Part 33 (1/2)

This was so not the man that Eve and I got drunk with on Mexican beer a couple of months ago. Werner had crawled so far back into his stiff, unfriendly sh.e.l.l-as far as we, the enemy, were concerned-he was going to crack his tail bone bending over backward to be polite.

I so wished I hadn't called him Little Wiener in third grade. Who knew the name would stick like frickin' forever? As had the animosity between us, with the occasional foray into a shadowy land of s.e.xual awareness, on the few occasions we were forced to try to solve a crime together.

I pulled myself from my deer-in-headlights trance. ”To what do we owe the pleasure, Detective?”

”We found an abandoned Wings truck in the Mystic Seaport parking lot.”

”And that's of interest to me, because?”

”It's empty. Key in the ignition. No fingerprints. No cargo. Nothing inside except an Internet map starting in New York City and heading straight to this address. Your name and the name of your shop are written in miniscule handwriting-very unabomber-on the top of the printout.”

I shrugged. ”We did get a seven A.M. delivery.”

No need to share my concerns. If there was a murder, it took place in New York City, not Lytton's jurisdiction.

”d.a.m.n,” Eve said. ”I guess my date with that driver is off.”

”You saw the driver, then?” Lytton pulled out his trusty notebook.

We both nodded.

”Hair color?” Lytton asked.

”Er.”

”Um.” I described the whole face cover-up.

The detective growled.

Fortunately, Eve had the uncanny ability to describe the rest of his body, his ”squeezable tush and quarterback shoulders” included, in detail.

”Any identifying marks?”

”He wore gloves,” Eve said.

”Emporio Armani, logo labeled. Men's dark brown Nappa leather.”

Eve and Lytton looked at me like I had two heads, both designer originals.

After giving me a double take, Eve turned back to Werner. ”He had a tat at the edge of the glove on his right lower arm. I wouldn't have seen it if I hadn't nearly dragged the glove off, trying to pull him closer. It was a capital B or an 8, in blue with red and yellow fire around it.”

”Why so interested in an abandoned truck?” I asked.

”A.P.B. It was stolen last night around midnight in New York.”

Oops.

My thought processes were having a parting of ways. Should I admit that I knew Dominique, a Broadway star, not a movie star, or that I was carrying a dress that might-if one had a wild imagination-be construed as evidence? Or should I let it ride because the crime, if there was one, had been committed in New York City?

My decision: Shut up, Mad. ”If we've answered your questions, Detective, I have an errand to run.”

Werner nodded toward my package. ”Is that the box the pseudo driver for Wings delivered?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Eve slip the note from Dominique into the folded newspaper.

I handed Werner the box.

He opened it and whistled. ”This is primo designer, isn't it? Big bucks?”