Smokin' Seventeen (25 page)

There was a small explosion inside the store, the black
sedan laid down rubber and sped away, and then there was a large explosion.
BAROOOM
. The front windows to Black’s blew out, and bits and pieces of comic books floated in the air like giant dust motes. Fire licked out the open windows and black smoke billowed into the street and was swept skyward.

My initial reaction was shocked paralysis. I stood rooted to the spot, mouth open, eyes wide. When my heart resumed beating I thought about the people who might be trapped inside. No hope for Uncle Black, but there were two floors above him.

“What’s on the second and third floor?” I asked Mooner.

“Storage. I was up there once. It’s like where comic books go to sleep.”

People were gathering in the street, keeping a good distance from the fire. There was a third explosion, and flames shot out the door and ignited the Shelby. The car alarm went off, a fireball rose around the car, and the car exploded. Everyone backed up.

“Dude,” Mooner said.

I felt my cell phone buzz, and I looked at the screen. Ranger.

“Your GPS just went blank,” Ranger said when I answered.

“The car exploded.”

There was a beat of silence. “Rafael won the pool,” Ranger said. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll send someone.”

Two cop cars and a fire truck rolled down Stark. A second
fire truck rumbled in. Firemen went to work, and Mooner and I stood for a few minutes, watching the Shelby burn out.

“I’m guessing Uncle Black didn’t make his protection payment on time,” I said to Mooner.

“Comic book people are fearless,” Mooner said.

I saw two Rangeman vehicles stop half a block away. They couldn’t get closer. I waved, and we walked the distance.

Hal was on the sidewalk, waiting with the key to a gleaming new black Ford Escort. “I hope this is okay,” he said. “Ranger said to take one from the fleet.”

“This is perfect. Thank you. Sorry you didn’t win the pool.”

Hal grinned. “I was twelve hours off. I didn’t think the Shelby would last this long.” He opened the door to the Escort for me. “You’re not going to believe this, but I swear a rooster ran across the road right in front of us when we were coming down Stark.”

I blew out a sigh, got into the Escort, and drove to the bonds bus. Lula was doing nail polish repair when I walked in. She was wearing a lemon yellow spandex dress and four-inch black platform heels, and her hair was a big puffball of neon green.

“Is that your real hair?” I asked her.

“No way. This here’s a wig. We had to do surgery on some of my hair since the chicken from hell got into it. Was that another new car you just drove up in? What happened to the Shelby?”

“Exploded.”

“Shit happens,” Lula said.

“That would lead me to believe it didn’t go well with Uncle Black,” Connie said.

“Also exploded,” I told her.

“It was a tragedy,” Mooner said. “They blew up a Creeper comic in primo condition, man. Someone should pay.”

“People will be scared after this,” Connie said. “No one’s going to be talking on Stark Street.”

“What’s all down the front of you?” Lula asked me.

“Chocolate ice cream. Mooner lost his mellow over the Creeper demise, so we stopped for ice cream to calm him down.” I glanced at my shirt. “I needed calming down, too.”

My phone buzzed and my parents’ number popped up. No way was I talking to my mother. She’d ferret the car explosion out of me, and she’d want to talk about Dave, and God help me if she found out about the chickens. I’d need more ice cream.

“I’m going home,” I said to Connie. “I need a new shirt.”

The good thing about always wrecking cars, is that at least for a while no one knew what I was driving. I parked in my lot and thought chances were good I wouldn’t find a dead body in the Escort when I returned. I let myself into my apartment, went straight to the bedroom, flopped onto the bed, and covered my head with a pillow.

I woke up to a phone ringing.

“I’ve been calling and calling,” my mother said. “Where were you that you couldn’t answer?”

“It was in my bag. I didn’t hear it.”

“Well thank goodness I finally got you. Everyone will be here in fifteen minutes.”

“Everyone?”

“The dinner party. I told you about it days ago. Emma and Herb Brewer and Dave. Emma said everyone was very excited to get the invitation.”

“Not
everyone
,” I said. “
I’m
not excited. I’m horrified. I’m not interested in Dave, and I don’t want to have dinner with his parents.”

“I made chicken Parmesan.”

“I can’t come. I have plans. I have to work.”

“I know when you’re fibbing Stephanie Plum. I went to all this trouble just for you, so you could spend some time with a nice man. A man who could give you a future. A family. The least you can do is make an effort. I even made pineapple upside-down cake.”

I was screwed. A major load of guilt plus pineapple upside-down cake.

“And for goodness sakes,” my mother said, “wear something nice.
Please
don’t wear jeans and a T-shirt.”

I pulled the T-shirt over my head and looked around. Lots of dirty clothes. Not many clean ones. The new red dress was hanging in the front of the closet. It was the easy choice.

Grandma was waiting when I parked in the driveway behind my dad’s car. “Don’t you look pretty,” Grandma said. “I read somewhere that men like women who wear red. It’s supposed to be one of them things that gets a man in a state.”

From my experience it didn’t take much to get a man in a state.

“Dave might even propose when he sees you in this dress,” Grandma said. “This dress is a man catcher.”

I didn’t want to catch any more men. I wanted to eat chicken Parm and go home and put the pillow over my head again. I watched a silver Honda Accord roll down the street and park behind my car, and I was relieved to be one step closer to dinner. Dave was driving. It looked like his dad was sitting alongside him, and his mom was in the back. Dave got out, ran around the car, and retrieved a party platter from the backseat.

All the blood drained from my head and pooled in my feet. I put a hand out to steady myself and forced myself to breathe. Put a rubber Frankenstein mask and a padded coverall on Dave and you had Juki Beck’s killer. It was an instant gut reaction. There was something about Dave’s posture and the way he moved when he rounded the car that clicked in my brain. The next thing that clicked in my brain was disbelief. There was no way it could be Dave, right?

“Omigosh,” Grandma said when she saw Dave. “What the heck happened to you?”

His eyes were less swollen, but they were still pretty ugly. Black with tinges of green. And he still had the Band-Aid across his nose.

“I took an elbow to the nose in a football game,” Dave said. “No big deal.”

“You always were an athlete,” Grandma said, ushering everyone into the living room.

Emma and Herb Brewer were in their late fifties. They were pleasant-looking people, tastefully dressed, seemingly happy. Hard to believe they’d spawn a killer. Hard to believe nudnik Dave would strangle someone.

“What a lovely home,” Emma said.

My father stood from his chair and nodded hello. He’d been coerced into abandoning his Tony Soprano–collared knit shirt in favor of a buttoned-down dress shirt. This signified a major social event. The buttoned-down dress shirt was usually reserved for Christmas, Easter, and funerals.

Dave handed me the party platter, our eyes met for a long moment, and I had an irrational stab of fear that he knew I suspected him of murder. I placed the platter on the table and made an effort to pull myself together. There was no hard evidence that suggested Dave was the killer, I told myself. I usually had good intuition, but it was only intuition after all, and it wasn’t infallible. And in this case it felt ridiculous.

“The antipasto looks great,” I said. “Did you put the platter together?”

“We picked it up at Giovichinni’s.” Dave moved close beside me, his breath soft against my ear. “That’s a killer dress.”

I felt my scalp prickle and my heart skipped a beat. “Killer? W-what do you mean by that?”

“Think about it,” Dave said. And he winked at me.

My mother brought the chicken Parmesan to the table,
and I took my usual seat to my dad’s left. Dave chose the seat next to me.

“Dave came over and made the most wonderful meal for us the other night,” Grandma said to Emma Brewer. “He even made chocolate cake.”

“It’s always been his way to relax,” Emma said. “When he was a little boy he made up his own brownie recipe. The more stress he had, the more he needed to cook.”

I wondered how much cooking it took to mitigate murdering five people.

Grandma helped herself to spaghetti. “I’m surprised he don’t do all the cooking for you.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “He makes too much of a mess. There’s dirty dishes everywhere.”

“That’s a man for you,” Grandma said. “Always making a mess.”

“Not always,” Dave said. “Sometimes we know how to
avoid
making a mess. For instance, the bail bonds lot killer broke his victims’ necks. No bloody mess.”

“That’s terrible,” Grandma said. “I don’t know how a person could do that.”

“Probably like working in a slaughterhouse,” Dave said. “After you kill the first hundred cows it starts to feel like just another day on the job.”

“Have you ever worked in a slaughterhouse?” my father asked him.

“No. But I worked in a bank. There are similarities.”

“David, that is
not
funny,” his mother said.

“How do you know the killer is a man?” Grandma asked Dave. “It could be a woman.”

Dave wrapped his hand around my neck. “You need some muscle to break a neck.” He applied pressure and rocked me slightly side to side. “I don’t think a woman would have the strength. And from what I’ve read, Lou Dugan wasn’t a lightweight like Stephanie.”

The instant I got home I was going to call Morelli. And then I was going to make sure my gun was loaded.

“The hand,” I said to Dave. “Remove it.”

He released my neck and reached for his wineglass. “Just making a point.”

I jostled against him and some of his wine slopped over onto his shirt.

“Omigosh,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

Okay, it was childish, but he wasn’t the only one who could make a point. Although looking at it in retrospect it was probably not a good idea to piss off a guy I suspected of being a serial killer. I would have been more worried if he’d shot his victims. I didn’t think he could strangle all of us at the dinner table. Still, my heart was tap dancing in my chest, and my stomach was producing acid at a record rate. Maybe I’d go from my parents’ house directly to Morelli’s. He bought Maalox by the gallon jug, and I could tell him about Dave.

Everyone sat for a moment in openmouthed horror, staring at the purple stains on Dave’s shirt.

His mother dug in her purse for a stain remover stick, and my mother ran to get the Spray ’n Wash.

An hour and a half later we waved good-bye to Emma, Herb, and Dave.

“Except for when you spilled Dave’s wine, that went pretty good,” Grandma said.

My mother rolled her eyes. “He tried to kiss Stephanie good-bye, and she kicked him.”

“It was an accident,” I said.

“I don’t like him,” my father said.

My mother was hands on hips. “He’s a nice young man. Why don’t you like him?”

“I don’t need a reason,” my father said. “I just don’t like him. And I don’t like this shirt either. I hate this shirt.”

I hung my bag on my shoulder and left my parents’ house.

THIRTY-EIGHT

I DROVE THE SHORT DISTANCE
to Morelli’s house, parked behind his green SUV, and used my key to open his door.

Morelli was on the couch, watching a
Two and a Half Men
rerun. He looked me up and down and smiled. “Is it Christmas morning?”

“Not nearly,” I said. “I have raging heartburn. I stopped for whatever it is you’re currently using.”

He pointed to a large bottle of Tums on the coffee table. “My reflux was doing great until someone started gifting you murder victims.”

I reached for the Tums. “You want to have more reason for reflux? I just had dinner with Dave.”

“Again? In that dress?”

“The dress is a whole long, complicated story that has
nothing to do with Dave. Except that he told me it was a
killer
dress.”

“It is,” Morelli said. “It’s a killer dress.”

“He said it like it had special meaning. And he winked at me.”

“Any man in his right mind would wink at you in this dress.”

“He said
think
about it.”

“I have the feeling I’m missing an important ingredient in this conversation.”

I told him how I watched the video and thought I recognized the killer. And how tonight I had the revelation that it was Dave when I saw him run around the car. And then Dave pretended to choke me at the dinner table.

“Interesting and creepy, but not exactly damning evidence,” Morelli said. “And we need to take into consideration that the man is willing to teach you to cook.”

“You’re not taking this seriously.”

“I’m taking it very seriously. I’ve gone through half a jug of Tums since Gordon Kulicki turned up dead. It’s just that Dave seems an unlikely killer. What’s his motive?”

“Finding out his motive is on your side of the division of labor. I already did my part. I recognized him in the video.”

Morelli nodded. “Recognizing him in the video is good. What was it you saw? A tattoo? A scar? Did you recognize his shoes?”

“It was just a feeling. It was the way he moved.”

“This is like going out in the field with a clairvoyant.”

“Does that ever work?”

“Sometimes,” Morelli said. “How comfortable do you feel with this? On a scale of one to ten with ten being a positive identification … how would you rate this?”

“If I was rating gut instinct it would be a nine. When I temper that with rational thought it goes way down. Maybe to a five or six.”