The sun had gone a little lower in the sky, and it beat down on the windshield. I squinted as I drove with one hand and found my sunglasses in my bag with the other. I slipped them on. Better. The palm trees in the median cast sporadic shadows. I hit another bump and the trunk opened even wider. I couldn’t see out the back window now.

I needed to tie down the trunk lid. I didn’t want to get stopped and end up with a traffic ticket. Granted, I needed to get to Chez Tango and find out about Charlotte, but Bixby was on his way, too, which made me feel better about a short detour. I turned right into a parking lot. It wasn’t until I pulled in that I realized it was the lot for Cash & Carry, that first pawnshop I’d visited. I drove as far away from the pawnshop as I could, easing the Bullitt into a spot in front of Tip Toe Nail Salon.

I got out of the car and approached the salon. I didn’t know whether they’d have any string, but it was worth a shot to ask. I pushed the door open.

The smell of acetate hit my nose, and I tried not to breathe too deeply. A short Asian woman scurried up to me, a big smile on her face.

“Hello, hello, welcome!”

She was so exuberant and the salon was so empty that I wondered if I was the first person to wander in there in a while.

“Hello,” I said, trying to be friendly, but my anxiety was growing. “I’m having-”

“Pick a color. Any color,” she interrupted, her fingers now wound around my forearm as she pointed to a wall filled with nail polish of all colors. She twisted my arm and began inspecting my fingernails. She began tsk-tsking as she explored my cuticles.

“I’m just here for some string,” I tried lamely. I was starting to get a little anxious about the amount of time I was wasting here.

She had no clue what I was talking about.

I pointed out at my car, the trunk gaping open like Moby Dick’s mouth. “I was wondering if you have some string. My trunk is broken. I need to fix it.” I did a little pantomime, since I was pretty sure by now that English was not her first language. “Tie it closed.”

She dropped my arm and nodded. “Yes, yes.” She shuffled past me, behind me. A bunch of balloons that had seen better days sagged from a hook near the door. She took one of the balloons and brought it to me. “Here,” she said.

It had lost enough of its helium that it hovered about three feet off the ground. It was a Bitsy balloon. I had no idea what to do. Should I accept it and be on my way?

The woman saw I was confused, and a huge grin took over her face. She took a pair of scissors and snipped off the balloon, handing me the ribbon.

“This will do?” she asked.

Okay, so sometimes I can be a little slow. She meant I should tie my trunk with the ribbon. I smiled. “Thank you,” I said, and took a step toward the door.

But she wasn’t going to let me off that easy. She pointed again at the nail polish. “What color?”

I didn’t have time for a manicure. But she did help me.

I made an appointment for the next morning. I hadn’t had my nails done in years. Since I was in high school and I would paint them black and draw little white skulls on them. I didn’t like the way my nails felt when they were painted and I wore the latex gloves.

I’d have to suck it up for a day.

The ribbon worked perfectly, and now my Bullitt looked like it was all dressed up for a party. Considering where I was headed, it was probably appropriate.

I was walking around the car, about to get back in and on my way, when tires screeched behind me. The truck careened so close to me that I felt the heat from its engine.

It slammed to a halt just inches from the hood of my car.

I’d seen that pickup before.

I didn’t have time to get into the Mustang before the pickup’s door opened and Rusty Abbott charged right for me.

Chapter 51

I slammed myself flat against my car as he approached, my heart pounding so hard, I was sure it would jump out of my chest like that thing in Alien. I opened my mouth to say something, but my throat was so dry, no sound came out.

He’d stopped just about a foot away from me. Too close for comfort.

On impulse, I jerked my leg up and out and watched him crumble as my foot connected with his groin. He grunted with pain, and as I got into the Bullitt, I could see it etched across his face.

I started the car, shifted it into reverse, and stepped on the gas. I left him on the pavement, breathing in my exhaust.

About a block away, I wondered if I shouldn’t have tried to talk to him. Ask him just what was going on.

Nah. Probably wouldn’t have gotten a straight answer anyway. And I might have found myself in the middle of an “accident.”

It was nice to know that in the moment, I could defend myself.

My hands were still shaking, though. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and carefully made my way up Las Vegas Boulevard.

Kyle’s CRV was the only vehicle in the parking lot. I wondered where Bixby was. Must be a pretty bad accident. I gathered up my bag, slung it over my shoulder, and locked my car. Not that it would do much good, since the trunk was held closed only by a red balloon ribbon.

I walked across the lot and pushed on the back door, where Kyle and I had gone in yesterday.

Locked. I banged on it a couple of times, but no one came.

I went around the front of the building to the more formal entrance. The awning stretched over the walkway; the Christmas lights weren’t on, but they sparkled anyway in the sunlight.

The front door was locked, too.

I took a deep breath, irritated. I took out my phone and dialed the number Kyle had called me from. The phone rang twice before I got a recording saying that it was Chez Tango and I should press one for hours, two for directions, or three for that night’s show lineup. I didn’t press anything; I just put the phone back into my bag.

Being a little OCD, I double-checked the parking lot, walking all around the building, careful not to step on the broken glass in the back by the Dumpster. My Mustang still sat next to the CRV.

But something was wrong. The trunk was open again.

There was no sign of the ribbon. It was gone.

Panic started to rise in my chest as I stopped looking down and started looking up, across the lot, out to the street. Had Rusty Abbott recovered enough to follow me?

I didn’t want to stick around long enough to find out. I’d have to call Bixby and tell him I was standing him up. Considering Charlotte’s behavior the last few days, I was starting to think she might be perfectly fine and this was some sort of trick.

I opened my car door and took another look around. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something that made my heart leap into my throat. But when I turned to look, it was merely a skinny stray cat scurrying past, the red ribbon trailing from its mouth. I let out a long breath. I’d had enough of this place.

I scooted into the car as quickly as I could and slammed the door shut. I started the engine and shifted into first, ready to make my getaway.

Then a gold Pontiac pulled into the lot, heading straight for me.

What was Jeff Coleman doing here?

Because it was Jeff; he was getting out of his car and coming toward me with a little bit of a jog, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

I lowered the window but didn’t turn off the engine.

“What are you doing here?” I asked as he stopped next to the car.

“Rusty Abbott said you might be here.”

I frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Abbott called me, said something about you and a nail salon and you attacking him.” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and the cigarette bobbed up and down.

“So, did you decide to just jump in your car and find me to make a citizen’s arrest?”