing every word she and I had exchanged, concentrating on the phone call, looking for any clue, any hint beyond the obvious. If it had happened, I couldn’t find it. Bottom line was, she picked the Starbucks, and I picked the time. That was it. I decided to hit Starbucks at three o’clock, the time we met. Or better yet, spend the afternoon in the strip mall, working my way from store to store.
    One new thing I remembered. As I had rushed to my car to head out in hot pursuit of Ms. Garcia’s husband , she went into the dress shop. I doubted the place had such an abundance of customers they’d forget one. Of course, with the way my luck was running, if they did, Ms. Garcia would be the forgotten one.
    Too bad I wasn’t in Dallas. I knew a couple of police sketch artists I could inveigle to help me. A picture to show around was what I needed.
    I doodled on my pad a moment, attempting to capture her looks. No matter how hard I tried, she came out looking like the