09 To the Nines (15 page)

“He did.” Cone slid a piece of paper my way with all the information neatly printed out. “I told Weber about the visa bond and he's going to string Singh along until you get there. You're going to go get him, right?”

“Right.”

Lula was looking kind of sick when I got back to the car.

“How much of that bacon did you eat?” I asked her.

“I ate it all. It didn't seem like so much while I was eating it, but it doesn't feel like it fits in my stomach now.”

I called Ranger and told him about Singh. “He's in Vegas, waiting for you to go get him,” I said.

“I'm having a small legal problem with Nevada on a weapons violation,” Ranger said. “You're going to have to make the capture. Take Tank. I don't want you to go alone.”

Good grief.

Lusa was up straight in her seat. “What's this about Vegas?”

“Samuel Singh is in Vegas and Ranger can't make the capture. So either I go or Vinnie farms the capture out to a Vegas agency.”

“Don't even suggest farming it out. All my life I've wanted to go to Vegas. I hear there's a shopping center that's just like being in Venice with canals and boats and everything. And there's all those casinos and fancy hotels. There's the Strip. The Strip! I could get to see the Strip.” Lula stopped and blinked. “You were gonna take me, right?”

“Ranger wants me to go with Tank.”

“Tank? Are you shittin' me?” Lula pulled back, eyes bugged out with the injustice of it all. “Hunh. I get to go along on all the chicken-shit stuff. Sit in the car while you go into TriBro. And I'm the one goes to the back door when you go to the front door on a bust. I always get the back door. Do I complain? Hell no. I guess I know where I stand here.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Are you done?”

“No way. I'm not done. And I'm feeling anxious now. I need a burger or something.”

“You just ate three pounds of bacon!”

“Yeah, but the dogs ate one of those strips.”

I drove out of the lot and headed for the office. “Okay, fine. I'll take you to Vegas if you can clear it with Connie.”

“I knew it,” Lula said. “I knew you wouldn't go without me. We're a team, right? We're like those two cops in the Lethal Weapon movies. We're like Mel Gibson and Danny Glover.”

More like Thelma and Louise, driving off a cliff.

The office was quiet when we walked in. No Mrs. Apusenja. No Vinnie. Only Connie, sitting at her desk, reading the latest Nora Roberts.

“I found Singh,” I told her. “He's in Vegas.”

“Vegas! I love Vegas,” Connie said.

“You see? Everybody's been to Vegas but me,” Lula said. “It's not fair. I lead a deprived life. Bad enough I grew up underprivileged and all and now I'm the only one not been to Vegas.”

“Let me go get my violin,” Connie said.

“What do you want to do about this now that I've found him?” I asked Connie. “Can we forcibly bring him back? Has he violated his bond agreement?”

“The bond agreement states that he can't leave the tristate area without permission. So the answer is yes, you can forcibly bring him back. I'll page Vinnie to double-check, but I'm sure he'll want Singh brought back here.”

“Ranger can't go to Vegas to make the capture,” I told Connie.

Connie nodded. “He's got an outstanding weapons violation. Stepped on a few toes last time he was in Nevada. His lawyer's working on it.”

“So that leaves me, I guess,” I said. “And Lula.”

“I get the picture,” Connie said.

“And Tank,” I added. “Ranger said I should take Tank.”

“Anyone else?” Connie asked, turning to the computer. “You want a permit for a parade?”

“Boy, this here's going to be fun,” Lula said. “And what with this new diet, I'll probably be real thin by the time I get there.”

“It's only a five-hour flight,” I told her.

“Yeah, but this diet works fast.”

“Okay, here we go,” Connie said. “I've got us on a flight out of Newark at four o'clock. We have a plane change in Chicago and we arrive in Vegas at nine. It's not a direct flight, but it's the best I can do.”

“Us?”

“You don't think I'm going to send you and Lula to Vegas without me, do you? I'm feeling lucky. I'm going straight to the craps table. I'm not going to page Vinnie, either. I'm going to leave him a note.”

We didn't have a lot of time if we were going to catch a four o'clock flight. “Here's the plan,” I said. “It doesn't make sense to take more than one car. I'll tell Tank he's driving and he can pick all of us up. Everyone go home and pack and be ready to go in an hour. And remember, there's tight security now. No guns, no knives, no pepper spray, no nail files.”

“What? How am I supposed to travel without a nail file?” Lula wanted to know.

“You have to put it in your suitcase and check your suitcase.”

“What if I break a nail getting onto the plane and I got to file it down?”

“You'll have to gnaw it down with your teeth. I'll get you in an hour.”

Tank was parked in front of the bonds office and he was being surveillant. I went out to him and gave him the game plan. He said his assignment was to stick to me and he didn't need to pack.

“Not even a toothbrush?” I asked. “Not even an extra pair of tighty whiteys?”

Tank almost smiled.

Okay then. I ran to my car and took off for my apartment. I hit the ground running when I got to my building. I took the stairs two at a time, barefoot with my shoes in my hands. Tank was ahead of me in the hall. He opened my apartment door and stepped inside. Four eight-by-ten glossies were spread across the floor. We bent to look at them without touching anything. They were photos of a man with half his head blown away. Like the first set of photos, they were enlarged to hide the victim's identity. My first thought, of course, was of Carl Rosen.

“Do you recognize him?” Tank asked.

“No.”

Tank closed the front door and gave me a gun. “Stay here while I check the rest of the apartment.” Moments later he was back. “No one here. No more photos that I can see. I didn't go through your drawers.”

“Okay,” I said, “here's what we do. We leave these photos exactly where they are. We try not to disturb any prints that might have been left. I pack as fast as possible and we get the hell out. When we're ready to board I'll call Morelli. If I call him now I'll have to stay for questioning and we'll never make the plane.”

“Works for me,” Tank said.

Ten minutes later I was out of the apartment, a change of clothes and essential makeup in a tote bag slung over my shoulder. We left my car in the lot and took Tank's SUV.

Connie lived in the Burg, so she was next on the pickup list. We beeped once when we pulled to the curb and Connie hustled out to us. Connie's house was a narrow single family, similar to my parents' duplex, but half of Connie's house had been chopped away. Vito Grecci used to live in the adjoining half house. Vito was a Mob bagman who came in with a light bag one time too many. Next day Vito's house mysteriously caught fire and Vito turned up in the Camden landfill. Fortunately for Connie, the fire didn't go beyond the brick firewall between the two adjoining houses. Connie bought Vito's fire-gutted half at a bank auction, tore the trashed house down, and never rebuilt. Connie liked having the empty lot. She put a big free-standing pool with a wraparound cedar deck in the newly created side yard. And she set up a shrine to the Virgin for sparing her house.

Lula lived on the other side of Hamilton, down by the train station. There wasn't a lot of money in the neighbor hood, but year after year it held its own. Lula rented a tiny two-room apartment on the second floor of a small house. The house was gray clapboard with touches of Victorian trim. Last year the owner painted the trim pink. In a weird way it seemed just right for Lula.

Lula was on the curb waiting when we drove down her street. She had two huge suitcases with her, a big leather purse hung on her shoulder, and she was holding a large canvas tote.

Tank smiled. “I bet they're all filled with pork chops.”

“We're only staying overnight,” I told Lula when she climbed into the backseat next to Connie.

“I know that, but I like to be prepared. And I couldn't decide what to wear. I got a whole suitcase filled with shoes. You can't go to Vegas without a change of shoes. How many shoes did you bring?” Lula asked me.

“The shoes I'm wearing and sneakers.”

“How about you?” she asked Connie.

“Four pairs of shoes,” Connie said.

“Dog,” Lula said to Tank. “How many shoes you got?”

Tank looked at Lula in the rearview mirror and didn't say anything.

Lula turned and checked out the luggage in the back of the SUV. “I don't even see any Tank suitcases,” Lula said. “Where's your suitcases?”

“Tank hasn't got any suitcases,” I said. “Tank's traveling light.”

“Where's he keep his extra tighty whiteys?” Lula wanted to know.

Tank cut another look at Lula. “I don't wear tighty whiteys,” he said.

“You devil!” Lula yelled. “I bet you go commando.”

Lula and Connie fanned themselves in the backseat. Tank kept his eyes on the road, but I could see him smiling.

An hour later, we were in the terminal, standing in line. Seventy-three people in front of us. An airline employee was going person to person, suggesting electronic ticket holders use the automatic ticketing machines. We looked over at the machines with flocks of people gathered around them.

“I don't know,” Lula said. “Those people trying to use those machines look pissed off. Don't look to me like they're having a whole lot of luck getting tickets out of those machines. Looks to me like after they waste some time they give up and get back in line over here.”

We sent Connie over to investigate and we stayed in line. After a couple minutes Connie came back. “I think they're just decoys,” Connie said. “I never saw anybody have any luck getting a ticket out of them.”

“I bet I know,” Lula said. “You go over there and try to get a ticket and you give them your name and address. And then you don't get a ticket, but you get put on some list for junk mail and telephone solicitors. I bet the airlines make money selling those lists. I bet they get extra on account of they're lists of gullible people who'll buy anything. You didn't give them your name and address, did you, Connie?”

“That's ridiculous,” Connie said. And because she was snippy when she said it, we all knew she gave the machine her name and address.

Forty-five minutes later, we got to the counter and got ticketed. Lula checked two of her bags. Tank didn't have any bags. I carried my single tote bag with me. Connie had one small suitcase on rollers, which she checked.

“We're on our way now,” Lula said. “Boy, this is gonna be fun. Hold on. What are we doing in another line?”

“This is the line to go through the security check,” I told her.

“Say what?”

We inched our way along again. I had a low-grade headache from the terminal noise and the tedium and I had a backache from an hour of carrying the tote on my shoulder. Twenty minutes ago I'd dropped the tote onto the floor and now I kicked it along ahead of me. I suspected I was growing pale and in another twenty minutes I'd look like I'd spent fifteen years at TriBro testing nuts and bolts.

I was first in line. Lula stood behind me. Then Connie. Tank was in line behind Connie. We showed our tickets. We flashed our photo IDs. I approached the conveyor belt leading to the scanner. I placed my tote and my purse on the belt.

A security attendant asked me to place my shoes on the belt, as well. I looked down at the strappy sandals I'd put on first thing this morning. Brown leather and not a single part of the shoe thicker than an eighth of an inch with the exception of the slim wood stacked stiletto heel, which was a quarter of an inch. Guess security thought I had a bomb in the shoe. Bombs must frequently be hidden in women's strappy sandals.

I took the shoes off and shuffled barefoot along the filthy floor, through the metal detector. I didn't set the detector off but the security attendant told me I was a random female, so I was pulled aside and asked to stand spread eagle. I supposed they thought I had box cutters hidden under my skintight, slightly see-through white stretchy shirt. I was wanded and released. My shoes were returned to me after careful scrutiny.

An attendant in rubber gloves extracted all the items from my tote. Two pairs of bikini panties, a pair of jeans, two little white T-shirts, white socks, sneakers, a travel box of tampons (just in case), hair spray, roller brush, assorted cosmetics. Forty or fifty people passing by admired the panties and a couple women suggested a different brand of tampon.

The items were returned to my bag and I was told I could continue on my way. Lula was causing a scene behind me. She had to go through the same routine and they found fried chicken in her purse.

“You're not allowed to take unpackaged food past security,” the attendant said to Lula.

“What am I supposed to eat?” Lula wanted to know. “I'm on a diet to be a supermodel. I need this fried chicken. Suppose they don't feed me on the plane?”

“There are kiosks by the gate that sell food,” Lula was told.

I looked at the fried chicken displayed on the examining table. A leg and a breast. I guess security was on the lookout for chicken leg bombs.

“I don't like this,” Lula said, shouldering her bags. “Had to take my shoes off, my jacket off, got felt up under my bra clip. Had to take my belt off. And look at this, I can't button the top snap on my stretch pants and now everybody knows. This here's been a humiliating experience. And on top of it all they took my chicken.”

Connie had breezed through without a hitch. “That's the way it is now,” Connie said. “You want to be safe, right? This is just a small thing to keep us safe.”

“Shut up,” Lula said. “I hate people who don't get searched.” Her eyes were wild and her lower lip was jutting out. “I'm feeling a lot of anxiety,” Lula said. “If this was supposed to make me feel safe it isn't working. All I can think of now is terrorists. I wasn't thinking of terrorists before. I need some ham. Where's the place they sell ham?”

It was announced that our plane was boarding and Tank still hadn't cleared security. I knew he didn't have weapons on him. He'd locked everything in the truck when we parked. They brought a dog in and two armed guards moved closer. Apparently they were picking up traces of explosives on his shoes and clothes. Wow, big surprise there. He had his identification displayed, including a license to carry, but security was having none of it.