High Five (22 page)

“Actually, I have a Beemer.”

Lula rushed to the front window and looked out. “Damn skippy. Way to go.”

Vinnie stuck his head out of his office doorway. “What's going on?”

“Stephanie got a new car,” Lula said. “That's it at the curb.”

“Anybody hear about anything funny going on at First Trenton?” I asked. “Anybody shady work there?”

“You should ask the little guy we talked to yesterday,” Lula said. “I can't remember his name, but he seemed like a nice guy. You don't think he's shady, do you?”

“Hard to tell who's shady,” I said to Lula. Actually, I thought shady would be a step up for Shempsky.

“Where'd you get the car?” Vinnie asked.

“It's a company car. I'm working with Ranger.”

Vinnie's face creased into a big, oily smile. “Ranger gave you a car? Hah! What kind of work you doing? Gotta be good to get a car like that.”

“Maybe you should ask Ranger,” I said.

“Yeah, sure, when I don't want to live anymore.”

“Any new FTAs come in?” I asked Connie.

“We got two in yesterday, but they're chump change. I wasn't sure you wanted to be bothered with them. Seems like you've got a lot on your plate right now.”

“What's the profile?”

“A shoplifter and a wife beater.”

“We'll take the wife beater,” Lula said. “We don't allow no wife beaters to just walk away. We like to give the wife beaters personal attention.”

I took the file from Connie and sifted through it. Kenyon Lally. Age twenty-eight. Unemployed. Long history of spousal abuse. Two DUI convictions. Living in the projects. No mention of Kenyon shooting any previous bounty hunters.

“Okay,” I said, “we'll take this one.”

“Oh boy,” Lula said. “I'm gonna squash this guy like a roach.”

“No. No, no, no, no, no roach squashing. No unnecessary force.”

“Sure,” Lula said. “I know that. But we could use
necessary
force, right?”

“Necessary force won't be necessary.”

“Just don't beat the crap out of him like you did with the computer nerd,” Vinnie said. “I keep telling you, kick them in the kidney where it don't show.”

“Must be scary being related to him,” Lula said, looking over at Vinnie.

Connie filled in my authorization to apprehend and gave the file back to me. I dropped it into my bag and hiked my bag higher on my shoulder. “Later.”

“Later,” Connie said. “And watch out for garbage trucks.”

I beeped the alarm off, and Lula and I got in the Beemer.

“This is cushy,” Lula said. “Big woman like me needs a car like this. I sure would like to know where Ranger gets all these cars. See that little silver strip with the numbers on it. That's your registration number. So theoretically this car isn't even stolen.”

“Theoretically.” Ranger probably had those strips made by the gross. I punched Morelli's number into the car phone and after six rings I got his answering machine. I left a message and tried his pager.

“Not that it's any of my business,” Lula said, “but what's going on with you and Morelli? I thought that was over with you two when you moved out.”

“It's complicated.”

“Your problem is you keep getting involved with men who have lots of potential in bed and no potential at the altar.”

“I'm thinking of giving men up altogether,” I said. “Celibacy isn't so bad. You don't have to worry about shaving your legs.”

The phone rang, and I answered it on the speakerphone.

“What number is this?” Morelli wanted to know.

“It's my new car phone number.”

“In the Buick?”

“No. Ranger gave me another car.”

Silence.

“What kind of car is it this time?” he finally asked.

“Beemer.”

“Has it got a registration number on it?”

“Yes.”

“Is it fake?”

I shrugged. “It doesn't look fake.”

“That'll go far in court.”

“Have you heard anything about Mark Stemper?”

“No. I think he's probably playing rummy with your uncle Fred.”

“How about Laura Lipinski?”

“Disappeared off the face of the earth. Left home the Thursday before your uncle disappeared.”

Perfect timing to get stuffed into a garbage bag. “Thanks. That's all I wanted. Over and out.”

I pulled into the Grand Union parking lot and drove to the end of the mall where the bank was located. I parked at a safe distance from other cars, exited the BMW, and set the alarm.

“You want me to stay with the car in case someone's riding around with a bomb in his backseat looking for a place to put it?” Lula asked.

“Not necessary. Ranger says the car has sensors.”

“Ranger give you a car with bomb sensors? The head of the CIA don't even have a car with bomb sensors. I hear they give him a stick with a mirror on the end of it.”

“I don't think it's anything space-age. Sounds to me like they're just motion detectors mounted on the undercarriage.”

“Boy, I'd like to know where he got the motion detectors. This would probably be a good night to rob the governor's mansion.”

I was starting to feel like a regular customer at the bank. I said hello to the guard at the door, and I waved to Leona. I looked for Shempsky, but he wasn't visible, and his office was empty.

“He's out to lunch,” the guard said. “Took it earlier than usual today.”

No problem. Leona was giving me the
come here!
gesture, anyway.

“I read about you in the paper,” she said. “They said your car was bombed!”

“Yeah. And then a garbage truck fell on it.”

“It was excellent,” Lula said. “It was the shit.”

“Boy, nothing fun ever happens to me,” Leona said. “I've never had a car bombed or anything.”

“But you work at a bank,” I told her. “That's pretty cool. And you have kids. Kids are the best.” Okay, so I fibbed a little about the kids. I didn't want her to feel bad. I mean we can't all be lucky enough to have a hamster.

“We came to see if you had any suspicious characters working here,” Lula said.

Leona looked startled by that. “In the bank?”

“Well, maybe 'suspicious' is the wrong word,” I told her. “Is there anyone here who might have connections with people who might not be totally law-abiding?”

Leona rolled her eyes. “Almost everybody. Marion Beddle was a Grizolli before she was married. You know about Vito Grizolli? And then Phil Zuck in mortgages lives next door to Sy Bernstein, the lawyer who was just disbarred for illegal practices. The guard has a brother in Rahway, doing time for burglary. You want me to go on?”

“Let's take this from a different direction. Is there anyone here who looks too successful for his job? You know, has too much money? Or is there anyone here who desperately needs money? Anyone who likes to gamble? Anyone doing expensive drugs?”

“Hmm. That's a harder question. Annie Shuman has a sick kid. Some kind of bone disease. Lots of doctor bills. Couple of people who play the numbers. I'm one of them. Rose White likes to go to Atlantic City and play the slots.”

“I don't get what you want to know this for anyway,” Lula said to me.

“We know of three companies with extra accounts in this bank. We think there's a possibility those accounts were opened to hold illegal money. So maybe there's a good reason the accounts were opened here.”

“Like someone here in the bank is involved,” Lula said.

“I see where you're going,” Leona said. “You're suggesting we're laundering money. The money comes into those accounts you asked me about and almost immediately goes out.”

“I don't know if it's exactly laundering,” I said. “Where does the money go?”

“I don't have that information,” Leona said. “You'd need a bank officer for that. And probably they wouldn't tell you. I'm sure that would be confidential. You should talk to Shempsky.”

We hung around for another fifteen minutes, but Shempsky didn't materialize.

“Maybe we should go get that wife beater,” Lula said. “I bet he's sitting in his living room, drinking beer, being a jerk.”

I looked at my watch. Noon. Chances were good that Kenyon Lally was just getting up. Unemployed drunks were usually slow risers. Might be a good time to snag him.

“Okay,” I said, “we'll take a ride over.”

“Gonna fit right in with the BMW,” Lula said. “Everybody in the projects gonna think you're a drug dealer.”

Oh, great.

“I know about the bomb sensors and all,” Lula said after we'd gone about a half mile, “but I still got the heebie-jeebies sitting next to you.”

I knew exactly where she was coming from. I felt like that, too. “I could take you back to the office if you're uncomfortable.”

“Hell, no. I'm not that freaked out. It just makes you wonder,you know? Anyway, I felt like that when I was a 'ho, too. You never knew when you were gonna get in the car with some maniac.”

“It must have been a tough job.”

“Most of my customers were repeaters, so that wasn't too bad. The worst part was standing around on the corner. Don't matter if it's hot or cold or raining, you still gotta stand there. Most people think the hard part's being on your back, but the hard part is being on your feet all day and night. I got varicose veins from standing too many hours on my feet. I guess if I'd been a better 'ho I'd have been on my back more and my feet less.”

I took Nottingham to Greenwood, turned right off Greenwood, and crossed the railroad tracks. Trenton subsidized housing always reminded me of a POW camp, and in many ways, that's exactly what it was. Although, in all fairness, I have to say they aren't the worst I've ever seen. And they were preferable to living on Stark Street. I suppose the original vision was of garden apartments, but the reality is cement and brick bunkers squatting on hard-packed dirt. If I had to find a single word to describe the neighborhood, I'd have to choose
bleak.

“We want the next building,” Lula said. “Apartment 4B.”

I parked around the corner, a block away, so Lally wouldn't see us coming, got out, and studied Lally's photo.

“Nice touch with the vest,” Lula said. “It'll come in handy when the Welcome Wagon shows up.”

The sky was gray and the wind whipped across yards. A few cars were parked on the street, but there was no activity. No dogs, no kids, no stoop sitters. It looked like a ghost town with Hitler as architect.

Lula and I walked to 4B and rang the bell.

Kenyon Lally answered the door. He was my height and rangy, wearing low-slung jeans and a thermal T-shirt. His hair was uncombed, and his face was unshaven. And he looked like a man who smacked women around.

“Hunh,” Lula said when she saw him.

“We don't need no Girl Scout cookies,” Lally said. And he slammed the door shut.

“I hate when people do that,” Lula said.

I rang the bell again, but there was no response.

“Hey!” Lula yelled. “Bail Enforcement Agents. Open this door!”

“Go fuck yourself,” Lally yelled back.

“The hell with this bullshit,” Lula said. She gave the door a kick with her foot, and the door banged open.

We were both so surprised we just stood there. Neither of us had expected the door to open.

“Government housing,” Lula finally said with a shake of her head. “It makes you wonder, don't it?”

“You're gonna pay for that,” Lally said.

Lula was standing with her hands in her jacket pockets. “How about you make me? Why don't you come get me, Mr. Tough Guy?”

Lally charged Lula. Lula stuck out her hand, made contact with Lally's chest, and Lally went down like a sack of sand.

“Fastest stun gun in the East,” Lula said. “Oops, look at that. .. damn, I accidentally kicked the wife beater.”

I cuffed Lally and checked to make sure he was breathing.

“Shoot,” Lula said. “I'm so careless, I accidentally kicked him again.” She bent over Lally with the stun gun still in her hand. “Want me to make him jump?”

“No!” I said. “No jumping!”

 

 

A
FTER FIFTEEN MINUTES,
Lally's eyes were open and his fingers were twitching, but I could see that it might take awhile longer before he was up to walking any kind of distance.

“You should join a gym,” Lula told Lally. “And you should lay off the beer. You're out of shape. I only buzzed you once, and look at you. I never saw anybody so pathetic from one measly jolt.”

I gave Lula the car keys. “Bring the car over so he doesn't have to walk so far.”

“You might never see me again,” Lula said.

“Ranger would find you.”

“Yeah,” Lula said, “that'd be the best part.”

Five minutes later, Lula was back.

“It's gone,” she said.

“What's gone?”

“The car. The car's gone.”

“What do you mean, it's gone?”

“What part of 'gone' don't you understand?” Lula asked.

“You don't mean it's been stolen?”

“Yep. That's just what I mean. The car's been stolen.”

My heart did a nosedive. I didn't want to believe what I was hearing. “How could someone steal the car? We didn't hear the alarm go off.”

“Must have gone off when we were inside here. It's a distance, and the wind's blowing away from us. Anyway, the brothers know how to take care of that kind of stuff. I'm real surprised, though. I figured you see a nice car in this kind of neighborhood and you think dealer. And messing with a dealer's car don't do a whole lot for your quality of life. Guess these guys were low on their daily quota. I got there just as the flatbed was turning the corner two blocks away. They must have been in the area.”

“What am I going to tell Ranger?'

“Tell him the good news is they left him his plates.” Lula handed me two license plates. “And guess they didn't want the registration number. They left that, too. Looks like they took it off with an acetylene torch.” She dropped a small piece of scorched dashboard with the metal tag still attached into the palm of my hand.

“That's it?”

“Yep. That's what they left at the side of the road for you.”

Lally was flopping around on the floor, trying to get to his feet, but his coordination was off and his hands were cuffed behind his back. He was drooling and cussing and slurring his words.

“Fruckin' bish,” he said to me. “Fruckin' peesh a shit.”

I searched in my bag for the cell phone, found it, and called Vinnie. I explained I had Kenyon Lally in custody, but there was a small problem with my car, and would he please come collect Lally and Lula and me.

“What's the problem?” Vinnie wanted to know.

“It's nothing. It's trivial. Don't worry about it.”

“I'm not coming until you tell me. I bet this is something good.”

I blew out a sigh. “The car's been stolen.”

“That's it?”

“Yeah.”

“Jeez, I expected something better . . .like it got hit by a train or sat on by an elephant.”

“Are you going to come get us, or what?”

“I'm on my way. Hold your bladder.”

We sat down to wait for Vinnie, and my cell phone rang. Lula and I exchanged glances.

“You expecting a call?” Lula asked.

Both of us thinking it might be Ranger.

“Well, answer it,” Lally said. “Stoopid fruck.”

“It could be Vinnie,” Lula said. “He might have found a goat walking down the middle of the road and decided to do a nooner.”

I searched through my bag, found the phone, crossed all my fingers and my eyes, and answered.

It was Joe. “We found Mark Stemper,” he said.

“And?”

“He doesn't look good.”

Damn. “How bad does he look?”

“He looks dead. Shot in the head. Someone tried to make it look like a suicide, but among other things they put the gun in the wrong hand. Stemper was left-handed.”

“Oops.”

“Yeah. Not very professional.”

“Where'd it happen?”

“In an abandoned building a couple blocks from RGC. A watchman found him.”

“You ever wonder why Harvey Tipp is still alive?”

“I guess he must pose no threat,” Morelli said. “Or maybe he's related to Mr. Big. Or maybe he's not involved. We really have nothing on him, other than the fact that he's the logical person.”

“I think it's time you talked to him.”

“I think you're right.” There was a moment of silence. “One more thing. Are you still driving the BMW?”

“Nope. Not me. Gave up on that puppy.”

“What happened to it?”

“Stolen.”

I could hear Morelli laughing over the phone.

“It's not funny!” I yelled. “Do you think I should file a police report?”

“I think you should talk to Ranger first. Do you need a ride?”

“No. Vinnie's on his way.”

“Later, Hotstuff.”

I disconnected and told Lula about Stemper.

“Somebody don't like leaving loose ends,” Lula said.

I took a deep breath and dialed Ranger's home phone. No answer. Car phone. No answer. I could try his cell phone, but I didn't want to press my luck, so I left my number on his pager. The condemned woman gets a few extra minutes.

I'd been watching the window, and I saw Vinnie pull up in his Cadillac. I thought it might be satisfying to delay Vinnie for a half hour and see if his car disappeared, but dismissed it as being not practical. I'd only have to call yet another person to come collect us. And even worse, I'd have to spend time with Vinnie.

Lula and I dragged Lally out to the curb and waited while Vinnie popped his door locks.

“Scumbags sit in the backseat,” Vinnie said.

“Hunh,” Lula said, hand on hip, “who you callin' a scumbag?”

“If the shoe fits,” Vinnie said.

“If the shoe fits, you'd have your pervert ass in the backseat,” Lula said.

“Why me?” I asked. I realized I sounded like my mother and had a brief panic attack. I liked my mother, but I didn't want to
be
her. I didn't want to ever cook a pot roast. I didn't want to live in a house with three adults and only one bathroom. And I didn't want to marry my father. I wanted to marry Indiana Jones. I figured Indiana Jones was the middle ground between my father and Ranger. Morelli fit in there, too. In fact, Morelli wasn't too far off the Indiana Jones mark. Not that it mattered, since Morelli didn't want to get married.

Vinnie dropped Lula and me at the office and took Lally to the police station on North Clinton.

“Well, that was fun,” Lula said. “Too bad about the car. I can't wait to see what you get next.”

“I'm getting nothing next. I'm not taking any more cars. From now on, I'm driving the Buick. Nothing ever happens to the Buick.”

“Yeah,” Lula said, “but that isn't necessarily a good thing.”

I dialed First Trenton, asked for Shempsky, and was told he'd gone home early with an upset stomach. I got his home number out of the directory and tried to reach him there. No answer. Just for the hell of it, I ran a fast credit check. Nothing unusual. Mortgage, credit cards all in good standing.

“Why are you checking on Shempsky?” Lula asked. “You think he's involved?”

“I keep thinking about the bomb in the Porsche. Shempsky knew I was driving a Porsche.”

“Yeah, but he could have told people. He could have mentioned to someone you were going to the garbage company in your brand-new Porsche.”

True.

“Do you want a ride someplace?” Lula asked.

I shook my head no. “I could use some air and exercise,” I said. “I'm going to walk home.”

“That's a long walk.”

“It's not so long.”

I stepped outside and turned my jacket collar up against the wind. The temperature had dropped and the sky was gray. It was midafternoon, but houses had lights on to fight the gloom. Furnaces were running. Cars rolled by on Hamilton, drivers intent on getting somewhere. There were few people on the sidewalks. It was a good day to be indoors, cleaning out closets, making hot chocolate, organizing a fresh start for winter. And it was a good day to be outdoors, scuffing through the few remaining leaves, feeling flushed from the cold air. It was my favorite time of the year. And if it wasn't for the fact that people were dying left and right, and I couldn't find Uncle Fred, and someone wanted to kill me, and Ramirez wanted to send me to Jesus—it would be a
very
good day.

In an hour I was back at my building, in the lobby, and I was feeling fine. My head was clear and my circulation was in top form. The Buick was sitting in the parking lot, looking solid as a rock and just as serene. I had the keys in my pocket, and I was still wondering about Shempsky. Maybe I should ride by and see him, I thought. Surely he'll be home by now.

The elevator doors opened and Mrs. Bestler leaned out. “Going up?”

“No,” I said. “I changed my mind. I have more errands to run.”

“All ladies' accessories are twenty percent off on the second floor,” she said. She pulled her head back and the doors closed.

I recrossed the lot and gingerly unlocked the Buick. Nothing went
boom,
so I slid behind the wheel. I started the car and jumped out. I stood a good distance away and timed ten minutes. Still no explosion. Whew. Big relief. I got back in the car, put it into gear, and drove out of the lot. Shempsky lived in Hamilton Township, off Klockner, behind the high school. Typical suburban development of single-family houses. Two cars, two incomes, two kids per family. It was easy to find his street and his house. It was all clearly marked. His house was a split-entry frame. White with black shutters. Very tidy.

I parked at the curb, walked to the door, and rang the bell. I was about to ring again when a woman answered. She was nicely dressed in a brown sweater, matching slacks, and rubber-soled loafers. Her hair was cut in a short bob. Her makeup was Martha Stewart. And her smile was genuine. She was the perfect match for Allen. I suspected I would immediately forget anything she told me, and a half hour from now I wouldn't recall what she looked like.

“Maureen?” I asked.

“Yes?”

“It's Stephanie Plum . . . we went to school together.”

She slapped herself on the forehead. “Of course! I should have remembered. Allen mentioned you the other night. He said you'd stopped by the bank.” The smile faded. “I heard about Fred. I'm so sorry.”

“You haven't seen him, have you?” Just in case she had him in her basement.

“No!”

“I always ask,” I explained, since she looked taken aback.

“And it's a good idea. I might have seen him walking down the street.”

“Exactly.”

So far, I hadn't seen any sign of Allen. Of course, if he was really sick he might be upstairs in bed. “Is Allen here?” I asked Maureen. “I tried to catch him at the bank, but he'd gone out to lunch, and then I got busy with another matter. I thought maybe he'd be home by now.”

“No. He always comes home at five.” The smile popped back in place. “Would you like to come in and wait? I could make some herb tea.”

The nosy part of me would have liked to snoop through the Shempsky's house. The part of me that wanted to live to see another day thought it wise not to leave the Buick unguarded.

“Thanks, maybe some other time,” I said to Maureen. “I need to keep my eye on the Buick.”

“Mom,” a kid yelled from the kitchen, “Timmy's got an M&M's stuck up his nose.”

Maureen shook her head and smiled. “Children,” she said. “You know how it is.”

“Actually, I have a hamster,” I said. “Hard to get an M&M's up his nose.”

“I'll be right back,” Maureen said. “This will only take a minute.”

I stepped into the foyer and looked around while Maureen hustled off to the kitchen. The living room opened off to the right. It was a large, pleasant room done in tones of tan. An upright piano stood against the near wall. Family photos covered the top of the piano. Allen and Maureen and the kids at the beach, at Disney World, at Christmas.

Lots
of pictures. Probably one wouldn't be missed if it happened to jump into my purse.

I heard a kid yelp, and Maureen chirped that everything was hunky-dory and the bad M&M's was bye-bye. “I'll be right back,” Maureen said. The kitchen television was clicked on, and in the blink of an eye, I snatched the nearest photo, dropped it into my bag, and stepped back into the foyer.

“Sorry about that,” Maureen said, returning. “Never a dull moment.”

I handed Maureen a business card. “Maybe you could have Allen give me a call when he gets in.”

“Sure.”

“By the way, what kind of car does Allen drive?”

“A tan Taurus. And then there's the Lotus.”

“Allen has a Lotus?”

“It's his toy.”

Expensive toy.

It was necessary to pass by the strip mall on my way home, so I did a short detour into the lot and checked out the bank. The lobby was closed, but the drive-through window was open. That didn't do me any good. Allen wasn't going to be doing drive-through duty. I rode around the lot looking for a tan Taurus, but had no luck.

“Allen,” I said, “where
are
you?”

And then, since I was in the neighborhood, I thought it wouldn't hurt to stop by and say hello to Irene Tully. And, what the hell, I might as well show her the picture of Allen Shempsky. You never know what could jog a person's memory.

“For goodness' sake,” Irene said when she opened the door. “Are you still looking for Fred?” She gave an apprehensive glance to the Buick. “Is your grandmother with you?”

“Grandma's at home. I was hoping you wouldn't mind looking at another picture.”

“Is this that dead man again?”