Lean Mean Thirteen, Page 6

“You reported the shots?”

  “Yes. I was getting ready for bed. I heard the shots, and I thought it was kids. They ride through and shoot at mailboxes. But then when I looked out the window, I saw the car pull out of the Orr driveway. And I saw that the front door to the house was left open.”

  “What did the car look like?”

  “It looked a little like your police car. It was dark out, so I can't be certain, but I think it was that burgundy color. And the shape was similar. I'm not much of a car person. My husband would have known exactly, but he was already in bed. He didn't get to the window in time.”

  “Did you see any people in the car? Did you see the license plate?”

  “No. I just saw the car. It pulled out of the driveway and went north, toward th Street.”

  I thanked her and went back to the Vic. I had two means of exit from the Vic. I could crawl across the console and go out the passenger side door, or I could crawl out the driver's side window. It was easier to crawl out the window, but that meant the window stayed open, and it was freezing cold when I returned to the car. Although, since I had half a rotting squirrel stuck to my dashboard, there was some advantage to the open window.

  I'd chosen to do the crawl over the console thing this time so as not to tip off the neighbors I wasn't really a cop. I returned to the Vic, got some heat going, and reviewed my choices. I could take a shot at finding one of the remaining skips. I could go on a poster hunt. I could head over to my parents' house and talk to Grandma about Milton Buzick. Or I could go home and take a nap.

  I was leaning toward the nap when my phone buzzed.

  “I need help,” Grandma said. “I got a hot date tonight with Elmer. We're going to the Rozinski viewing, and I'm thinking I might have to show some skin to keep Elmer away from Loretta Flick. I figure I can open a couple buttons on my blue dress, but I can't get my boobs to stay up. I thought you might be able to get me one of them pushup bras.”

  Forty-five minutes later, I had Grandma in the Victoria s Secret dressing room, trying on push-up bras.

  “Okay,” Grandma said from the other side of the door. “I got them all lifted up, and they look pretty good except for the wrinkles.”

  “I wouldn't worry about the wrinkles,” I told her. “It looked to me like Elmer has cataracts.”

  “Maybe I need one of them thongs to go with this bra,” she said.

  I didn't want to think about Grandma in a thong. “Some pretty panties might be better.”

  “As long as they're sexy. I might get lucky tonight.”

  If she got lucky, Elmer would drop dead before dinner. “I'll pick out something that will match while you're getting dressed,” I told Grandma. We were at the register with the bra and panties, and I heard something sizzle in my head, and the next thing I knew I was on the floor and my lips were tingling.

  “Wha…” I said.

  Grandma was bending over me. “You got zapped by Joyce Barnhardt. I heard you go over, and I turned around and saw Joyce standing there with a stun gun. We called the police, but she ran off. Dirty rotten coward.”

  I looked past Grandma and saw a mall rent-a-cop nervously looking down at me.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “We got a doctor coming.”

  “Get me up on my feet,” I said.

  “I don't know if I should,” he said. “Maybe you should just lay there until help gets here.”

  “Get me up!” I yelled at him. “I don't need a doctor. I need a new car and a new job and ten minutes alone with Ranger. This is all his fault.”

  The rent-a-cop got me under my armpits and hoisted me up. I went down to my knees, grabbed hold of his shirt, and pulled myself up again.

  “Jeez, lady,” he said.

  “Don't worry,” I told him. “This happens to me a lot. I'm good at it.”

  Grandma led me through the mall, and we managed to get to the parking lot and the Vic without the doctor finding me. I was supposed to be keeping a low profile. I didn't want to find myself on the evening news. Local bounty hunter stun-gunned in mall. Details at eight.

  Grandma stood back and looked at my car. “Was your car decorated like this when we left it? I don't remember all this writing on it.”

  Someone had spray-painted PIG CAR in black and white on the passenger side door and trunk lid.

  “Its new,” I said.

  “I would have used brighter colors,” Grandma said. “Gold would have looked good. You can't go wrong with gold.”

  “The black and white goes better with the squirrel hair stuck to the dash,” I told her.

  “I was wondering what that was,” Grandma said. “I figured it was one of them new animal print decorator schemes.”

  “Lula helped me with it.”

  “Isn't she the one,” Grandma said.

  I got behind the wheel and motored out of the lot and onto the highway.

  “Do you hear a grinding sound?” Grandma asked.

  “All cars sound like that,” I said. “You're just noticing it because I don't have the radio on loud enough. What about Milton? Did you notice if he was wearing jewelry?”

  “Nothing worth anything. His lodge lapel pin. That was about it. I know you're looking for Simon Diggery. It'll take something good to get him out in this weather. I'll check out Harry Rozinski, but he probably won't have anything worth taking, and he's not Diggery s size.”

  “Do you need a ride tonight?”

  “No. Elmer has a car. He's picking me up.”

  It was a little after four when I dropped Grandma off. Lights were on in Burg houses and tables were being set for dinner. This was a community where families still sat together for meals. I turned right onto Hamilton and ten minutes later, I was in my apartment building. I let myself in, and Bob rushed over to me.

  “Where's Joe?” I asked him.

  Not in the kitchen. Not in the dining room. Not in the living room. I went to the bedroom and found him asleep in my bed.

  “Hey Goldilocks,” I said.

  Morelli came awake and rolled onto his back. “What time is it?”

  “Four-thirty. Have you been here long?”

  “Couple hours.”

  “I heard a news report on the Berringer murders while I was in the car. They said the police were baffled.”

  “Baffled and tired. I need some sleep. I'm too old for this middle-of-the-night murder shit.”

  “There was a time when you did all sorts of things in the middle of the night.”

  “Come here and you can tell me about them.”

  “I thought you were tired.”

  “I just want to talk,” Morelli said.

  “That's a big fib. I know what you want to do.”

  Morelli smiled. “Hard for a man to keep a secret.”

  FOUR

  Morelli WAS AT my kitchen counter, drinking coffee, eating cereal. His hair was still damp from the shower, and he was clean-shaven. In ten minutes, he'd have a five o'clock shadow. He was wearing worn-out black jeans, a pale gray cable-knit sweater, and black motorcycle boots.

  “You don't look like a cop,” I told him. “All the other guys wear suits.”

  “I've been asked by the chief not to wear a suit. I look like a casino pit boss when I wear a suit. I don't inspire trust.”

  I poured myself a bowl of cereal and added milk. “It was nice of you to bring all this food.”

  “Your cupboards were empty. And your refrigerator. I'm guessing the bounty hunter business is slow.”

  “It comes and goes. Problem is, I only make enough money to live day by day. I can't make enough to get ahead.”

  “It would be easier if you moved in with me.”

  '“We've tried that. It's always a disaster. Eventually, we drive each other nuts.”

  “It's your job,” Morelli said.

  “Its your expectations.”

  He put his cereal bowl in the sink and buckled his gun onto his belt. “Yeah, my expectations are that you'll give up your job.”


  “Are we fighting?”

  “Am I yelling and waving my arms?”

  “No.”

  “Then we aren't fighting.” He crooked an arm around my neck and kissed me. “I have to go. I'm working with Phil Panchek. He hates being baffled without me.”

  “Marty Gobel never called to talk to me. Does that mean I'm off the hook?”

  “No. It means he's dreading talking to you for fear you don't have an alibi, and he's procrastinating as long as possible.”

  Bob was leaning against me. “Are you taking Bob?”

  “Yeah, I'll drop him off at my house. He has a routine. He eats the couch. He takes a nap. He gnaws on a dining room table leg. He takes a nap. He spreads the garbage all over the kitchen floor. He takes a nap.”

  I fondled Bob's ear. “You're lucky you have a dog who can amuse himself while you're gone.”

  Morelli shrugged into his jacket and clipped Bob's leash on him. “Later.”

  I finished my coffee and cereal and hand-washed the dishes. I took a shower and put in the minimum effort on my hair. Truth is, the minimum effort isn't that far removed from the maximum effort, and my hair pretty much looks the same no matter what I do with it. I applied some mascara and looked myself in the eye in the mirror.

  “Today is the day,” I said to myself. “Time to get serious. If you don't catch someone soon, you'll get kicked out of your apartment.”

  I got dressed in my lucky jeans and my lucky black sweater. It was still cold, but it wasn't snowing or sleeting, so I traded my fake Uggs for running shoes… just in case I had to chase down Diggery. I had cuffs in my back jeans pocket. Pepper spray in my jacket pocket. A stun gun clipped to my belt. I went to the kitchen and took my gun out of my cookie jar. It was a little five-shot Smith & Wesson. I spun the barrel. No bullets. I looked in the jar. No bullets. I rummaged through kitchen drawers. No bullets. I put the gun back into the cookie jar. I didn't really want to shoot anyone today anyway.

  I got bundled up in my parka and scarf and gloves, and went out to the Vic. I crawled in and plugged the key into the ignition. It took a while, but the engine finally caught. All right, so I didn't have a great car. No big deal, I told myself. At least it was running. And today was the day it was all going to turn around. I was going after Diggery first and then Coglin. And then I was going to plow through the rest of the cases.

  I took Broad and headed for Bordentown. It was just past rush hour, and traffic was heavy but moving. The cloud cover had finally lifted and the sky was as blue as it gets in Jersey. I was on Route one, cruising along, listening to the radio, when the grinding sound coming from under the hood turned into BANG, BANG, BANG and the car coasted to a stop at the side of the road. It wasn't entirely unexpected, but it left me breathless all the same. Another example that sugar isn't pixie dust, and wish as hard as you might, it won't make you invisible.

  I was sitting there trying to keep from crying, running through my options, and Ranger called.

  “Babe, you're stopped on Route one. What's up?”

  I remembered the gizmo in my bag. RangeMan was monitoring me. “My car died.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I looked in my rearview mirror and saw Ranger pull in behind me. He got out of his car and into mine. Ranger didn't smile a lot, but clearly he was amused.

  “I don't know how you do it,” Ranger said. “In a matter of days, you've managed to turn a perfectly good piece-of-shit car into something so fucked up it's a work of art.”

  “It's a gift.”

  “The bullet hole in the rear window?”

  “Joyce Barnhardt,” I told him. “She's unhappy with me because she thinks I killed Dickie.”

  “And the crud on the dash?”

  “Squirrel bomb.”

  He looked incredulous for a moment and then burst out laughing. In all the time I'd known Ranger, this was maybe the third time I'd seen him actually laugh out loud, so it turned out to be worth getting squirrel-bombed.

  Ranger dropped back to a smile and tugged me out of the car. He kicked the door closed, slung an arm around my shoulders, and walked me back to his Porsche Cayenne. “Where were you going?” he asked.

  “ “I’m looking for Simon Diggery,” I said. “I stopped by his double-wide on Tuesday, but no one was home. I thought Fd try again.”

  Ranger opened the Cayenne door for me. “I'll go with you. If we're lucky, we might get to see his snake eat a cow.”

  I looked back at the Vic. “What about my car?”

  “I'll have it picked up.”

  Ranger didn't bother parking out of sight of Diggery s trailer. He drove the Cayenne onto the blighted grass and pulled up between the trailer and the stand of hardwoods. We got out of the Porsche, and he gave me his gun.

  “Stay here and shoot anyone who makes a run for it, including the snake.”

  “How do you know I don't have my own gun?”

  “Do you?”

  “No.”

  Ranger did another one of those almost sighing things and jogged around to Diggery's front door. I heard him rap on the door and call out. There was the sound of the rusted door opening and closing and then silence. I held my ground.

  After a couple minutes, Ranger reappeared and motioned for me to join him.

  “Simon is off somewhere, but the uncle is here. And stay away from the sink,” Ranger said.

  I gave him his gun back, followed him into the trailer, and immediately checked out the kitchen area. The snake was sprawled on the counter, its head in the sink. I guess it was thirsty. The uncle was at the small built-in table.

  The uncle wasn't much older than Simon Diggery, and the family resemblance was there, blurred over a little by hard drinking and an extra fifty pounds. He was wearing black socks and ratty bedroom slippers and huge boxer shorts.

  “Give you a quarter if you pull your shirt up,” Bill Diggery said to me.

  'Til give you a quarter if you put your shirt on" I told him.

  Ranger was against the wall, watching Diggery. “Where s Simon?” Ranger asked.

  “Don't know,” Bill said.

  “Think about it,” Ranger told him.

  “He might be at work.”

  “Where is he working?”

  “Don't know.”

  Rangers eyes flicked to the snake and back to Bill. “Has he been fed today?”

  “He don't eat every day,” Bill said. “He probably ain't hungry.”

  “Steph,” Ranger said. “Wait outside so I can talk to Bill.”

  “You aren't going to feed him to the snake, are you?”

  “Not all of him.”

  “As long as it's not all of him,” I said. And I let myself out.

  I closed the door and waited for a couple minutes. I didn't hear any screams of pain or terror. No gunshots. I hunkered down in my jacket and shoved my hands into my pockets to keep warm. A couple more minutes passed, and Ranger came out, closing the door behind him. “Well?” I asked.

  “Simon is working in the food court at Quakerbridge Mall. Bill didn't know more than that.”

  “Did you feed Uncle Bill to the snake?”

  “No. He was right… the snake wasn't hungry.”

  “Then how did you get him to talk?”

  Ranger slid an arm around me, and I felt his lips brush my ear when he spoke. “I can be very persuasive.”

  No kidding.

  Quakerbridge is on Route One, northeast of Trenton. It seemed like a long way for Diggery to drive for an odd job in a food court, but what the heck, maybe Diggery was lucky to get it. And maybe he had a better car than I did. That thought brought me up to a sobering reality. Diggery for sure had a better car than I did because I had no car at all.

  Ranger drove out of Diggery s neighborhood and headed north. We were on Route, and I was dreading the section of highway where I'd left the Vic. I didn't want to see the poor, sad, broken-down car. It was a reminder of what was wrong with my life. Crappy job, hand-tomouth existence, no future I was willing to co
mmit to. If it was June and the sun was shining, I might feel different, but it was cold and the clouds had returned and a mist had started to fall.

  “I need macaroni and cheese,” I said to Ranger, clapping my hands over my eyes. “I promised myself French fries, jelly doughnuts, birthday cake… and I never got them.”

  “I have a better way to make you happy,” Ranger said. “Less fattening but more addicting.”