“You’re the PI working on the murders, aren’t you?” He said this as if it had just dawned on him.

“Savannah Levine.” I extended a hand.

“Pretty name. Suits you.”

He smiled, but there was nothing in it. Forced flirtation with a girl he’d decided wasn’t his type.

“So, Savannah, you’ve been in town a few days and still haven’t gotten around to me? I’m shocked.”

“Actually, I just arrived yesterday.”

“Ah.” A nod. A look that said I was full of shit and he knew it. Was there another six-foot-tall motorcycle-driving young woman in town? Somehow I doubted it, but I let the point pass. From what I’d heard yesterday, the guy was more than a little paranoid, probably figured I’d been stalking him for days now.

“You will want to talk to me, I assume, considering that I top Bruyn’s list of suspects.” He checked his watch. “I have time for breakfast if it won’t take long.”

“I’ve already eaten. Let’s make it lunch.”

His full lips pressed thin. After a second, he managed a smile, but it looked painful. “No can do, I’m afraid. I’m a busy man. It’s breakfast or nothing.”

I put on my helmet. “Nothing then. If you’ll excuse me, I need to make a trip into the city, check on something I found last night.” I got on my bike, then looked back at him. “You really should be more careful where you spend your money, Mr. Radu. And on what. Even when you think it doesn’t leave a trail, it does. Not one the cops can find legally but ...” I smiled. “That’s what I’m for.”

He froze, trying to figure out what I meant.

“Fine. Lunch,” he said, spitting the words. “One o’clock. There’s a McDonald’s off the highway. Meet me there.”

thirteen

thirteen

Not surprisingly, Cody followed me a little longer as he tried to see which “city” I was heading for. I turned onto the same back road I’d traveled with Michael, crested a hill, then hit the gas, slamming through a half mile of hills like they were ski jumps. Cody’s SUV couldn’t keep up. Once he was out of sight, I veered down the first side road and made my way back to town.

Paula Thompson lived in a mobile home. A very nice mobile home, I might add, on a piece of land I presumed she owned or rented, miles from any trailer park. The lawn was thick, and freshly cut, and the trailer had been painted in the last couple of years. An ancient sedan sat in the drive.

I rapped on the front door. Kayla answered.

“Did you find the killer yet?” she asked.

“I’ve only been on the job a day.”

She waited for a better excuse.

“I did fix that guy’s car, though.”