Fistful of Benjamins (15 page)

“W
hat the fuck is going on?” I screech, cornering onto the next ramp. We speed past all the green arrows pointing us toward the exit.

“Why are the police after you? Why were they shooting?”

“I wish I fucking knew,” he barks, looking around.

My eyes zoom in on the gun clutched in his hand and I feel the knot in my throat grow. “Where did you get that?”

“Off one of the cops that was trying to kill me.”

“What?” My gut hits the floor.

“Look. I don't know how to explain it. There were crazy cops shooting up the hospital.”

“But what do you want—with me?”

“At the moment? To get the fuck out of here.”

“What happened to the cops?”

He glares at me.

Oh shit. There is a murderer in my car.
Tears swell and burn the backs of my eyes. I've heard about kidnapping cases in the news. They usually find people out in the desert somewhere with their heads missing.
Oh God. Oh God.

The tollbooth is up ahead. I breathe a sigh of relief, thinking this is my chance to send some kind of signal that I need help. As if reading my thoughts, he taps the gun barrel against my shoulder. “Don't stop.”

I panic. “What?”

“You heard me. Punch it,” he growls.

Scared, I close my eyes and floor it through the toll's wooden arm.

The attendant jumps out yelling and waving his arms.

“Don't stop! Don't stop!” my captor yells in my ear.

In my rearview mirror, the cop car bursts out of the parking deck. I'm scared he both will
and
won't be able to catch up with us.

The gun taps my shoulder. “Take the next right.”

Tears rolling, I follow orders—but the cop remains hot on our trail.

“Look. It's not too late to surrender. I'm sure that they'll go easier on you if you turn yourself in.”

He laughs. “The only thing those cops are interested in is putting a bullet in the center of my head, even though I didn't do anything but go for a late night stroll around the floor. Next thing I know there's a dead nurse at the station and psycho cops trying to take me out.”

“What? That doesn't make sense.”

“Tell me about it.” He huffs out a long breath, while his eyes dart around for an escape route. He truly does look bewildered and I wonder if perhaps he's telling the truth. But why would the police be after him?

“I don't—I can't think,” he admits frustrated.

I study him and then the distant flashing police lights. I got to make a decision—and I'm thinking about doing the wrong thing.

“Fuck it.” I make a hard left, flooring the accelerator.

“What are you doing? Where are you going?”

“You want to get away or not?” I challenge him.

A spark of paranoia flashes in his eyes. He's weighing whether he can trust me now.

“Don't worry. I'll get you out of here.” I corner onto a couple of more side streets and one back alley. Who ever thought that having a juvenile criminal history would come in handy? Ten minutes later, the flashing lights disappear from my rearview.

“You lost him,” he says, physically relaxing.

“You're welcome,” I say sarcastically.

Our eyes meet in the mirror.

“You believe me,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Should I not?”

He shakes his head. “I swear to you, I don't know what's going on. I only know those cops were trying to kill me.”

In Mexico, dirty cops are not that uncommon, but the question remains: why? A light goes off in my head and I answer my own question. “The article.”

“What?”

“Maybe someone recognized you from the article that ran in the paper.” My sleuth instincts kick into gear. “Are you getting any of your memory back?”

“No,” he answers so quick that I'm not sure that I believe him.

“Look. If I'm going to put myself out on the line then you're going to have to come clean.”

I'm telling you the truth,” he shouts. “I don't remember shit!”

“All right. All right.” Our gazes meet again in the mirror. His smoldering eyes have me raging a war between my head and my heart. My head is screaming for me to kick him out of the car while my bleeding heart chants that I need to help him. And like an idiot, I listen to my heart.

“W
hat the fuck do you mean he got away?” I thunder at a twitching Salazar. “I thought he was bedridden?”

Salazar shrugs his big shoulders. “I'm not sure what happened. Angel's contractors were supposed to do the job, but he found one of them dead in an elevator. Angel caught sight of the target and he went in pursuit—however the guy commandeered a vehicle that was leaving the parking deck.

“Did he happen to catch the license plate?”

Pause.

“Fuck! I'm surrounded by incompetent idiots!”

“He got a partial plate. Don't worry. We'll find him. You have my word on that.”

“Careful,” I warn. “I'm going to hold you to that.”

Salazar nods and then slowly backs out of the room.

I pour another brandy, toss it back and then pour another one. My baby is out there—somewhere. My one good working arm starts trembling.

My brandy spills all over the front of my shirt.

“Aargh!” I toss the glass across the room. It smashes against the wall—its crash doing nothing but elevate the rage boiling in my veins. “I'll find her,” I swear. I just don't know if I believe myself anymore.

I
've listened to John Doe's story three times. Each time he tells it, I find myself believing and trusting him more and more. But then again, I've always had a thing for bad boys.

“So what do we do now?” I ask.

“I appreciate that, but you've done enough. If I can stay here for the night, I'll be out of your hair first thing in the morning.”

I cross my arms. “Uh huh.”

“I'm serious. I don't want you to get any deeper in this than you already have.”

“So—fuck off. Is that what you're telling me? What if those cops got my license plate? Have you thought of that? Face it. I'm in this shit with you.”

“You can always say that you were coerced,” he says.

“Are you kidding me? They kind of seem like the kind of cops who are only interested in shooting first and then asking questions.”

“Then what? I—I don't know what you want me to say. I'm sorry that I've dragged you into this. I'd get you out of it if I could.” He looks like he's about to explode.

“All right. Calm down. I believe you. But you're going to need help—like a private investigator.”

“An investigator?”

“Well in order to find out what we're running from we first have to find out who you are—or at least who they think you are.”

“All right.” He thinks about it. “That makes sense. You know an investigator?”

“No—but there's always the phone book.”

“Y
es. The check is in the mail, I swear.” I cram my hands into my jean shorts for my office key. It's hot as hell in here, which is why cut-off jeans, bikini top, and flip-flops have turned into my staple office uniform.

“C'mon. Cut me some slack,” I huff into the phone as I stop in front the Vega's Private Investigations door. “I sent you one month's payment. I'm going to need a little more time on the other two months. Things are crazy here. It's not like I'm eating paper and shitting money. Give me another month. Business is going to pick up soon. I—” I catch a noise over my right shoulder. “Hold on, Sal.” I lower the phone. “Can I help you?”

“Uh . . .” A woman covered up from head to toe and sporting black sunglasses rushes up to me and starts looking around like she's expecting gremlins to jump out of the hedges. I'll be damned if this job doesn't bring out all kinds. She steps forward and extends her hand. “Hello. I'm Malena Castillo. I'm looking for a . . .” she glances down at a business card again. “. . . an Emilio Vega? Is he around?”

Not another one.
“I swear, I don't know how many of you chicken heads Emilio had stashed around town, but the gig is up. Your sugar daddy has bit the dust. He's gone—so go find a real job.”

The woman frowns and starts looking around so hard that she makes me itch.

The woman's shoulders droop. “I think there's some kind of misunderstanding. Is there any way we can go inside and talk?”

Hot damn. A client!
“Yeah. Sure. C'mon in.” Excited, I place the phone back against my ear. “Sal, are you there? Hello? Damn. He hung up.” I push open the door just when the woman waves to someone inside a silver convertible.

A tall, broad-shouldered man with a matching pair of black sunglasses climbs out of the car and jogs over toward us.

This should be interesting.
I open the office door and welcome them inside. Whatever the hell this is about, I hope these people can pay cash up front. “Please excuse the mess.”

“It's okay,” Malena says, looking around.

“I'm sorry but my husband Emilio passed away,” I tell them.

“Oh.” The couple shares a look. “We're sorry to hear that.”

“It's all right. The bastard had it coming.”

Shocked, they buck their eyes at me.

“I didn't knock him off—his best friend did the honors when he caught Emilio in bed with his wife. His
boy
permanently terminated their relationship. Saved me a bundle on divorcing his ass.”
Shit. I'm talking too much.

Awkward pause.

“Well . . . okay.” The guy smiles and backs away. “It was nice meeting you.”

“Wait.” I call after him. “If you're looking for a private detective, you still came to the right place.” I extend my hand. “I'm Amalia Vega. I'm a licensed private investigator, too. Please. Sit down.” I gesture to two cluttered chairs and then rush to clear them off. “Sorry. The cleaning woman . . .”

“She died, too?” the man asks.

I laugh, probably too hard, and then remind myself to calm down and not look desperate.

“Look, Ms. Vega—”

“Amalia. Please call me Amalia.” I drop into my chair.

“How can I help you two?”

“Uh . . . Amalia,” he starts. “I don't know if this is going to work out.”

“Why not?”

He stammers for a second and then looks to Malena for help.

“This is a delicate matter,” Malena says.

“I can be discreet,” I assure them.

“No. I mean . . . see. This man is a former patient over at the hospital. He's currently suffering from . . . memory loss. He doesn't remember who he is or where he's from.”

“For real? Like . . . amnesia?”

“I'm afraid so,” he says.

“Oh. Wait. I think I read about you in the paper.” I rack my brain. “They found you on a beach, right?”

“So I'm told.”

“Ooooh. I'd
loooove
to work on a case like yours.”

“There's more.” He removes his sunglasses and reveals an intense pair of black eyes. “Some people are trying to kill me. I have no idea why.”

“That's where we'd like you to come in,” Malena jumps in and then looks me up and down. “Excuse me, but how long have you been an investigator?”

“Well. Let's see. Emilio passed away almost two weeks ago
soo. . . .
about two weeks—officially.”

Their eyes buck again.

“
But
I worked alongside Emilio for ten years. I just always kept putting off getting my license until . . . well . . . it was too late.” I laugh awkwardly.

“Well . . .” he stalls, still inching toward the door.

“I'm flexible—and I can do the job.”

They exchange looks again.

“Look. You need a P.I. and I
reeeaally
need a job. Let's make a deal.”

He hedges. “How much?”

“Usually, there's a five-thousand-dollar retainer. Fifty-five dollars an hour, plus expenses.”

“That much?” Malena says.

“I can lower it to say . . . three thousand?”

“That's still too high,” she haggles.

I lean back in my chair. “
Okay
. I'm cheap—not free. A girl still has to make a living.”

“All right,” she says. “I can pull it out of savings.”

“I'll pay you back,” he promises her.

I watch the exchange, wondering what the deal was between these two. Friends? Lovers? Sugar Momma? “Do we have a deal?” I ask.

He nods. “Deal.”

We shake hands.

“Great.” I pull out a notepad and pen from my top drawer. “Let's go over what you do know. First things first: What's your contact information?”

“Excuse me?”

“Where are you staying?”

“You can take my number,” Malena interjects. “He's staying at
my
place.”

My brows shoot up. “Oh?”

“It's temporary,” he says.

My gaze shifts to Malena in time to catch her annoyed expression before it vanishes behind a plastic smile.

“
Sooo
you two are just friends?”

Malena's hands fall to her sides. “Of course.”

“Uh huh.” I return to my notepad. “And your contact info?”

Malena rattles off her phone numbers and her address.

“And . . . what do I call you?” I ask him.

“Call me?”

“A name. I have to call you
something
.”

“Oh. They were calling me John Doe at the hospital,” he says, shrugging. “So . . . John, I guess.”

“Humph. They're not too creative over there, are they?” I cock my head and evaluate him. “You don't look like a John, though. You think he looks like a John?” I ask Malena.

“
Nooo
. Not really,” she agrees.

“I don't?” he asks, frowning.

“No.” I tap my chin with the pen, thinking.

“How about Nicholas,” Malena suggests.

“Nicholas is nice, but he looks more like a Ramon, or a Tomas . . . or . . . Julian.”

He jerks as if I'd punched him in the gut.

Malena frowns. “What it is?”

“I'm not sure,” he says, “—but that name . . .”

“What? Julian?” I ask.

He nods. “Yeah. I think . . . it might be my
real
name.”