Lean Mean Thirteen, Page 8

  “It makes me feel like a whole new person,” Grandma said. “Sissy says I look just like Shirley MacLaine.”

  I zipped my jacket. “I just stopped in to say hello. I have to get back to the office.”

  I checked myself out in the hall mirror on my way to the door to make sure there were no leftover effects from the stun gun… like my tongue hanging out or my eyes rolling around in my head. I didn't notice anything, so I left my parents' house, buckled myself into the Cayenne, and called Lula.

  “Unhunh,” Lula said.

  “I'm going to check on Carl Coglin. Want to ride along with me?”

  “Sure. Maybe I can explode another squirrel on myself.”

  Five minutes later, I picked her up in front of the bonds office.

  “Now this is what I call a car,” Lula said, getting into the Cayenne. “Only one place you get a car like this.”

  “It's Rangers.”

  “Don't I know it. I get a rush just sitting in it. I swear, that man is so hot and so fine it's like he isn't even human.”

  “Mmm,” I said.

  “Mmm. What's that supposed to mean? You think he isn't fine?”

  “He involved me in a murder.”

  “He told you to choke Dickie in front of the whole law office staff?”

  “Well, no. Not exactly.”

  “Not that Dickie don't deserve getting choked.”

  “Dickie s scum.”

  “Fuckin' A,” Lula said.

  “Although it would appear I'm the sole beneficiary in his will.”

  “Say what?”

  “Apparently, he had a will drawn up when we were married, making me heir, and he never got around to changing it.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Joyce has a copy. She told the police about it, and they brought me in for questioning.”

  “Then it's Joyce that involved you in this murder.”

  “Yes!”

  “Bitch,” Lula said.

  I drove up Hamilton and pointed the Porsche toward North Trenton. It was four o'clock, and another day was slipping by without a capture. If this continued, I'd have to scrounge around for another job. At least something part-time.

  “What's the plan here?” Lula wanted to know.

  “If he's home, we grab him and cuff him and drag him to the car. You have cuffs, right?”

  “Not with me. You're the big-deal bounty hunter. You're supposed to have the cuffs.”

  “I lost my cuffs.”

  “Again? Honest to goodness, I've never seen anybody lose things like you.”

  “You usually have cuffs,” I said to Lula.

  “They're sort of attached to my bed. Tank was over, and we got playful.”

  Eeek. Either one of them in handcuffs attached to a bed wasn't a good picture. “I didn't realize you were a couple.”

  “We're one of them couples who don't see each other all the time. We just see each other some of the time. And sometimes it goes to once in a while.”

  “Okay, then we can grab Coglin and stun-gun him. Do you have your stun gun?”

  “Sure I got my stun gun.” Lula pulled her stun gun out of her big purse. “Uh-oh, low battery.”

  I knew she had her Glock. And I knew it was loaded. But I didn't especially want her to shoot Coglin.

  “How about I grab him and sit on him until he gives up?” Lula said.

  “I guess that would work.”

  I cruised down Coglin s street and idled in front of his house. Lights were off inside. I drove around the block and scoped out the back of the house. No car parked in the alley. I cut the engine and Lula and I got out and walked to Coglin s back door. I rapped on the door and announced myself. No answer.

  Lula had her hand on the doorknob. “It's unlocked,” she said, pushing the door open, stepping inside. “This guys real trusting.”

  “Maybe he never came back.”

  We went room by room, flipping lights on, looking around. The stuffed animals were everywhere. He had an entire bedroom filled with pigeons.

  “Who would want a stuffed pigeon?” Lula asked. “I mean, what sort of a market do you suppose there is for a dead pigeon?”

  We went back downstairs, made our way out to the porch showroom, and Lula stopped in front of a beaver.

  “Look at this bad boy,” Lula said. “Now, this is what I'm talking about. This here's the biggest fuckin' rodent ever lived. This is practically prehistoric.”

  I'd never seen a beaver up close and personal, and I was surprised at the size. "Do you suppose they're always this

  big?

  “Maybe Crazy Coglin overstuffed it.”

  Lula picked up a remote that had been placed beside the beaver. The remote had two buttons. One of the buttons was labeled eyes and the other bang!

  Lula pressed the eyes button and the beavers eyes glowed. She pressed it again and the eyes shut off.

  “Probably I don't want to press the bang! button,” Lula said. “This here looks to me like a exploding beaver. And it's not like it's some second-rate squirrel. This mother's gonna make a mess. This is atomic. This is something you only give to the enemy.”

  I looked over at Lula and smiled.

  “I know what you're thinking,” Lula said. “You're thinking of Joyce and how she deserves this beaver. You're thinking we have a obligation to give this beaver to Joyce.”

  “She likes animals.”

  “Yeah, especially big trained dogs and ponies.”

  “Maybe the second button doesn't explode it. Maybe the beaver sings a song or something.”.

  “The button says bang!”

  “It could be mislabeled.”

  “I see where you're going,” Lula said. “You're thinking we have to say a lot of Hail Marys if we send this to Joyce and explode it on her. But it wouldn't be our fault if it exploded accidental. Or if there was a misunderstanding on our part.”

  “I wouldn't want to maim her.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Just because she shot at me, zapped me with a stun gun, and ratted me out to the police isn't any reason to do her bodily harm.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Still, it would be fun to send her a singing beaver.”

  Lula looked at her watch. “How long we gonna stand here doing this rationalizing shit? I got stuff to do.”

  I scrounged around in my purse and came up with eight dollars and forty cents. I left it on the table and pocketed the remote.

  'What's that?" Lula wanted to know.

  “It's for the beaver. I'm in enough trouble. I don't want to be accused of stealing a… singing beaver.”

  “And you think it's worth eight dollars and forty cents?”

  “It's all I've got.” I wrapped my arms around the beaver and hefted it off the table. “This weighs a ton!”

  Lula got her hands under his butt and helped me to the door. We loaded the beaver into the Cayenne cargo area and drove it across town to Joyce's house.

  Joyce lives in a big white colonial with fancy columns and a large yard. The house is the result of her last divorce. Joyce got the house, and her husband got a new lease on life. There was a red Jeep in the driveway, and lights were shining in the downstairs windows.

  Lula and I dragged the beaver out of the back of the Cayenne and lugged it to Joyce's front porch. We set the beaver down, I rang the bell, and Lula and I ran for cover. We hunkered down behind the red Jeep and gulped air.

  The front door opened, and Joyce said, 'What on earth?"

  I pushed the button to make the eyes glow, and I peeked around the car. Joyce was bent over looking at the beaver.

  A man came up behind her. Not Dickie. A younger, chunkier guy in jeans and a thermal Tshirt. 'What is it?" he asked.

  “It s a beaver.”

  “Well, bring it inside,” he said. “I like beaver.”

  Joyce pushed and pulled the beaver inside and' closed the door. Lula and I scurried to a window on the side of the house where curtai
ns hadn't been drawn and looked in at Joyce and the Jeep guy. The two of them were examining the beaver, patting it on the head, smiling at it.

  “Think they've had a few drinkiepoos,” Lula said. “Anyone in their right mind wouldn't bring the beaver from hell into their house.”

  After a minute or two, Joyce and the Jeep guy got tired of the beaver and walked away. I waited until they were a safe distance, and then I pushed the bang! button. There was a moments lag, and then BLAM! Beaver fur and beaver stuffing as far as the eye could see.

  The fur and glop hung from couches, chairs, tables, and table lamps. It was in Joyce s hair and was stuck to the back of her shirt. Joyce froze for a beat, turned, and looked around with her eyes bugged out.

  “Fuck!” Joyce shrieked. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

  “Holy crap,” Lula said.

  We sprang from the window and ran through the neighbor s yard to where we'd parked the car. We jumped in, and I laid rubber out of there.

  “Guess it wasn't a singing beaver after all,” I said.

  “Yeah, darn,” Lula said. “I was looking forward to hearing some singing.”

  I was smiling so wide my cheeks ached. “It was worth my last eight dollars.”

  “That was awesome,” Lula said. “That Coglin is a freakin' genius.”

  Lula had her Firebird parked in the small lot behind the office. I dropped her off at her car and motored home to my apartment.

  Morelli was watching television when I came in.

  “You look happy,” he said. “You must have had a productive day.”

  “It started off slow, but it ended okay.”

  “There's a casserole in the refrigerator. Its from my mom. It has vegetables in it and everything. And I could use another beer. The game's coming on.”

  Hours later, we were still in front of the television when Morelli s cell phone rang.

  “I'm not answering it,” Morelli said. “The guy who invented the cell phone should rot in hell.”

  The ringing stopped and a minute later, it started again.

  Morelli shut the phone off.

  We had three minutes of silence, and my phone rang in the kitchen.

  “Persistent bastard,” Morelli said.

  The ringing didn't stop, and finally Morelli went to the kitchen and answered the phone. He was smiling when he came back.

  “Good news?” I asked.

  “Yes, but I'm going to have to go to work.”

  “The Berringer case?”

  “No. Something else.”

  He went to the bedroom, rousted Bob off the bed, and snapped the leash on him. “I might have to go under for a while, but I'll call,” Morelli said. “And don't worry about Dickie. I'm sure it'll work out okay.” He grabbed his jacket and kissed me. “Later.”

  I closed and locked the door after him and stood for a moment taking the pulse of the apartment. It felt empty without Morelli. On the other hand, I could watch something sappy on television, wear my ratty, comfy flannel jammies, and hog the bed.

  SIX

  I GOT UP late because there was no real good reason to get up early. I made coffee and ate junky cereal out of the box and pushed it down with a banana. My files were spread across the dining room table. Coglin, Diggery, and a third file I hadn't yet opened. Today was the day for the third file. I had the file in my hand when my phone rang.

  “Are you all right?” my mother asked.

  “Couldn't be better.”

  “Have you seen the paper this morning?”

  “No.”

  “Don't look,” she said.

  “Now what?”

  “Its all over the news that you killed Dickie.”

  “Tell her I'll visit her in the big house,” Grandma yelled at my mother. "Tell her I'll bring

  cigarettes so she can pay off the butch guards."

  “I'll call you back,” I said to my mother.

  I disconnected and looked out my peephole. Good deal.

  Mr. Molinowski's morning paper was still lying in front of his door. I tiptoed out, snatched

  it up, and scurried back into my apartment.

  The headline read local bounty hunter prime suspect in ORR disappearance. Front page.

  And the article was accompanied by an unflattering picture of me taken while I was waiting

  for Gobel in the municipal building lobby. They'd interviewed Joyce, and Joyce was quoted as

  saying I'd always been jealous of her and had fits of violent behavior even as a child. There

  was a mention of the time Grandma and I accidentally burned down the funeral home. There

  was a second file photo of me with no eyebrows, the result of my car exploding into a fireball

  a while back. And then there were several statements by secretaries who'd witnessed me

  going postal on Dickie. One of the secretaries stated that I pointed a gun at Dickie and

  threatened to “put a big hole in his head.”

  “That was Lula,” I said to the empty apartment.

  I put the paper back on Mr. Molinowski's welcome mat, returned to my apartment, threw

  the bolt on the door, and called my mother.

  “All a pack of lies,” I said to my mother. "Ignore it. Everything's fine. I went downtown to

  have coffee with Marty Gobel and someone got the wrong idea."

  There was a pause while my mother talked herself into halfway believing the story. "I'm

  having a roast chicken tonight. Are you and Joseph coming to dinner?"

  It was Friday. Morelli and I always had dinner at my parents' house on Friday night.“Sure,”

  I said. “I'll be there. I don't know about Joe. He's on a case.”

  I drank coffee and read the third file. Stewart Hansen was charged with running a light and

  possession of a controlled substance. He was twenty-two years old, unemployed, and he lived

  in a house on Myrtle Street at the back end of the Burg. The house had been posted as

  collateral on the bond. It was owned by Stewarts cousin Trevor.

  I heard a sharp rap on my door and went to look out the security peephole. It was Joyce. “Open this door,” she yelled. “I know you're in there.” She tried to rattle the door, but it

  held tight.

  “What do you want?” I called through the door.

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  "About Dickie, you moron. I want to know where he is. You found out about the money

  and you somehow managed to snatch him, didn't you?"

  “Why do you want to know where he is?”

  “None of your business. I just need to know,” Joyce said.

  “What's with the knit hat on your head?” I asked her. "I almost didn't recognize you. You

  never wear a hat."

  Joyce fidgeted with the hat. “It's cold out. Everyone wears a hat in this weather.” Especially everyone who has beaver fur stuck to their hair.

  “So where the frig is he?” Joyce asked.

  “I told you, I don't know. I didn't kill him. I didn't kidnap him. I have no clue where he is.” “Great,” Joyce said. “That's how you want to play it? Okay by me.”

  And she stomped away.

  “What's wrong with this picture?” I asked Rex. “How did this happen?”

  Rex was asleep in his soup can. Hard to have a meaningful conversation with a hamster in a

  can.

  I thought that with the way my morning was running, it wouldn't hurt to have Lula along

  when I went to see Stewart. Lula wasn't much good as an apprehension agent, but she

  understood the need for a doughnut when a takedown went into the toilet.

  “So WHAT DID this guy do?”

  Lula was in the passenger seat of Ranger's Cayenne, looking through Stewart Hansens file.

  “It just says controlled substance here. Who wrote this? It don't tell you anything.” I turned onto Myrtle and drove by the house. I
t looked benign. Small cottage. Small plot of