High Five (20 page)

“Maybe we should get the guy in the office,” the driver said. “He fills out the forms for this kind of thing.”

I thought that was a good idea. And while we were at it how about if I just slip away unnoticed and get a one-way ticket to Rio. I didn't want to have to explain this to Ranger.

“Yeah, we should get that office guy,” Lula said. “Because I might have whiplash or something. I can feel it coming on. Maybe I need to go in and sit down.”

I would have rolled my eyes, but I thought I should save my energy in case Lula suddenly got paralyzed from the half-mile-per-hour impact she'd just sustained.

We all went into the building and had just gotten through the door when there was a loud explosion. We stopped in our tracks and looked at each other. There was a moment of stunned immobility, and then we all scrambled to see what had happened.

We burst out the door and faltered when a second explosion went off and flames shot from the Porsche and licked along the undercarriage of the garbage truck.

“Oh shit,” the driver said. “Take cover! I've got a full tank of gas.”

“Say what?” Lula said.

And then it blew.
Barrroooom!
Liftoff. The garbage truck jumped off the pavement. Tires and doors flew off like Frisbees, the truck bounced down with a jolt, listed to one side, and rolled over onto the furiously burning Porsche, turning it into a Porsche pancake.

We flattened ourselves against the building while pieces of scrap metal and shreds of rubber rained down around us.

“Uh-oh,” Lula said. “All the king's horses and all the king's men aren't gonna put that Porsche back together again.”

“I don't get it,” the driver said. “It was only a scratch. I hardly scraped against your car. Why would it explode like that?”

“That's what her cars do,” Lula said. “They explode. But I gotta tell you this was the best. This here's the first time she exploded a garbage truck. One time her truck got hit with an antitank missile. That wasn't bad either, but it couldn't compare to this.”

I hauled the cell phone out of my bag and dialed Morelli.

 

 

O
NLY ONE FIRE
truck was left on the scene, and the remaining firemen were directing the cleanup. A crane had been brought in to move the RGC truck. When they got the truck up and off the Porsche, I'd be able to put the Porsche in my pocket. Connie had picked Lula up and taken her back to work, and most of the returning truck drivers had lost interest and dispersed.

Morelli had arrived seconds after the first fire truck and was now standing threateningly close to me, fist on hip, eyes narrowed, giving me the third degree.

“Tell me again,” Morelli said, “why Ranger gave you a Porsche.”

“It's a company car. Everyone who works with Ranger drives a black car, and since my car is blue—”

“He gave you a Porsche.”

I narrowed my eyes back at him. “Just what is the problem here?”

“I want to know what's going on with you and Ranger is the problem.”

“I
told
you. I'm working with him.” And I supposed I was flirting with him, but I didn't think it was necessary to report flirting. Anyway, talk about the pot calling the kettle black.

Morelli didn't look satisfied, and he definitely didn't look happy. “I don't suppose you bothered to check the registration number on your Porsche.”

“Don't suppose I did.” And it was unlikely anyone was going to check it now, being that the Porsche was blown up, and its remnants were only three inches thick.

“You weren't worried that you might be driving a hot car?”

“Ranger wouldn't give me a hot car.”

“Ranger would give his mother a hot car,” Morelli said. “Where do you think he gets all those cars he gives away? You think he gets them from the car fairy?”

“I'm sure there's an explanation.”

“Such as?”

“Such as, I don't know. And anyway there are other things that are more important to me right now. Like why did my car explode?”

“Good question. I think it's unlikely the garbage truck side-swiping you caused the explosion. If you were a normal person I'd be hard-pressed to find an explanation. Since you're who you are . . .my guess is someone planted a bomb.”

“Why did it take so long? Why didn't it go off when I started the car?”

“I asked Murphy. He's the demo expert. He thinks it might have been set on a timer, so it would go off when you were on the street, not in the lot.”

“So maybe the bomber is someone from the garbage company, and he didn't want the explosion so close to home.”

“We looked for Stemper, but he's nowhere.”

“Did you check for his car?”

“It's still here.”

“Are you kidding me? He's just disappeared?”

Morelli shrugged. “Doesn't mean much. He could have gone out for a drink with a friend. Or he could have gotten fed up with waiting for the lot to get cleared enough to get the cars out and found some other way to go home.”

“But you guys are going to look for him, right?”

“Right.”

“And he isn't home yet?”

“Not yet.”

“I have a theory,” I said.

Morelli smiled. “I love this part.”

“I think Lipinski was skimming. And maybe Martha Deeter was in on it, or maybe she found out about it, or maybe she was just a pain in the ass. Anyway, I think Lipinski might have been keeping some accounts for himself.” I showed Morelli the checks and told him about the banks.

“And you think this other guy who worked for the cable company, John Curly, was skimming, too?”

“There are some similarities.”

“And Fred might have disappeared because he was making too much noise?”

“More than that.” I told him about the Mega Monster flyer in the garbage bag, and about Laura Lipinski, and finally about Fred and the leaves.

“I'm not liking this picture,” Morelli said. “I wish I'd known about these things sooner.”

“I just put it together.”

“Two steps in front of me. I've been really stupid on this one. Tell me about the fake bookie.”

“Bunchy.”

“Yeah. Whoever.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I figured you two were working together.”

“What's Bunchy look like?”

“A fireplug with eyebrows. About my height. Brown hair. Needs a cut. Receding hairline. Looks like a street person. Walks and talks like a cop. Drinks Corona.”

“I know him, but I'd be hard-pressed to say I was working with him. He doesn't work
with
anybody.”

“I don't suppose you want to share what you know with me?”

“Can't.”

Wrong answer. “Okay, let me get this straight,” I said. “Some Fed has been following me around for days, camping out on my doorstep, breaking into my apartment, and you think that's okay?”

“No, I don't think it's okay. I think it's grounds for beating the shit out of him. I didn't know he was doing it, and I intend to make sure it stops. I just can't tell you what it's all about right now. What I
can
tell you is that you should back off and let us take it from here. Obviously we're both going down the same road.”

“Why should I be the one to back off?”

“Because you're the one who's getting bombed. You notice
my
car exploding?”

“The day isn't over.”

Morelli's pager went off. Morelli looked at the read-out and sighed. “I have to go. You want a ride home?”

“Thanks, but I need to stay. I have a call in to Ranger. I'm not sure what he wants to do with the Porsche.”

“Some time soon we need to talk about Ranger,” Morelli said.

Oh boy. I'll look forward to that conversation.

Morelli skirted the crane and got into the dusty maroon Fair-lane that was
his
company car. He cranked the engine over and pulled out of the lot.

My attention swung back to the crane operator. He was maneuvering the boom over the truck. A cable was attached, and the truck was slowly hauled upright, exposing what was left of the Porsche.

I caught a flash of black beyond the crane. It was Ranger's Mercedes.

“Just in time,” I said when he strolled over.

He looked down at the flattened, charred piece of scrap metal pressed into the macadam.

“That's the Porsche,” I said. “It exploded and caught fire and then the garbage truck fell over on it.”

“I especially like the part about the garbage truck.”

“I was afraid you might be mad.”

“Cars are easy to come by, Babe. People are harder to replace. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I was lucky. I was just waiting to see what you wanted to do with the Porsche.”

“Not much anybody's going to do with that dead soldier,” Ranger said. “Think we'll walk away from this one.”

“It was a great car.”

Ranger took one last look at it. “You might be more the Hum-vee type,” he said, steering me toward the Mercedes.

Streetlights were on when we crossed Broad and the twilight was deepening. Ranger rolled down Roebling and stopped in front of Rossini's. “I have to meet a guy here in a few minutes. Come in and have a drink, and we can have an early dinner when I'm done. This shouldn't take long.”

“Is this bounty hunter business?”

“Real estate,” Ranger said. “I'm meeting my lawyer. He has papers for me to sign.”

“You're buying a house?”

He opened the door for me. “Office building in Boston.”

Rossini's is an excellent Burg restaurant. A pleasant mix of cozy but elegant with linen tablecloths and napkins and gourmet food. Several men in suits stood at the small oak bar at the far end of the room. A few of the tables were already occupied, and in a half-hour the room would be filled.

Ranger guided me to the bar and introduced me to his lawyer.

“Stephanie Plum,” the lawyer said. “You look familiar.”

“I didn't intend to burn down the funeral home,” I said. “It was an accident.”

He shook his head. “No, that's not it.” He smiled. “I've got it. You were married to Dickie Orr. He was briefly with our firm.”

“Everything Dickie did was brief,” I said. Especially our marriage. The pig.

Twenty minutes later, Ranger had his business concluded, his lawyer finished his drink and left, and we moved to a table. Ranger was black today. Black T-shirt, black cargo pants, black boots, and black Gortex squall jacket. He left his jacket on, and everyone in the room knew why. Ranger wasn't the sort to leave his gun in the glove compartment.

We ordered, and Ranger slouched back in his chair. “You never say much about your marriage.”

“You never say much about
anything”

He smiled. “Low profile.”

“Have you ever been married?”

“Long time ago.”

I hadn't expected him to say that. “Any kids?”

He stared at me for a full minute before answering. “I have a daughter. She's nine. Lives with her mother in Florida.”

“Do you ever see her?”

“When I'm in the area.”

Who
was
this man? He owned office buildings in Boston. And he was the father of a nine-year-old. I was having a hard time merging this new knowledge into my mental Ranger-the-gunrunner/bounty-hunter file.

“Tell me about the bomb,” Ranger said. “I get the feeling I'm not up to speed on your life.”

I told him my theory.

He was still slouched back, but the line of his mouth had tightened. “Bombs aren't good, Babe. They're real messy. Give you a real bad hair day.”

“You have any ideas?”

“Yeah, you ever think about taking a vacation?”

I wrinkled my nose. “I can't afford a vacation.”

“I'll give you an advance on services performed.”

I felt my face flush. “About those services—”

He lowered his voice. “I don't pay for the kind of service you're worried about.”

Yeeesh.

I dug into my pasta. “I wouldn't go anyway. I'm not giving up on Uncle Fred. And where would I leave Rex? And Halloween is coming up. I love Halloween. I couldn't miss Halloween.”

Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. I love the crisp air and the pumpkins and spooky decorations. I never cared about the candy I collected when I was a kid. I got psyched over the dress-up part. Maybe this says something about my personality, but put me behind a mask, and I'm a happy person. Not one of those ugly, sweaty rubber things that fit over your whole head. I like the kind that just fits around the eyes and makes you look like the Lone Ranger. And face paint is very cool, too.

“Of course, I don't go out trick-or-treating anymore,” I said, stabbing a piece of sausage. “I go over to my parents' house now and give out candy. Grandma Mazur and I always get dressed up for when the kids come around. Last year I was Zorro, and Grandma was Lily Munster. I think this year she's going to be a Spice Girl.”

“I could see you as Zorro,” Ranger said.

Zorro
is
actually one of my favorite people. Zorro is the shit.

I had tiramisú for dessert because Ranger was paying, and because Rossini's made orgasmic tiramisú. Ranger skipped dessert, of course, not wanting to pollute his body with sugar, not desiring an extra ripple in his washboard stomach. I scarfed up the last smidgens of cake and custard and reached under the tablecloth to discreetly pop the top snap on my jeans.

I'm not a fanatic about weight. Truth is, I don't even own a scale. I judge my weight by the way my jeans fit. And unpleasant as it is to admit, these jeans weren't fitting at all. I needed a better diet. And I needed an exercise program. Tomorrow. Starting tomorrow, no more taking the elevator to the second floor, no more doughnuts for breakfast.

I studied Ranger as he drove me home, details seen in the flash of oncoming headlights and overhead streetlights. He wore no rings. A watch on his left wrist. Wide nylon band. No studs in his ears today. He had a network of fine lines around his eyes. The lines were from sun, not age. My best guess was that Ranger was somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five. No one knew for sure. And no one knew much of his background. He moved easily through the underbelly of Trenton, speaking the language, walking the walk of the projects and minority neighborhoods. There'd been no trace of that Ranger tonight. Tonight he'd sounded more Wall Street than Stark Street.

The ride back to my building was quiet. Ranger pulled into my lot, and I did a quick scan for creepy people. Finding none, I had my door open before the car came to a complete stop. No sense lingering in the dark, alone with Ranger, tempting fate. I'd made enough of an ass of myself last time when I was half snock-ered.

“You in a hurry?” Ranger said, looking amused.

“Things to do.”

I moved to get out of the car, and he grabbed me by the scruff of my neck. “You're going to be careful,” he said.

Y-y-yes.”

“And you're going to carry your gun.”

“Yes.”

“Loaded.”

“Okay, loaded.”

He released my neck. “Sweet dreams.”

I ran into the building and up the stairs, rushed into my apartment, and dialed Mary Lou.

“I need help with a stakeout tonight,” I told Mary Lou. “Can Lenny sit with the kids?”

Lenny is Mary Lou's husband. He's a nice guy, but he hasn't got much upstairs. That's fine with Mary Lou because she's more interested in what's
downstairs,
anyway.

“Who are we staking out?”

“Morelli.”

“Oh, honey, you heard!”

“I heard what?”

“Uh-oh. You didn't hear?”

“What?
What?”

“Terry Gilman.”

Argh. Direct shot to the heart. “What about Terry?”

“The rumor is she's been seen with Joe late at night.”