09 To the Nines (22 page)

“Actually, the Vegas cops found Singh.”

“Not when Vinnie tells it. Vinnie's made some improvements on the story. So we all still have our jobs. Vinnie's not going to be selling used cars in Scottsdale. Everybody's happy.”

Everybody except me. I was being stalked by a lunatic. And it was possible that I was indirectly responsible for causing three murders.

“Now that Singh is off the books, I've got a backlog of skips,” Connie said. “What would you like . . . first-time rapist, repeat domestic violence, assault with a deadly weapon, or possession?”

“What's the possession?”

“Kilo of heroin.”

“Whoa! That's a biggy. That's Ranger's. How about the deadly weapon.”

“Butchy Salazar and Ryan Mott got into a fight over Candace Lalor. And Butchy ran over Ryan with his Jeep Cherokee. Three times.”

“Butchy was drunk?”

“Yep.”

“Give me Butchy.” Sometimes a drunk is an easy catch if you can get him in the morning.

I took the papers from Connie. I didn't need a photo. I knew Butchy. Went to school with him. Didn't like him back then. Wasn't real crazy about him now.

“I'll give you the rapist, too. It's his first time around. Maybe he just forgot to show for court. I tried calling, but all I get is a machine.”

“Have you tried his work number?”

“He's unemployed. Got fired when he got arrested.”

I looked around. “It feels strange not to have Lula here.”

“Quiet,” Connie said.

“Empty.”

“Glorious,” Vinnie yelled from his inner office. “Freaking glorious.”

I hefted my bag higher on my shoulder and I headed out. Tank was standing guard on the sidewalk, in front of my car.

“I have a couple FTAs,” I said to Tank. “One's in the Burg and one's in Hamilton Township. I have to stop at my apartment first to get some clean clothes and stuff.”

“It might be easier if we took one car for the busts,” Tank said.

I agreed. “Do you want to drive or ride shotgun?”

Tank's eyebrows raised a fraction of an inch. Shocked that I would even consider driving. Tank only rode shotgun to Ranger.

“It's the twenty-first century,” I told Tank. “Women drive.”

“Only in my bed,” Tank said. “Never in my car.”

I didn't have a reply to that, but I thought it sounded like an okay philosophy. So I beeped the Escape locked, got into Tank's SUV, and we chugged off for my place.

We went through the standard routine at my apartment. Tank went in first and did a safety check. The photos were gone from the floor. Residue remained where the police had checked for prints. I gathered a few things together when Tank gave the all clear. Mostly what I wanted from my apartment was hardware. I took the cuffs and pepper spray from my bedside table and dropped them into my shoulder bag. I went to the cookie jar next and added the .38 to my bag of goodies. I knew Tank was fully armed and probably had fifty pairs of cuffs in the back of his truck, but I wanted my own. Am I a professional, or what?

I locked up and we took the elevator. Two-hundred-year-old Mrs. Bestler was in the elevator joy riding. “Going down,” she told us, pressing the button, leaning on her walker. “First floor, ladies' handbags, designer shoes.” She looked up at Tank. “My goodness, you're a big one,” she said.

Tank smiled at her. Big bad wolf reassures Grandma he's not going to eat her for lunch. The doors opened and we got out.

“Have a nice day, Mrs. Bestler,” I said.

“Don't take any wooden nickels,” Mrs. Bestler sang out.

According to Butchy Salazar's bond agreement, he was renting the top half of a two-family house on Allen Street. For years now, Butchy's worked nights tending bar at a dive on Front Street, so chances were good that he'd be at home.

Tank did a pass in front of the house. No activity. He returned and parked two houses down on the opposite side of the street. I called Butchy on my cell phone and got his machine. I didn't leave a message. Tank and I got out and approached the house. No back door to worry about, so we positioned ourselves to either side of the front door. I rang the bell for the upstairs apartment and waited. No response. I rang again.

The downstairs door opened and an older woman stuck her head out. “Butchy isn't home and my cats hate when people ring his bell,” she said. “The bell scares my cats. They're very sensitive.”

“Do you know where Butchy is?”

“It's his day off from work. I think he's gone out to do his grocery shopping and stuff. Not that he does a lot of cooking. Mostly he buys beer and filthy magazines. I tell you, this neighborhood's going to hell in a hand-basket.”

The woman closed her door and I looked up at Tank. It was strange being on a bust with him. I was used to Lula with her crazy clothes and smart mouth.

“Okay,” I said, “let's go for the rapist, Steven Wegan. We can come back to Butchy later. Wegan lives in Hamilton Township in one of those apartment complexes off Klockner Boulevard.”

Minutes later we were parked in the lot in front of Steven Wegan s apartment. We sat for a couple minutes, getting the feel of things. A woman left her apartment two doors down, got into her car, and drove off. Aside from that there was no activity.

“One of us should take the back door,” I said.

“Can't do that,” Tank said. “My first job is to protect you and I can't do that if I can't see you.”

“No one followed us here. I was watching.”

Tank went stony. An unmovable object.

“Fine,” I said, “we'll both take the front door.”

We left the truck, crossed the lot, and I rang Wegan s bell.

Wegan answered on the first ring. You've got to love first-time offenders. They don't know the drill. Next time around Wegan will be out the back door, hiding in the Dumpster.

He was a slim five feet, eight inches with close-cut brown hair and dark brown eyes. His papers listed his age as twenty-six. He was unmarried.

“Yes?” Wegan said, looking first to me, then up at Tank. The gears were turning in Wegan's head when he looked at Tank. Tank wasn't someone you wanted to unexpectedly find on your doorstep.

“Steven Wegan?” I asked.

Wegan swallowed. “Un-hunh.”

I introduced myself and explained to Wegan that he missed his court date and needed to re-file. Wegan bobbed his head yes, but his eyes were saying no, no, no.

I reached back and took hold of the cuffs secured under my skirt waistband. Wegan went white, turned, and bolted. And before I could make a move, Tank effortlessly grabbed Wegan by the scruff of his neck and held him two inches off the floor. Wegan kicked out and then went limp. Tank gave Wegan a shake, causing Wegan's feet to flop around. “I'm going to put you down now,” Tank said. “And you're not going to try anything stupid, right?”

“R-r-r-right,” Wegan said.

I cuffed Wegan, we secured his apartment, and we all marched over to Tank's SUV. We put Wegan in the backseat, cuffed and shackled.

I couldn't help thinking it would have played out differently if Tank hadn't been along. Lula and I would have chased Wegan all over his apartment, knocking over lamps and chairs in the process. We would have snagged him eventually, but the capture would have been total Abbott and Costello.

“Do all your captures go like that?” I asked Tank.

“No,” he said. “They don't always try to run.”

It was mid-afternoon when we left the police station. Wegan was back behind bars. Tomorrow morning he'd go before the judge who would once again set bail, higher this time. Vinnie would get a call from a pleading Wegan, and for another bonding fee, Wegan would walk.

We stopped off at Cluck in a Bucket for a late lunch and then motored over to the Burg to try our luck with Butchy. We parked across the street and looked up at Butchy's open windows. Television sounds drifted out to us. Butchy was home. We crossed the street and took our places on the small stoop that served as a front porch.

“Do you know this guy?” Tank asked.

“Yeah.”

“Is he going to shoot at us?”

“Depends how drunk he is.”

Tank drew his gun and I rang the bell. No answer to the bell. I rang again. Still no answer.

“He's not coming down,” Tank said.

I called Butchy on my cell phone.

“Yeah?” Butchy said,

“It's Stephanie Plum,” I told him. “I'm downstairs with my partner and we need to talk to you.”

“So go ahead and talk.”

“You missed your court date and you need to reschedule.”

“And?”

“And you need to do it now. Come downstairs and open the door.”

“Suck my dick,” Butchy said.

“Sure,” I told him. “Just come down and open the door.”

“Fuck off,” Butchy said. “I don't feel like going to jail today. Why don't you come back next month. Maybe I'll feel like going to jail next month.”

I told Tank to back up and stand on the sidewalk where Butchy could see him.

“Look out your window, Butchy,” I said. “See the big guy standing on the sidewalk?”

“Yeah.”

“That's my partner. If you don't open the door, he's going to put his foot through it. And then he's going to go upstairs and root you out like the rodent you are and put his foot up your ass.”

“I've got a gun.”

“Is it as big as Tank's?”

Tank was holding a .44 Magnum.

“I swear to God,” Butchy said, “if you come in I'll blow four head off.” And he disconnected.

“He's not coming down,” I told Tank. “And he says he's armed.”

Tank walked up to the door, put his boot to it just left of the handle, and the door flipped open. “Wait here,” Tank said.

I had my gun in hand, too. “No way. This is my bust.”

Tank turned and looked at me. “Anything happens to you, I have to answer to Ranger. Frankly, I'd rather take a bullet from this moron.”

Okay, that made sense to me. “I'll wait here,” I told him.

“I'm coming up the stairs,” Tank called to Butchy. “When I get to the top I want you unarmed, face down on the floor with your hands where I can see them.”

I looked up and saw Butchy ass first, half out the window above me. He was waiting for Tank to get to the top of the stairs and then Butchy was going to go out the window, onto the small roof over the stoop, and drop to the ground.

I ducked into the doorway so Butchy wouldn't see me. I held my breath and waited to hear him on the roof. Tank got to the top of the stairs, Butchy's feet scuffed on the roof, and I jumped out. I had my gun two-handed and I yelled for Butchy to stop and freeze.

“I've got him,” I yelled to Tank. “He's on the porch roof.”

Tank jogged down the stairs and moved to join me on the small patch of front lawn. He cleared the porch just as Butchy catapulted himself off the roof, and the two of them crashed to the ground with Butchy on top of Tank.

I rushed in and grabbed Butchy by the arm, cuffing him behind his back while he still had the air knocked out of him. I rolled him off Tank and shoved him aside. Tank was on his back with his leg twisted at an impossible angle.

“Just shoot me,” Tank said. “It'd be less painful.”

I called EMS and then I called Ranger. A half hour later, Tank was rolled into the EMS truck, his leg held stable by an

inflated cast.

Ranger and I stood side by side and watched the truck disappear around the corner. A big, bald, jug-headed guy, neatly dressed in black jeans and T-shirt, stood by Tank's truck. He had his muscle-bound, bulging arms crossed over his massive chest and his tiny eyes fixed on Ranger and me.

“I need to go to the hospital and get Tank admitted,” Ranger said. “I've asked Cal to follow you around.”

“Cal has a flaming skull tattooed onto his forehead. And he has muscles in places muscles aren't supposed to grow. Cal looks like . . . Steroidasaurus.”

“Don't underestimate him,” Ranger said. “He can spell his name. He's not overly violent as long as he remembers to take his medication. And he gives good shade.”

I did a grimace.

Ranger pulled me to him and kissed me on the forehead. “You two are going to get along just fine.” Ranger stepped back and turned to Butchy, who was sitting cuffed and shackled on the curb. He grabbed Butchy, dragged him to his feet, and handed him over to Steroidasaurus.

It was almost six when we left the police station. Butchy was chained to a bench across from the docket lieutenant. Steven Wegan was in the lock up. I had body receipts for both of them. Not a bad day in terms of income. Not a great day in terms of Tank's leg. Definitely a weird day, having spent it in the company of Ranger's Merry Men.

Halfway through town my cell phone rang. “Your sister's in labor,” Grandma said. “She was working her way through a Virginia baked ham when she started getting contractions.”

“Is she going to the hospital?”

“She's trying to decide if it's time. Do you think I should call Albert?”

“Definitely call Albert. It's his baby, too. He's been going to the birthing classes with Valerie.”

“It's just that she's not in a good mood. You know how it is when she gets disturbed in the middle of a ham.”

Valerie was sitting on the couch in the living room when I arrived. She was doing her breathing exercises and rubbing her stomach. My mother and grandmother were standing beside her, watching. The two girls were on the floor, staring bug-eyed at Valerie. My father was in his chair in front of the television, channel surfing.

“So,” I said. “What's up?”

The front door crashed open behind me and Albert stumbled in. “Am I too late? Did I miss anything? What's going on?”

“Mommy's having a baby,” Angie said.

Mary Alice nodded her head in agreement.

Albert looked terrible. His shirt was un-tucked and his eyes were glassy. His face was chalk white with red spots high on his cheeks.

“You don't look so good,” Grandma said to Albert. “How about a ham sandwich?”

“I've never had a baby before,” Albert said. “I'm a little flub-a-dubbed.”

“I'm having another contraction,” Valerie said. “Is anyone timing? Aren't these coming awful close together?”

I didn't know anything about having a baby, but I knew it worked better if you delivered it in the hospital. “Maybe we should go to St. Francis,” I said. “Do you have a suitcase ready?”