High Five (11 page)

“You're not taking me in,” Briggs said. “I'm not ready.” He lunged at me with his fork. I jumped away, and the fork ripped a hole in my Levi's.

“Hey,” I said, “these were almost new pants.”

He came at me again, shouting, “I hate you. I hate you.” This time I smacked the fork out of his hand, and he stumbled into an end table, knocking the table over, smashing a lamp in the process. “My lamp,” he shrieked. “Look what you did to my lamp.” He lowered his head and charged at me bull-style. I stepped to the side, and he crashed into a bookcase. Books tumbled out, and knickknacks shattered on the polished wood floor.

“Stop it,” I said. “You're wrecking your apartment. Get a grip on yourself.”

“I'll get a grip on you,” he snarled, lunging forward, catching me with a body tackle at knee level.

We both went down hard to the floor. I had him by about seventy pounds, but he was in a frenzy and I couldn't pin him. We rolled around, locked together, cursing and breathing heavy. He slithered away from me and ran for the door. I scrambled after him on hands and knees and grabbed him by the foot at the top of the stairs. He yelped and fell forward, and we both went head over heels tumbling down the stairs to the landing, where we tangled again. There was some scratching and hair grabbing and attempted eye-gouging. I had him by the front of his shirt when we lost balance and pitched down the second flight of stairs.

I flopped to a stop in the foyer, flat on my back, gasping for air. Briggs was squashed under me, dazed into inertia. I blinked my eyes to clear my head and two cops swam into focus. They were staring down at me, and they were smiling.

One of the cops was Carl Costanza. I'd gone to school with Carl and we'd stayed friends . . . in a remote sort of way.

“I heard you liked the top,” Carl said, “but don't you think this is carrying it a little far?”

Briggs squirmed under my weight. “Get off me. I can't breathe.”

“He doesn't deserve to breathe,” I said. “He ripped my Levi's.”

“Yeah,” Carl said, lifting me off Briggs, “that's a capital offense.”

I recognized the other cop as Costanza's partner. His name was Eddie Something. Everyone called him Big Dog.

“Jeez,” Big Dog said, barely controlling laughter, “what did you do to this poor little guy? Looks like you beat the crap out of him.”

Briggs was standing on wobbly legs. His shirt was untucked and he'd lost a shoe. His left eye was starting to bruise and swell, and his nose was bleeding.

“I didn't do anything!” I yelped. “I was trying to take him into custody and he went berserk.”

“That's right,” Harry said from the top of the landing. “I saw the whole thing. This runty little guy just about ruined himself. And this lady hardly put a hand to him. Except of course when they were wrestling.”

Carl looked at the cuff still attached to Briggs' wrist. “Your bracelet?” he asked me.

I nodded.

“You're supposed to cuff both hands.”

“Very funny.”

“You got papers?”

“Upstairs in my shoulder bag.”

We climbed the stairs while Big Dog baby-sat Briggs.

“Holy shit,” Costanza said when he saw Briggs' door. “Did you do this?”

“He wouldn't let me in.”

“Hey, Big Dog,” Costanza yelled. “Lock the little guy in the car and come take a look. You gotta see this.”

I gave Costanza the bond documents. “Maybe we could keep this all kind of quiet—”

“Holy shit,” Big Dog said when he saw the door.

“Steph did that,” Costanza told him proudly.

Big Dog clapped me on the shoulder. “I guess they don't call you the bounty hunter from hell for nothing.”

“Everything seems to be in order,” Costanza said to me. “Congratulations. You caught yourself a Munchkin.”

Big Dog examined the doorjamb. “You know there's a slug in here?”

Costanza looked at me.

“Well, I didn't have a key—”

Costanza put his hands over his ears. “I don't want to hear this.”

I limped into Briggs' apartment, found a set of keys on a hook in his kitchen, and used one to lock his door. Then I collected his shoe, which had been left on the landing, gave the shoe and the keys to Briggs, and told Carl I'd follow him in.

When I walked back to the Buick, Bunchy was waiting for me. “Cripes,” he said. “You beat the bejeezus out of that little guy. Who the hell was he, the Son of Satan?”

“He's a computer operator who got picked up for carrying concealed. He really isn't such a bad guy.”

“Man, I'd hate to see what you do to someone you don't like.”

“How did you know where to find me? And why weren't you in my parking lot when I needed you?”

“I picked you up leaving the office. I overslept this morning, so I tried hitting your usual haunts and got lucky. What's new with Fred?”

“I haven't found him.”

“You aren't giving up, are you?”

“No, I'm not giving up. Listen, I have to go. I have to get my body receipt.”

“Don't drive too fast. There's something wrong with my transmission. It makes this real bad sound when I do over forty.”

I watched him walk to his car. I was pretty sure I knew what he was, and he wasn't a bookie. I just didn't know why he was tagging after me.

C
OSTANZA AND
B
IG
Dog brought Briggs through the back door to the docket lieutenant.

The docket lieutenant looked over his desk at Briggs. “Damn, Stephanie,” he said, smiling, “what'd you do to the poor little guy? What, are you on the rag today?”

Juniak was passing through. “You're lucky,” he said to Briggs. “Usually she blows people up.”

Briggs didn't look like he thought that was funny. “I've been framed,” he said.

I got my body receipt for Briggs, and then I went upstairs to Crimes Against Persons and gave my report on the Sloane Street shooting. I called Vinnie and told him I brought Randy Briggs in, so America could rest easier tonight. Then I drove over to RGC with Bunchy close on my bumper.

It was a little after three when I got to Water Street. Clouds had rolled in late in the day, thick and low, the color and consistency of lard. I could feel them pressing on the roof of the Buick, slowing my progress, dulling down the firing of brainy synapses. I cruised on autopilot, my thoughts sliding from Uncle Fred to Joe Morelli to Charlie Chan. Life was good for Charlie Chan. He knew freaking everything.

Two blocks from RGC I snapped out of the stupor, realizing there was something going on in the street ahead. There were cops in front of RGC. Lots of them. The medical examiner's truck was there, too, and this was not a good sign. I parked half a block from RGC and walked the rest of the way, Bunchy trailing after me like a faithful dog. I looked for a familiar face in the crowd. No luck. A small knot of uniformed RGC employees huddled on the fringe. Probably had just come in with the trucks.

“What's going on?” I asked one of the men.

“Somebody got shot.”

“Do you know who?”

“Lipinski.”

The shock must have shown on my face, because the man said, “Did you know him?”

I shook my head. “No. I was just coming to settle my aunt's bill. How did it happen?”

“Suicide. I was the one who found him,” another of the men said. “I brought my truck in early, and I went inside to get my paycheck. And there he was with his brains blown out. He must have put the gun in his mouth. Christ, there was blood and brains all over the place. I wouldn't have thought Lipinski had that much brains.”

“Are you sure it was suicide?”

“There was a note, and I read it. Lipinski said he was the one who offed Martha Deeter. Said they'd had a fight over an account, and he shot her. And then he tried to make it look like she was robbed. Said he couldn't live with what he'd done, so he was checkin' out.”

Oh boy.

“That's horseshit,” Bunchy said. “That smells like a load of horseshit.”

I hung around for a while longer. The forensic photographer left. And most of the police left. The RGC men left one by one. And then I left, too, with Bunchy in tow. He'd gotten quiet after his horseshit pronouncement. And very serious.

“Two RGC employees are dead,” I said to him. “Why?”

We locked eyes for a moment, and he shook his head and walked away.

I
TOOK A
fast shower, dried my hair, and dressed in a short denim skirt and red T-shirt. I took a look at my hair and decided it needed some help, so I did the hot roller thing. My hair still didn't look wonderful after the rollers, so I lined my eyes and added extra mascara. Stephanie Plum, master of diversion. If your hair is bad, shorten your skirt and add extra mascara.

Before I left the apartment, I took a minute to go through the Yellow Pages and find a new garbage company for Mabel.

Bunchy was in the lobby when I came down. He was leaning against the wall, and he was still looking serious. Or maybe he just looked tired.

“You look nice,” he said to me. “Real nice, but you wear too much makeup.”

G
RANDMA WAS AT
the door when I arrived. “Did you hear about the garbage guy? Blew his brains out. Lavern Stankowski called and said her son, Joey, was working the EMS truck. And he said he never saw anything like it. Said there was brains all over the place. Said the whole back half of the guy's head was stuck to the wall in the garbage office.”

Grandma slid her uppers around some. “Lavern said the deceased was being laid out at Stiva's. Imagine the job Stiva's going to have with that one. Probably use up two pounds of putty to fill all the holes. Remember Rita Gunt?”

Rita Gunt was ninety-two when she died. She'd lost a lot of weight in the later years of her life, and her family had asked Stiva to give her a more robust look for her last public appearance. I guess Stiva had done the best he could with what he had to work with, but Rita had gone into the ground looking like Mrs. Potato Head.

“If somebody was going to kill me I wouldn't want it to be with a bullet to the head,” Grandma said.

My father was in the living room in his favorite chair. And from the corner of my eye I saw him peek around the edge of his newspaper.

“I want to get poisoned,” Grandma said. “That way my hair wouldn't get messed.”

“Hmm,” my father said thoughtfully.

My mother came out from the kitchen. She smelled like roast lamb and red cabbage, and her face glowed from stove steam. “Any word about Fred?”

“Nothing new,” I said.

“I think there's something funny going on with these garbage people,” Grandma said. “Somebody's killing the garbage people, and I bet they killed Fred, too.”

“Larry Lipinski left a suicide note,” I told her.

“It could have been forged,” Grandma said. “It could have been a fake to throw everybody off guard.”

“I thought it was aliens that took Fred,” my father said from behind his paper.

“That would account for a lot of things,” Grandma said. “Nothing to say aliens didn't off the garbage people, too.”

My mother shot my father a warning glance and went back to the kitchen. “Everyone come to the table before the lamb gets cold,” she said. “And I don't want to hear any more talk about aliens and killing.”

“It's the change,” Grandma whispered to me. “Your mother's been snarfy ever since she started the change.”

“I heard that,” my mother said. “And I'm
not
snarfy.”

“I keep telling her she should take them hormone pills,” Grandma said. “I've been thinking about taking them myself. Mary Jo Klick started taking them, and she said there were parts to her that had got all shriveled, and after a week on them hor mones she was all plumped up again.” Grandma looked down at herself. “I wouldn't mind getting plumped up in some of them parts.”

We all went to the table and took our places. Grace was said at Christmas and Easter. Since this wasn't either of those, my father shoveled food onto his plate and dug in, head down, concentrating on the task at hand.

“What do you think happened to Uncle Fred?” I asked, catching his attention between forkfuls of lamb and potato.

He looked up surprised. No one ever asked his opinion. “Mob,” he said. “When someone disappears without a trace, it's the mob. They've got ways.”

“Why would the mob want to kill Uncle Fred?”

“I don't know,” my father said. “All I know is it sounds like the mob.”

“We better hurry,” Grandma said. “I don't want to be late for the viewing. I want to get a good seat right up front, and there'll probably be a crowd, being that the deceased was shot. You know how some people are nosy about that sort of thing.”

There was silence at the table, no one daring to make a comment.

“Well, I guess I might be a little nosy,” Grandma finally said.

When we were done I put some lamb and potatoes and vegetables in a disposable aluminum pie plate.

“What's that for?” Grandma wanted to know.

I added a plastic knife and fork. “Stray dog down by the Kerner's.”

“He eat with a knife and fork?”

“Don't ask,” I said.

 

 

S
TIVA's
F
UNERAL
H
OME
was in a big white house on Hamilton. There'd been a fire in the basement, and much of the house was newly rebuilt and refurnished. New green indoor-outdoor carpet on the front porch. New ivory medallion wallpaper throughout. New industrial-strength blue-green carpeting in the lobby and viewing rooms.

I parked the Blue Bomb in the lot and helped Grandma wobble inside on the black patent-leather pumps she always wore to evening viewings.

Constantine Stiva was in the middle of the lobby, directing' traffic. Mrs. Balog in slumber room three. Stanley Krienski in slumber room two. And Martha Deeter, who was clearly going to be the big draw, was laid out in room one.

Not long ago I'd had a run-in with Constantine's son, Spiro. The result had been the aforementioned fire and the mysterious disappearance of Spiro. Fortunately, Con was the consummate undertaker, his demeanor always controlled, his smile sympathetic, his voice as smooth as vanilla custard. There was never any ugly mention of the unfortunate incident. After all, I was a potential customer. And with my line of work it might be sooner rather than later. Not to mention Grandma Mazur.

“And who are you visiting tonight?” he asked. “Ah yes, Ms. Deeter is resting in room one.”

Resting. Unh.

“Let's get a move on,” Grandma said, taking me by the hand and pulling me forward. “Looks like there's already a crowd collecting.”

I scanned the faces. Some regulars like Myra Smulinski and Harriet Farver. Some other people who probably worked for RGC and most likely wanted to make sure Martha was really dead. A knot of people dressed in black, staying close to the casket—family members. I didn't see any representatives from Big Business. I was pretty sure my father was wrong about the mob doing in Uncle Fred and the garbage people. Still, it didn't hurt to keep my eyes open. I also didn't see any aliens.

“Will you look at this,” Grandma said. “Closed casket. Isn't this a fine howdy-do. I get dressed up and come out to pay my respects, and I don't even get to see anything.”

Martha Deeter was shot and autopsied. They'd taken her brain out to get weighed. After she was put back together she probably looked like Frankenstein. I was personally relieved to see a closed casket.

“I'm going to check out the flowers,” Grandma said. “See who sent what.”

I did another crowd scan and spotted Terry Gilman.
Hello!
Maybe my father was right. It was rumored that Terry Gilman worked for her uncle Vito Grizolli. Vito was a family man who ran a dry cleaning business that laundered a lot more than dirty clothes. What I heard from Connie, who was connected in a nonparticipating sort of way, was that Terry had started out in collections and was moving up the corporate ladder.

“Terry Gilman?” I said with more statement than question, extending my hand.

Terry was slim and blond and had dated Morelli all through high school. None of which endeared her to me. She was wearing an expensive gray silk suit and matching heels. Her manicure was to die for, and the gun she carried in a slim-line shoulder holster was discreetly hidden by the line of her jacket. Only someone who had worn a similar rig would notice Terry's.

“Stephanie Plum,” Terry said, “nice to see you again. Were you friends with Martha?”

“No. I'm here with my grandma. She likes to come to scope out the caskets. How about you? Were you friends with Martha?”

“Business associates,” Terry said.

That hung in the air for a moment.

“I hear you're working for your uncle Vito.”

“Customer relations,” Terry said.

Another silence.

I rocked back on my heels. “Funny how Martha and Larry died from gunshots one day apart.”

“Tragic.”

I lowered my voice and leaned a little closer. “That wasn't your job, was it? I mean, you weren't the one to, uh—”

“Whack them?” Terry said. “No. Sorry to disappoint you. It wasn't me. Anything else you want to know?”

“Well, yeah, actually my uncle Fred is missing.”

“I didn't whack him either,” Terry said.

“I didn't think so,” I said, “but it never hurts to ask.”

Terry glanced at her watch. “I've got to give my respects, and then I'm out of here. I have two more viewings tonight. One at Moser and one across town.”

“Boy, sounds like Vito's business is booming.”

Terry shrugged. “People die.”

Uh-huh.

Her eyes focused on something beyond my shoulder, and her interest shifted. “Well, well,” she said, “look who's here.”

I turned to see who put the purr in Terry's voice and wasn't all that surprised. It was Morelli.

He draped a proprietary arm around my shoulders and smiled at Terry. “How's it going?”

“Can't complain,” Terry said.

Morelli cut his eyes to the casket at the end of the room. “You know Martha?”

“Sure,” Terry said. “We go way back.”

Morelli smiled some more.

“I think I'll go find Grandma,” I said.

Morelli tightened his hold on me. “Not yet. I need to talk to you.” He nodded at Terry. “Will you excuse us?”

“I need to be moving on anyway,” Terry said. She sent Joe a smoochy air kiss and went off in search of the Deeters.

Joe dragged me out to the lobby.

“That was
very
friendly back there,” I said, trying hard not to narrow my eyes and grind my teeth.

“We have a lot in common,” Morelli said. “We both work in vice.”

“Hmm.”

“You know, you're kind of cute when you're jealous.”

“I'm
not
jealous.”

“Liar.”

Now my eyes were definitely narrowed, but I was secretly thinking it'd be nice if he'd kiss me. “Did you want to discuss something?”

“Yeah. I want to know what the hell went on today. Did you really beat the shit out of that poor little Briggs guy?”

“No! He fell down the stairs.”

“Oh boy,” Morelli said.

“He
did!”

“Honey, I say that all the time, and it's never true.”

“There were witnesses.”

Morelli was trying to look serious, but I could see the grin twitching at the corners of his mouth. “Costanza said you tried to shoot the lock off, and when that didn't work you took an axe to the door.”

“That's totally wrong . . . it was a tire iron.”

“Christ,” Morelli said. “Is it that time of the month?”

I pressed my lips together.

He tucked a clump of hair behind my ear and trailed a fingertip down my cheek.

“Guess I'll find out tomorrow.”

“Oh?”

“A woman's always an easy mark at a wedding,” Morelli said.

I thought about the tire iron. It'd be really satisfying to clonk Morelli on the head with it. “Is that why you invited me?”

Morelli grinned.

Yep. He definitely deserved to get smacked with the tire iron. Then after I smacked him I'd kiss him. Run my hand down his chest to his flat hard stomach to his nice hard . . .

Grandma materialized at my elbow. “How nice to see you,” she said to Morelli. “Hope this means you're going to start paying attention to my granddaughter again. Things are pretty dull since you got cut out of the scene.”

“She broke my heart,” Morelli said.

Grandma shook her head. “She don't know much.”

Morelli looked pleased.

“Well, I'm ready to go,” Grandma said. “Nothing to see here. They've got the lid nailed down. Besides, there's a Jackie Chan movie coming on at nine o'clock, and I don't want to miss it.

Eeeya!” she said, making a kung fu-type move. “You could come over to watch it with us,” Grandma said to Morelli. “We've got some pie left from dessert, too.”

“Sounds good,” Morelli said, “but I'm going to have to take a rain check. I'm working tonight. I have to relieve someone on a stakeout.”

B
UNCHY WAS NOWHERE
in sight when we came out of the funeral home. So maybe the way to get rid of him was to feed him. I dropped Grandma off and continued on to my apartment. I circled the parking lot once, looking between cars, making sure Ramirez wasn't waiting for me.

Rex was running on his wheel when I came in. He stopped and twitched his whiskers at me when I flicked the light on.

“Food!” I said to Rex, showing him the brown grocery bag that always accompanied me home from a dinner at my parents. “Lamb leftovers, mashed potatoes, vegetables, a jar of pickled beets, two bananas, a quarter pound sliced ham, half a loaf of bread, and apple pie.” I broke off a chunk of pie and dropped it into Rex's food dish, and Rex almost fell off his wheel in excitement.

I would have liked a piece of pie, too, but I thought about the little black dress and had a banana instead. I was still hungry after the banana, so I made myself half a ham sandwich. After the sandwich I picked at the lamb. And finally I gave in and ate the pie. Tomorrow morning I'd get up first thing and go for a run. Maybe. No! Definitely! Okay, I knew how to do this. I'd call Ranger and see if he wanted to run with me. Then he'd be over here first thing tomorrow and make me go out and get some exercise.

“Yo,” Ranger said, answering the phone. His voice was husky, and I realized it was late and I'd probably awakened him.

“It's Stephanie. I'm sorry to be calling so late.”

He took a slow breath. “No problem. Last time you called me late at night you were naked and chained to your shower curtain rod. I hope this isn't going to be disappointing.”

That had happened when we'd first started working together and I barely knew him. He'd broken into my apartment and released me with clinical efficiency. I suspected he'd act differently now. The thought of him coming upon me naked and chained
now
gave me a hot flash.

“Sorry,” I said. “You only get one call like that in a lifetime. This call's about exercise. Um, I could use some.”

“Now?”

“No! In the morning. I want to go running, and I'm looking for a partner.”

“You're not looking for a partner,” Ranger said. “You're looking for an enforcer. You hate to run. You must be worried about getting into that black dress. What did you eat just now? Piece of cake? Candy bar?”

“Everything,” I said. “I just ate everything.”

“You need some self-control, Babe.”

Boy, that was the truth. “Are you going to run with me, or what?”

“Only if you're serious about getting into shape.”

“I am.”

“You're a terrible liar,” Ranger said. “But since I don't want to have some fat chick working for me, I'll be there at six.”

“I'm not a chick,” I yelled. But he'd already hung up.

Damn.

I
SET THE
alarm for five-thirty, but was awake at five and dressed by five-fifteen. I wasn't all that enthusiastic about running anymore. And I didn't especially care about being on time as a courtesy to Ranger. My fear was that I'd oversleep, and when Ranger broke into my apartment to wake me up, I'd drag him into bed with me.

And then what would I tell Joe? We sort of had an agreement. Except neither of us knew exactly what the agreement meant. In fact, now that I thought about it, maybe we didn't have an agreement at all. Actually, it was more like we were in agreement negotiations.

Besides, I wasn't going to do anything with Ranger because getting involved with Ranger would be the equivalent to sky diving without a parachute. I was temporarily oversexed, but I wasn't any more stupid than usual.

I had a ham sandwich and the rest of the pie for breakfast. I did some stretches. I tweezed my eyebrows. I changed from shorts to sweats. And at six o'clock I was in the lobby, watching Ranger pull into the lot.

“Man,” he said, “you must be serious about running. I didn't expect you to actually be
up
at this hour. Last time we ran I had to drag you out of bed.”

I was wearing sweats, and I was freezing my butt off, wondering where the hell the sun was. Ranger was wearing a T-shirt with the sleeves cut out, and he didn't look cold at all. He did a couple hamstring stretches, a couple neck rolls, and began jogging in place.

“You ready?” Ranger asked.

A mile later I pulled up and bent at the waist, trying to suck in some air. My shirt was soaked in sweat and my hair was plastered to my head. “Hold it a minute,” I said. “I have to throw up. Boy, I'm really out of shape.” And maybe I shouldn't have had the ham and pie.

“You aren't going to throw up,” Ranger said. “Keep going.”

“I can't keep going.”

“Do another quarter mile.”

I shoved off behind him. “Boy, I'm really out of shape,” I said again. Guess running once every three months wasn't enough for maximum fitness.

“Two more minutes,” Ranger said. “You can make it.”

“I really think I'm going to throw up.”

“You're
not
going to throw up,” Ranger said. “One more minute.”

The sweat was dripping off my chin and running into my eyes, blurring my vision. I wanted to wipe it away, but I couldn't lift my arm that high. “We there yet?”

“Yes. Mile and a quarter,” Ranger said. “See, I knew you could do it.”

I was unable to speak, so I nodded my head.

Ranger was jogging in place. “Want to keep moving,” he said. “You ready to go?”

I bent over and threw up.

“That's not gonna save you,” Ranger said.

I gave him a stiff middle finger.

“Shit,” Ranger said, looking down at the mess I'd made on the ground. “What's that pink stuff?”

“Ham sandwich.”

“Maybe you want to just shoot yourself in the head.”