Hot Rocks

Copyright Information

Hot Rocks
© 2012 Randy Rawls

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First e-book edition © 2012

E-book ISBN: 978-0-7387-3486-6

Book design by Donna Burch

Cover design by Ellen Lawson

Cover illustration: John Lambert/Koralik Associates

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Manufactured in the United States of America

DEDICATION

Hot Rocks
is dedicated to my daughter, Theresa (Tracy) Eilers,
and my son, David Rawls. I love you guys.

And to my honey, Ronnie Bender.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

When I decided to write a female PI story, I was sure I wanted to write a story featuring a female who was a PI, not a male PI in a skirt. And I didn’t want to write a female who had to have a man to pull her through difficulties. I told the people in my two critique groups of my wishes, and the five women involved assured me they would keep me on track. They did, scuffing me up when necessary. I acknowledge those women: Ann Meier, Gregg Brickman, Stephanie Levine, Sylvia Dickey Smith, and Vicki Landis. They did all they could to make Beth Bowman a woman first and a crime-solver second. If at any time Beth appears otherwise, the fault is mine for not listening closely enough.

And, of course, Terri Bischoff, who had faith in me and accepted
Hot Rocks
for Midnight Ink.

one

I had no problem
spotting Hector Garcia as he left the office building on University Drive in Coral Springs. Six-two, two-twenty, navy suit with red and white club tie, gray hair in a buzz cut, carrying a tan, stressed-leather briefcase. Maria Garcia had described her husband right down to his black wingtips. I didn’t need the snapshot she provided, but I checked it anyway. As I watched the man walk to his red Lexus, I mentally congratulated her. Since she had also given me a rundown on his car, including the license number, I had attached a GPS transmitter inside his right rear wheel well.

In times gone by, conducting surveillance with a full team was problem enough. Doing it alone often led to losing the subject or being compromised, especially in a vehicular situation. However, modern technology with its miniaturizations solved that. With the transmitter in place and my receiver beeping peacefully on the seat beside me, Mr. Garcia was mine to pursue until I tired of the game. His wife had paid me a nice advance to catch him with his latest dalliance, therefore, I did not intend to let him out of my sight. According to her, his bank account was fat enough to accommodate my fees. Moreover, she intended to empty it during the divorce.

I sat behind the wheel of my white Toyota Camry and watched him cross the parking lot. I picked the Camry because it was the most common car in the most common color on South Florida streets—or so it seemed. Everywhere I looked, a look-alike cruised past. Plus, it was a good vehicle for a single woman—not likely to draw the attention of carjackers.

Garcia put his briefcase in the trunk, got into his car, and backed out. The game was on.

I followed, careful to keep several cars behind him as we headed north on University. He drove at a reasonable speed, which made him slower than most of the traffic. South Florida drivers are not known for their patience. I sat in the middle lane, knowing I could squeeze left or right should he decide to turn. Another advantage of conducting surveillance in South Florida is the layout of the major streets. North-south and east-west. Very few diagonals. And traffic lights galore. Even if he spotted me, he was unlikely to leave me behind. If he tried, he’d end up broadsided in an intersection. Even emergency vehicles with lights blazing and sirens blasting treated intersections with respect, often coming almost to a full stop before entering.

He took a right turn and worked his way to Route 441, then continued north into Coral Lakes. I had to admire his road manners. He even knew what that little lever on his steering column was for—something most ignored. Not the windshield wiper, the turn signal.

He blinked a right turn, then pulled into the entryway of Hotel Severn, a nice upscale place known for its live bands on Friday nights and piano bar on other nights. It was a place where older singles hung out to make friends—or whatever.

I followed him in, then drove past as he pulled into a parking space. Just my luck: the lot was almost full. I had to go around the end of the building before I spotted an empty slot. Scrambling out of my car, I yanked a tam out of my purse and slid it over my red hair. While the cap might stand out, I’d rather have it remembered than my face. I didn’t have to wear the tam again. I was stuck with the face.

I rushed through the closest doorway, hoping to see Garcia in the hallway or lobby. I spotted him, entering through the front, his briefcase in his right hand. Relief flooded in that I hadn’t lost him. I guessed that retrieving the case from the trunk had slowed him, making it possible for me to gain time.

I hoofed it down the hall, then turned toward the elevators, figuring that had to be his eventual destination. Garcia continued his leisurely pace across the lobby in the same direction. My hope that he’d stop at the front desk evaporated. I needed to get in front of him. I stepped it up, as if I had some place to be. I made it to the elevator bank first and punched the
Up
button.

As he got close enough that I could be sure of his destination, I opened my purse and began to fumble through the clutter, keeping my head down.

I sensed him near me, then the elevator dinged, and the door slid open. He stepped inside. I followed. He pushed the seven button, then glanced at me. “What floor?” he asked.

“Eight,” I said, continuing to look in my purse. I hoped he’d think I couldn’t find my room card. There were no other passengers.

We reached the seventh floor. He stepped out and turned left.

I held the door-open button and watched his progress.

He walked straight to 727 and stopped. With no hesitation, he knocked on the door. His glances left and right were unlikely to spot me or anyone else interested in him.

There must be some prize waiting in that room, I thought. The way he acted led me to believe he’d done this many times before. That might mean I could document his visits with the hotel staff, more facts for my report.

The door opened a couple of inches then swung wide. I couldn’t see inside but guessed his honey’s hand was on the knob. If I could verify there was a woman waiting for him, I’d have enough for my first day’s work. It was the first thing Ms. Garcia would ask. And, if I could get a name, that would be even better.

As Garcia entered the room, I left the elevator and traced his steps, stopping along the wall beside 727. I resumed my fumble-in-purse routine, noticing that the door had not clicked closed. I squinted in concentration, hoping to hear some terms of endearment that included names.

“You sonofabitch, I ought to kill you for that.”

The venom-filled words came from inside the room, jolting me. Not at all what I expected. There was a smacking sound, followed by “You’re dead, you bastard.” Same voice.

Uh-oh
, I thought. My meal ticket and his honey were in the midst of a nasty disagreement, and it sounded like he was about to beat me out of my fee. Ms. Garcia wouldn’t need me if he ended up on the end of murder charges. If I hoped to collect, I had to keep him from killing her. I pushed on the door, it swung open, and I took two quick steps.

I heard a shuffle, then something slammed into the back of my head. A bright flash of stars filled the room as I stumbled forward. My knees buckled and I fell.
Ambush
.
I’ve been ambushed like the rawest rookie,
I thought before the floor smacked me in the face.

two

I opened my eyes,
then closed them fast against the brilliance. What happened to the room? I didn’t remember that much brightness. With great care, I slitted my lids, allowing just enough light to look around. What I saw was not reassuring.

A man lay in a pool of blood a few feet away, and it didn’t look like he’d move any time before a doctor pronounced him dead. My instincts told me to check his carotid artery. I pushed up, then settled back. My head pounded with pain. The back of it felt like it was ripping off. After a moment I tried again, and this time made it to my knees. I crawled to the body. Even though I could see the answer in his destroyed face, I checked for a pulse. There was none. But I saw more—his clothes, his size, his haircut. It was Garcia. We had both walked into an ambush. I hung my head. I should have sensed it and protected him.

I pulled myself up, using a nearby chair, shuffled to the phone, and dialed 9 for an outside line, then 9-1-1.

“Emergency operator.”

As succinctly as I could, I explained the situation. She countered by telling me assistance was on the way. I settled onto a love seat and closed my eyes, wishing the day could start all over again.

A few minutes later, police and paramedics filled the room, closely followed by two homicide detectives. The detectives took control and sealed the area while the EMTs checked the body. Their conclusion appeared to be the same as mine.

“How ’bout you, ma’am?” asked one of the medics. “Are you okay?”

“Other than a pounding headache, I suppose so. Someone slugged me from behind. Do you have any aspirin?”

“Let me take a look. My name’s Tommy. Sit here.” He pointed toward a straight-backed chair at a small table.

With effort, I rose and followed his instructions. After I plopped onto the chair of his choice, he fingered his way through my hair.

“I’ve seen worse, but you need to get it checked. I recommend you go to the hospital. We can transport you.”

“Hold on there. Not so fast,” the shorter of the detectives said. “We have a homicide scene here, and you want to carry off a witness.” He turned his attention to me. “Are you Ms. Bowman, the lady who called it in?”

“Yes.”

“And I understand you’re a private investigator?”

“Yes. I told the 9-1-1 operator that.”

“Just what we need. A damn skirt PI,” the second detective said. “Must be my lucky day.”

“I’m Detective Bannon,” number one said. “My partner is Detective Sargent. Please excuse his manners—or lack thereof. What happened here?”

I rubbed my eyes, willing away the pain. Didn’t work. “I was hired to follow the man on the floor. As you can see, it did not end well.”

“I’m sure he’d say that’s an understatement … if he could talk. But that doesn’t tell me what happened.”

“Obvious, ain’t it?” Sargent said. “She followed him all right. Tracked him to this room, then killed him.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions, Major,” Bannon said. “But we do need more info.”

“This your gun?” Sargent said, showing a plastic evidence bag holding a small revolver. “Looks like something a skirt PI would carry.”

I glanced at it. “No. Mine’s in my purse. That’s where I keep it.”

Sargent grinned. “Nope. If that’s your fancy purse laying over there, no gun in it. Wanna try again?” He held the bag out.

I took a closer look. “I don’t know. Mine is similar. Where’d you find it?”

“Oh, just laying on the floor. Maybe like you dropped it after you hit yourself in the head.”

“I didn’t,” I said.

“Really?” Sargent said, a smirk taking over his face. “These your credentials?” He held out a small case with BB engraved in the leather.

“Yeah, I suppose.”

He opened it. “Under the PI license, there’s a permit to carry. Says someone named Elizabeth A. Bowman registered a Beretta Tomcat .32 automatic. Looks like that’s what we have in this bag. What would you call it?”

“I wouldn’t call it anything until I examined it.”

“Ms. Bowman,” Bannon said, waving Sargent off. “I still need to know what happened here.”

“I told you.”

“No, you didn’t,” he said. “Other than a general comment that you were hired to follow the victim, I know nothing about the circumstances.” He hesitated and ran the back of his fingers along his cheek. “And we have a weapon that could be yours. It appears to have been fired recently.”

“Sorry. My head is pounding. Bear with me a moment, and I’ll tell you everything I know. First, though, I’m going to get off this hard chair.” I stood and, on unsteady legs, returned to the love seat.

Bannon sat on the side of the bed, and Sargent pulled the straight-backed chair out, spun it around, and sat backwards on it. Both stared at me.

I took the opportunity to gather my thoughts and try to force the pain down. I stared around the room, taking my first good look at it. Typical mid-range hotel room. Queen-sized bed, TV cabinet with drawers, a wardrobe, pint-sized refrigerator, microwave, and a love seat—the one I occupied. And the table with the chair I’d sat on. The accommodations probably weren’t up to having a phone in the bathroom, but they weren’t bad.

“Ms. Bowman. We’re waiting,” Bannon said.

I took a deep breath. “I was hired by his wife,” I nodded toward the body, “because she suspected him of messing around on her. I followed him to this room. After he came in, I listened at the door. He’d left it open a bit. Next thing, I heard someone yell, threatening to kill somebody. I pushed the door open, stepped in, and that’s the last I remember. From the way my head feels, someone must have slugged me. When I woke up, I saw the man on the floor and called 9-1-1.”

“Did you hear males, females, or both?” Bannon asked.

I thought about it. “There was only one voice. Don’t know about the sex. Could have been a man with a high-pitched voice or a woman with a low one. It was pretty neutral, but loud.”

“What else?”

“That’s it. That’s all I remember.”

“What do you mean, that’s it?” Sargent said. “Who was in here with the victim? You came charging in. Who’d you see? Where did he or she go?”

“I … I don’t know. When I came in, I saw no one, or no one that I remember. Then the lights went out.”

“Oh yeah,” Sargent said. “That’s weak, lady, damn weak.”

All I could do was stare at him. It had seemed a simple case—follow a husband, get proof he was boinking his honey, report to his wife, and be ready to testify in court, if necessary. Piece of cake. I’d had tougher cases that didn’t end with someone smashing me on the head. Yeah, subjects had accosted me before, but it was usually a bluff. A couple of times when it wasn’t, a well-placed knee resolved the situation.

Men tended to lose interest after I drove their gonads back to where they came from. And the tough broads were a lot less so after the same kind of treatment. Now I had a nasty cop tying me into a murder.

I glanced at the pistol that Sargent still held. If it was the murder weapon and registered to me, someone took it from my purse after I was out. Then he used it to kill Garcia and left it on the floor to be found. That same someone had played me for a patsy, had set me up to take the fall. Cozy, very cozy. Not a pleasant thought, not a situation I would choose to be in.

Tommy, the EMT, gave me a worried look. “Ma’am, I really think you should go to the hospital. We’re going to have to roll pretty soon. The guy on the floor belongs to the medical examiner. Nothing we can do for him.”

“No, I’m okay,” I said. “Just give me some aspirin. I’ll be fine.”

Tommy and his partner exchanged looks. Tommy leaned toward me and whispered as he fingered my hair again, “If we take you to the hospital, it’ll get you out of here. That cop’s out to trip you up.”

I considered what he said, recognizing the sense it made. Clearly, Sargent had his own agenda, and tagging me was high on it. Garcia dead, a gun on the floor that could be mine, and me alone in the room. Didn’t take a Mensa candidate to figure the detectives would have a primary interest in me. “Okay, let’s go for a ride,” I said.

Tommy looked relieved. “Good decision. Can’t ever tell about these things.” He stood. “We’re transporting her to the hospital. That knock on her head needs attention.”

Bannon frowned but didn’t object.

Sargent grinned, a nasty sight. “Enjoy it while you can, Ms. Bowman. You’ll see me again soon. Might even have some news for you.” He shook the evidence bag.