One for the Money (22 page)

I powered it down. “Sorry to have to park here, Jimmy, but I need to continue my surveillance for Morelli. I'm sure you understand.”

A wrinkle creased his brow. “I don't get it. If I was looking for Morelli, I'd watch his relatives and his friends. What's this thing with Stark Street and Carmen Sanchez?”

“I have a theory about what happened. I think Benito abused Carmen just like he abused Lula. Then I think he panicked and sent Ziggy and some other guy over to Carmen's to make sure she didn't make noise. I think Morelli walked in on it and probably shot Ziggy in self-defense just like he said. Somehow Carmen and the other guy and Ziggy's gun managed to disappear. I think Morelli's trying to find them. And I think Stark Street is the logical place to look.”

“That's crazy. How'd you come up with such a crazy idea?”

“From Morelli's arrest statement.”

Alpha looked disgusted. “Well what'd you expect Morelli to say? That he shot Ziggy for the hell of it? Benito's an easy target. He has a reputation for being a little too aggressive with the ladies, and Ziggy worked for him, so Morelli took it from there.”

“How about the missing witness? He must have worked for Benito, too.”

“I don't know anything about the missing witness.”

“People tell me he had a nose that looked like it had been smashed with a frying pan. That's pretty distinctive.”

Alpha smiled. “Not in a third-rate gym. Half the bums who work out here have noses like that.” He looked at his watch. “I'm late for a lunch. You look hot in there. You want me to bring something back for you? A cold soda? A sandwich, maybe?”

“I'm okay. I think I'm going to break for lunch soon, too. Have to use the little girl's room.”

“There's a john on the second floor. Just get the key from Lorna. Tell her I said it was okay.”

I thought it was decent of Alpha to offer the use of his facilities, but I didn't want to take a chance on Ramirez cornering me while I was on the toilet.

I took one last look up and down the street and drove off in search of fast food. A half hour later I was back in the very same parking space, feeling much more comfortable and twice as bored. I'd brought a book back with me, but it was hard to read and sweat at the same time, and sweating took precedence.

By three my hair was wet against my neck and face and had frizzed out to maximum volume. My shirt was plastered to my back, and perspiration stained over my chest. My legs were cramped, and I'd developed a nervous twitch to my left eye.

I still hadn't seen a sign of Ramirez. Pedestrian traffic was restricted to pockets of shade and had disappeared into smoky air-conditioned bars. I was the only fool sitting baking in a car. Even the hookers had disappeared for a midafternoon crack break.

I palmed my defense spray and got out of the Cherokee, whimpering as all my little spine bones decompressed and realigned themselves. I stretched and jogged in place. I walked around the car and bent to touch my toes. A breeze trickled down Stark Street, and I felt inordinately blessed. True, the air index was lethal and the temperature hovered at blast-furnace range, but it was a breeze all the same.

I leaned against the car and pulled the front of my shirt away from my sweaty body.

Jackie emerged from the Grand Hotel and lumbered down the street toward me, en route to her corner. “You look like heat stroke,” she said, handing me a cold Coke.

I popped the tab, drank some soda, and held the cold can against my forehead. “Thanks. This is great.”

“Don't think I'm getting soft on your skinny white ass,” she said. “It's just you're gonna die sitting in that car, and you're gonna give Stark Street a bad name. People gonna say it a race murder, and my white trash pervert business'll get ruined.”

“I'll try not to die. God forbid I should ruin your pervert business.”

“Fucking A,” she said. “Them little white perverts pay fine money for my big nasty ass.”

“How's Lula?”

Jackie shrugged. “She's doing as good as she can. She appreciated that you sent flowers.”

“Not much activity here today.”

Jackie slid her eyes up to the gym windows. “Thank sweet Jesus for that,” she said softly.

I followed her gaze to the second floor. “You better not be seen talking to me.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I gotta get back to work, anyway.”

I stood there for a few minutes longer, enjoying the soda and the luxury of being fully vertical. I turned to get back in the car and gasped at the sight of Ramirez standing next to me.

“Been waiting all day for you to get out of this car,” he said. “Bet you're surprised at how quiet I move. Didn't even hear me come up on you, did you? That's how it's always gonna be. You're never gonna hear me until I pounce. And then it's gonna be too late.”

I took a slow breath to quiet my heart. I waited a moment longer to steady my voice. When I felt some control, I asked him about Carmen. “I want to know about Carmen,” I said. “I want to know if she saw you coming.”

“Carmen and me, we had a date. Carmen asked for what she got.”

“Where is she now?”

He shrugged. “Don't know. She split after Ziggy got offed.”

“What about the guy that was with Ziggy that night? Who was he? What happened to him?”

“Don't know nothing about that either.”

“I thought they worked for you.”

“Why don't we go upstairs and talk about this? Or we could go for a ride. I got a Porsche. I could take you for a ride in my Porsche.”

“I don't think so.”

“See, there you go again. Refusing the champ. You're always refusing the champ. He don't like that.”

“Tell me about Ziggy and his friend . . . the guy with the smashed nose.”

“Be more interesting to tell you about the champ. How he gonna teach you some respect. How he gonna punish you so you learn not to refuse him.” He stepped closer, and the heat coming off his body made the air feel cool by comparison. “Think maybe I'll make you bleed before I fuck you. You like that? You want to get cut, bitch?”

That's it. I'm out of here. “You're not going to do anything to me,” I said. “You don't scare me, and you don't excite me.”

“You lie.” He wrapped his hand around my upper arm and squeezed hard enough to make me cry out.

I kicked him hard in the shin, and he hit me. I never saw his hand move. The crack rang in my ears and my head snapped back. I tasted blood and blinked hard several times to clear the cobwebs. When most of the stars faded, I shot him square in the face with the Sure Guard.

He howled in pain and rage and reeled into the street with his hands to his eyes. The howling metamorphosed to choking and gasping, and he went down on all fours like some monstrous animal—a big, pissed-off, wounded buffalo.

Jimmy Alpha came running from across the street, followed by his secretary and a man I'd never seen before.

The man went down on the ground with Ramirez, trying to calm him, telling him he'd be okay in a minute, to take deep breaths.

Alpha and the secretary rushed over to me.

“Jesus,” Jimmy Alpha said, pressing a clean handkerchief into my hand. “Are you okay? He didn't break anything, did he?”

I put the handkerchief to my mouth and held it there while I ran my tongue over my teeth to see if any were missing or loose. “I think I'm okay.”

“I'm really sorry,” Jimmy said. “I don't know what's the matter with him, the way he treats women. I apologize for him. I don't know what to do.”

I wasn't in the mood to accept an apology. “There are lots of things you can do,” I said. “Get him psychiatric help. Lock him up. Take him to the vet and get him neutered.”

“I'll pay for a doctor,” Jimmy Alpha said. “Do you want to go to a doctor?”

“The only place I'm going is to the police station. I'm pressing charges, and nothing you can say is going to stop me.”

“Think about it for a day,” Jimmy pleaded. “At least wait until you're not so upset. He can't take another assault charge now.”

Stephanie Plum 1 - One for the Money

12 

I WRENCHED THE DRIVER'S DOOR OPEN and jammed myself behind the wheel. I eased away from the curb, being careful not to run over anyone. I drove at a moderate speed, and I didn't look back. I stopped for a light and assessed the damage in the rearview mirror. My upper lip was split on the inside and still bleeding. I had a purple bruise forming on my left cheek. My cheek and my lip were beginning to swell.

I was holding tight to the wheel, and I was using every strength I possessed to stay calm. I drove south on Stark to State Street and followed State to Hamilton. When I reached Hamilton I felt as if I was safe in my own neighborhood and could allow myself to stop and think. I pulled into a convenience store lot and sat there for a while. I needed to go to the police station to report the assault, but I didn't want to leave the security and comfort of home turf, and I wasn't sure how the police would regard this latest incident with Ramirez. He'd threatened me, and then I'd deliberately provoked him by parking across from the gym. Not smart.

I'd been on adrenaline overdose ever since Ramirez appeared at my side, and now that the adrenaline was slacking out, exhaustion and pain were creeping in. My arm and my jaw ached and my pulse rate felt like it had dropped to twelve.

Face up, I said to myself, you're not going to make it to the police station today. I shuffled through my shoulder bag until I found Dorsey's card. Might as well keep some continuity and whine to Dorsey. I dialed his number and left a message to call back. I didn't specify the problem. I didn't think I could go through it twice.

I hauled myself into the store and got myself a grape popsicle. “Hadda akthident,” I said to the clerk. “My lip ith thwollen.”

“Maybe you should see a doctor.”

I ripped the paper off the popsicle and put the ice to my lip. “Ahhh.” I sighed. “Thas bedda.”

I returned to the car, put it into gear, and backed into a pickup truck. My whole life flashed in front of me. I was drowning. Please God, I prayed, don't let there be a dent.

We both got out and examined our cars. The pickup didn't have a scratch. No dent, no paint chipped, not even a smudge in the wax. The Cherokee looked like someone had taken a can opener to its right rear fender.

The guy driving the pickup stared at my lip. “Domestic quarrel?”

“A akthident.”

“Guess this just isn't your day.”

“No day ith my day,” I said.

Since the accident had been my fault, and there'd been no damage to his car, we didn't do the ritual of trading insurance information. I took one last look at the damage, shuddered violently, and slunk away, debating the value of suicide as opposed to facing Morelli.

The phone was ringing as I came through my front door. It was Dorsey.

“I haf an assault charge againth Ramireth,” I said. “He hit me in the mouff.”

“Where'd this happen?”

“Thark Threet.” I gave him the details and refused his offer to come to my apartment to get my statement. I didn't want to chance his running into Morelli. I promised I'd stop in tomorrow to complete the paperwork.

I took a shower and had ice cream for supper. Every ten minutes I'd look out the window to see if there was any sign of Morelli in the lot. I'd parked in a far corner where the lighting was poor. If I could just get through the night, tomorrow I'd take the Cherokee to Al at the body shop and see if he could do an instant repair. I had no idea how I'd pay for it.

I watched television until eleven and went to bed, lugging Rex's cage into the bedroom to keep me company. There'd been no phone calls from Ramirez and no sign of Morelli. I wasn't sure if I was relieved or disappointed. I had no idea if Morelli was listening, protecting me as agreed, so I slept with my defense spray, my portable phone, and my gun on the nightstand.

My phone rang at six-thirty. It was Morelli.

“Time to get up,” he said.

I checked my bedside clock. “It's practically the middle of the night.”

“You'd have been up hours ago if you had to sleep in a Nissan Sentra.”

“What are you doing in a Sentra?”

“I'm having the van painted a different color and the antennae removed. I've managed to 'find' a new set of plates. In the meantime, the body shop gave me a loaner. I waited until dark and then parked on Maple, just behind the lot.”

“So you could guard my body?”

“Mostly I didn't want to miss hearing you get undressed. What was that weird squeaking sound all night?”

“Rex on his wheel.”

“I thought he lived in the kitchen.”

I didn't want Morelli to know I'd been scared and lonely, so I lied. “I cleaned the sink, and he didn't like the smell of the cleanser, so I brought him into the bedroom.”

The silence stretched for a couple beats.

“Translation,” Morelli said. “You were scared and lonely, and you brought Rex in for company.”

“These are difficult times.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I suppose you need to get out of Trenton before Beyers returns.”

“I suppose I do. I'm too visible in this car. I can get the van at six tonight, and then I'll be back.”

“Catch you later.”

“Ten-four, Captain Video.”

I went back to bed, and two hours later I was jolted awake by the car alarm blaring away in the lot below me. I flew out of bed, rushed to the window, and threw the curtains open in time to see Morty Beyers smash the alarm to smithereens with his gun butt.

“Beyers!” I bellowed from my open window. “What the hell do you thing you're doing?”

“My wife left me, and she took the Escort.”

“So?”

“So I need a car. I was gonna rent one, and then I thought of Morelli's Jeep sitting here, and I figured it'd save me some money to use it until I tracked Mona down.”

“Christ, Beyers, you can't just come into a lot and take someone's car! That's stealing. You're a goddamn car thief.”

“So?”

“Where'd you get the keys?”

“Same place you did. Morelli's apartment. He had an extra set in his dresser.”

“You won't get away with this.”

“What are you gonna do, call the police?”

“God will get you for this.”

“Fuck God,” Beyers said, sliding behind the wheel, taking time to adjust the seat and fiddle with the radio.

Arrogant bastard, I thought. Not only is he stealing the damn car, but he's sitting there flaunting his ability to take it. I grabbed my defense spray and bolted out the door and down the stairs. I was barefoot, wearing a Mickey Mouse nightshirt and a pair of Jockey string bikinis, and I could have cared less.

I was through the back door with my foot on the pavement when I saw Beyers turn the key and step on the accelerator. A split second later the car exploded with a deafening blast, sending doors flying off into space like Frisbees. Flames licked up from the undercarriage and instantly consumed the Cherokee, turning it into a brilliant yellow fireball.

I was too astonished to move. I stood open-mouthed and speechless while parts of roof and fender reversed their trajectory and clanked down to earth.

Sirens sounded in the distance, and tenants poured from the building to stand beside me and stare at the burning Jeep. Clouds of black smoke boiled into the morning sky, and searing heat rippled across my face.

There'd never been any possibility of saving Morty Beyers. Even if I'd immediately responded, I couldn't have gotten him out of the car. And probably he was dead from the blast, not the fire. It occurred to me that chances of this being an accident were slim. And that chances of this being meant for me were large.

On the positive side, I didn't have to sweat Morelli finding out about yesterday's accident damage.

I backed away from the fire and eased my way through the small crowd that had formed. I took the stairs two at a time and locked myself in my apartment. I'd carelessly left the front door wide open when I'd dashed out after Beyers, so I did a thorough search with my gun drawn. If I came on the guy who roasted Morty Beyers, I wasn't going to fool around with his neurotransmitters—I was going to go for a bullet in the gut. The gut made a nice big target.

When I was sure my apartment was secure, I got dressed in shorts and shirt. I took a fast bathroom break and checked my appearance in the bathroom mirror. I had a purple bruise on my cheekbone and a small gash in my upper lip. Most of the swelling had gone down. As a result of the morning's fire, my complexion looked like it had been sunburned and sandblasted. My eyebrows and the hair around my face had gotten singed and stuck out in spikes about an eighth of an inch long. Very attractive. Not that I was complaining. I could have been dead and missing a few body parts that had landed in the azaleas. I laced up my Reeboks and went downstairs to take another look.

The parking lot and adjoining streets were filled with fire trucks and police cars and ambulances. Barricades had been set up, holding the curious away from the smoldering remains of Morelli's Jeep. Oily, sooty water slicked the blacktop, and the air smelled like charred pot roast. I didn't want to pursue that train of thought. I saw Dorsey standing on the perimeter, talking to a uniform. He looked up and caught my eye and headed over.

“I'm getting a bad feeling about this,” he said.

“You know Morty Beyers?”

“Yeah.”

“He was in the Jeep.”

“No shit. Are you sure?”

“I was talking to him when it blew.”

“I guess that explains your missing eyebrows. What were you talking about?”

“Vinnie had only given me a week to bring Morelli in. My week was up, and Morty took up the hunt. We were sort of talking about Morelli.”

“You couldn't have been talking too close or you'd be hamburger.”

“Actually I was right about where we're standing now, and we were yelling at each other. We were sort of . . . disagreeing.”

A uniform came over with a twisted license plate. “We found this over by the Dumpster,” he said. “You want me to run an ID?”

I took the plate. “Don't bother. The car belongs to Morelli.”

“Oh boy,” Dorsey said. “I can hardly wait to hear this.”

I figured I'd embellish the truth a little, since the police might not be up on the finer points of bounty hunterism and might not understand about commandeering. “It's like this,” I said. “I went to see Morelli's mother, and she was very upset that no one was running Joe's car. You know how bad it is for the battery to let a car sit. Well one thing led to another and next thing I'd agreed to drive the car around for her.”

“So you've been driving Morelli's car as a favor to his mother?”

“Yes. He'd asked her to take care of it, but she didn't have time.”

“Very noble of you.”

“I'm a noble person.”

“Go on.”

So I did. I explained about Beyers's wife leaving him, and about how he tried to steal the car, and how he made the mistake of saying “fuck God,” and then the car blew up.