The Isis Collar (Blood Singer #4)

The Isis Collar (Blood Singer #4) Page 34

“Okay,” I said after writing down a dozen addresses from the phone directory. “Here’s a list of the bars Mom used to hang out at. Some probably aren’t open during the day, but I couldn’t tell you which. How do you want to do this?”

Baker assessed me with that penetrating look that cops have—deciding whether I could be trusted. I stared back without flinching. I was fully on their side. I wanted Mom back on the island. If they could get her clean in that time, all the better. Finally, Baker took the piece of notebook paper from my hand and tore the list into thirds. She handed one piece to Natura and the third to me. “We’ll split up and trade phone numbers. Whoever first finds the prisoner calls the others. Do not approach her until I arrive. We have procedures and I intend to make sure they’re followed. Otherwise, we’ll lose custody and she’ll have to go back to prison on the mainland.”

I sighed. I really didn’t have the time or the energy for this. I was still worried about John. But he’s a big boy, fully capable of taking care of himself. Maybe it’s just like his sister thought and he was heavily infatuated with another woman and sleeping off a great date.

Did I just think another woman? And did it sting when I thought it? That implied things I didn’t want to consider. Crap.

So yeah, maybe thinking about Mom was a better bet. At least it was a problem that was easily solved. It also kept me away from the house where everybody was likely to find me.

Baker and Natura followed me to the parking lot. I found Rizzoli standing next to my car. Okay, this was the second time he was just too close to where I was to be coincidence. “Are you following me, Rizzoli? Can’t I even go to my shrink without being hounded?”

He didn’t smile. In fact, the look on his face made Baker and Natura tense. Of course, that made my muscles go rigid. “No, I wasn’t following you. I was following the person who was following you. Did you even notice you had a tail coming over here? I expect better from you.”

I thought back. Crap, that was just inexcusable. I should’ve noticed, unless they were very good. But I’d been too busy thinking about what to say to Gwen—how to even begin to explain where my head was at lately. I let out a small growl of annoyance. “No. That was stupid of me.”

“Yeah. It was.” He pulled out the device I’d seen earlier, the one with the blinking lights that checked for bad things. He pointed it at my car. Like before, a chirp sounded and then another and a third. But the fourth one … the one that should happen right before the remote turned green? It didn’t chirp. The remote turned red. “Someone wired your car.”

That widened my eyes. “Wired it to do what? Explode?”

He shrugged. “I just got here, so I’m not sure. I followed the other car until I lost them on the interstate and then came back. I got a plate number, but it was reported stolen.” He shrugged once more. “Not that that means it actually was stolen. That happens, too. We’ll check it out.”

But if it wasn’t the person who followed me— “This place is guarded hell for stout with wards up the wazoo. No way someone should have been able to get to my car to wire it.” Of course, after all my care to be sure I dusted the door handles at the restaurant, had I checked it when I’d come out? Duh. No. Plus, Gerry the guard still worked here. He has made it clear to me that he wants me staked and beheaded. He’s cofounder with Officer Danson of the “Celia Graves Must Die” Club. But if this was Gerry’s doing, it was over. He was going to get arrested and could rot in jail for all I cared.

“It needs to be checked out.” Rizzoli was stating the obvious, but apparently that’s what I needed today.

“Look … Dom.” His brows rose at my use of his first name. “On top of everything else going on in my life right now I have a family issue. I have to find my mother before she does something stupid. And if you know anything about my mom, she can take stupid to new heights.”

He frowned and his eyes narrowed, meaning he did know about my mother. “I thought she was in jail.”

I smiled, but it wasn’t pretty. “She was. That’s why I need to find her. These lovely ladies were sent to track her down.”

His eyes closed and he let out an annoyed noise. He reached into his pocket. “Take my car. I’ll stay with yours until the bomb squad gets here. I’ll try to make sure they don’t detonate the bomb, if that’s what it is.” He tossed me a set of car keys and put out his other hand, apparently expecting mine in return.

I caught the keys in the air and felt my stomach drop. I’d watched cop movies before and I knew what he meant. I looked at my beautiful convertible and winced. Yes, there are bombs that can’t be defused, but please, oh, please, let this be one they can. I love my car. I saved up for years to buy it. “I’ve got a trunk safe with extra weapons. If you can get them out if … you have to, I’d appreciate it. But try not to have to.” I pulled my key ring out of my purse, took the car key off, and handed it to him before turning and starting toward his boring sedan. Then I stopped and turned toward him. “Could I have that remote, too? I’d hate to lose your car, too.”

He made a noise I couldn’t decipher and tossed the box to me. “Push the red button on the bottom to link it to the car. Keep the remote with you. If anyone touches it, the remote will vibrate and sound a tone. I’ll get another one from the bomb squad guys. And for God’s sake, be careful, Celia.”

The way he said my name was the same way I’d said his—an acknowledgment of a new level for us. An I’ve got your back level. “Thanks, Rizzoli. Really.”

“Bring my car back. That’s thanks enough. It would be miles of paperwork if it, or you, blew up.” He didn’t smile, but only just. I stepped past Baker, who was writing down the license plate number on her torn notebook page. “It’s a common model. This will help to know it’s you and can also help when you call. If I ask for the code, give me the last four characters on the plate.”

Actually, that was a good idea. I wrote down 6B82 on my paper for good measure and saw Rizzoli look approvingly at us before he pulled out his cell phone and started making calls.

Rizzoli’s car wasn’t a bad ride, but it wasn’t comfortable, either. When you’re used to seats that fit perfectly and instruments in specific places, it takes time to get used to everything. Baker’s eco-rental, with a GPS unit mounted on the windshield, turned left at the stop sign and I went right. Driving was like managing a boat down the road instead of the roller skate I was accustomed to. By the time I got to my first stop, downtown, I was glad the sign read Closed, because there was nowhere to park that this thing would fit. Another good reason for a small car in this town. But I did have to admit that the tinted windows were better for my skin. It was the first time, other than night, when my arm didn’t hurt from being close to the window. Thank heavens I’d remembered to reapply my sunblock when I left the restaurant.

I was glad I’d written down the addresses in clusters by location. I wouldn’t want to drive back and forth across town because I was sure I was going to clip someone with that honking big trunk. I’d already had several horns blown at me for coming too close to front bumpers when I passed, which was mortifying.

Harry’s Bar & Grille was next on my list. It was a little hole-in-the-wall family bar with windows set high above concrete blocks and covered with neon beer signs. All the signs were lit, so it was a good bet it was open. I didn’t recognize any of the cars, but that didn’t mean Mom wasn’t there. She could have caught a cab. I parked in the lot and went inside. No one there but two old guys sipping from frosted beer mugs in the darkness. I have a picture of Mom in my wallet and I took it out to show them. “Have you seen this woman yesterday or today?”

The two men shook their heads. The bartender, a narrow-faced man with some Middle Eastern in his heritage, looked at the picture while wiping down a glass. “Yeah. Lana, right? She was in last night for a few hours. Hadn’t seen her for a couple of weeks before that. Everything okay?”

I pulled one of my business cards from my purse, not answering because no, everything was not okay. “If you see her again, could you call me?”

The bartender looked at the card and then tapped it with a fat finger when he noticed the name. “Oh. You’re the daughter? Boy, was she hot about something you did. Ranted to some lady for close to an hour. I didn’t listen other than to know she was mad.”

All I could do was shake my head. I’d heard it before. I spent my whole damned life being told by one person or another about the wrongs I’d done my mom. She’d tell anyone who’d listen about how I’d abused her some way or the other. Yeah, it always hurt that she considered me an annoyance or, worse, a threat. But that’s how Mom was. I shrugged. “She’s always mad about something. Could you call?”

He raised one shoulder. “If she comes in, but I doubt she will. Sounded like she and her new friend were taking off, heading up north.”

Well, hell. That wasn’t what I wanted to hear. “You actually heard them talk about leaving town? Any idea where they were headed?”

He paused, like he knew something but didn’t want to reveal any confidences. “They was just talking. Nothing definite. Just ranting. A lot of them do that—talk a good game and then nothing comes of it. But I’ll call you if I hear anything.” He turned away then and walked down the bar length, taking the empty mugs with him on the way.

Uh-huh. I’d definitely come back to this place if I didn’t turn up anything sooner.

The third bar was locked tight. The last place on my list was Sloan’s Tavern. I’d heard Mom mention this place more than once as having a “great party.” I could hear music inside, along with singing, which seemed a little unusual for not even four o’clock. I climbed up the two narrow, crumbling concrete steps from the sidewalk. Apparently this place hadn’t heard of the Americans with Disabilities Act … and their insurance rates must be in the stratosphere. Drunks and stairs don’t really mix.