One for the Money (21 page)

It was about forty degrees in his office, but Alpha had dark stains under his armpits. If I was in his place I'd be sweating, too. He was watching his dream turn into a nightmare, and he didn't have the guts to face up.

I told him I had a job to do and couldn't stay away from Stark Street. I let myself out and walked down the single flight of stairs. I sat on the bottom step and talked to my crotch. “Damn,” I said. “That was fucking depressing.”

Across the street, Morelli was listening in his van. I couldn't imagine what he was thinking.

*    *    *    *

 MORELLI KNOCKED ON MY DOOR at ten-thirty that night. He had a six-pack and a pizza and a portable TV tucked under his arm. He was out of uniform, back to wearing jeans and a navy T-shirt.

“Another day in that van, and I might be glad to go to jail,” he said.

“Is that a Pino's pizza?”

“Is there any other kind?”

“How'd you get it?”

“Pino delivers to felons.” He looked around. “Where's your cable hookup?”

“In the living room.”

He plugged the TV in, set the pizza and the beer on the floor, and hit the remote. “You get any phone calls?”

“Nothing.”

He opened a beer. “It's early yet. Ramirez does his best work at night.”

“I talked to Lula. She's not going to testify.”

“Big surprise.”

I sat on the floor next to the pizza box. “Did you hear the conversation with Jimmy Alpha?”

“Yeah, I heard it. What the hell kind of outfit were you supposed to be wearing?”

“It was my slut outfit. I wanted to speed things up.”

“Christ, you had guys running their cars up on the curb. And where did you hide the mike? It wasn't under that top. I'd have seen Scotch tape under that top.”

“I stuck it in my underpants.”

“Dang,” Morelli said. “When I get it back I'm going to have it bronzed.”

I popped open a beer and helped myself to a piece of pizza. “What do you make of Alpha? You think he could be pushed into testifying against Ramirez?”

Morelli flipped through the channels, clicked onto a ballgame, and watched it for a few seconds. “Depends how much he knows. If he's got his head deep in the sand, he's not going to have hard facts. Dorsey paid him a visit after you left, and he got less than you did.”

“You have Alpha's office bugged?”

“No. Bar talk at Pino's.”

There was one piece of pizza left. We both eyeballed it.

“It'll go straight to your hips,” Morelli said.

He was right, but I took it anyway.

I kicked him out a little after one and dragged myself to bed. I slept through the night, and in the morning there were no messages on my machine. I was about to start coffee when the car alarm went off in the lot below. I grabbed my keys and ran from my apartment, taking the steps three at a time. The driver's door was open when I got to the Jeep. The alarm was wailing away. I deactivated and reset the alarm, locked the car, and returned to my apartment.

Morelli was in the kitchen, and I could tell the effort to stay calm was jacking his blood pressure into the red zone.

“I didn't want anyone to steal your car,” I said. “So I had an alarm installed.”

“It wasn't 'anyone' you were worried about. It was me. You had a goddamn alarm installed in my goddamn car so I couldn't snatch it out from under you!”

“It worked, too. What were you doing in our car?”

“It's not our car. It's my car. I'm allowing you to drive it. I was going to get some breakfast.”

“Why didn't you take the van?”

“Because I wanted to drive my car. I swear, when this mess gets cleared up, I'm moving to Alaska. I don't care what sort of sacrifice I have to make, I'm putting miles between us, because if I stay I'll strangle you, and they'll get me for murder one.”

“Jesus, Morelli, you sound like you have PMS. You have to learn to lighten up a little. It's just a car alarm. You should be thanking me. I had it installed with my own money.”

“Well shit, what was I thinking of?”

“You're under a lot of strain lately.”

There was a knock on the door, and we both jumped.

Morelli beat me to the peephole. He stepped back several paces and pulled me with him. “It's Morty Beyers,” he said.

There was another knock on the door.

“He can't have you,” I said. “You're mine, and I'm not sharing.”

Morelli grimaced. “I'll be under the bed if you need me.”

I went to the door and took a look for myself. I'd never seen Morty Beyers before, but this guy looked like he'd just had an appendectomy. He was close to forty, overweight, ashen-faced, and he was stooped over, holding his stomach. His sandy hair was thin, combed over the top of his balding dome, and slick with sweat.

I opened the door to him.

“Morty Beyers,” he said, extending his hand. “You must be Stephanie Plum.”

“Aren't you supposed to be in the hospital?”

“An exploded appendix only gets you a couple hours' stay. I'm back to work. They tell me I'm good as new.”

He didn't look good as new. He looked like he had met Vampira on the stairs. “Your stomach still hurt?”

“Only when I straighten up.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Vinnie said you had my FTAs. I thought now that I was feeling okay . . .”

“You want the paperwork back.”

“Yeah. Listen, I'm sorry it didn't work out for you.”

“It wasn't a complete bust. I brought two of them in.”

He nodded. “Didn't have any luck with Morelli?”

“None at all.”

“I know this sounds weird, but I could've sworn I saw his car in your parking lot.”

“I stole it. I thought maybe I could flush him out by making him come after his car.”

“You stole it? No shit? Jesus, that's great.” He was leaning against the wall with his hand pressed to his groin.

“You want to sit down for a minute? You want some water?”

“Nah, I'm fine. I gotta get to work. I just wanted the pictures and stuff.”

I ran to the kitchen, gathered up the files, and rushed back to the door. “This is it.”

“Great.” He tucked the folders under an arm. “So are you gonna keep the car a while?”

“I'm not sure.”

“If you spotted Morelli walking down the street, would you bring him in?”

“Yeah.”

He smiled. “If I was you, I'd do the same thing. I wouldn't pack it in just because my week was up. Just between you and me, Vinnie would pay out to anyone brought Morelli back. Well, I'll be on my way. Thanks.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“Yeah. I'm gonna use the elevator.”

I closed the door, slid the bolt home, and latched the security chain. When I turned around, Morelli was standing in the bedroom doorway. “Do you think he knew you were here?” I asked.

“If he knew I was here, he'd have his gun aimed at my forehead by now. Don't underestimate Beyers. He's not as stupid as he looks. And he's not nearly as nice as he'd like you to believe. He was a cop. Got kicked off the force for demanding favors from prostitutes of both genders. We used to call him Morty the Mole because he'd bury his doodah in whatever hole was available.”

“I bet he and Vinnie get along just great.”

I went to the window and stared down at the parking lot. Beyers was examining Morelli's car, peering into the windows. He tried the door handle and the trunk latch. He wrote something on the outside of a folder. He straightened slightly and looked around the lot. His attention caught on the van. He slowly walked over and pressed his nose against the windows in an attempt to see the interior; then he laboriously climbed on the front bumper and tried to see through the windshield. He stepped back and stared at the antennae. He stood to the rear and copied the tag. He turned and looked up at my building, and I jumped back from the window.

Five minutes later, there was another knock on my door.

“I was wondering about that van in your lot,” Beyers said. “Have you noticed it?”

“The blue one with the antennae?”

“Yeah. Do you know the owner?”

“No, but it's been here for a while.”

I closed and locked the door and watched Beyers through the peephole. He stood thinking for a moment, and then he knocked on Mr. Wolesky's door. He showed Morelli's picture and asked a few questions. He thanked Mr. Wolesky, gave him his card, and backed away.

I returned to the window, but Beyers didn't appear in the lot. “He's going door-to-door,” I said.

We continued to watch from the window, and eventually Beyers limped to his car. He drove a late-model dark blue Ford Escort equipped with a car phone. He left the lot and turned toward St. James.

Morelli was in the kitchen with his head in my refrigerator. “Beyers is going to be a real pain in the ass. He's going to check on the van plates and put it together.”

“What's this going to do for you?”

“It's going to knock me out of Trenton until I get a different vehicle.” He took a carton of orange juice and a loaf of raisin bread. “Put this on my tab. I've got to get out of here.” He stopped at the door. “I'm afraid you're going to be on your own for awhile. Stay locked up in the apartment here, don't let anyone in, and you should be okay. The alternative is to come with me, but if we get caught together, you'll be an accessory.”

“I'll stay here. I'll be fine.”

“Promise me you won't go out.”

“I promise! I promise!”

Some promises are meant to be broken. This was one of them. I had no intention of sitting on my hands, waiting for Ramirez. I wanted to hear from him yesterday. I wanted the whole ugly affair to be done. I wanted Ramirez behind bars. I wanted my apprehension money. I wanted to get on with my life.

I looked out the window to make sure Morelli was gone. I got my pocketbook and locked up after myself. I drove to Stark Street and parked across from the gym. I didn't have the nerve to move freely on the street without Morelli backing me up, so I stayed in the car with the windows closed and the doors locked. I was sure by this time Ramirez knew my car. I figured it was better than no reminder at all.

Every half hour I ran the air-conditioning to get the temperature down and break the monotony. Several times I'd looked up at Jimmy Alpha's office and seen a face at a window. The gym windows showed less activity.

At twelve-thirty Alpha trotted across the street and knocked on my window.