A Song to Die For by Mike Blakely

cleaner, and that frustrated Franco. Frustration made him mad. Anger made him relentlessly, diabolically efficient. As he shifted and stretched in the car seat, he continued sorting through the late-night events in his mind.
    He had seen Rosa jump into the boat. Running to the end of the pier, he had gotten a pretty good look at the boat by moonlight. It was a classic wooden vessel—perhaps a Chris Craft or a Correct Craft. He had seen plenty of that sort on Lake Tahoe, where vintage watercraft were in vogue, but in backwater Texas, that had to be an unusual boat in this day and age of cheap fiberglass and aluminum hulls. It should be easy to spot on this lake.
    Thinking of the boat, he recalled the motor housing situated in the middle of the craft in such a way that passengers could walk around it. It had an old-fashioned flat glass windshield as opposed to the more modern, curved glass models. After taking those two ill-advised shots at the boat, Franco had stood, cursing, at the end of the pier as the boat cruised around a bend in the lakeshore. Refusing to give up, he had run back to his car, and sped away through the waterfront neighborhoods, trying to keep the boat in sight. Every quarter mile or so, he would kill the Shelby motor and listen for the growl of the marine engine. Once, between two lake houses, he saw the boat’s wake silvered in the moonlight, pointing like an arrow out to the open water of the middle of the reservoir.
    Then he had run out of neighborhood through which to pursue the craft. There were still big ranches along the lakeshore, separating the residential developments. Undaunted, he had sped back to U.S. Highway 71, where he had first caught up to Rosa, to find the next lake community on down the shoreline. Blue Cove, Horseshoe Bay, Marble Falls, Highland Haven, Granite Shoals, Kingsland … He had driven down to every boat ramp and marina he could find in his hasty search, in hopes that he might spot the old woody. But after spending hours circumnavigating Lake Lyndon B. Johnson, an impoundment on the Colorado River, Franco came full circle to Sunset Shores to find Rosa’s car still there.
    Using his shirttail to open her car door, wary of leaving fingerprints, he looked around the inside of the Corvette for leads. He found a name, Celinda, and a phone number scribbled on a receipt stapled to the top of a Jack in the Box bag. He yanked the receipt off the top of the bag to collect the phone number scrawled on it. This was his first lucky break since catching up to Rosa. He hoped this Celinda might lead him to Rosa, or the owner of the vintage woody that had whisked Rosa away. But he was also worried about how much this Celinda might know. How far had this thing mushroomed? He decided to conceal himself and watch Rosa’s car until dawn, on the off chance that someone might come to collect it.
    Now daybreak was upon him, birds were chirping in the branches, and Franco knew he should get to a phone and report to his father. His failure was not going to be easy to explain. He dreaded making the call. He was stiff from sleeping briefly in the car, and hungry, having eaten little on the mad drive from Vegas. Fishing boats could be heard motoring out onto the lake, and people in the neighborhood were beginning to stir. An elderly fisherman was walking down to the pier with a tackle box in one hand, rod and reel in the other. The old-timer paused a moment to admire Rosa’s cherry-red Vette. An early-morning jogger ran by. Franco began to get nervous about his Nevada license plates being noticed by someone, and decided to find a pay phone.
    As he reached for the ignition, he heard a siren. A police car came barreling down to the boat ramp at the marina, killing the siren as it stopped, leaving its lights flashing. Franco slid lower in the seat. Seconds later, a sheriff’s department pickup truck pulling a police boat appeared, and backed down to the boat ramp. He saw the old