Motor Mouth (Alex Barnaby 2)

“The drip is red, and I think it’s coming from inside the trunk.”

Hooker came over and squatted next to me. “Uh-oh.” He stood and knocked on the trunk. “Hello?”

No one answered.

Hooker ran his fingers around the trunk. “We need to get this open.”

I tried the driver’s-side door. Open. The morons hadn’t locked the car. I reached inside and popped the trunk.

“Double uh-oh,” Hooker said when the trunk lid popped up.

The red drips were coming from Bernie Miller. He was curled up in the trunk, and he’d been shot…everywhere.

“I wish I wasn’t looking at this,” I said to Hooker.

“You aren’t going to hurl or faint or get hysterical, are you?”

I chewed on my bottom lip. “I might.”

“Look on the positive side. One less guy to beat the crap out of.”

“Yeah, but it’s a crime against nature to do this to a Lexus. The trunk upholstery is going to be ruined.”

This was my best shot at bravado. The alternative was uncontrollable weeping.

Hooker closed the lid. “These guys are stepping up the house cleaning. Since they loaded Bernie into his car and shot him off his property, I’m guessing they were going to make him disappear. The question of the day is…why have they parked him here?”

I glanced back at the mall entrance just as Horse and Baldy came out. They were each holding coffee-to-go cups.

“Looks like they parked him here so they could get their triple-shot cappuccinos,” I said to Hooker.

“Man, that’s harsh. Shoot a guy and then park him so you can get a cup of coffee. That’s so Sopranos.”

The rain had changed from misting to definitely raining, and the men were hustling toward us, heads down, getting wet. We ducked down and scuttled behind a van.

“You should make a citizen’s arrest,” I whispered to Hooker. “This is our big chance. We can catch them red-handed. Where’s your gun?”

“In the SUV.”

Huevo’s men were between us and the SUV.

“Do we have a plan that doesn’t involve a gun?” Hooker asked.

“You could call the police.”

Hooker looked over at the SUV, and his mouth tightened a little at the corners. “Do we have a plan that doesn’t involve a phone?”

The two Huevo men got into their cars, backed out of their parking slots, and drove away. Hooker and I ran for the SUV, and in seconds we were out in the drive lane, moving in the same direction as the Lexus. The rain was slanting in, the windshield wipers beating it away. I was forward in my seat, trying to see.

“I’ve lost them,” I said to Hooker. “I can’t see through the rain.”

Hooker was stuck in traffic. “I can’t see them either, and I can’t move. It starts raining and people get nuts.”

I had the phone in my hand, debating a police call. I had no license numbers to give them. And I had no credibility. The rain was washing the blood off the pavement.

Beans was on his feet and panting. Hooker cracked the windows for him, but Beans kept huffing.

“He probably needs to tinkle,” I said to Hooker. “Or worse.”