Runner-up 2

Hans pulled his motorcycle in front of the apartment building on Victory Boulevard. As he dismounted, he carefully placed his hand onto his neck wound. The ride to Van Nuys was rough; he almost passed out twice. If a cop saw him swerving, he’d have been pulled over for drunk driving for sure.

He raced to his apartment, unlocked the door and rushed into the bathroom. He felt vomit rising in his throat. While dealing with his sick stomach, from the bedroom he heard Joy say something unintelligible. He forgot she might still be here. He had to stop inviting his dates to “stay as long as you want.” Sometimes they did.

Thirty minutes later, Hans felt better. His neck was bandaged, he downed four aspirin and two scotches and had on a clean shirt. If he had his way, he would have lain down on the couch, put the bottle of scotch next to him and slept the rest of the day. That was not an option, however.

Joy had plenty to say to him while he was home, rifling questions about the blood on his neck and where he’d been all day, but he left without saying a word to her. He wasn’t sure his vocal cords worked, and besides, he had more important things to attend to.

Just after he sat down on his motorcycle, his cellphone rang. It was Palmieri. “You find her yet?” he asked.

“No,” Hans croaked. The aspirin hadn’t kicked in yet. He considered taking more soon.

“That dancer could ruin everything for us! Now, you listen to me. Find her, take care of her, then pick me up at the airport at 7. Go get one of my cars. You understand?”

“Sure,” he whispered. Boy, it hurt to even say one word. He hung up.

He turned on his bike and sped away.

Where to go?

He knew from movies not to go back to the scene of the crime. Yet he needed clues. He knew Carmen wouldn’t be there, but would there be some clue as to where she’d go in a pinch?

Hans knew some of her history: She lived with dangerous men, worked in sleazy joints and steered clear of cops. He figured she wasn’t someone who trusted easily. That meant she only had one or two places she could go to feel safe. She wouldn’t go to Jumbos, he figured. He needed to know where she’d go.

At Carmen’s, he was relieved to find no cops in front of the building. In a crappy neighborhood, a minute or two of violence was standard procedure, apparently. Or nobody trusted cops.

Hans rifled through Carmen’s stuff -- her dresser drawers, her closet, her desk. He didn’t find anything until he noticed her mirror. It was tucked neatly into the corner of the mirror, behind an earring tree. The brochure. To Cabo. The Post-It on the brochure read, “I’ll take you there, F.”

Falco. She trusted Falco. That’s where she’d go. To him.

Hans had no other choice. He got on his bike and headed to Beverly Hills.