A few cars passed, but no one paid any attention to me or Chez Tango. One guy in a Ferrari did honk his horn and shouted something at the woman, who was now passing the Bright Lights Motel. She gave him the finger, and he sped past. I caught her eye for a second, but she just shrugged and kept going. From the looks of her outfit—short, tight dress and stiletto heels—she was probably a working girl. If I asked her whether she’d seen anyone here, she’d most likely give me the finger, too. I turned back to the car. Jeff was going to kill me. I didn’t have my bag on me, which meant I didn’t have my AAA card. I didn’t have a phone, either. I had nothing. Except keys to a car that wasn’t going anywhere. And about fifty bucks, thanks to Bitsy. An inspection of Kyle’s Honda indicated that whoever had done this might have been sending me and only me a message. Because the Honda’s tires were intact. Who didn’t want me to leave? Or, more likely, who didn’t want me to keep moving forward with my little amateur investigation?
