Key West by Stella Cameron Page B

house again. This wasn’t a good time for a buddy chat. “The Barbiemobile, you mean?” he said. “Who could forget? A rusty pink heap of Mustang junk with a missing seat. Let me guess—you’ve finally accepted that it’s tasteless, too tasteless even to live in your warehouse with the rest of those useless junk Mustangs. Congratulations.”
    “It’s mint now, perfect,” Flynn said. “And it was only the third exception to all the other Dusk Rose vehicles. Guess why?”
    Chris figured he was paying for the infοrmation Flynn had given him. I don’t have a clue,” he said. “Why?”
    Flynn chuckled like the proud father of a brilliant child. “They all had black seats, unless they were custom. I know of two οthers with parchment seats. This baby’s got a histοry.”
    “Congratulations. You’ll hear from me.” Chris hung up. He meant what he said. But just not too soon.
    He lifted his helmet from his lap. It could be that Frank Giacano had chosen today to reemerge from the void.
    Sonnie was an odd little bird. An odd, wounded little bird. He doubted she’d ever been real substantial, but she must have had more body than she did now. He almost laughed. Maybe he ought to rephrase that thought.
    Feeling negative at the prospect of Frank Giacano’s return was way out of line.
    Chris eased on his helmet. Sometimes he missed the days when he’d worn a regulation brain bucket and ridden with the wind raking his then-shoulder-length hair. On more than one occasion his chief had accused him of enjoying his job too much. Chris had never protested because, dirty as Narcotics might be, it was a duty that really counted. Sometimes really counted, unless the perp mattered enough to the money men. In that case, he or she would be back on the streets before the ink dried on the warrant. After Narcotics, he’d moved to Homicide—the beginning of his end.
    He looked over his shoulder and prepared to start his engine. Sonnie’s front door opened.
    Chris rolled his booted feet from toe to heel, eased the bike backward and onto the sidewalk until a vine-draped telephone pole gave him some cover.
    Sonnie herself stood in the doorway, her arms crossed. She faced straight out, but from her stance, Chris doubted she was looking at anything in particular.
    A man came to stand behind her. Sonnie stepped onto the veranda that ran around the house, and she turned aside as if she refused to look at her visitor.
    Chris looked at him. The distance between them was too great to allow more than a general impression. Average height, dark curly hair, tanned. Chris thought the guy looked fit.
    The man touched Sonnie’s arm. She hunched her shoulders and walked away, to the corner at the right side of the house. Her visitor followed and Sonnie broke into an uneven run out of sight toward the back of the house.
    The man was chasing her.
    Tearing off his helmet, Chris hauled the Harley back onto its stand. He took off across the street and sprinted along a crushed coral path that skirted the veranda. He didn’t slow down until he’d almost reached a trellis loaded with shocking purple bougainvillea. Built between a veranda pole and a high
    hedge at the east edge of the property, the trellis divided the front garden from the back.
    Chris had put a foot on the veranda decking and made to swing a leg over the rail when the man’s voice, raised but not angry, reached him. Caution finally kicked in and Chris finished climbing—very quietly—over the railing.
    “Listen to me, please,” the man said with a heavy Italian accent. He sounded shaken. “Listen, Sonnie. You and I are friends. We were friends before you met Frank. I wanted—”
    “Stop. Please stop.” Sonnie was harder to hear. “You’ve been a good friend to me, the best.”
    “And I always will be. I will watch over you as long as I live. This is a promise I have made to myself, a promise my brother would expect me to make.”
    “Romano, I’m grateful for your kindness,