Free Deal to Die For by Les Standiford Page B

his voice calm. “My wife checked herself out of a psychiatric clinic without letting anyone know, spent the night who knows where, and turned up here the next day, the minute she saw me leave. Now she and my daughter are gone.” He took a breath. “If you were me, what would you think?”
    Driscoll sighed. “I’m not arguing how you
feel
.” He started to say something else, then stopped, throwing up his hands.
    “What if you just had them looking for the car?” Deal said. “I could report it stolen…” His mind was already racing ahead. There couldn’t be another such vehicle in all of South Florida. The police would have her pulled over soon enough, Driscoll would get the word…
    “That ain’t the way it works,” Driscoll was saying, shaking his head. “You’re just gonna have to wait…”
    “The hell with that, Driscoll.” Deal had already punched in 911, had tucked the phone under his chin, was cursing himself for not having installed one of those antitheft homing devices they advertised on the radio all the time. Hide this little transmitter under the hood, then if someone steals your car, it sends out this little signal. The cops go out and pick up your car, haul the bad guys away. Except who were the bad guys in this situation, he wondered? A chill had descended over him, chasing away whatever satisfaction he’d gained with his little scheme.
    “Dade County Police. May I help you?” The female voice in his ear, curt, professional.
    “Yes,” he said, glancing at Driscoll again. He had to stay focused. Someone had to get the job done. “My car. Someone’s taken it…”
    Driscoll threw up his hands in disgust. For a moment, Deal thought the ex-cop was going to come after him, snatch the phone away.
    He was starting to back away when he heard Mrs. Suarez’s voice behind him. “
Madre dios
!” she cried, and Deal turned to see her pointing over his shoulder, out the living room window.
    “Someone’s stolen your car?” the voice repeated in his ear.
    Driscoll was already at the window, staring down at the street. “Put the phone down,” he called, disgusted.
    Deal’s gaze traveled out the window, feeling a lurch in his gut. There it was: The Hog, in all its resurrected glory, gliding to a halt below.
    As he watched, one wheel climbed awkwardly onto the curb, the passenger door swung open, Isabel’s tiny feet popped into view. In moments, she was running across the lawn, clad in some bulky furred jacket he’d never seen before, a massive ice cream cone aloft in her hand like a pink torch.
    He felt a flood of relief wash over him, felt himself break the phone connection, cutting off the police operator in midsentence. The driver’s door was open now, and Janice was getting out, coming around the nose of the clumsily parked Hog after Isabel.
    At least it seemed like Janice. It took him a moment to realize something was wrong. This Janice—this
woman
—who wobbled over the curb in tall spiked heels was also clad in a fur jacket, a stylish waist-length model of fox, maybe, wearing huge sunglasses and a scarf around her head. As Deal stared, she undid the scarf and shook her hair free, unleashing a mane of blonde curls.
    A
wig
, Deal thought, stunned. A
wig
??!!
    She stood on the sidewalk, adjusting a handbag that hung from her shoulder, reaching inside her coat to straighten her clothes. What there were of them.
    “Jesus God,” Driscoll breathed beside him.
    Deal stared, still trying to make sense of what he was seeing. A wisp of gold lamé blouse, a black leather skirt that barely reached midthigh, black fishnet stockings.
    She removed the sunglasses, flicked at something on an eyelash that seemed even at this distance to droop with the weight of mascara. She replaced the sunglasses, pouched her bright red lips into a smile, and started unsteadily toward the building.
    Down below they heard the workings of the front door, the sound of Isabel’s feet on the tiled entryway. The