Karen Olson - Driven to Ink

A gondola sailed past, the gondolier’s even strokes moving it along the canal. With Tim following, I went up the small footbridge over the canal. From the top of the bridge, I could see farther, so I scanned the crowds on both sides of the water and then in the square. There was no music now; there were no dancers prancing about, only the sound of chatter and a line at the gelato place.

“I think it’s a lost cause,” I told Tim. “I should’ve immediately gone after him, after Joel told me. But I didn’t quite understand at first what he was telling me.”

Tim tugged my arm and led me over the bridge. “Come on,” he said. “You never know if he stopped somewhere along the way.”

“Right. He probably went to the garage and got his car.” As I spoke, Tim and I stared at each other.

“Well, that was pretty stupid of us,” I added. “Considering one of us is a police officer. A detective, no less.”

Tim rolled his eyes as we went back over the bridge and weaved our way around one of the small walkways that led away from the canal. I didn’t have a chance to ogle the shoes in Kenneth Cole, as I usually do, although I did see Ace at the oxygen bar again. There should be a twelve-step program for air addicts.

We rounded the corner, passed the newsstand and kiosk, and pushed the glass doors open, making our way down the ramp and then through another set of glass doors into the parking garage. We stared at the concrete and the lines of cars.

“Another brilliant idea, Watson,” Tim said.

The parking garage was huge. He could’ve parked anywhere.

Tim’s Impala sat nearby.

Tim crossed the pavement toward the car. I scurried to keep up.

As we reached the door, the roar of an engine echoed through the garage, and I gave a little jump. A blue car screamed around the corner and sped up as it came toward us. Tim grabbed my shoulders and pulled me farther into the parking spot, wedged between the Impala and an SUV. The blue car flew around the corner and out of sight.

My heart was pounding, and from the way Tim was clutching his chest, I could tell his was, too.

But my heart was pounding because it was a total déjà vu.

“It was a blue car that tried to run me and Bitsy down yesterday,” I whispered.

Tim’s head whipped around, and he stared at me.

“Was it the same car?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Both times the car was moving so fast, I didn’t have time to even notice the make of the car.”

“It was a Ford,” Tim said. “I only caught half of the license plate.”

I regretted the snide teasing about him being a detective and not thinking clearly. This was why he was the cop and I wasn’t.

He was already walking back toward the Grand Canal Shoppes. I skipped along behind him.

“So what do we do now?” I asked.

“Now I try to find out the rest of that license plate and who was driving that car. As for you, well, I think you have work to do, don’t you?” he said matter-of-factly, holding open the glass door for me. Our mother would have been pleased. But then again, she was always pleased with her only son.

“But I’m a witness, too,” I tried. “And what if it was Will Parker? I know what he looks like.” I paused. “Will Parker does drive a blue car.”

He stopped short, outside Kenneth Cole. There was a new pair of red patent leather pumps in the window. For a second I was distracted.

“You’re sure he drives a blue car?” Tim asked.

I nodded. “I saw it the day I met him at the wedding chapel.”

“Well, that makes it easier,” Tim mused.

“Because you can check out Will Parker’s driver information now, right?” I asked, pretty pleased with myself.

Tim started walking again. “You think you’re smart, don’t you?” he teased.

“We are cut from the same cloth,” I said. “So if Will Parker stole Joel’s clip cord, do you think he’s the one who killed Ray Lucci?”

We’d reached the shop, and Tim pulled the door open.

“You never know,” he said.

Bitsy hopped up from her seat at the front desk.

“Did you find him?” she asked.

We shook our heads.

“Don’t you have your clients fill out forms with all their information?” Tim asked.

Bitsy nodded, knowing what he was looking for. She reached for the file folder with Will Parker’s information in it. She handed it to Tim.

He opened it, scanning the forms, then looked up at Bitsy. “Credit card?”

Bitsy shook her head. “He paid in cash.”

“I need a little privacy. Can I use the computer in your office?” Tim asked.

“Sure,” I said, following him down the hall and into the office next to the staff room. I indicated the laptop on the desk.

Tim gave me a look.

“What?” I asked.

He knew he wasn’t going to get rid of me. He sat behind the desk and booted up the laptop. After a few seconds, he connected to the Internet and pulled up Google Maps. I looked over his shoulder as he put in Will Parker’s address.

Tim zoomed in to the location, then leaned back in his chair and pointed at the screen. “What’s wrong with this picture?” he asked.

I peered at the screen and did a double take. It wasn’t a residential neighborhood.

The address was for an In-N-Out Burger.

On Dean Martin Drive.

“The guy pays in cash and puts an In-N-Out as his address,” Tim mused. “What’s up with this?”

I was still hung up on Dean Martin Drive. Was that some sort of joke? He was a Dean Martin impersonator, so he just happens to pick that In-N-Out Burger? Couldn’t have been a coincidence. I pointed that out to Tim.

Tim sat back up and reached for the keyboard. He started tapping. Yahoo! People Search. Will Parker. Las Vegas.

Five hits.

“What if he lives in Summerlin or Henderson or North Las Vegas?” I asked.

Tim scowled at me. Okay, so I threw a wrench into his brilliant plan.

“Why don’t you call the wedding chapel and see if they’ll give you his real address? They must have it. And you are the cops,” I said.

“But I’m not on this case,” he reminded me.

“So call Flanigan,” I said.

He didn’t like that idea, though. I could see it in the way his brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing. It was the same sort of look our father got when he was stumped by something. Tim wasn’t supposed to be investigating because I, his sister, was directly involved. He was supposed to babysit me so I would stay out of the way. But that look, the one I knew all too well, meant that he was going to go a little rogue.

“Can I go with you?” I asked.

“Go with me where?”

“Wherever you’re going to find Will Parker. The wedding chapel’s probably a good place to start. And will you call the department about that partial license plate number?” I was talking so fast I hoped he wouldn’t have time to say no.

“Don’t you have a client coming in?” Tim reminded me about Colin Bixby’s unexpected appointment. “You need to stay here.”

“He’s not getting a tattoo,” I said, again wondering what it was Colin Bixby wanted to talk to me about. Why he’d need to make an actual appointment. Maybe he was getting another tattoo. But somehow I didn’t think he’d want me to do it. It was far too intimate the last time, and despite the little peck last night outside the emergency room, I didn’t think we’d moved too far beyond the fact that he was still hurt by my previous unfounded suspicions.

“Brett, you can’t go with me.” Tim’s tone sounded as it did when he told me I couldn’t go backpacking with him to Europe the summer after he graduated from college. But this was a totally different thing. And I said so.