High Five (19 page)

I dropped the check in my bag and thanked Margaret. I was still spooked from finding Ramirez on my fire escape, so I drove to the office to see if Lula wanted to ride shotgun for the rest of the day.

“I don't know,” Lula said. “You aren't doing anything with that Bunchy guy, are you? He has a sick sense of humor.”

We'll take my car, I told her. Nothing to worry about.

“I guess that would be okay,” Lula said. “I could wear a hat to disguise myself, so no one recognizes me.”

“No need,” I said. “I have a new car.”

Connie looked up from her computer screen. “What kind of car?”

“Black.”

“That's better than powder blue,” Lula said. “What is it? Another one of them little Jeeps?”

“Nope. It's not a Jeep.”

Both Connie and Lula looked at me expectantly. “Well?” Lula said.

“It's . . . a Porsche.”

“Say what?” Lula said.

“Porsche.”

They were both at the door.

“Damned if it doesn't look like a Porsche,” Lula said. “What'd you do, rob a bank?”

“It's a company car.”

Lula and Connie did some more of the expectant looking at me with their eyebrows up at the top of their heads.

“Well, you know how I've been working with Ranger . . .”

Lula peered into the car's interior. “You mean like getting that guy to blow hisself up? And like the time you lost the sheik? Hold on here,” Lula said. “Are you telling me Ranger gave you this car because you're working with him?”

I cleared my throat and polished a thumbprint off the right-rear quarter panel with the hem of my flannel shirt.

Lula and Connie started smiling.

“Dang,” Lula said, punching me in the arm. “You go, girl.”

“It's not that kind of work,” I said.

The smile on Lula had stretched ear to ear. “I didn't say anything about what kind of work. Connie, did you hear me say anything about this kind of work or that kind of work?”

“I know what you were thinking,” I said.

Connie jumped in. “Let's see . . .there's oral sex. And then there's regular sex. And then there's—”

“Getting close now,” Lula said.

“All the men who work with Ranger drive black cars,” I told them.

“He give them SUVs,” Lula said. “He don't give them no Porsche.”

I bit into my lower lip. “So you think he wants something?”

“Ranger don't do stuff for nothing,” Lula said. “Sooner or later he gets his price. You telling me you don't know the price?”

“Guess I was hoping I was one of the guys, and the car was part of my job.”

“I've seen the way he looks at you,” Lula said. “And I know he don't look at any of the guys like that. Think what you need is a job description. Not that it would matter if it was me. If I could get my hands on that man's body, I'd buy
him
a Porsche.”

We drove to the Grand Union strip mall, and I parked in front of First Trenton.

“What we doing here?” Lula wanted to know.

Good question. The answer was a little vague to me. “I have a couple canceled checks I want to show my cousin. She's a teller here.”

“Something special about these checks?”

“Yeah. Only I don't know what.” I gave them to Lula. “What do you think?”

“Looks like a couple plain-ass checks to me.”

The bank was busy at lunchtime, so we got in line to see Leona. I looked over at Shempsky's office while I waited my turn. The door was open, and I could see Shempsky at his desk, on the phone.

“Hey,” Leona said when I got to her window. “What's up?”

“I wanted to ask you about a check.” I passed Margaret's check to her. “You see anything unusual here?”

She looked at it front and back. “No.”

I gave her Fred's check to RGC. “How about this one?”

“Nope.”

“Anything strange about the accounts?”

“Not that I can see.” She typed some information into her computer and scanned the screen. “Money comes in and goes out pretty fast on this RGC account. My guess is this is a small liquid account RGC keeps at the local level.”

“Why do you say that?”

“RGC is the biggest waste hauler in the area, and I don't see enough transactions here. Besides, I use RGC, and my checks to RGC are canceled through Citibank. When you work at a bank, you notice things like that.”

“How about the cable check?”

Leona looked at it again. “Yep. Same thing. My checks are canceled someplace else.”

“Is it unusual to assign customers to two different banks?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. I guess not, since both these companies are doing it.”

I thanked Leona, and dropped the checks back into my bag. I almost collided with Shempsky when I turned to leave.

“Oops,” he said, jumping back. “Didn't mean to bumper-ride you. Just thought I'd come over and see how things are going.”

“Things are going okay.” I introduced Lula and thought it was to Shempsky's credit that he didn't seem to notice Lula's neon-orange hair or the fact that she'd poured over two hundred pounds of woman into a pair of size-nine tights and topped it off with a Cherry Garcia T-shirt and faux-fur jacket that was trimmed in what looked like pink lion mane.

“What ever happened to that check?” Shempsky asked. “Did you solve your mystery?”

“Not yet, but I'm making progress. I found a similar check from another business. And the curious thing is that both checks were canceled here.”

“Why is that curious?”

I decided to fib. I didn't want to involve Leona or Margaret Burger. “The checks
I
write to those companies are canceled elsewhere. Don't you think that's weird?”

Shempsky smiled. “No. Not at all. Businesses often keep small, liquid local accounts, but deposit the bulk of their money somewhere else.”

“Heard that before,” Lula said.

“Do you have the other check with you?” Shempsky asked. “Would you like me to look at it?”

“No, but thanks for offering.”

“Boy,” Shempsky said. “You're really tenacious. I'm impressed. I assume you think this all ties in with Fred's disappearance?”

“I think it's possible.”

“Where do you go from here?”

“RGC. I still need to get the account straightened out. I was going to do it last Friday, but I got there after Lipinski killed himself.”

“Not a good time to take care of business,” Shempsky said.

“No.”

He gave me a friendly banker smile. “Well, good luck.”

“She don't need luck,” Lula said. “She's excellent. She always gets her man, you see what I'm saying? She's so good she drives a Porsche. How many bounty hunters you know got a Porsche?”

“It's actually a company car,” I told Shempsky.

“It's a great car,” he said. “I saw you drive off in it yesterday.”

Finally I felt like I was on to something. I had an idea how a lot of stuff might tie together. It was still pretty half-baked, but it was something to think about. I took Klockner to Hamilton and crossed South Broad. I pulled into the industrial area and was relieved at the absence of flashing lights and police cruisers. No human disasters today. The RGC lot was empty of trucks and didn't smell bad. Clearly midday is the preferred time to visit a garbage company.

“They might be a little sensitive in here,” I said to Lula.

“I can sensitive your ass off,” Lula said. “I just hope they got their wall painted.”

The office didn't look freshly painted, but it didn't look bloody either. A man was behind the counter, working at one of the desks. He was somewhere in his forties, brown hair, slim build. He looked up when we approached.

“I'd like to settle an account,” I said. “I spoke to Larry about it, but it was never resolved. Are you new here?”

He extended his hand. “Mark Stemper. I'm from the Camden office. I'm filling in temporarily.”

“Is that the wall where the brains were splattered?” Lula asked. “It don't look fresh painted. How'd you get it so clean? I never have any luck getting blood off walls like that.”

“We had a cleaning crew come in,” Stemper said. “I don't know exactly what they used.”

“Boy, too bad, because I could use some of that.”

He looked at her warily. “You get blood on your walls a lot?”

“Well, not usually on
my
walls.”

“About this account,” I said.

“Name?”

“Fred Shutz.”

He tapped into the computer and shook his head. “Nobody here by that name.”

“Exactly.” I explained the problem and showed him the canceled check.

“We don't use this bank,” he said.

“Maybe you have a second account there.”

“Yeah,” Lula said, “a local liquid account.”

“No. All the offices are the same. Everything goes through Citibank.”

“Then how do you explain this check?”

“I don't know how to explain it.”

“Were Martha Deeter and Larry Lapinski the only office workers here?”

“In this office, yes.”

“When someone mails in their quarterly payment, what happens to it?”

“It goes through here. It's logged into the system and deposited in the Citibank account.”

“You've been very helpful,” I said. “Thanks.”

Lula followed me out. “Personally, I didn't think he was all that helpful. He didn't know nothing.”

“He knew it was the wrong bank,” I told her.

“I could tell that turns you on.”

“I sort of had a brainstorm while I was talking to Allen Shempsky.”

“You want to share that brainstorm?”

“Suppose Larry Lipinski didn't enter all the accounts. Suppose he held out ten percent for himself and deposited them someplace else?”

“Skimming,” Lula said. “You think he was skimming RGC money. And then Uncle Fred come along and started making a stink. And so Lipinsky had to get rid of Uncle Fred.”

“Maybe.”

“You're the shit,” Lula said. “Girlfriend, you are
smart.”

Lula and I did a high five and then a down low and then she tried to do some elaborate hand thing with me, but I got lost halfway through.

Actually, I thought it was more complicated than Fred getting disposed of because he made some noise over his account. It seemed more likely Fred's disappearance was related to the dismembered woman. And I still thought that woman might be Laura Lipinski. So it did sort of tie in together. I could construct a possible scenario up to the point of Fred seeing Lipinski dump the garbage bag at the real estate office. After that, I was lost.

We were about to get in the car when the side door to the building opened, and Stemper stuck his head out and waved at us. “Hey,” he yelled. “Hold up a minute. That check is bothering me. Would you mind letting me make a copy?”

I didn't see where that would do any harm, so Lula and I returned to the office with him and waited while he fiddled with the copier.

“Damn thing never works,” he said. “Hold on while I change the paper.”

Half an hour later, I got my check back with an apology.

“I'm sorry that took so long,” he said. “But maybe it'll be worthwhile. I'll send it to Camden and see what they make of it. I think it's pretty strange. I've never run across anything like this.”

We got back to the Porsche and sunk into the leather seats.

“I love this car,” Lula said. “I feel like the shit in this car.”

I knew exactly what she meant. It was a fantasy car. No matter if it was true, when you drove the car you felt prettier, sexier, braver, and smarter. Ranger was on to something with this broader horizon business. When I drove the Porsche I could see myself with broader horizons.

I put the car in gear and headed for the driveway out of the lot. The lot itself was surrounded by a high chain-link fence. Out-of-use trucks parked to the rear in the lot, and office workers and drivers parked in the front. Double gates opened to the street. Probably at night they closed and locked the gates. During the day the gates were open, and it was wide enough for two trucks to pass.

I rolled to a stop at the open gate, looked left and saw the first garbage truck of the day rumble home. It was a colossus of a truck. A green and white behemoth that shook the earth as it thundered closer, its bulk preceded by the stench of rotting everything, its arrival heralded by descending seagulls.

The truck swung wide to enter the lot, and Lula jumped in her seat. “Holy cats, that guy don't see us. He's taking this turn like he owns the road.”

I went into reverse, but it was too late. The truck sideswiped the Porsche, shearing fiberglass off half the car. I leaned on the horn, and the truck driver stopped and looked down at us in amazement.

Lula jumped out of the car in full rant, and I followed after her, climbing over the seat because my side was smushed into the monster garbage truck.

“Jeez, lady,” the driver said. “I don't know what happened. I didn't see you until you started blowing your horn.”

“That don't cut it,” Lula yelled. “This here's a Porsche. You know what she had to do to get this Porsche? Well, actually she hasn't done nothing yet, but I think if she gets lucky, she's gonna have to do plenty. This company better be insured.” Lula turned to me. “You need to exchange insurance information. That's always the first thing you do. You got your card?”

“I don't know. I guess all that stuff is in the glove compartment,” I said.

“I'll get it,” Lula told me. “I can't believe this happened to a Porsche. People should be more careful when they see a Porsche on the road.” She leaned into the car, rooted around in the glove compartment, and was back in a heartbeat. “This looks like it,” she said, handing the card over to me. “And here's your purse. You might need your license.”