Free The Black Palmetto by Paul Carr Page A

set the glass down. “I'll check outside for his vehicle. Any keys in his pocket?”
    “Maybe. Hold on.” She pulled a set of keys from his right-hand pocket. One had a Mercedes emblem on it.
    After scanning over the few vehicles in the lot, Sam spotted the car on the street. Seeing no security cameras in the area, he stepped over to the Mercedes, got inside, and drove it to their motel room door. A large plastic drop cloth lay on the other bucket seat. More evidence that Bell had come there to kill him.
    He tore open the drop cloth package, spread the plastic over the passenger seat, and popped the right-side door. Back inside, he took the cap off Bell's head and put it on his own.
    “You like the dead man’s cap?” Simone asked.
    “Somebody might see me driving his car, and maybe they'll think it's him.”
    Glancing at the plump body, Simone said, “Fat chance of that.”
    They carried Bell's body out to the car, wrapped the plastic around him, and positioned him so he would ride low in the passenger seat. Sam buckled him in. The trunk would have been a better place for transport, but it would complicate Sam’s plans for later. Simone brought out the shotgun, and he propped it against the center console, its barrel tip on the floor at Bell's feet.
    It was deathly quiet as Sam eased the Mercedes out of the parking lot. Simone followed in his car. Driving toward town, he passed Chopin's, which was now closed, its parking lot empty. He was tempted to pull in and leave the car there, but Chopin probably didn't need that kind of grief, either.
    As he neared town, he saw the headlights of an approaching vehicle. It got closer and he was reasonably certain it was a police cruiser. His pulse pounded in his ears. If he got caught driving Bell's car with his dead body in it, it would mean a death sentence. Glancing at the corpse, he wondered if any of Bell's dead face might be visible in the headlights of the police car. With his eyes fixed on the road, he reached and found the seat-belt buckle, and popped it. The body fell over, and the plastic-covered head came to rest on the console between the seats. He snugged the cap down as close to his ears as possible, and slid down in the seat to seem more the dead man's height, which he guessed at about five-six.
    A right turn came up and he decided to take it. The cruiser slowed, reached the intersection a few moments after he did, and stopped, as if waiting to turn in behind him. As Sam spun the wheel, he felt the glare of the headlights in his eyes, and turned and reached for the radio, as if trying to locate a station, hoping the person in the police car wouldn't see much of his face. Once on the side street, he peered in the rear view mirror and watched the cruiser sit there, motionless. Then it accelerated on down the road and out of sight.
    Hopefully, Simone noticed the cruiser and hung back. Sam lifted the cap and wiped his perspiring face with his shirtsleeve. He made a couple more turns to get back on the highway and began scanning for a place to ditch the car.
    As he entered downtown, he passed a building about the size and shape of a trolley car. The sign out front, almost as big as the structure itself, proclaimed that Madame Zena could read your palm and tell your fortune. A Dumpster sat off to the side, between Madame Zena's and a jewelry store. Spotting no security cameras on either building, Sam turned in next to the Dumpster, cut the engine, and got out.
    Leaving the door open, he got back into the seat on his knees, and dragged the body over the console to the driver's side and into a sitting position behind the wheel. He removed the plastic, found the drop-cloth bag he'd taken it from, and stuffed the bloody shroud inside. After closing the door, he strode away, carrying the wadded plastic, watching for any sign that someone might have seen anything he'd done. All quiet. Simone hadn't showed, so he phoned and told her where to pick him up. As he eased past