High Five (16 page)

“Okay,” I said, “let's show the pictures to Irene Tully.” What the hell. If she freaked out I'd write it off as an average day. I dug her address out of my bag. Apartment 117, Brookside Gardens. Brookside Gardens was an apartment complex about a quarter mile from the strip mall.

“Irene Tully,” Grandma said. “The name sounds familiar, but I can't place her.”

“She said she knew Fred from the seniors' club.”

“I guess that's where I heard of her. There's lots of people in that seniors' club, and I don't go to the meetings all the time. I can only take so much of old people. If I want to see loose skin I can look in the mirror.”

I turned into Brookside Gardens and started searching for numbers. There were six buildings arranged around a large parking area. The buildings were two-story brick, done up in colonial modern, which meant the trim was white and the windows were framed by shutters. Each apartment had its own outside entrance.

“Here it is,” Grandma said, unbuckling her seat belt. “The one with the Halloween decoration on the door.”

We walked up the short sidewalk and rang the bell.

Irene looked out at us. “Yes?”

“We need to ask you about the disappearance of Fred Shutz,” Grandma said. “And we got a picture to show you.”

“Oh,” Irene said. “Is it a picture of Fred?”

“Nope,” Grandma said. “It's a picture of the kidnapper.”

“Well, actually, we aren't really sure Fred was kidnapped,” I said. “What Grandma meant was—”

“Take a look at this,” Grandma said, handing Irene one of the photos. “Of course, the suit might be different.”

Irene studied the photo. “Why is he in a casket?”

“He's sort of dead now,” Grandma said.

Irene shook her head. “This isn't the man.”

“Maybe you're just thinking that because his eyes are closed, and he don't look so shifty,” Grandma said. “And his nose looks a little smushed. I think he might have fallen on his face after he blew his brains out.”

Irene studied the picture. “No. It's definitely not him.”

“Bummer,” Grandma said. “I was sure he was the one.”

“Sorry,” Irene said.

“Well, they're still pretty good pictures,” Grandma said, when we got back to the car. “They would have been better if I could have got his eyes to open.”

I took Grandma home and bummed lunch off my mom. All the while I was looking for Bunchy. Last I saw him was Saturday, and I was beginning to worry. Figure that one out. Me worrying about Bunchy. Stephanie Plum, mother hen.

I left my parents and took Chambers to Hamilton. Bunchy picked me up on Hamilton. I saw him in my rearview mirror, pulled to the curb, and got out to talk to him.

“Where've you been?” I asked. “Take Sunday off?”

“I had some work to catch up on. Bookies gotta work sometimes too, you know.”

“Yeah, only you're not a bookie.”

“We gonna start that again?”

“How'd you find me just now?”

“I was riding around, and I got lucky. How about you? You get lucky?”

“That's none of your damn business!”

His eyes crinkled with laughter. “I was talking about Fred.”

“Oh. One step forward, two steps backward,” I said. “I get things that seem like leads and then they go nowhere.”

“Like what?”

“I found a woman who saw Fred get into a car with another man the day he disappeared. Problem is, she can't describe the man or the car. And then something weird happened at the funeral home, and it feels to me like it might tie in, but I can't find any logical reason why.”

“What was the weird thing?”

“There was a woman at one of the viewings who seemed to have a similar problem to the one Fred was having with the garbage company. Only this woman had problems with her cable company.”

Bunchy looked interested. “What kind of problems?”

“I don't know exactly. Grandma told me about it. She just said they were similar to Fred's.”

“I think we should talk to this woman.”

“We? There's no we.”

“I thought we were working together. You brought me lamb and everything.”

“I felt sorry for you. You were pathetic, sitting out there in your car.”

He wagged his finger at me. “I don't think so. I think you're getting to like me.”

Like a stray dog. Maybe not that much. But he was right about talking to Margaret Burger. What was the harm? I had no idea where Margaret Burger lived, so I went back to my parents' house and asked Grandma.

“I can show you,” she said.

“Not necessary. Just tell me.”

“And miss all the action? No way!”

Why not? I had Bunchy tagging along. Maybe I should ask Mrs. Ciak and Mary Lou and my sister, Valerie. I took a deep breath. Sarcasm always made me feel better. “Get in the car,” I said to Grandma.

I took Chambers to Liberty and turned onto Rusling.

“It's one of these houses,” Grandma said. “I'll know it when I see it. I went to a get-together there once.” She looked over her shoulder. “I think someone's following us. I bet it's one of them garbage people.”

“It's Bunchy,” I said. “I'm sort of working with him.”

“No kidding? I didn't realize this had turned into such a big investigation. We've got a whole team here.”

I stopped at the house Grandma had described, and we all got out and collected together on the sidewalk. It had stopped raining, and the temperature had risen to pleasant.

“My granddaughter tells me you're working together,” Grandma said to Bunchy, looking him over. “Are you a bounty hunter, too?”

“No, ma'am,” he said. “I'm a bookie.”

“A bookie!” Grandma said. “Isn't that something. I always wanted to meet a bookie.”

I knocked on Margaret Burger's door, and before I could introduce myself Grandma stepped forward.

“Hope we aren't disturbing you,” Grandma said. “But we're conducting an important investigation. Stephanie and me and Mr. Bunchy.”

Bunchy elbowed me.
“Mr.
Bunchy,” he said.

“Not at all,” Margaret Burger said. “I guess this is about poor Fred.”

“We can't find him no-how,” Grandma said. “And my granddaughter thought your problem with that cable company sounded real similar. Except, of course, they gave Sol a heart attack instead of making him disappear.”

“They were awful people,” Margaret said. “We paid our bills on time. We never missed a payment. And then when we had trouble with the cable box, they said they never heard of us. Can you imagine?”

“Just like Fred,” Grandma said. “Isn't that right, Stephanie?”

“Uh, yeah, it sounds—”

“So then what?” Bunchy said. “Did Sol complain?”

“He went down there in person and raised a big fuss. And that's when he had his heart attack.”

“What a shame,” Grandma said. “Sol was only in his seventies, too.”

“Do you have any canceled checks from the cable company? “Bunchy asked Margaret. “Something from before you had the problem?”

“I could look in my file,” Margaret said. “I keep all my checks for a couple years. But I don't think I have any of the cable checks. After Sol died, that awful cable person, John Curly, came and tried to look like he was being helpful about solving the mixup. I didn't buy that for a minute. He was just trying to cover his tracks because he messed up the computer records. He even said as much, but it was too late for Sol. He'd already been given the heart attack.”

Bunchy looked resigned to what he was hearing. “John Curly took the canceled checks,” Bunchy said, more statement than question.

“He said he needed them for his records.”

“And he never brought them back?”

“Never. And next thing I know I get a statement from them welcoming me like I was a brand-new customer. I'm telling you, that cable company is a mess.”

“Anything else you want to know?” I asked Bunchy.

“No. That's about it.”

“How about you, Grandma?”

“I can't think of anything more.”

“Well then,” I said to Margaret, “I guess there isn't anything else. Thanks for talking to us.”

“I hope Fred turns up,” Margaret said. “Mabel must be beside herself.”

“She's holding up pretty good,” Grandma said. “I guess Fred wasn't one of those husbands you really mind losing.”

Margaret nodded, like she understood completely what Grandma was saying.

I dropped Grandma off and continued on home to my apartment. Bunchy followed me the whole way and parked behind me.

“Now what?” Bunchy said. “What are you going to do now?”

“I don't know. You have any ideas?”

“I'm thinking there's something going on with the garbage company.”

I considered telling him about Laura Lipinski but decided against it.

“Why did you want to see Margaret's canceled checks?” I asked.

“No special reason. Just thought they'd be interesting.”

“Uh-huh.”

Bunchy rocked back on his heels with his hands in his pockets. “How about the checks from the garbage company? You ever get any of them?”

“Why? You think they'd be interesting, too?”

“Might be. You never know about stuff.” His eyes focused on something behind me, and his face changed expression. Wariness, maybe.

I felt a body move so close it was skimming my own, and a warm hand protectively settled at the base of my neck. Without turning I knew it was Ranger.

“This is Bunchy,” I said to Ranger, by way of introduction. “Bunchy the bookie.”

Ranger didn't move. Bunchy didn't move. And I wasn't moving, held in a kind of suspended animation by Ranger's force field.

Finally Bunchy took a couple steps backward. It was the sort of maneuver a man might make when confronted with a grizzly. “I'll be in touch,” Bunchy said, pivoting on his heel, walking to his car.

We watched Bunchy drive out of the lot.

“He's not a bookie,” Ranger said, his hand still holding me captive.

I stepped away and turned to face him, putting space between us.

“What was with the intimidation routine you just did?”

Ranger smiled. “You think I intimidated him?”

“Not a whole lot.”

“I don't think so, either. He's got a few face-offs behind him.”

“Am I right in assuming you didn't like him?”

“Just being cautious. He was carrying and he was lying. And he's a cop.”

I already knew all those things. “He's been following me for days. So far he's been harmless.”

“What's he after?”

“I don't know. Something to do with Fred. Right now he knows more than I do. So I figure it's worthwhile to play along with him. He's probably a Fed. I think he has a tracking device on my car. Jersey cops can't usually afford to do stuff like that. And I think he must be working with a partner to be able to pick me up, but I haven't spotted the partner yet.”

“Does he know you've made him?”

“Yeah, but he doesn't want to talk about it.”

“I can help with the tracking problem,” Ranger said, handing me a set of keys.

“What's this?”

 

 

“T
HIS IS TEMPTATION,”
Ranger said, leaning against a new midnight-black Porsche Boxster.

“Could you be more specific about the temptation? Like, what kind of temptation were you thinking about?”

“Temptation to broaden your horizons.”

I had a lot of unease over Ranger's definition of “broad horizons.” I suspected his horizons were a teensy bit closer to hell than I might want to travel. For starters, there was the car and the slight possibility that it wasn't entirely legitimate.

“Where do you get these cars?” I asked him. “You seem to have a never-ending supply of new, expensive black cars.”

“I have a source.”

“This Porsche isn't stolen, is it?”

“Do you care?”

“Of course I care!”

“Then it isn't stolen,” Ranger said.

I shook my head. “It's a really cool car. And I appreciate your offer, but I can't afford a car like this.”

“You don't know the price yet,” Ranger said.

“Is it more than five dollars?”

“The car isn't for sale. It's a company car. You get the car if you continue to work with me. You're ruining my image in that Buick. Everyone who works with me drives black.”

“Well, hell,” I said, “I wouldn't want to ruin your image.”

Ranger just kept looking at me.

“Is this charity?” I asked him.

“Guess again.”

“I'm not selling my soul, am I?”

“I'm not in the soul-buying business,” Ranger said. “The car's an investment. Part of the working relationship.”

“So what do I have to do in this working relationship?”

Ranger uncrossed his arms and pushed off from the car. “Jobs come up. Don't accept any that make you uncomfortable.”

“You aren't doing this just to amuse yourself, are you? To see what I'd be willing to do for an expensive car?”

“That would be somewhere in the middle of the list,” Ranger said. He looked at his watch. “I have a meeting. Drive the car. Think it over.”

He had his Mercedes parked next to the Porsche. He slid behind the wheel and drove away without looking back.

I almost collapsed on the spot. I put a hand to the Porsche to steady myself, and then immediately yanked my hand away, afraid I'd left prints. Dang!

I ran inside and looked around for Randy Briggs. His laptop was on the coffee table, but his jacket was gone. I toyed with the idea of packing all his things into the two suitcases, moving them into the hall, and locking my door, but gave it up as futile.

I cracked open a beer and called Mary Lou. “Help!” I said.

“What help?”

“He gave me a car. And he touched me twice!” I looked at my neck in the hall mirror to see if I was branded where his hand had rested.

“Who? What are you talking about?”

“Ranger!”

“Omigod. He gave you a car?”

“He said it was an investment in our working relationship. What does that mean?”

“What kind of car is it?”

“A new Porsche.”

“That's at least oral sex.”

“Be serious!” I said.

“Okay, the truth is . . .it's beyond oral sex. It could be, you know, butt stuff.”

“I'll return the car.”

“Stephanie, this is a Porsche!”

“And I think he's flirting with me, but I'm not sure.”

“What does he do?”

“He's gotten sort of physical.”

“How physical?”

“Touchy.”

“Omigod, what did he touch?”

“My neck.”

“Is that all?”

“My hair.”

“Hmmm,” Mary Lou said. “Was it sexy touching?”

“It felt sexy to me.”

“And he gave you a Porsche,” Mary Lou said. “A Porsche!”

“It isn't like it's a gift. It's a company car.”

“Yeah, right. When do I get to ride in it? You want to go to the mall tonight?”

“I don't know if I should be driving it for personal stuff.” In fact, I didn't know if I should be driving it
at all
until I made sure about the butt thing.

“You really think this is a company car?” Mary Lou asked.

“So far as I can see, everyone who works for Ranger drives a new black car.”

“A Porsche?”

“Usually an SUV, but maybe a Porsche happened to fall off the back of the truck yesterday.” I could hear screaming in the background. “What's happening?”

“The kids are having a conflicting opinion. I suppose I should go mediate.”

Mary Lou had started taking parenting classes because she couldn't get the two-year-old to stop eating the dog's food. Now she said things like “the kids are having a conflicting opinion” instead of “the kids are trying to kill each other.” I think it sounds much more civilized, but when you come right down to it . . . the kids were trying to kill each other.

I hung up and took the check Fred had written to RGC out of my shoulder bag and studied it. Nothing unusual that I could see. A plain old check.

The phone rang, and I put the check back in my bag.

“Are you alone?” Bunchy asked.

“Yes, I'm alone.”

“Something going on between you and that Ranger guy?”

“Yes.” I just didn't know what it was.

“We didn't get much chance to talk,” Bunchy said. “I was wondering what you were gonna do next.”

“Look, why don't you just tell me what it is you want me to do.”

“Hey, I'm following
you
around, remember?”

“Okay, I'll play the game. I thought I'd go back to the bank tomorrow and talk to a friend of mine. What do you think of that?”

“Good idea.”

It was close to five. Joe would most likely be home now, watching the news on television, fixing himself something to eat, getting ready for
Monday Night Football
If I invited myself to his house for
Monday Night Football,
I could show him the check and see what he thinks. And I could ask him to check into Laura Lipinski. If things went well, maybe I could also make up for opportunities missed on Saturday night.

I dialed his number.

“Hey,” I said. “I thought maybe you wanted company for
Monday Night Football.”

“You don't like football.”

“I sort of like football. I like when they all jump on each other. That's pretty interesting. So do you want me to come over?”

“Sorry. I have to work tonight.”

“All night?”

There was a moment of silence while Morelli processed the hidden message. “You want me bad,” he said.

“I was just being friendly.”

“Will you still be feeling friendly tomorrow? I don't think I'll be working tomorrow.”

“Order a pizza.”

After I hung up I looked guiltily at the hamster cage. “Hey, I'm just being friendly,” I said to Rex. “I'm not going to sleep with him.”

Rex still didn't come out of his can, but I could see the pine shavings moving. I think he was laughing.

The phone rang around nine.

“I have a job for you tomorrow,” Ranger said. “Are you interested?”

“Maybe.”

“It's of high moral quality.”

“And the legal quality?”

“Could be worse. I need a decoy. I have a deadbeat who needs to be separated from his Jaguar.”

“Are you stealing it or repossessing it?”

“Repossessing. All you have to do is sit in a bar and talk to this guy while we load his car onto a flatbed.”

“That sounds okay.”

“I'll pick you up at six. Wear something that'll hold his attention.”

“What bar is this?”

“Mike's Place on Center.”

Thirty minutes later, Briggs came home. “So what do you do on Monday nights?” he asked. “You watch football?”

I went to bed at eleven, and two hours later I was still thrashing around, unable to sleep. I had Larry Lipinski's missing wife, Laura, on my mind. The back of her head, severed at the neck, stuffed in a garbage bag. Her husband dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Hacked up his wife. Shot his coworker. I really didn't know if it was Laura Lipinski. What were the chances? Probably not good. Then who was in that bag? The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that it was Laura Lipinski.

I looked at the clock for the hundredth time.

Laura Lipinski wasn't the only thing keeping me awake. I was having a hormone attack. Damn Morelli. Whispering all those things in my ear. Looking sexy in his Italian suit. Surely Morelli would be home by now. I could call him, I thought, and tell him I was coming to visit. After all, it was his fault I was in this hellish state.

But what if I call, and he
isn't
home, and I get recorded on his caller ID? Major embarrassment. Best not to call. Think of something else, I ordered myself.

Ranger flashed into my mind. No! Not Ranger!

“Damn.” I kicked the covers off and went out to the kitchen to get some orange juice. Only there wasn't any orange juice. There wasn't
any
kind of juice, because I never went food shopping. There were still some leftovers from my mother, but no juice.

I really needed juice. And a Snickers bar. If I had juice and a Snickers bar, I probably could forget about sex. In fact, I didn't even need the juice anymore. Just the Snickers bar.

I stuffed myself into a pair of old gray sweats, shoved my feet into unlaced boots, and pulled a jacket over my plaid flannel nightshirt. I grabbed my purse and my keys, and because I was trying not to be stupid, I also grabbed my gun.

“I don't know what the hell you're going after,” Briggs said from the couch, “but bring one back for me, too.”

I clomped off, out of my apartment, down the hall, into the elevator.

When I got to the lot, as fate would have it, I realized I'd taken the Porsche key. Hah! Who am I to dispute fate? Guess I just had to drive the Porsche.

I started out for the 7-Eleven, but I was there in no time at all, and it seemed a shame not to at least work the kinks out of the car. Especially since I hadn't yet
found
any kinks. I continued on down Hamilton, turned into the Burg, wound around some, left the Burg, and sonovagun, before I knew it, I was in front of Morelli's townhouse. His truck was parked at the curb, and the house was dark. I idled in front of the house for a minute, thinking about Morelli, wishing I was comfy in bed with him. Well, what the hell, I thought, maybe I should ring his doorbell and tell him I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I'd stop by. No harm in that. Just being friendly. I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. Eek. Should have done something with my hair. And my legs might need shaving now that I thought about it. Rats.

Okay, maybe it's not such a good idea to visit Morelli right now. Maybe I should go home first and shave and scrounge up some sexy underwear. Or maybe I should just wait until tomorrow. Twenty-four hours, give or take a couple. I wasn't sure I could hold out for twenty-four hours. He was right. I wanted him bad.

Get a grip! I told myself. We're talking about a simple sex act here. This isn't a medical emergency like having a heart attack. This can wait twenty-four hours.

I took a deep breath. Twenty-four hours. I was feeling better. I was in control. I was a rational woman. I put the Porsche into gear and cruised down the street.

Piece of cake. I can last it.

I got to the corner and noticed lights in my rearview mirror.

Not many people out in this neighborhood, at this hour, on a work night. I turned the corner, parked, cut my lights, and watched the car stop in front of Morelli's house. After a couple minutes Morelli got out and walked to his door, and the car began to roll down the street toward me.

I gripped the wheel tight, so the Porsche wouldn't be tempted to go into reverse and zoom back to Morelli's. Less than twenty-four hours, I repeated, and my legs would be smooth as silk and my hair would be clean. But wait a minute! Morelli has a shower and a razor. This is all baloney. There's no need to wait.

I shifted into reverse just as the other car came into the intersection. I caught a glimpse of the driver and felt my heart go dead in my chest. It was Terry Gilman.

Say what? Terry Gilman!

There was an explosion of red behind my eyeballs. Shit. I was such a sap. I hadn't suspected. I'd thought he'd changed. I'd believed he was different from the other Morellis. Here I was worrying over leg hair, when Morelli was out doing God knows what with Terry Gilman. Unh! Major mental smack in the head.

I squinted at the car as it cleared the intersection and motored on. Terry was oblivious to my presence. Probably planning out the rest of her night. Probably going off to whack someone's grandmother.

Well, who cares about Morelli, anyway. Not me. I could care less. There was only one thing I cared about. Chocolate.

I put my foot to the pedal and careened away from the curb. Clear the streets. Stephanie's got a Porsche and needs a Snickers bar.

I reached the 7-Eleven in record time, blasted through the store, and left with a full bag. Hey, Morelli, orgasm this.

I entered my lot at warp speed, screeched to a stop, stomped up the stairs, down the hall, and kicked my door open.
“Shit!”

Rex stopped running on his wheel and looked at me.

“You heard me,” I said. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Briggs sat up. “What the hell's going on? I'm trying to get some sleep here.”

“Don't push your luck. Don't speak to me.”

He squinted at me. “What are you wearing? Is that some new form of birth control?”

I grabbed the hamster cage and bag of candy, carted everything off to my bedroom, and slammed my door shut. I ate the 100 Grand bar first, and then the Kit Kat, and then the Snickers. I was starting to feel sick, but I ate the Baby Ruth and the Almond Joy and the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup.