Free Driven to Ink by Karen E. Olson

by himself.
    I went into the bathroom. I didn’t have much choice.
    This room was no more inviting than the foyer. The same dingy walls, old-fashioned sink and vanity. It was a one-seater, everything in one room. It was clean; had to give them that.
    But it wasn’t soundproof. I could hear Jeff outside.
    “Heard that one of your singers got murdered.”
    Silence for a second, then, “Oh, yeah, Ray. He was an ex-con.” He said it as though all ex-cons find themselves murdered at some point. “The cops were here all afternoon yesterday. Bad for business.”
    “Who owns this place? Seems like it would be a gold mine.”
    “It is. And I do. Own the place. Anthony DellaRocco.”
    “Great idea with the Dean Martins.”
    “A wig and a tux, and any guy can look like Dino.”
    “But they all can’t sing, can they?”
    “They can all act drunk.”
    I wished Jeff would get on with it. All this chitchat about Dean Martins and who owns the place—who cared? We were here to find out about Lucci, weren’t we?
    “So Lucci was an ex-con?”
    “Um, yeah.” I could tell Jeff’s change of subject threw DellaRocco for a second. “He stole cars. I got a little worried with him here because every now and then he’d talk about how great a car that came through was. Like that red Mustang Bullitt a couple days ago. I was sure he was going after that one.”
    I froze. That was what Dan Franklin had said, that Lucci was eyeing my car.
    “That’s the car he was found in,” Jeff said casually.
    “Really? How do you know that?”
    “I’ve got a friend on the police force. He told me a few things off the record.”
    “Like what?” Everyone liked a bit of gossip.
    “He and another guy named Dan Franklin had some sort of rift. Franklin works here, too, right?”
    It dawned on me that if I could hear them, they could hear me, too. Or not hear me, since I wasn’t doing anything. I turned on the water, which, unfortunately, drowned out the conversation.
    Another glance around told me there was another door on the other side of the bathroom. Turning the water on a little higher to make more noise, I tiptoed over to the other door and tugged on it.
    It swung open, and I peered around the corner. Seemed like it led into a sort of dressing room, although instead of a wide mirror across one wall, there was only a long vertical one stuck on the back of a door across the room, like you’d see in a store dressing room. A clothes rack was a sort of open closet; tuxedos hung side by side. Must have been ten of them. On a table that reminded me of those you see at a church craft fair, foam heads wore black wigs. Lockers lined the far side of the room. Must have been where the Dean Martins stashed their stuff while they were crooning to newlyweds.
    A quick look around, and I stepped into the room, quietly closing the door behind me. Even though the cops had already been here, I wondered whether they missed something that Ray Lucci had left behind.
    A rat’s cage, maybe?
    As I stepped closer, I saw masking tape with names stuck on the locker doors. WILL, ALAN, DAN, LOU, and RAY. Dan must have been Dan Franklin; Ray was Lucci. I didn’t know whether I should care about the others, but I went over the names a few times in my head so I wouldn’t forget them.
    I paused, trying to hear whether anyone was coming. I couldn’t hear Jeff and DellaRocco anymore, and the other door to the ladies’ room must have been more soundproof because I couldn’t hear the running water, either.
    I didn’t want to tarry too long, so I stepped up to Ray’s locker and pulled it open.
    Nothing inside. Not a scrap of paper or even a crumb. It was as though someone had vacuumed it. Like the cops. Who’d been here yesterday, interrupting business.
    I shut the door.
    Curiosity got the better of me, and I moved to the locker marked DAN. There were clothes in here: jeans, a T-shirt, a pair of running shoes. Because I’m almost six feet tall, I didn’t even need to