Metro Girl (Alex Barnaby 1)

“Well, I was going to take Rosa.”

“Remember me? I’m the guy who’s been driving you around?”

“Yes, but I have a car now.”

“And you were going to leave me standing here?”

“Yeah.”

Hooker smiled. “You’re teasing me. That’s a sign of affection, you know.”

Actually, I hadn’t been teasing.

“Don’t forget about me,” Rosa said to Hooker. “I could really give you a sign of affection. I’m a divorced woman. I’m desperate.”

“Everybody in,” I said. “Let’s see what this little guy can do.”

I positioned myself behind the wheel and felt like I was in a sports car whose growth had been stunted in childhood. The Mini had black leather trim and black leather bucket seats. It was deceptively comfortable and had great visibility. I turned the key and stepped on the gas, and the car leaped forward. When I’m at home I drive a Ford Escape. Compared to the Escape, the Mini had the feel of a turbocharged roller skate.

I rocketed to the corner and hung a left without braking.

Rosa had both hands braced on the dash. “Holy mother,” she said.

Hooker slid off the backseat, righted himself, and reached for the shoulder harness.

“Corners like a dream,” I told them.

“Yeah,” Hooker said, “but you drive like a nightmare. I don’t suppose you’d want to relinquish the reins on these horses to me?”

“No chance.”

I took the Causeway Bridge into Miami, sailing through traffic, enjoying the feel of the car. The car handled like a hummingbird—hovering at a light, zipping ahead, cutting in and out of gridlock.

The reality of my life is that I love to drive, and I probably would have been happier driving a truck for a living than I am working for an insurance company. But you don’t spend all that time and money on a college education so you can drive a truck, do you?

Little Havana was busy at this time of day. It was Friday afternoon, and people were on their way home from work, running errands, gearing up for the weekend. I followed Rosa’s directions to the fruit stand and pulled into the lot. I parked the Mini and heard Hooker mumble from the backseat.

“What was that?” I asked.

“You’re a maniac.”

“You’re not used to being a passenger.”

“True,” Hooker said, climbing out of the car. “But you’re still a maniac.”

And that was probably also true. By reputation, I was the sensible, smart sibling. But that was only by comparison.

The stand was packed with people buying produce, fried polenta, and pulled pork to go. Rosa found Maria’s cousin and brought her over to Hooker and me.

Felicia Ibarra was from the same mold as Rosa. A little shorter. Just as round. Different shoes. Ibarra was wearing wood clogs. Probably in deference to the smushed fruit that littered the pavement around the fruit stand. Ibarra was older. Maybe in her early sixties. And Ibarra had a heavy Cuban accent. Clearly, not U.S. born.

“Rosa tells me you’re looking for Maria Raffles,” Felicia said. “I have to tell you, I’m worried. She has so much trouble behind her. And now she’s missing. I worry that this is more trouble. Heaven help her.” And Felicia Ibarra crossed herself.

“What kind of trouble?” I asked.

“Just trouble. Some families carry the trouble. It happens. They have a curse. Or an obsession. Or just bad luck.”

“And Maria’s family?”