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Prufrock measured out his life in coffee spoons.
Rebecca sympathized with the compulsion. She wouldhave delighted in counting out days of productive work, carsdelivered on time, payrolls met. Nights of uninterruptedsleep. Or borrowed books of poetry read and returned.
Instead her life was littered with dead bodies.
Val's panicked call had come around eleven o'clock on whathad been a normal Tuesday morning. His cackle echoedthrough the line, competing with the background voices ofmen at work, the buzz of official activity. Rebecca's first fearhad been a logistics mix-up at the docks. Val giggled, said no.Her second fear was worse -- a twisted fender, shatteredheadlamps, a wire wheel bouncing along the berm of theWashington-Baltimore Parkway.
She closed her eyes. "Tell me you didn'twreck the Bentley."
The day before, she'd received a package from Todd Shelley-- a prayer rug he'd haggled for in some Turkish bazaar.Pinned to it had been a four-color postcard of the interior ofSanta Sophia with the message: "Pray for the Bentley. 'Something that made the car go broke. And it must have been important'cause now it don't go at all.' " The quip was fromNASCAR driver Michael Waltrip. Shelley was trying to befunny. Rebecca had not been amused. Especially when sheread the postscript saying that the 1925 3-Litre would arrivein Baltimore on July 22.
Three days ago.
Val, her youngest mechanic, had begged a flatbed from hiscousin's wrecking yard. That morning, he took Paulie andleft Vintage & Classics at seven for the Dundalk docks inBaltimore. Instead of being on their way back with the car,they were being hassled by District police.
Val yelled into the phone to be heard over a siren comingcloser. Cops wanted to search the 3-Litre. Said they hadprobable cause, didn't want to wait. Wanted him to sign aconsent form. No way was he letting them near the car. Thatwasn't his call. And, no, he couldn't contact the owner. Theguy was schlepping around China in a Hispano-Suiza.
Then an officer had come across Rebecca Moore's nameon the transit papers. He said she'd do.
Rebecca had pressed the phone to her ear, sagged againstthe rough edge of a workbench and stared at a splat of oil onher steel-toed boots. Palms sweating, she heard Val screechthat blood was dripping through the floorboards of theBentley.
Rebecca downshifted, flicked the turn signal and exited theCapitol Beltway at Route 214, Central Avenue. She was inthe easternmost point of the District of Columbia, a far cryfrom the Capitol. She poked along until she reached DivisionStreet, took it north. With each turn the per capita incomedropped, as did her spirits. Midway down Fifty-sixth Streetshe squeezed the MG against the curb behind a station wagonwith four flat tires. She was out of the car before Jo Dela-croix, her friend and lawyer-in-need, could locate the pullcord to open his door.
Across the street, the Bentley baked in the sun. It waschained to a flatbed, draped with yellow scene-of-the-crimetape. The green paint was streaked with fingerprint powder.The tonneau was unsnapped and flung back, falling over thetail end of the car like a serape. The rear door was open. Anamorphous bundle hugged the floor.
Emergency medics wheeled a gurney toward the car. Alarge man in a polyester suit stopped them. One nodded; theother bounced on the balls of his feet. A gust of wind slappedthe wrapper from a Whopper against the leg of her jeans. Shebent to peel it off, reluctant to take her eyes from the Bentley.It was déjà vu all over again. Last crime, the car had been inher restoration shop with a splatter of blood on the door edge.This time it was parked in a run-down city neighborhood,drenched in the stuff. There was no sign of either Val orPaulie.
What was the car doing here?
Chained to the rollback, it squatted in front of Naomi'sBoutique like an automotive hunchback, shadowing a displaywindow already obscured by orange plastic to protectNaomi's goods from sun fade. The surrounding block waslittered with abandoned vehicles, emaciated row housesbranded with graffiti, storefronts boasting metal grilles forafter-hours protection. Derelicts huddled amid garbage cans.One balanced on a lid, stared at the Bentley like the lookoutin a crow's nest. Next door an Hispanic pretended to restackproduce while he watched the policemen. A homelesswoman, layered in cast-off clothing too warm for the day,stepped on and off the curb, mumbling.
Val had complained about a stupid bag lady. Said thatwhile they were in the store, she'd crawled onto the flatbed tonap in the sun. Beat cops spotted her. Crossed the street to roust her. When she rolled off and stood up, her backside hadbeen covered in blood that wasn't hers.
Rebecca sensed Jo standing an arm's length behind her.
He waited for her to turn before informing her that the employeeshad been taken to the Sixth District Police Headquarterson Forty-second Street for questioning. An officerwould drive him there. Rebecca nodded. She would followthe transporter to the impound lot and see the car safelystowed, then join them. Val Kearny was just eighteen; PaulieAntrim was a naive rich kid, amused at life. She fretted overwhat they'd already said to the police. They needed theirlawyer.
She needed her workers.
Rebecca started across the street. The man in the shapelesssuit glared as she advanced, blocked her progress midway.He was the size of an average football tight end, six-two,maybe six-four if the hunched shoulders ever straightened.He introduced himself as Lieutenant Theodore Schneider.He flashed his badge, widened his stance to center his bulk ...
Dangerous Curves. Copyright © by Judith Skillings. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
Excerpted from Dangerous Curves by Judith Skillings
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