Motor Mouth (Alex Barnaby 2)

“What about Itsy Poo?”

“What’s an Itsy Poo?”

I opened the bag and the tiny dog head popped out.

“What is it?” Hooker wanted to know.

“It’s a dog.”

Hooker looked at the tufted head with the little pink bow. “Darlin’, that’s not a dog. Beans is a dog. This is…what the heck is this? Beans would think this was a snack.”

“It’s a miniature something.” I put the bag on the floor and Itsy Poo jumped out and started investigating.

Loews had set out a doggy welcome center complete with place mat, dog bowls, treats, a chew bone, and a map to the dog park. Hooker filled one of the bowls with water and put a couple treats in the other. “That should hold whatever it is until its owner wakes up,” he said.

“Stick a fork in me,” I told Hooker. “I’m not too far behind Suzanne Huevo.”

“I don’t want to drive all the way back to Little Havana,” Hooker said. “The action seems to be here in South Beach. I’m going to check you into the hotel and take the car back to the marina so I can watch the boat.”

Even before I opened my eyes, I felt disoriented. Too many room changes. The motel at Homestead, Felicia’s guest room, and now I sensed something different again. Big bed; very comfy, warm body next to me; heavy arm across my chest. I looked down at the arm. Tan. Blond hair on the arm. Damn. I was in bed with Hooker. I peeked under the covers. I was wearing my T-shirt and panties. Hooker was in boxers. The boxers were blue with pink flamingoes. Cute.

“Morning,” Hooker said.

“What are you doing in my bed?”

“Sleeping?”

“Why don’t you have your own bed?”

Hooker eased his hand up under my breast. “You don’t remember?”

I pushed the hand down. “No.”

“You begged me to sleep with you.”

I rolled out of bed and collected my clothes. “I don’t think so. I was drunk. I wasn’t insane.”

“I watched the boat until midnight and didn’t see Beans. I don’t think he’s on the boat. Did you learn anything good from the grieving widow?”

“The only thing she’s mourning is the fact that she didn’t get to kill Oscar herself. And she doesn’t think a lot of Ray. Turns out he’s squatting in a boat her sons are due to inherit. She said Huevo Enterprises owns the boat, and Oscar was Huevo Enterprises.”

“I talked to some people last night while I was hanging out at the marina. Word on the street is that the lion’s share of everything goes to the two boys, but Ray is executor until they reach thirty. And that’s ten years down the pike.”

“Anybody know what Suzanne’s going to get?”

“Speculation is…not much. Couple million maybe. The bulk o

f the assets are in Mexico. No joint property.”

“I’m taking a shower and then I’m going downstairs for breakfast.”

“I’ll go to breakfast with you,” Hooker said. “Just in case you need coffee.”

An hour and lots of pancakes later, Hooker and I were in the lobby, waiting for the elevator, wishing we knew what to do next. The elevator doors opened, and two men stepped out. They were Hispanic. They were wearing dark suits. One was maybe five nine, slim build, bald, pockmarked face, sharp features, bright bird eyes. The other was huge and frighteningly familiar. Horse and Baldy. They didn’t look our way. They were in a hurry, moving toward the hotel’s main entrance.

“It’s them,” I said to Hooker. “It’s Horse and Baldy.”

“Are you sure?”