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“Thank you, Reverend,” I said, smiling weakly and nodding. “I wish the same for you and your husband. And drive safe.”
“Always,” she said. Then she put the Miata in gear and sped off into the gathering night.
Chapter
69
It began to rain as I drove across the bridge around eight thirty that evening. I was debating when to call Bree. A part of me wanted to pick up the phone right then, but I didn’t want to churn the emotions all over again while in public and behind the wheel. I’d call when I got back to my room at the Hampton Inn after checking in with Sergeant Drummond.
But neither Drummond nor Johnson answered the phone, and when I drove by Mize Fine Arts, I didn’t see any sign that the place was under surveillance. I drove on toward Mize’s house, knowing that I was doing what I often did in turbulent times. I was turning my mind to a mystery and an investigation as a way of escaping the rest of my life.
I should have gone somewhere to eat, then returned to my hotel and tried to get an earlier flight back to North Carolina. Instead, I was in front of Mize’s hous
e, relieved to see Drummond’s vehicle right where I’d left it.
I drove around the corner, parked out of sight, and strolled down the sidewalk as nonchalantly as an African American male can in Palm Beach. Johnson saw me in the passenger-side mirror and unlocked the car.
I climbed in the backseat.
“Success?” Drummond asked, looking at me in the rearview.
“It was a great help. She was a great help.”
“Then we’re happy.”
“Yes, thank you, Sergeant.”
“Least we could do.”
“Given up watching the store?”
Drummond gestured through the windshield. “Those lights went on about an hour ago. Don’t know if it’s part of a security system or if Mize is in there.”
“How long are you going to sit on him?”
“I don’t know. Until I—”
“Sarge,” Johnson interrupted. “Garage door’s going up. Which car’s it gonna be? The Lexus or the…”
The rear end of a dark green convertible backed out of the garage into the turnaround. The top was up, and the car had to have been forty years old. It looked to me like something Sean Connery might have driven in his years as Bond.
“An Aston Martin DB Five convertible,” said Johnson appreciatively. “A very rare car. A very fast and nimble car. Roadster.”
“We’ll stay with it,” Drummond said, starting the car.
The roadster pulled out, revealing the silhouette of a tall figure behind the wheel. The car turned away from us, heading north at a rapid but legal clip toward Worth Avenue and Mize’s shop.
“You going to pull him over?” Johnson asked.
“I want to see where he goes at night after ignoring our phone calls and door knocks,” the sergeant said.
“Maybe he goes to Coco’s place,” Johnson said.
“You’re thinking they’re in this together?” Drummond asked.
“Why not? Coco could be turning Mize onto his targets. Or vice versa.”
Drummond frowned, glanced in the mirror at me. “A woman serial killer? Isn’t that rare?”
