High Five (17 page)

“Okay, I'm feeling much better now,” I said to Rex.

Then I burst into tears.

When I was done crying I told Rex it was only hormones reacting with a prediabetic surge of insulin from eating all those candy bars . . . so he shouldn't worry. I went to bed and immediately fell asleep. Crying is fucking exhausting.

I awoke the next morning with my eyes crusty and puffed from crying and my spirit lower than slug slime. I lay there for about ten minutes wallowing in my misery, thinking of ways to kill myself, deciding on smoking. But then I didn't have any cigarettes, and I wasn't in a mood to traipse back to the 7-Eleven. Anyway, I was working with Ranger now, so probably I could just let nature take its course.

I dragged myself out of bed and into the bathroom where I stared at myself in the mirror. “Get a grip, Stephanie,” I said. “You have a Porsche and a SEALs hat, and you're broadening your horizons.”

I was afraid after all those candy bars I was also broadening my ass, and I should get some exercise. I was still dressed in my sweats, so I wriggled into a sports bra and laced up my running shoes.

Briggs was already at work at his computer when I came out of my bedroom. “Look who's here . . .Mary Sunshine,” he said. “Christ, you look like shit.”

“This is nothing,” I told him. “Wait until you see what I look like when I'm
done
running.”

I returned drenched in sweat and feeling very pleased with myself. Stephanie Plum, woman in charge. Screw Morelli. Screw Terry Gilman. Screw the world.

I had a chicken sandwich for breakfast and took a shower. Just to be mean I put the beer on the top shelf in the refrigerator, told Briggs to have a rotten day, and zoomed off in my Porsche to the Grand Union. Dual-purpose trip. Talk to Leona and Allen and shop for real food. I parked about a half mile away from the store so no one would park next to me and ding my door. I got out and looked at the Porsche. It was perfect. It was a totally kick-ass car. When you had a car like this you didn't mind so much that your boyfriend was boinking a skank.

I did the shopping first, and by the time I was done and had the groceries tucked away in the trunk, the bank was open. Business was slow first thing on a Tuesday morning. No one in the lobby. There were two tellers counting out money. Probably practicing. I didn't see Leona.

Allen Shempsky was in the lobby drinking coffee, talking to a bank guard. He saw me and waved. “How's the Uncle Fred hunt going?” he asked.

“Not that good. I was looking for Leona.”

“It's her day off. Maybe I can be of help.”

I rooted around in my bag, located the check, and handed it over to Allen. “Anything you can tell me about this?”

He examined it front and back. “It's a canceled check.”

“Anything weird about it?”

He looked at it some more. “Not that I can see. What's so special about this check?”

“I don't know. Fred was having billing problems with RGC. He was supposed to bring this check to the office the day he disappeared. I guess he didn't want to take the original, so he left it home on his desk.”

“Sorry I can't be more helpful,” Shempsky said. “If you want to leave it with me I can ask around. Sometimes different people pick up different things.”

I dropped the check back into my bag. “Think I'll hang on to it. I have a feeling people have died because of this check.”

“That's serious,” Shempsky said.

I walked back to the car feeling spooky and not knowing why. Nothing alarming had happened at the bank. And no one was parked or standing by the Porsche. I checked the lot. No Bunchy. No Ramirez that I could see. Still, there was that uncomfortable feeling. Something forgotten, maybe. Or someone watching. I unlocked the car and looked back at the bank. It was Shempsky I'd sensed. He was standing to the side of the bank building, smoking a cigarette, watching me. Oh man, now I was getting the creeps from Shempsky. I blew out a breath. My imagination was in overdrive. The man was just sneaking a smoke, for Pete's sake.

The only oddity in the act was that Allen Shempsky actually had a bad habit. A bad habit seemed like an excess of personality for Allen Shempsky. Shempsky was a nice guy who never offended anyone and was totally forgettable. He'd been like that for as long as I could remember. When we were in school he was the kid in the back of the room who never got called on. Quiet smile, never a conflicting opinion, always neat and clean. He was like a chameleon whose clothes matched the wall behind him. After knowing Allen all my life, I'd be hard-pressed to name his hair color. Maybe mouse brown. Not that he was rodentlike. He was a reasonably attractive man with an average nose and average teeth and average eyes. He was average height, of average build, and I assumed of average intelligence, although there was no way of knowing for sure.

He'd married Maureen Blum a month after they both graduated from Rider College. He had two young children and a house in Hamilton Township. I'd never driven past his house, but I was willing to bet it was forgettable. Maybe that wasn't so bad. Maybe it was a good thing to be unmemorable. I bet Maureen Blum Shempsky didn't have to worry about being stalked by Benito Ramirez.

Bunchy was waiting when I got back to my apartment building. He was in the lot, sitting in his car, looking grumpy.

“What's with the Porsche?” he wanted to know, coming over.

“It's on loan from Ranger. And if you put a tracking device on it he won't be happy.”

“Do you know how much a car like this costs?”

“A lot?”

“Maybe more than you want to pay,” Bunchy said.

“I hope that's not the case.”

He took one of the grocery bags and followed me upstairs. “You go to the bank like you said?”

“Yep. I talked to Allen Shempsky, but I didn't learn anything new.”

“What did you talk to him about?”

“The weather. Politics. Managed health care.” I balanced my bag on my hip while I unlocked the door.

“Boy, you're a beaut. You don't trust anybody, do you?”

“I don't trust
you”

“I wouldn't trust him, either,” Briggs said from the living room. “He looks like he's got a social disease.”

“Who's that?” Bunchy wanted to know.

“That's Randy,” I said.

“Want to see him disappear?”

I looked over at Briggs. It was a tempting offer. “Some other time,” I said to Bunchy.

Bunchy unpacked his bag and set everything out on the kitchen counter. “You've got some strange friends.”

And they hardly counted at all compared to my relatives. “I'll make you lunch if you tell me who you're working for and why you're interested in Fred,” I said.

“No can do. Besides, I think you'll make me lunch anyway.”

I made canned tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. I made grilled cheese because that's what I felt like eating. And I made the soup because I like to keep a clean can in reserve for Rex.

Halfway through lunch I looked at Bunchy, and Morelli's words echoed in my ear. I'm working with a couple Treasury guys who make me look like a Boy Scout, he'd said. The Hallelujah Chorus rang out in my head, and I had an epiphany. “Holy cow,” I said. “You're working with Morelli.”

“I don't work with anyone,” Bunchy said. “I work alone.”

“That's a load of pig pucky.”

This wasn't the first time Morelli had been involved in one of my cases and had kept it from me, but it was the first time he'd sent someone to spy on me. This was a new all-time low for Morelli.

Bunchy sighed and pushed his dish away. “Does this mean I'm not getting dessert?”

I gave him one of the leftover candy bars. “I'm depressed.”

“Now what?”

“Morelli is scum.”

He looked down at the candy bar. “I told you I work alone.”

“Yeah, and you told me you were a bookie.”

He glanced up. “You don't know for sure that I'm not.”

The phone rang, and I snatched it up before the machine could take over.

“Hey, Cupcake,” Morelli said. “What do you want on your pizza tonight?”

“I want nothing. There is no pizza. There is no you, no me, no us, no pizza. And don't ever call me again, you scummy, slimy fungus-ridden dog turd, piece of fly crud.” And I slammed the phone down.

Bunchy was laughing. “Let me guess,” he said. “That was Morelli.”

“And you!” I yelled, pointing my finger, teeth clenched. “You are
no better.”

“I gotta go,” Bunchy said, still doing his Mr. Chuckles impersonation.

“So, have you always had a problem with men?” Briggs asked. “Or is this something recent?”

I
WAS IN
the lobby, waiting for Ranger at six o'clock. I was all showered and perfumed and hair freshly done up to look sexily unkempt. Mike's Place is a sports bar frequented by businessmen. At six o'clock it would be filled with suits catching ESPN and having a drink to unwind before going home, so I chose to look suity, too. I was wearing my Wonderbra, which worked wonders, a white silk shirt unbuttoned clear to the front clasp on the magical bra, and a black silk suit with the skirt rolled at the waist to show a lot of leg. I covered the mess at the waist with a wide fake leopard skin belt, and I stuffed my stocking-clad feet into four-inch fuck-me pumps.

Mr. Morganthal shuffled out of the elevator and winked at me. “Hey, hootchie-mamma,” he said. “Want a hot date?” He was ninety-two and lived on the third floor, next to Mrs. Delgado.

“You're too late,” I told him. “I've already made plans.”

“That's just as well. You'd probably kill me,” Mr. Morganthal said.

Ranger pulled up in the Mercedes, and idled at the door. I gave Mr. Morganthal a tweak on the cheek and sashayed out, swinging my hips, wetting my lips. I poured myself into the Mercedes and crossed my legs.

Ranger looked at me and smiled. “I told you to get his attention . . .not start a riot. Maybe you should button one more button.”

I batted my eyelashes at him, in fake-flirt, which actually wasn't totally fake. “You don't like it?” I said. Hah! Take that, Morelli. Who needs you!

Ranger reached over and flipped the next two buttons open, exposing me to mid-belly. “That's the way
I
like it,” he said, the smile still in place.

Shit!
I quickly rebuttoned the buttons. “Wise guy,” I said. Okay, so he called my bluff. No reason to panic. Just file it away for future reference.
Not ready for Ranger!

Mr. Morganthal came out and shook his finger at us.

“I think I just sullied your reputation,” Ranger said, putting the car in gear.

“Probably more like you helped me live up to expectations.”

We cruised across town and parked half a block from the bar on the opposite side of the street.

Ranger took a photo from behind the sun visor. “This is Ryan Perin. He's a regular here. Comes every day after work. Has two drinks. Goes home. Never parks his car more than half a block away on the street. He knows the dealer's trying to get it back, and he's nervous. Comes out to check on it every few minutes. Your job is to make sure he keeps his eyes on you—not the car. Keep him in the building.”

“Why are you taking it here?”

“When he's home the car's in a locked garage, and the regular repo people can't get at it. When he's at work he parks it in a garage with an attendant who takes his Christmas bonus seriously.” Ranger made a gun sign with his hand, finger and thumb extended. “For that matter, Perin carries too and isn't slow on the draw. That's why we need to finesse the car. Nobody wants bloodshed.”

“What does this guy do for a living?”

“Lawyer. Sending all his money up his nose these days.”

A dark green Jaguar rolled past us. There were no spaces open on the street. Just as he got to the end of the block a car pulled out, and the Jag slid in place.

“Wow,” I said, “that was lucky.”

“No,” Ranger said. “That was Tank. We have cars parked all along this street, so Perin has to park down there.”

Perin angled out of the car, beeped the alarm on, and headed for Mike's.

I looked at Ranger. “Will the alarm be a problem?”

“None at all.”

Perin disappeared into the building.

“Okay,” Ranger said. “Go get 'em, Slick. I'll give you a five-minute lead, and then I'll call the truck in.” He gave me a buzzer. “If something goes wrong, hit the panic button. I'll come get you when the car's cleared the street.”

Perin was dressed in a blue pinstripe. He was in his early forties, with thinning sandy blond hair and an athletic build gonesoft. I stepped just to the side of the door and waited while my eyes adjusted to the change in light. There were mostly men in the room, but there were a few women, too. The women were in clusters. The men tended to be alone, eyes turned to the TV. Perin was easy to spot. He was at the far end of the polished mahogany bar. The bartender set a drink in front of him. Something clear on the rocks.

There were chairs open on either side of Perin, but I didn't want to sit down and start a conversation. I didn't want him to feel singled out. If he was nervous the direct approach might be too obvious. So I walked toward him, rummaging in my bag, looking absorbed in finding whatever. And just as I reached his stool I faked a stumble. Not enough to go down to the ground, but enough to knock into him, clutching at his sleeve for support.

“Omigod,” I said. “I'm so sorry. This is so embarrassing. I wasn't watching where I was going and . . .” I looked down. “It's these shoes! I'm just not a high-heel person.”

“What kind of a person are you?” Perin asked.

I gave him the million-dollar smile. “I think maybe I'm a barefoot person.” I slid onto the stool next to him and signaled the bartender. “Boy, I really need a drink. It's been one of those days.”