Three to Get Deadly (19 page)

“Get back here!” I hollered at Lula. “He’s getting away!”

Lula pulled up and ran back to the Firebird. “Did you see that? He didn’t pay no attention to me! I should of shot him. I should of dropped a cap in that old coot.”

Hard to do when you’re packing a doughnut.

She threw the car into gear, put her foot to
the floor and rocketed off after Mo…through the intersection, through a red light.

“I see him!” she shouted, giving the wheel a thump with the heel of her hand. “And that isn’t no rug on the top of the car. That’s something lumpy wrapped in garbage bags. I’m not even gonna tell you what I think is on top of that car.”

I’d had the same thought, and the possibility that Elliot Harp was going for his last ride evoked a desire to drive in the opposite direction. I didn’t want to find any more dead people. My emotional stability was approaching meltdown. I was doing a pretty good job of denying the attack in the candy store. I was having less success with flash-backs of murdered men.

Mo turned at Slater, and Lula took the corner with two tires touching pavement.

I had my foot braced against the dash. “Slow down! You’re going to kill us.”

“Don’t worry,” Lula said. “I know what I’m doing. I’ve got perfect reflexes. I’m like a cat.”

Mo was coming up to Wells Avenue, and I knew where he was going. He was heading for Route 1. No problem, I thought. He can’t outrun us with whatever he has on top of his
car. Although probably he didn’t care much about his cargo by now.

Lula followed Mo onto the ramp, momentarily fell behind when Mo merged into traffic. We caught him easily enough and stuck to his tail.

The dark green plastic was furiously flapping in the wind. Mo had bound the package to the roof of the car by lacing what looked like clothesline through the windows. He changed lanes and the long lumpy object swung side to side under the ropes.

“He don’t watch out, he’s gonna lose that sucker,” Lula said. She beeped her horn at him. “Pull over, Peckernose!” She gave the Firebird some gas and tapped Mo’s rear bumper.

I was braced against the dash, and I’d begun chanting under my breath. Holy Mary, mother of God…please don’t let me die on Route 1 with my hair looking like this.

Lula gave Mo’s back bumper another whack. The impact snapped my head and caused Mo to fishtail out of control. He swerved in front of us, a cord snapped loose and a garbage bag whipped off and sailed over our car.

Lula moved in one more time, but before she could make contact the second cord
broke, another garbage bag flew away and a body catapulted off Mo’s roof and onto the hood of Lula’s Firebird, landing with a loud WUMP!

“EEEEEeeeeeh!” Lula and I screamed in unison.

The body bounced once on the hood, and then smacked into the windshield and stuck like a squashed bug, staring in at us, mouth agape, eyes unseeing.

“I got a body stuck to my windshield!” Lula yelled. “I can’t drive like this! I can’t get my wipers to work. How am I supposed to drive with a dead guy on my wipers?”

The car rocked from lane to lane; the body vaulted off the hood, did a half flip and landed faceup at the side of the road. Lula stomped on the brake and skidded to a stop on the shoulder. We sat there for a moment, hands to our hearts, unable to talk. We turned and looked out the back window.

“Dang,” Lula said.

I thought that summed it up.

We looked at each other and did a double grimace. Lula put the Firebird in reverse and cautiously inched back, staying to the shoulder, out of the traffic lane. She stopped and parked a couple feet from the body. We got out of the car and crept closer.

“At least he’s got clothes on,” Lula said.

“Is it Harp?”

“That would be my guess. Hard to tell with that big hole where his nose used to be.”

The drizzle had turned to a driving rain. I pushed wet hair out of my eyes and blinked at Lula. “We should call the police.”

“Yeah,” Lula said. “That’s a good idea. You call the police, and I’ll cover the body. I got a blanket in the back.”

I ran back to the car and retrieved my pocketbook. I rummaged around some, found my cell phone, flipped it open and punched the on button. A dim light flashed a low-battery message and cut off.

“No juice,” I said to Lula. “I must have left the phone on all last night. We’ll have to flag someone down.”

A dozen cars zoomed past us, spraying water.

“Plan two?” Lula asked.

“We drive to the nearest exit and call the police.”

“You gonna leave the body all by itself?”

“I suppose one of us should stay.”

“That would be you,” Lula said.

An eighteen-wheeler roared by, almost sideswiping us.

“Ditch staying,” I told her.

Lula cut her eyes back to Harp. “We could take him with us. We could ram him into the trunk. And then we could drive him to a funeral parlor or something. You know, do a drop-off.”

“That would be altering the crime scene.”

“Altering, hell. This dead motherfucker fell out of the sky onto the hood of my car! And anyway, he could get run over by a truck if he stays here.”

She had a point. Elliot Harp had been in transit when he bounced off the Firebird. And he wouldn’t look good with tire tracks across his chest.

“Okay,” I said. “We’ll take him with us.”

We looked down at Elliot. Both of us swallowing hard.

“Guess you should put him in the trunk,” Lula said.

“Me?”

“You don’t expect
me
to do it, do you? I’m not touching no dead man. I’ve still got the creeps from Leroy Watkins.”

“He’s big. I can’t get him in the trunk all by myself.”

“This whole thing is giving me the runs,” Lula said. “I vote we pretend this never happened, and we get our butts out of here.”

“It won’t be so bad,” I said to her, making an effort at convincing myself. “How about your blanket? We could wrap him in the blanket. Then we could pick him up without actually touching him.”

“I suppose that’d be all right,” Lula said. “We could give it a try.”

I spread the blanket on the ground beside Elliot Harp, took a deep breath, hooked my fingers around his belt and rolled him onto the blanket. I jumped back, squeezed my eyes closed tight and exhaled. No matter how much violent death I saw, I would never get used to it.

“I’m gonna definitely have the runs,” Lula said. “I can feel it coming on.”

“Forget about the runs and help me with this body!”

Lula grabbed hold of the head end of the blanket, and I grabbed hold of the foot end. Harp had full rigor and wouldn’t bend, so we put him in the trunk headfirst with his legs sticking out. We carefully closed the lid on Harp’s knees and secured the lid with a piece of rope Lula had in her trunk.

“Hold on,” Lula said, pulling a red flowered scarf from her coat pocket, tying the scarf on Harp’s foot like a flag. “Don’t want to get a ticket. I hear the police are real picky
about having things sticking out of your trunk.”

Especially dead guys.

We pulled into traffic and had gone about a half mile, looking for a place to turn, when I got to worrying about Harp. I wasn’t sure how it would go over with the Trenton police if we drove up to the station with a dead drug dealer hanging out of Lula’s trunk. They might not understand the decision-making process that led to moving him off the side of the road.

Lula took a jug handle off Route 1 and stopped for a light. “Where’re we going?” she wanted to know.

“To the burg. I need to talk to Eddie Gazarra.”

Gazarra was a friend first, cop second. Gazarra could be trusted to give me honest advice on the best method of dead body transfer.

A car pulled up behind us at the light. Almost immediately the car went into reverse, backing away from us at high speed. Lula and I stopped watching the rearview mirror and exchanged glances.

“Maybe we should have done a better job of wrapping the blanket around old Elliot’s feet,” Lula said.

The light changed, and Lula headed south on Route 1. She cut off at Masters Street, preferring to drive a few blocks out of the way rather than chance crossing center city with Elliot. By the time we hit Hamilton Avenue the sky was dark under cloud cover, and the streetlights had blinked on.

Eddie Gazarra lived in a three-bedroom ranch on the fringe of the burg. The house had been built in the sixties. Red brick and white aluminum siding. Postage stamp fenced-in yard. Bugs the Rabbit lived in a wooden hutch at the rear of the yard, banished from the house after eating through the TV cable.

Lula parked in front of the house, and we stared in silence at the black windows.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” Lula said.

I agreed, but I went to the door anyway. I pressed the doorbell and waited a few seconds. I pressed the doorbell again. I waded into the azaleas, cupped my hands against the living room window and looked inside. Nobody home.

Gus Balog, Eddie’s next-door neighbor, stuck his head out his front door. “What’s going on? Is that Stephanie Plum?”

“Yes. I’m looking for Eddie.”

“Nobody’s home. They took the kids out to that new chicken place. Is that your car…that red one?”

“It belongs to an associate.”

“What’s sticking out the trunk? Looks like legs.”

“It’s just a dummy. You know, like from a department store.”

“Don’t look like a dummy,” Gus said. “Looks like a dead guy. I heard you were looking for Mo. Those aren’t Mo’s legs, are they?”

I backed out of the azaleas and retreated to the car. “No. They’re not Mo’s legs.” I jumped into the car and slammed the door shut. “Time to leave,” I said to Lula.

Lula cruised around a couple blocks. “Well?” she asked.

“I’m thinking. I’m thinking.” The problem was that I could only come up with one other person who might be able to help me out. Joe Morelli. Not someone I wanted to see in my present bedraggled condition. And not someone I wanted to owe an additional favor. And not someone I totally trusted to choose me over the Trenton Police Department.

“I’m cold, and I’m wet and I’m sure as anything gonna have the runs any minute now,” Lula said. “You better decide what
to do pretty soon, or there could be a big mess in the car.”

Morelli had recently moved out of his apartment and into a row house on Slater Street. I didn’t know any of the details, but the move seemed out of character for Morelli. His previous apartment had been sparsely furnished. Comfortable in a utilitarian sort of way. Minimum maintenance. An entire house for Morelli felt much too domestic. Who would clean it? And what about curtains? Who would pick out curtains?

“Take Chambers and turn left when you get to Slater,” I said.

Slater was outside the boundaries of the burg by about a half mile. It was an ethnically mixed neighborhood of modest homes and people scraping to maintain them.

I couldn’t remember the number, but I’d know the house. I’d given in to morbid curiosity about a month ago and driven by to check things out. It was brown shingle in the middle of the block. Two stories, small cement front porch. A handyman’s special.

We drove two blocks down Slater, and I could see Morelli’s car parked at the curb half a block ahead. My stomach gave a nervous little twitch, and I did a panicky review of my options.

“What are you doing making those whimpering sounds?” Lula asked.

“I’m reviewing my options.”

“And?”

“I don’t have any.”

Lula idled at Morelli’s back bumper. “Looks like a cop car. Smells like a cop car….”

“Joe Morelli.”

“Is this his house?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Pull over. I’ll only be a minute.”

I could see lights shining downstairs, to the rear. Probably coming from the kitchen. I knocked on the door and waited, wondering what sort of reception I’d get, praying Morelli was alone. If he had a woman with him I’d be so embarrassed I’d have to move to Florida.

I heard footsteps to the other side of the door, and the door was opened. Morelli wore thick wool socks and jeans, a black T-shirt and a flannel shirt that was unbuttoned and rolled to his elbows. His eyebrows lifted in surprise. He took in my wet hair and mud-splattered Levi’s. His gaze shifted to the red Firebird, which Lula had parked under a streetlight. He shook his head.

“Tell me you don’t have legs sticking out of that car.”

“Uh, well, actually…”

“Christ, Stephanie, this makes four! Four dead bodies. Eight if you count the ones in the cellar.”

“It’s not my fault!” I stuffed my fists onto my hips. “You think I want to keep finding dead bodies? This is no picnic for me either, you know.”

“Who is it?”

“We think it’s Elliot Harp. He’s got a big hole in the middle of his face, so it’s hard to tell for sure.”

I told him the story about spotting Mo and following him down Route 1, and how we came to have Elliot Harp rammed into Lula’s trunk.

“And?” Morelli said.

“And I brought him here. I thought you might want to have first crack at him.” And I thought you might write up the report in a favorable manner that didn’t cite me for body snatching. And I thought if I dragged you into this I wouldn’t be the brunt of bad cop jokes having to do with tailgate delivery of corpses.

I took a fast peek inside Morelli’s house, seeing a wood floor in the small foyer and an old-fashioned wood banister on stairs leading up to the second floor.

Morelli made a one-minute sign to Lula,
pulled me inside and shut the door. “You should have left the body on the side of the road. You should have flagged someone down. You should have found a phone and called the police.”

“Hello,” I said. “Are you listening? I just went through all of that. No one would stop, and I decided it was dangerous to stay at roadside.”

Morelli cracked the door and looked out at the Firebird. He closed the door and shook his head again. He looked down at his feet and tried to hide the smile.

“It isn’t funny!” I said.

“Whose idea was the flag?”

“Lula’s. She didn’t want to get a ticket.”

The smile widened. “You gotta love her.”

“So what should I do with this guy?”

“I’ll call the ME’s office and have someone meet us at the station. You’ve driven Harp this far…a few more miles won’t make much difference.”