Lean Mean Thirteen, Page 24

  “The warehouse on Stark Street?”

  “Yes. Next comes Peter Smullen. Smullen is married to a woman from a cartel family. Smullen has contacts all over South America. These contacts have dope but need guns, so Smullen takes the dope, and Petiak delivers the guns. The last piece to the puzzle is Gorvich. Gorvich is the drug dealer. He gets the stuff from Smullen and packages it up and distributes it. Now comes the good part. The money Gorvich takes in for drug sales is recorded as payment for legal services. It gets deposited in the firm s account and is sanitized.”

  Morelli took another doughnut. “So Petiak smuggles guns off government property, stores them in your warehouse, and then ships them off to South America. The cartel pays for the guns with drugs. The drugs gets shipped to Trenton, probably to the warehouse, where they're packaged and sold to local dealers. And the dealers pay for the dope in billable hours.”

  “Yep,” Dickie said. “Genius, right?”

  “Not exactly. Zabar figured it out.”

  “Well, it was good in theory,” Dickie said. “It would make a good movie.”

  'Where do you fit in all this?"

  “I was the token real lawyer in the firm. I was supposed to give them some legitimacy. The only reason I know anything is because Smullen made a phone call from his office and I happened to be in the hall. He was on speakerphone talking to Petiak, and they were making plans to pull all the money out of the firm and disappear. Petiak said there was no rush. He said Zabar was taken care of and wasn't going to make any more problems. This was Tuesday morning, after the Monday partners' meeting that Zabar was supposed to attend. Smullen said if Zabar could figure it out, there were others in the accounting firm that could do the same thing. Petiak agreed but said they had to give Gor-vich two weeks to transact business.”

  Bob came in and sat at Morelli s feet.

  “You ate your bagel in the car,” Morelli said to Bob. “You'll get fat if you eat another bagel.”

  Bob heaved himself to his feet and padded back to the living room.

  “Was this when you cleaned out the Smith Barney account?” Morelli asked.

  “Not right away. I didn't know what to make of it. My worst fear had always been that one of Gorvich's drug dealers would walk in and shoot up the office. I knew our client list was scary. A conspiracy never occurred to me.”

  “You must have known they were all from Sheepshead.”

  “Everyone has a circle of professionals they tap into when the need arises.”

  “They bought their degrees on the Internet,” I said to Dickie.

  “At the time, I didn't care. I didn't have the resources to make a success on my own, so I was willing to do some denial to get a partnership.”

  “Why didn't you go to the police when they killed Ziggy Zabar?”

  “I didn't know they killed Zabar. Petiak said he took care of him. That could have meant anything. Later in the week, the police came asking if Zabar had attended the meeting, but even then I still thought he was just missing. Petiak could have paid him off, and Zabar could have gone to Rio. Anyway, have you seen Petiak? He's not a guy you could walk up to and ask if he killed your accountant.” Dickie pushed back in his chair. “You need a television in here. How can you have a kitchen without a television?”

  “I manage,” Morelli said. “So what I'm supposed to believe is that you heard a phone conversation suggesting your partners were going to take your money and run and you didn't do anything?”

  “I didn't confront them, if that's what you mean. These are guys who have professional hit men on their client list. I represent Norman Wolecky. I backed out of the hall without making a sound, and when the building emptied out for the night, I went through all the financial records, and I found out how much money we had at Smith Barney. I knew from the phone conversation that something illegal had gone down, but I couldn't figure out what it was. I thought it was probably something like tax evasion. If it was tax evasion, I knew I was fucked. I signed the returns just like everybody else. What was pissing me off was that they were going to take the money and leave me behind to take the fall. I was sitting on this information, waiting for someone to come to me, and no one did. So Friday afternoon, I went to Joyce's house so no one would hear me, and I cleaned out the Smith Barney account. It was easy. All four of us have our own password to access the account. My plan was to wait for the Monday meeting. If they didn't say anything to me at the Monday meeting, I was going to leave the country and enjoy my forty million. Screw Smullen, Gorvich, and Petiak. My mistake was that I didn't leave soon enough. Smullen found out about the withdrawal and sent the goon patrol to my house Monday night.”

  “You still could have fled,” I said to him. “Why did you hang around?”

  "To begin with, I didn't have a passport. It was in my house, and my house was filled with cops. And then when I went back to my house, my passport was missing. I know there are ways to get a fake passport, but I'm not James Bond. I don't know how to go about getting a fake passport, and the thought of using one scares the crap out of me. I get nervous when I have to take my shoes off at the airport. I'm innocent and I feel guilty. What am I going to do when I'm actually guilty?

  "So I put myself in a cheap motel in Bordentown until I could come up with a plan. I'm not talking to anyone. Not even Joyce. Okay, maybe phone sex, but that was it. And then I'm watching television, and the local news comes on, and they're talking about how Zabar, the accountant, washed up on the banks of the Delaware. Now I know Petiak killed Zabar. This is serious shit. This isn't just income tax evasion, this is also murder.

  "Time to get out of Dodge, I tell myself. If I can't go to an island and lose myself, I can at least go to Scottsdale. Unfortunately, it turns out I can't get to the money. Now I'm really in a bind. I have no more cash in my pocket, and I'm afraid to use a credit card and have it traced. I get to thinking about the warehouse and the apartment building the firm owns, and I wonder if I can hang out there for just a couple days until I can locate the money. I go to the apartment building, and it's in use. Full. No empty apartments. Then I go to the warehouse, and I see Gorvich in the parking lot talking to Eddie Aurelib. Two of Aurelio's soldiers are standing watch at parade rest by Aurelio's Lincoln. It's like a scene out of The Godfather. I don't know a whole lot about the Trenton drug scene, but I know Aurelio is big-time mob.

  “I drove past the warehouse and got on Route One and kept going until Princeton. I stopped at a Starbucks and tried to get my heart rate down over a latte. Decaf. I didn't know what the hell was going on, but I was running out of options until I could get the money. So I called the police and told them about Gorvich and Aurelio and Gorvich's client list, and about Smullen and Petiak taking care of Zabar the accountant. I told them I'd testify to all this, but they had to put me someplace safe. And I told them I only trusted Morelli. So here I am.”

  “Why Morelli?”

  “Because you have the key,” Morelli said to me. “He needed to be close to the key. He knew we were seeing each other, and he thought he might catch some stray information. He's been sitting here waiting for another opportunity to retrieve the key. What he didn't realize was that Petiak was staking out your apartment for entirely different reasons.”

  “Petiak is doing cleanup,” Dickie said. “He's getting rid of anyone who looks like a threat. At least, that's the way he tells it. After spending some very scary time with him, my feeling is he's gone gonzo. I think Stephanie popped up on his radar screen and he just wanted to enjoy the experience of taking his flamethrower to her.”

  “And you gave him more reason, didn't you?” Morelli said.

  "He hit me! First that RangeMan gorilla attacked me in the apartment, and then I got kidnapped on the way out of the building. It was traumatic. I was handcuffed, and they rammed me down onto the floor of the car so I couldn't see anything. And then when they dragged me out, I still didn't know where we were. I only knew I was in a two-car garage. No windows. No other cars. There was just
the light from the garage-door opener.

  “Petiak was there with his spooky eyes. He didn't say anything to me. I still had my hands locked behind my back, and he hit me in the face. Just like that… bam! 'What the fuck was that?' I said to him. That was to let you know I'm serious,' he said. Then he asked me where the forty million was and I said I didn't know. So he hit me again, except that time it wasn't in the face, and I decided to tell him whatever he wanted to know.”

  “You told him Stephanie had the key.”

  “I told you. He to me!”

  I saw Morelli's eyes turn black, and I felt the air pressure change in the room. I stepped between Morelli and Dickie and put a hand to Morelli's chest.

  “You don't want to kill him,” I said to Morelli.

  “Get out of my way.”

  “This is complicated enough. And we might need him for something. And you'd have to go before a review board if you kill him.”

  “I don't get it,” Dickie said to Morelli. “What's the big deal here? He already wanted to kill her. It's not like he could kill her twice. Man, you two are a pair. You have anger-management issues. I hope you're not planning on reproducing. Hate to see a kid with her hair anyway.”

  I turned to Dickie. 'What's wrong with my hair?"

  “It's always a mess. You should get Joyce to help you with it. She has great hair. If you'd been more like Joyce, things might have worked out differently.”

  After that, things happened pretty fast, and when Morelli pulled me off Dickie, his nose was bleeding again. Someone had knocked Dickie off his chair and gone after him like Wild Woman. I guess that was me. Morelli had me at the waist with my feet two inches off the floor.

  “I don't know why I always feel like I have to take care of you,” Morelli said to me. "You do such a good job of it all by yourself/'

  There was blood splattered across the floor, soaking into Dickie s shirt.

  “Crap,” I said. “Am I responsible for all that blood?”

  “No, he cracked his nose on the table when he panicked and tried to get away from you. If I put you down, do you promise not to go after him again?”

  “Forever?”

  “No. Just in the next ten minutes.”

  “Sure.”

  Morelli got some ice out of the freezer, wrapped it in a towel, and handed it to Dickie. “Do you suppose you could try being a little less obnoxious?” he asked him.

  “What'd I do? I'm sitting here minding my own business, trying to be cooperative. Talk to Bitchzilla over there.”

  I looked at my watch. “Nine minutes,” I said to Morelli.

  “I've got blood all over my shirt,” Dickie said.

  Morelli mopped the blood up off the floor with some wadded paper towels. “First of all, it's my shirt. And second, it's still the cleanest shirt we've got until we do laundry.”

  “Well, for cripes sakes, do the laundry,” Dickie said.

  “I don't have a washer or dryer, and I can't leave you in the house alone.”

  “I can take the laundry to my mom's house,” I said. “Gather it up for me.”

  “I want to know the rest of the story first,” Morelli said.

  Dickie had his head tipped back with the ice pack over his nose. “I'm not talking anymore. I have a headache.”

  Morelli went to the powder room and got a bottle of Advil. “From what I've heard so far, you didn't know a whole lot about the drugs-for-arms business. How did you find out about all that?”

  “Petiak told me after he hit me. He's on a big nutso ego trip. Had to tell me all the details of his master plan. Even demonstrated his flamethrower. Almost burned the fucking garage down. I gotta admit, the flamethrower is pretty cool. He says he sells a lot of them to the South American drug lords. Apparently scares the bejeezus out of the locals. And I have to tell you, I almost messed myself at the thought of getting it turned on me.”

  Stephanie Plum 13 - Lean Mean Thirteen

  “Why didn't he turn it on you?”

  “I imagine he wanted to make sure I was telling the truth about the key. I got stun-gunned, and I guess injected with something, and next thing I knew, I was back here.”

  “And the key?” Morelli asked.

  “It s actually a key card. It allows the cardholder to access a high-security account in Holland from a satellite location here in the States. I have the account numbers memorized and a second set in a safety deposit box, but they aren't any good without the card. Without the card, I have to go to Holland to appear in person and pass a retinal and fingerprint scan. Not an option without a passport.”

  “Stephanie seems like an odd choice for the key keeper.”

  “I didn't choose her. She took the key with her when she left my office. The key's in the clock. I wasn't too worried about it because I knew she'd take care of the clock. I figured in some ways it was probably safer than if I'd left it at the office.”

  “What clock?” Morelli asked.

  “Her Aunt Tootsie gave us a desk clock as a wedding present. I was using it in my office, and Sticky Fingers took it on her way out. I went to her apartment twice to look for it and couldn't find it. It's not here either, so I'm assuming it's at her parents' house.”

  I'd entirely forgotten about the clock. I was mentally scrambling, tracing backward. When did I last see the clock? It was in my bag. Then I stopped at the food store. Put the bags in the back of the car. Put the clock with the bags. Took the bags into the house. Could I have left the clock in the car? I couldn't remember bringing the clock into my apartment.

  “You're looking pale,” Morelli said. “Like all the blood just drained out of your face. You're not going to faint, are you?”

  “I think I left the clock in the car.”

  “What car?”

  “The Crown Vic.”

  “Where is it now?” Morelli asked.

  “I don't know. It broke down on Route one and Ranger had one of his men take care of it.”

  Dickie took the ice pack off his face. “You lost Aunt Tootsies clock?”

  “Its not your money anyway,” Morelli said to Dickie. “Its drug money. It belongs to the government. It'll be confiscated.”

  I called Ranger and asked him about the Crown Vic. He called back three minutes later.

  “Binkie had it towed to the salvage yard,” Ranger said.

  “Which one?”

  “Rosollis off Stark.”

  “How's Tank?”

  “Tanks good. He was discharged this morning. Anything I need to know?”

  “Yes, but its too complicated to tell you on the phone. I'll be around later. Did you feed Rex breakfast and give him fresh water?”

  “That's part of Ella's job description.”

  I flipped my phone closed. “It's at Rosolli s.”

  Dickie s eyes got wide. “The junkyard? My God, they'll compress it to the size of a lunchbox.”

  “I'll call it in,” Morelli said. “They'll send someone out to locate the car.”

  “What about me?” Dickie said. “Do I stay here?”

  “Your status hasn't changed,” Morelli said. “Until I hear otherwise, you're in protective custody.”

  “Get me your laundry basket,” I said to Morelli. “I need clean clothes. I think I'm starting to mold.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Grandma Mazur had Blackie under her arm when she opened the door.

  “What are you doing with Blackie?” I asked her.

  “I've been trying to find just the right place to set him out. I want him to look natural.” At the risk of being unkind, Blackie would need to be in Frankenstein's lab to look natural. "I have Morelli's laundry. I thought I'd throw it in the washer, and then I have to get back to

  Morelli," I told Grandma.

  “Blackie and me will take care of it for you. We haven't got anything better to do.” I left the laundry with Grandma and ran back to Morelli's SUV. I thought maybe Lula was

  right and I didn't do much for Morelli. It wouldn't kill me to p
itch in and clean his house today. It was only a matter of time before my life would be back to normal, although I was beginning to think weird might be normal for me. The police would get the car and the clock and the money. They'd find Petiak and lock him up. And I wasn't sure what would happen to Dickie.

  Morelli's house was less than a quarter of a mile from my parents' house. I drove two blocks and was T-boned by a Hummer coming out of an alley that ran behind a row of houses. The impact rammed me into a parked car and left me breathless. Before I had a chance to collect myself, my door was wrenched open, and I was yanked from behind the wheel. It was Dave with a broken nose, bandaged finger, and brace on his knee.