Murder at The Blues Stop Read online

  That wasn’t going to happen.

  But other than that, I did as instructed, sorting through an array of license plates and grabbing a Mississippi plate to clip onto the car. Finding the hidden panel with the cash and gun wasn’t difficult. I knew everything I did was one hundred percent illegal, but getting nabbed by a Wisconsin cop seemed to be the least of my worries.

  Once at the registration desk, I plunked down the cash and snagged a bag of ice. I figured I’d need about three bags to even make a dent in the bruises and lumps on that man’s body, but for right now I’d settle for one.

  I went back to the car and opened the passenger door. With my arm firmly about his waist, I struggled to maneuver him out of the car. He wasn’t much help even though he tried.

  We shuffled to the room with the awkwardness of two people tied together in a three-legged race. Propping him against the wall, I opened the lock with the key card and maneuvered him inside.

  He glanced around as if trying to comprehend snatches of conversation he couldn’t quite remember. “Where in the hell are we?”

  Although his voice carried the kick-ass tone I’d become accustomed to, his body swayed. For a moment, I thought he might do a face-plant onto the floor. At which point I’d have to call it a day. I’d never get him back up again.

  “Milwaukee.”

  His mouth twisted to the side, at least that’s what it looked like. “I hate Milwaukee,” he spat out.

  I’d gone through all this, and now he was being picky about where I’d ended up? I made a mental note to yell at him later. “What’s wrong with Milwaukee?”

  “Doesn’t matter now. I’m tired. I want to lie down.” Feeling his way, Shane found the edge of the bed and dropped down on it. “I feel like crap.”

  “I’ve got news for you. You look even worse.” Flipping on the light, I examined his face.

  Both eyelids were purple, and his eyes were swollen shut. He had a huge lump on the right side of his forehead, equally as colorful. Scratches and contusions covered the remainder of his face and neck. He looked like a poster boy for the intensive care unit.

  “Thanks. I feel much better after that vote of confidence.”

  “I’m serious. You should see a doctor.”

  “No.” Even though it was one word, it sounded like a big, long sentence the way he said it.

  Although I’d known he was going to say that, I’d hoped he’d somehow changed his mind. He obviously had no idea of my catastrophic incompetence when it came to difficult situations. “Are you sure nothing’s broken?”

  “Hell no. I think everything’s broken.”

  “Okay, now I know you’re exaggerating.” At least I hoped so.

  “Who’s exaggerating? I’m dead serious.”

  “Please don’t use that expression. It’s a little too close for comfort right now.” I settled down next to him on the bed and tried to catch my breath.

  “I need some sleep.” He flopped back onto the bed.

  “You need 9-1-1,” I muttered, knowing there wasn’t a chance in hell I could convince him to do anything about his precarious medical condition.

  “I’ve been worse.” With his legs hanging off the edge of the bed, not exactly the most conducive position for sleeping, he nonetheless began to snore.

  Sliding from the bed, I went into the bathroom and grabbed a towel. Next, I deposited the ice inside and neatly folded the edges around it.

  Going back to the bed, I bent down and placed the ice-towel across his eyes. Since I’d used the plastic bag from the ice to encase it before putting the ice in the towel, I figured it would take a while for things to get sloppy wet. I pulled his t-shirt out of his jeans, ready to examine his torso.

  “What the hell?” He pushed away my hands.

  “If you won’t go to a doctor, at least let me bandage you up or something. I’m pretty sure you’ve got some broken ribs.” I was definitely not cut out for nurse detail. “And I’m sure that cut on your forehead could use a stitch or two.”

  “Not now. Later,” he mumbled.

  “Now. Then I’ll leave you alone.”

  He heaved a sigh and peered at me from his good eye, which wasn’t very good at all. “You’re not going to let me sleep until we do this, are you?”

  I shook my head and tried not to think about all the possible things that could go wrong. I so hated being in charge.

  “Why me?” he muttered but pulled at his t-shirt nonetheless. With my help, he managed to get it over his head.

  Amidst the purplish bruising, a big scar ran the length of his abdomen. Rather than new, this scar was old and ugly, a jagged section of skin raised and pink. The suturing hadn’t been done by a doctor. While I wanted to ask the when, where, and who of it, now didn’t seem to be a good time.

  “I’m going to run to the drugstore and get some supplies.” Without another word, I ran across the street and picked up painkillers, toothpaste, bandages, antiseptic cream, gauze, baggies for the ice, and an elastic wrap. When my stomach grumbled, I grabbed some snacks and a couple liters of water and pop.

  My heart was beating triple its normal rate when I opened the door to the room. While I hadn’t been gone longer than ten minutes, I couldn’t help obsessing about the possibility that someone had found us.

  To my relief, he was where I’d left him. Once settled, I unwrapped the elastic bandage and read the directions along the back. ‘For sprains and pulled muscles.’ I glanced at his chest. That didn’t seem to apply, but I could swear I’d seen people with this thing wrapped around the chest when they had broken ribs.

  While I tried to decide what to do, he stirred and asked for painkillers. Handing him a bottle of water, I placed my palm under his head and lifted it so he could swallow. “Here.”

  He gulped down the pills. I helped him move up on the bed so his head rested on the pillow. I removed the ice pack from his eyes and used a washcloth to wipe down his face. Next, I dabbed the antiseptic cream on the cuts.

  After carefully reading the instructions, I used a butterfly bandage to cover the largest cut, about two inches above his right eyebrow. No doubt he’d scar, but he didn’t seem to be the type of guy who’d worry about a nick or scratch here or there.

  Next, I needed to tackle that wrap bandage. I tried to ease it underneath him, but quickly recognized I couldn’t do it without his help.

  “Shane, sit up so I can wrap this around your chest.” When he didn’t move, I tried to pull him to a sitting position.

  “Ooouuch,” he wailed, suddenly emerging from his near comatose state.

  “Don’t be such a baby.” If I’d hurt him, I hadn’t meant to. But I’d be the first to admit I didn’t know what I was doing and was in way over my head. Being in charge wasn’t my thing. Way out of my comfort zone, I should be insisting he see a doctor. Pronto.

  “You’re going to kill me,” he blurted out.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Despite my feelings of inadequacy, I was all he had. Which was really bad news for him. “This bandage will make your ribs feel better.”

  He groaned. “Nothing is going to make me feel better. Now will you leave me alone?” No sooner did he say the words, then he somehow heaved himself off the bed and headed for the bathroom. I hadn’t seen him move anywhere near that fast since finding him in the alley.

  I could hear him retching. While I didn’t know much, I did know that was a sure sign of a concussion.

  I heard the toilet flush, then the water running at the sink. Five minutes later, the water was still running.

  I knocked on the door. “Don’t you dare die in there. You’re much too heavy. I’ll leave and take your crappy car with me.”

  The door opened, and he exited. His head glistened with water as if he’d stuck it under the faucet. He’d managed to remove his pants and wore a pair of blue silk boxers and nothing else.

  His torso was long and lean with a defined six-pack amongst the bluish-purple bruising and the nasty scar running through
the center. His shoulders were wide, and his arms long and defined by muscle. The legs peeking from beneath his boxers were likewise muscled.

  “You have one fine body.” I knew it wasn’t the time or place, but if I thought about the time and place and how much trouble I was in, I’d no doubt dissolve into tears. “Except for all that black and blue, and those welts and bumps, that is.”

  He turned, attempting to look at me with eyelids that opened no more than a fraction of an inch. “Say that to me when I can do something about it,” he mumbled. “Where’d you put the gun?” With his eyes swollen to slits, he had to negotiate his way back to the bed with his hands.

  Which brought me smack-dab back to reality. Too bad. It was a nice fantasy to imagine we were here for a casual sex romp.

  “The nightstand.” To be honest, even in his condition, he probably was a better shot than me. While my brother Enrique had insisted I engage in target practice with him occasionally, and kept encouraging me to buy one for protection, I had no interest. I knew enough about guns to not shoot myself in the foot, but that’s where it ended.

  He moved to the bed on the side closest to the nightstand and slid under the covers. Feeling around along the top, he located the towel with the ice and held it to his face. Almost immediately he began to snore, which made me feel a lot better. At least he wasn’t moaning.

  But as the quiet settled in, I started to freak out. As I munched on a bag of sour cream and cheddar potato chips in the hope it would make everything right, the opposite thing happened.

  Panic began to storm inside me as I paced the room. I didn’t have a clue what to do. Who could I call for help? My oldest brother Enrique was out of the country with his wife Sammie. My mother wouldn’t be much help. My sister Francesca owned a chain of hair salons, not exactly a good fit for what I needed. My younger sister, Juliana, was a state’s attorney, but she’d probably make me feel guilty for doing everything wrong.

  That still left my younger brother, Joaquin. Even though he was fresh out of Quantico and working for the FBI, he still was my baby brother. How humiliating would that be?

  Extremely.

  There was no question I needed help. I couldn’t continue to do this alone, even if I had managed to get us both this far. It might be days before Shane could be of any help. Would we make it that long?

  Joaquin was the logical answer. After we were in the hands of the FBI, I would make Joaquin pinky swear a conspiracy of silence to the remainder of my family.

  I threw the bag of chips into the chair and strode toward the phone on the nightstand. With a plan in mind to enlist my more able-minded sibling, I felt so much better. My heart rate slowed, and I could almost breathe normally.

  I picked up the receiver and began to dial. Before I could finish, Shane’s hand shot out and grabbed my arm with a steel-like grip.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Figures, half dead he was more alert than me. “I need to call my brother; he works for the FBI. I’m sure he can help us.”

  His grip loosened, and his voice got gravely. “Nobody. We trust nobody.”

  “But he’s my brother.” Did Shane not get that this whole thing was out of my league? If he had even the tiniest inkling of how incompetent I was, he would be begging me to call the nearest police station. Sure, I’d managed to get us this far, but how long could my luck hold out?

  “I can’t trust anybody else.” His voice was quieter, much more controlled. I couldn’t tell if he was losing consciousness or overcome with exhaustion. He lay back on the bed.

  “If I told Joaquin to handle things and not involve anyone else, he would.” At least I hoped he would. While new to this police stuff, he still had to be miles better than me. I was losing this argument big time and could feel the resultant spike in my pulse. Once again, I began to hum to keep myself from going over the edge.

  “Sometimes that’s impossible.” His eyes remained closed as he whispered.

  Even though I came from a long line of strong females, clearly, he was delusional if he put his faith in me. I’d never been cut from the same cloth as my siblings, mother, or grandmother.

  “Don’t you get it? I’m not ready for this. I’m not an in-charge kind of person. I get confused picking out nail polish. If you’re relying on me alone, I’m going to get us both killed.” I began to pace again, panic rising in me like a volcano ready to blow.

  To my utter frustration, he only grunted and settled in under the covers.

  “I don’t want to be here. I’m scared to death every second. I’m scared you’ll go into a coma. I’m scared they might have followed us here because I’m not too good at avoiding a tail. I’m scared that any minute they’re going to burst inside with machine guns and mow us down. I’m scared.” Tears rose from somewhere deep inside my chest and began to dribble down my cheeks. “I want to leave.”

  “This isn’t your mess. Take my car. I’ll be fine.”

  He’d given me a way out, but I didn’t consider taking it. There was no way I could ever live with myself if I left him here. Instead, I stripped off my leather skirt and tight silky white blouse and slipped under the covers next to him.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The knock at the door, accompanied by the words “maid service” in a Spanish accent nearly sent me into cardiac arrest. I turned to find Shane with the gun leveled at the door, even though his vision had to be marginal.

  “I’ll get it.” He attempted to get out of bed, but I stopped him.

  “No. I will. If it’s not the bad guys, you’re going to scare the crap out of the maid who’ll probably report that Frankenstein pointed a gun at her.” I glanced at the clock, a good sixteen hours of shut-eye.

  I slid out of bed and moved toward the door. With my hand on the frame, I peered out the peephole. There were two women dressed in used-to-be-blue-but-nearly-washed-white maids’ outfits. With the chain in place, I opened the door a crack and spoke to them in rapid Spanish. They giggled and left.

  “Did you just tell them we were on our honeymoon and didn’t want to be disturbed?” Shane sat up in bed and put the gun back on the bedside table.

  “It was the only thing I could think of to get them to leave us alone.” I hesitated a second. “You speak Spanish?”

  “Not great.” As if those few words had exhausted him, he slid back into the bed. “Everything, including my eyelashes, hurts. But the good news is, my Johnson is working. What the hell are you wearing?” That was the longest string of sentences he’d uttered since this whole thing started. Maybe he was going to live after all.

  I looked down, remembering I’d been sleeping in my underwear. My black thong and miniscule bra didn’t leave a lot to the imagination. Based on his comment, he must have more eyesight than he had yesterday.

  Self-conscious, I slid on my blouse. “I couldn’t very well sleep in my clothes. Like you, just my underwear.”

  “Doesn’t look quite the same on me.”

  Instead of responding, I slipped into my skirt.

  That blow to the head must have softened him. He wasn’t the cantankerous Shane I knew, which scared me more than I cared to ponder for very long.

  Almost as if I’d imagined the conversation, he immediately went back to sleep.

  After checking Shane one more time, I peered out the door. I hated to leave him, but there were things I had to get, namely food and a change of clothes.

  I’d spotted a big box store when we came into town the other morning. Although it was not a place I’d ever shopped, it seemed like a logical spot to get what we needed.

  Wearing a leather skirt, silky blouse, and four-inch heels, and attracting a little more attention than I would have liked, I made my way, aisle by aisle, through the vast space. Starting with necessities, I picked up whatever I could think of.

  Shane’s clothes were bloody and ripped. Once he came around, he’d definitely need something to help him blend in until we could take the next step. Since I’d checked th
e size of his discarded clothes before I left, it was easy to pick up a pair of jeans and a couple of t-shirts plus a baseball cap. After adding some underwear and socks, I was on my way to the women’s section.

  Ignoring the finicky voice in my head about lack of designer labels, I rummaged through the racks for my size. Once I found some t-shirts, jeans, a sweatshirt, gym shoes, and underwear, I went through the food department, picking up snacks to help us through the next day or so. Then I hit the electronics section, I grabbed a charger for my iPod, a necessity as far as I was concerned. With the wad of cash Shane had stashed in his trunk, I had more than enough to pay for the purchases.

  While not gone long, I felt as if I’d been away for days. A nagging kind of fear twittered at my spine. With his eyesight as poor as it was, I hadn’t bothered to leave him a note, but I felt guilty at the idea he might wake up and think I’d left him. And I still had this feeling that something bad was about to happen.

  Being in charge was not good for my psyche. I didn’t have the steel nerves required. And never would. Didn’t this prove it? I was jumping at shadows and imagining things that weren’t there.

  Shane. He had to be all right. My premonition was simply a case of paranoia after all I’d been through.

  I pushed the cart out the automatic doors and stopped when I spotted the headline of the newspaper in the stand.

  Chicago Bar Owner Sought for Questioning

  I put change into the slot, pulled out a copy and scanned the article. The police believed Shane shot Mack, or at least he was wanted for questioning, which I knew was cop-speak that meant he was halfway to trial. That was ridiculous. I’d seen who killed Mack, and it wasn’t Shane.

  I’d known when we left town, as Shane had insisted, that we had been making a mistake. Of all the times for me to ignore my intuition, that had definitely not been the time.

  At a convenience store, I picked up a burner phone, another local paper as well as the Chicago Sun Times, the Chicago Tribune, and the Daily Herald. Once I returned to the hotel, I would scour each and every one of them, compare the details and find out how much trouble Shane was in. With a little luck, he’d be coherent enough to help.