Motor Mouth (Alex Barnaby 2)

“You could if you hiked your T-shirt up so the desk clerk could see some skin.”

“You’re pimping me out,” I said.

“And?”

I reached for the door handle. “If I’m not out in ten minutes, come in guns blazing and rescue me.”

I pulled my T-shirt out of my jeans and tied the hem into a knot so it sat just below my boobs, leaving a lot of skin exposed. I sashayed across the street and swung my ass Suzanne style into the lobby.

It was a pretty little lobby with black and white marble floor tiles and potted palms and an elaborate gold-trimmed art deco reception desk. An immaculately tailored and turned-out man stood behind the desk. His nails were buffed, his hair was perfectly cut, his skin was flawless. He wore a tiny rainbow pin in his lapel. I untied my shirt and tucked it back into my jeans. It was going to take more than a bare stomach to entice this guy. The bare stomach was going to have to be attached to equipment I didn’t possess.

“Oh, sweetie,” he said to me. “You’re too perfect to cover up. This is South Beach. You work out, right?”

“Sometimes.”

“What can I do for you? If you’re looking to make rent money, I might have something for you.”

Okay, so I came in half naked and swinging my hips…it was still sort of upsetting that I was instantly sized up as a hooker. “I’m not cheap,” I said to him.

“Of course not! Although, a manicure might not be a bad idea. And you are showing some roots.”

I shoved my hands into my pockets. “Three men just checked in. Would one of them be looking for a…lady? The one with the blue shirt and touch of gray at the temples?”

“He didn’t request one. Although, Mr. Miranda has stayed here before, and in the past has used our ser vices to obtain female companionship.”

“I thought I recognized him. I did him last year. He was here for the Orange Bowl, right? I remember him because he has a crooked…you know.”

“Don’t you hate that?” the desk clerk said. “Did you charge extra?”

“What’s his first name again?”

“Anthony.”

“Anthony Miranda. Yep, that’s the guy.” I borrowed the pen on the counter and wrote a fake number on the back of a hotel brochure. “Here’s my cell number,” I said to the desk clerk. “Tell Anthony Miranda that Dolly says hello.” I swung my ass out of the lobby, across the street, and into the SUV. “Anthony Miranda,” I said to Hooker.

“Anything else?”

“That’s it. Just a name. I probably could have learned more, but I would have needed a manicure.”

Hooker returned to the marina lot, parked, and got Skippy up on the speakerphone.

“I need some help,” Hooker said to Skippy.

“No shit.”

“I need information on a guy. Anthony Miranda. Know anything about him?”

“No.”

“Well, Google him or something and call me back.”

“Whatever happened to the good old days when all NASCAR had to worry about were pregnant pit lizards and trashed hotel rooms? Earnhardt Senior wouldn’t have called up and asked me to Google for him. He was a driver.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Hooker said, disconnecting.

“You’re a good driver,” I said to Hooker. “You just suck as a detective.”

A limo pulled into the lot and idled at the path leading to the marina. The limo door opened, and Suzanne Huevo got out. She was wearing a pale yellow suit, her hair was pulled tight, her doggie bag was on her shoulder, and her earlobes were weighed down with diamonds.