18 Explosive Eighteen (14 page)

“I don’t want to be a television show,” I said.

“Okay, but you don’t want to be dead, either. I don’t see those FBI idiots doing anything for you. I say we take charge and figure out what’s going on.

WHAM! And then if you don’t want to sel it to television, we could sel it to one of them book publishers. We could even write the book ourself.

How hard could it be?”

I had mixed feelings about going proactive. On the one hand, I was in my take-charge mode, and Lula was right about the FBI not doing a lot for me. On the
other
hand, I hated to get more involved. I was real y hoping that if I just stuck to my story, eventual y everyone would leave me alone. And from a purely practical point of view, I wasn’t making money when I chased down the people looking for the photograph.

“We could start by checking out Brenda,” Lula said. “She works at one of them strip mal s before you get to Princeton. And we could look for Magpie on the way.”

Good compromise, I thought. There were two cemeteries off Route 1. He’d been known to hunker down in both of them. And on the way back to Trenton, I could take an early exit and head for the farmer’s market and flea market. There were acres of woods around the markets, and the woods were laced with single-lane dirt roads used for romance, and drugs, and, in Magpie’s case, camping. Magpie drove and lived in an ancient Crown Vic. In its glory years, the Crown Vic had been a black-and-white police car, but it had been sold at auction, and eventual y found its way to Magpie. Magpie had hand-painted black over the white, but the car was stil a bashed-in, rusted-out, retired cop car.

I drove one exit on Route 1 and turned off into the newer and smal er of the two cemeteries. For the most part, it was al flat ground, broken by an occasional tree. Al grave markers were the same.

Smal granite slabs sunk into the grass. Easy maintenance. You could probably get the tractor up to about 40 mph and be done with the whole deal in an hour.

I took the loop around the cemetery, circled the little chapel and crematorium, and headed out, finding no indicators that Magpie had recently squatted here. No blackened splotch from a campfire. No stains from leaking transmission oil.

No bag of discarded garbage. No ribbons of toilet tissue floating across the landscape.

The second cemetery was ten miles down the highway. It was a real monster, with rol ing hil s, lush landscaping,

and

elaborate

tombstones.

I

methodical y worked my way through the maze of feeder roads curling over and around hil and dale.

Again, no sign of Magpie, so I returned to Route 1.

Lula had The Hair Barn plugged into the GPS app on her cel phone. “It’s on the left,” she said. “Take the next light.”

The Hair Barn was located in a complex that included some light industrial businesses, a budget hotel, two fairly large office buildings, and an outdoor shopping mal . The shopping mal was anchored at one end by a Kohl’s and a Target at the other. The Hair Barn was in the middle of the mal . The Scion was parked at the outer perimeter of the lot with what I assumed were a few other employee cars.

I found a space close to Kohl’s, and Lula and I walked to the cluster of stucco-faced buildings. We stood outside The Hair Barn and watched Brenda fiddle with an older woman’s hair, teasing it up and smoothing it out.

“That’s not good,” Lula said. “That woman looks like Donald Trump on a bad day. And he don’t look al that good on a good day.”

Brenda finished, the woman tottered to the desk, and Brenda took a moment to clean up her station.

Lula stayed outside, and I went in to talk to Brenda.

Brenda got steely-eyed when she saw me. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “Did you wise up and bring me the photograph?”

“No. I want some answers.”

She looked through the front window at Lula. “I see you left your muscle outside. Isn’t that risky?”

“Lula isn’t my muscle.”

“Wel then, what is she?”

Good question. I didn’t know the answer. “She’s just Lula,” I said. “Okay, yeah, I guess she’s my muscle.”

Brenda dropped her brush and comb into a drawer. “So what did you come here for? You want a haircut? I could do a lot better than what you got. You got no style.”

“It’s a ponytail.”

“Yeah, but it’s boring. You should add a piece. We got a bunch on the wal . Or you could put some color in it. Like gold streaks. Pul some of the hair out and rat it. You know, mess it up like mine. You see how much better my hair looks?”

I glanced at her hair and bit my lip. She looked like an exploded canary. “Maybe next time,” I said. “I want to know about the photograph. Why does everyone want it?”

“I told you why I want it. Poor dead Ritchy wanted me to have it.” She stiffened a little. “Wait a minute.

What do you mean
everyone
?”

“You. And everyone.”

“There’s others?” she asked.

“You didn’t know?”

Brenda’s lips curled back and her eyes got squinty. “That sonovabitch. He’s trying to cut me out. I should have guessed.”

“Who?” I asked her. “Who’s the sonovabitch?”

“Boy, this real y steams me.”

“Who? Who?”

“Never mind
who
. And you better not be dealing with him. He’s a snake in the grass. And he hasn’t got any money, either. Don’t believe him if he tel s you he’s got money.”

“Give me a clue. What does he look like? Old, young, fat?”

“I can’t chat anymore,” Brenda said. “I got a client.”

“Wel ?” Lula said when I left the shop. “How’d that go?”

“It didn’t go anywhere.”

“You must have learned something.”

“Nope,” I said. “Nothing useful.” I felt my ponytail.

“Do you think my hair is boring?”

“Compared to what? It’s not as good as my hair, for instance. But it’s better than lots of other white folks’ hair.”

We climbed into the truck, and I stuck the key in the ignition.

“I think we should take a look at Brenda’s apartment,” I said to Lula. “Connie has it in West Windsor.”

Why not? I thought. If for no reason other than grim curiosity.

Lula tapped the address into her cel phone GPS.

“I got it. It’s not al that far from here.” I drove one exit on Route 1, turned off, and fol owed Lula’s directions.

“She’s renting, but not an apartment,” Lula said.

“Looks to me like she’s renting a house.” We were winding our way through a neighborhood of smal , single-story homes in varying stages of disrepair. Several were empty with FOR SALE signs planted in their smal front yards. Most had curtains hanging in windows. Many had swing sets in the backyards.

I found Brenda’s house and sat at idle, taking it in.

Driveway leading to single-car attached garage. The house had been painted pale green with bright yel ow trim. The yard was bare but neat.

“Let’s take a look,” Lula said.

“We can’t just walk around and look in windows.

There are cars parked in some of the driveways.

Probably, there are people at home in some of the houses. We’l be noticed.”

“Yeah, but we do that al the time,” Lula said.

“We do it when we’re looking for a felon and they’ve waived their rights. Brenda isn’t a felon.” I returned to the highway, and Berger cal ed.

“We’d like you to work with an artist again,” he said.

“I don’t think that’s going to accomplish anything,” I told him. “I can barely remember the photograph.

And now I’ve got Tom Cruise stuck in my head.”

“Just try, okay? There’s a lot riding on this … like my pension.”

If I hadn’t been doing eighty, I would have banged my head against the steering wheel. “When do you want me to come in?”

“Now.”

FOURTEEN

I DROPPED LULA at the office and swung around into town. It was midday and the roads were clogged with cars. Lots were fil ed, street parking was nonexistent, and after ten minutes of circling several blocks, I gave up and drove into the FBI building’s underground garage. It was public parking, but there was a designated FBI area.

I took the elevator to the sixth floor and went directly to the conference room. Berger, Gooley, and the artist were already there.

“We thought maybe it was the last artist who was thinking about Tom Cruise,” Berger said. “So we’re starting over with Fred.”

I took a seat and nodded at Fred. “Good luck.” Fred managed a tight smile that was a shade away from being a grimace. An hour later, we had a new sketch.

“How do you feel about this?” Berger asked me.

“Is this the guy?”

I did palms up. I didn’t know. “Maybe,” I said.

“At least it’s not Tom Cruise,” Berger said.

Gooley studied it. “It’s Ashton Kutcher.” We crowded in to see the sketch.

“Shit! He’s right,” Berger said. “It’s freaking Ashton Kutcher.”

I took another look at it, and I had to admit it did look a lot like Ashton Kutcher.

“Wel , they both have brown hair, so we can be pretty sure he has brown hair,” I said. “Do you guys validate parking?”

“Not anymore,” Berger said. “Budget cuts.”

• • •

I took the elevator to the second parking level and walked to my truck. It seemed to me Ashton Kutcher and Tom Cruise weren’t so far apart. Brown hair, nice-looking, angular face, potential for
Top Gun
attitude. Maybe it was the attitude that was the common denominator. A quality in their faces that projected a boyishly endearing wiseass personality.

I pressed the unlock button on my car key, reached for the door handle, and got yanked off my feet from behind. In a matter of seconds, I was dragged across the garage and slammed against a panel van. I was so caught by surprise that I barely reacted, ineffectively flailing my arms and yel ing, the yel ing getting lost in the cavernous garage.

I caught a flash of light from a knife blade and felt the tip of the knife bite into my neck. I went dead stil , and Raz’s face swam into focus inches from mine.

“You wil be stopping moving,” he said. “You are understanding?”

I nodded.

“Into the van,” he said. “Facedown, or I kil you good. I carve you into pieces and eat you for snack.” I was too scared to total y focus, but I knew getting into the van wasn’t a step in the right direction. I pul ed back, opened my mouth to scream, and he hit me in the face with the butt end of the knife. I tasted blood, a switch got flipped on in my brain, and I went into kil er survival mode, kicking, screaming, scratching, gouging. The knife got knocked out of his hand, we scrambled for it, and I got there first. I lunged at him, catching him in the thigh, digging the blade in deep, opening a long gash that gushed blood. He shrieked and grabbed his leg. It was a panicky blur after that. I kicked at him, and he tried to rol away. He was bleeding and cursing, and I kept kicking. I slipped on the blood-slick garage floor, and he took the opportunity to dive into the van and ram the door closed. The motor caught, and his wheels spun and screeched on the cement as he sped away.

I bent at the waist and sucked in air. I looked down at the ground and realized I was dripping blood. I wasn’t sure where it was coming from. I walked on wobbly legs to the elevator and pushed the sixth-floor button. The doors opened, and I stepped out and stood stil for a beat, not sure what to do because I was tracking blood on the tile floor.

Several people rushed over to me. One of them was Berger.

“Jeez, I’m sorry about the blood,” I said.

I saw his eyes go to my right hand, and I realized I was stil holding the bloody knife. I dropped the knife and went down to one knee.

“I don’t feel good,” I said. And it was lights out.

• • •

I had a paramedic bending over me when I opened my eyes.

“Am I dead?” I asked him.

“Nope.”

“Wil I be dead anytime soon?”

“Not from these injuries, but the consensus is you’re a train wreck.”

“You’re not the first person to tel me that.”

“I bet. You have a cut lip. I don’t think it needs stitches. I put a butterfly bandage on it. I’m going to get you up and give you an ice pack. You might also have a slightly broken nose. I’m giving you an ice pack for that, too. The nose looks okay, but you should see a doctor. You were gushing blood out of it.”

“Anything else?”

“Some superficial cuts on your arms and legs. And you’l probably have some monster bruises on your face. Do you think you can sit?”

“Yeah, I’m good. Get me up.”

He helped me up, and I sat until my head cleared and my lips weren’t numb. I got to my feet and did some deep breathing, trying to calm myself. My clothes were soaked in blood, and there was blood al over the floor.

“Is this al from me?” I asked.

“The stuff on the floor is from you,” Berger said. “I imagine some of the blood you’re wearing is from the other guy, since you were the one who ended up with the knife.”

“Razzle Dazzle,” I said.