Janet Evanovich - Motor Mouth

“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.

“Damage inspection,” Hooker said.

Suzanne disappeared down the path, and the limo waited at idle. Five minutes later, Suzanne reappeared, got into the limo, and the limo took off.

Hooker put the SUV in gear. “Might as well follow her,” he said. “We follow everyone else. And we haven’t got anything else to do.”

The limo rolled down Collins and pulled into the porte cochere on a condo building a couple doors down from the Ritz. Suzanne got out and strutted into the building. The limo left.

“Huh,” Hooker said. “That didn’t amount to much. This is where she’s living now.”

“Do you have any other ideas?”

“There’s a Starbucks around the corner. We could get coffee and one of those cranberry cakes with the icing on top.”

“I meant do you have any ideas about how we can get ourselves off the Most Wanted list.”

“Nope,” Hooker said, putting the car in gear, heading for Starbucks. “I don’t have any of those ideas.”

Ten minutes later I was leaving Starbucks with two large cups of coffee and two cranberry cakes. I pushed through the large glass door, took the steps to the sidewalk, and looked across the street just in time to see the SUV pull away, followed by the black BMW.

My first reaction was disbelief. For a moment the earth stopped spinning on its axis and nothing moved. Time stood still. And then a horrible ache grew in my chest, and I couldn’t breathe. And my vision blurred behind tears. And I knew it was real. Hooker was gone. The bad guys had him. And these bad guys were a cut above Lucca and Rodriguez. Lucca and Rodriguez were thugs. I suspected Simon and his partner were polished professionals.

I sat down hard on the cement steps behind me and put my head between my legs, sucking in air. Get a grip, I thought. This is no time to fall apart. I blew my nose in a Starbucks napkin. I sipped some coffee, trying to calm myself, trying to think. “Here’s what has to be done,” I said to myself. “You have to find Hooker before they hurt him. You need help. Call Rosa and Felicia.”

I was still on the steps in front of Starbucks when Rosa pulled to the curb. I was wired on two cups of coffee and a piece of cranberry cake. I’d managed to stop the flood of tears, but I was feeling horrible that Hooker had been snatched by the bad guys. And I was determined to get him back in useable condition.

Rosa was driving a magenta Toyota Camry that had been customized with a rear spoiler and a fluorescent red-orange-and-green-flame paint job. Felicia was in the seat next to her. And Beans was in the backseat, his nose pressed against the window, staring out at me.

I slid onto the seat next to Beans and my attention was caught by the arsenal tucked into the pockets on the seat backs. Three semiautomatics, two revolvers, a stun gun, and a bear-size can of pepper spray. Plus what looked like a sawed-off shotgun on the floor.

Felicia saw me looking at the guns. “You never know,” she said. “Better to be prepared, right?”

Prepared for what? World War III?

“What do we do now?” Rosa wanted to know. “We’re ready to go get those sonsabitches. Do you know where they took Hooker?”

“No. But I know where they’re staying. It’s the little white hotel on Collins that has the big front porch with the rocking chairs. I thought we could start looking there.”

“I know the hotel,” Rosa said, edging into traffic. “The Pearl.”

I sat back and called Skippy.

“I’m calling for Hooker,” I said. “Did you get anything on Anthony Miranda?”

“Turns out there are a lot of Anthony Mirandas. There’s a drummer, a New York cop, a politician, a guy who has a Zurich-based export company?”

“That’s the one. The exporter.”

“I knew it would be the exporter. From what I read, he mostly exports guns and illegal military technology.”

“Not good news. I was hoping for chocolate.”

“Where’s Hooker?” Skippy asked.

“You know how there are all those movie-star impersonators? You might want to try to find a Hooker double…just in case.”

“I’m getting too old for this shit,” Skippy said. And he hung up.

Rosa parked on the street, half a block from the Pearl Hotel. We left Beans in the car, guarding the guns, and Rosa, Felicia, and I took the lobby like here-come-the-hookers.