Return of the Italian Tycoon
She ran her hands over the chaps, looking for hidden pockets, trying not to think of the leather framing JD’s package. Of course she’d looked. She was trained to observe, after all. She found a matchbook from a tavern on the edge of town.
The watch was the real surprise. The heft and materials were quality all the way; the display of mechanics and the movement of gears gave the timepiece a sophisticated appearance. She looked closer—did that say Cartier? It did. And yes, she found similar watches on their website. Her eyes popped wide at the price: seventy thousand and up. Gah. Her next search was of robbery reports.
Nothing hit.
One thing was clear. JD had resources. Whether legitimate or not was another question. No hits on his prints only proved he’d never been caught. Yeah, call her a cynic. But why else wouldn’t he want to give them his name? This guy wasn’t adding up. He appeared familiar yet Mark hadn’t known him.
The leatherwear shouted motorcycle, but where was the vehicle, his gloves and his helmet? Why was he walking along the side of the road?
The 101 ran right through the middle of town. Maybe someone ran him off the road and then robbed him? It fit the evidence. But why not tell them of the crime? Submissiveness didn’t suit him, but he could be disoriented. He had a bump on the head. People often forgot events leading up to an accident. Maybe he was hurt more than the EMT was able to determine.
Time for a conversation with JD.
* * *
Thump. Thump. Pain pounded relentlessly through his head. Keeping his eyes closed helped marginally. Plus when he opened them there were only gray walls and cell bars to look at.
Man, he’d messed up big, to be laid out in a jail cell with a throbbing head.
Thump. Thump.
Problem was he couldn’t remember what he’d done. The squat cop claimed he’d been drinking, but he had it wrong. He wouldn’t feel as if he’d tangled with a semi if he had any alcohol in his system. His right shoulder and leg throbbed in time with his head.
At least he had the cell to himself.
Thump. Thump.
He wasn’t even sure what map pin he inhabited. If only his head would clear, he was sure it would all come back. Then he’d get out of here and be on his way. Yep, as soon as his head got with the program, he’d explain things to the squat cop and then he’d be gone.
Thump. Thump.
The cell door clanked. He squeezed an eye open, spied the lady cop. He remembered her. The attitude. The uniform. The pretty blue eyes.
“How are you feeling?” she asked in a much friendlier voice than when he arrived.
“Like I was hit by a truck.”
“Is that what happened?”
Thump! Thump! Suddenly his head hurt worse. Have mercy, he didn’t think it possible. Couldn’t people just leave him alone?
“I thought I was here because I was intoxicated.”
“You denied drinking.”
He had no answer for that. He’d jump on it if he thought she’d let him go, except he wasn’t ready to move.
“You were walking when the officer came across you.”
“It’s not against the law to walk.”
“No. But it’s uncommon for tourists to arrive by foot.”
He didn’t respond. It hadn’t been a question, after all. The low, husky timbre of her voice might be soothing if not for the interrogation.
“What do you drive?”
Drive? His brows drew together. Hadn’t she just said he was walking?