Fortune and Glory

by Janet Evanovich

  I grabbed my messenger bag and headed out. The sky was blue, and the air was a perfect seventy-five degrees. I was parked toward the back of the lot, and the bulbous powder blue and white Buick was clearly visible when I stepped out of my apartment building. I walked past the first row of cars and two men came out of nowhere.

  “Mr. Shine would like to talk to you,” one of them said.

  My heart did a little flip and it took a couple of beats for me to find my voice. “I would love to talk to Mr. Shine,” I told him. “I can meet him at the bail bonds office anytime tomorrow.”

  “He wants to talk to you now,” he said.

  I stepped to the side and moved in the direction of the Buick. “Now isn’t convenient.”

  On the outside I was putting up a pretty good show of you-don’t-scare-me nonchalance. On the inside I was a mess. Rapid heartbeat and scramble-brain. We were the only ones in the lot, and I doubted anyone would hear me if I started screaming. My phone was in the front pocket of my messenger bag. I reached for the phone and he yanked the bag off my shoulder.

  “Hey!” I said. “Give it back.”

  He dangled it in front of me. “Make me.”

  He was in his late twenties and bulked up like a gym monkey in too-tight dress slacks and a three-button, collared knit shirt that was bursting at the seams over his pecs and biceps. The other guy was my height with no apparent muscle, wearing a slim-fit navy suit with a tapered leg. He had a jagged scar running from the outer corner of his eye to the bottom of his chin. The gun on his hip was too large for the cut of the suit. Neither of the men was attractive. Both of them looked like they were enjoying tormenting dumb little me.

  “We’re going to take you for a ride now, Sweetie Pie,” the gym monkey said. “You can come with us nice and easy or Sanchez can stun-gun you.”

  “Nice and easy,” I said.

  He smiled and relaxed a little, and I sucker-punched him in the throat. I hit him square in the Adam’s apple, and his eyes almost popped out of his head. Truth is, I was as shocked as he was. My self-defense skills are sadly lacking, and I’d acted out of terrified desperation. I thought it was a miracle that I made contact, much less with such precision.

  He was gasping and choking, and before Sanchez could grab me, I was off and running. I couldn’t get into the Buick because I didn’t have my messenger bag with the key. I couldn’t get into my building because they were between me and the building, so I ran across the lot toward a residential area. I could hear Sanchez running after me, but I had a head start and I was motivated. I reached the edge of the lot, crossed the street, and ran for the nearest house. I ran up to the front door and hammered my fist on the door and yelled “Help!”

  Sanchez caught up to me and reached out with the stun gun. I stumbled trying to get away from him and knocked us both off the small concrete and brick porch. I rolled away from him, tried to get to my feet, and he grabbed my ankle. I went into blind panic mode, screaming and thrashing around, trying to get free, and somehow managed to kick him in the face. Blood gushed out of his nose or maybe his mouth. I didn’t hang around long enough to find out which. I was on my feet and running again.

  I ran between two houses and cut across two backyards. I had no idea if he was following me or not. My heart was pounding so hard and my breathing was so labored, I couldn’t hear a stampeding herd of buffalo if they were on my heels. I hid behind a detached single-car garage and bent at the waist to catch my breath. I peeked out and didn’t see him. I stayed there until I no longer felt like throwing up and then I ventured out. I heard a car cruise down the street. It didn’t stop. I didn’t hear any footsteps. No heavy breathing.

  I took the long way back to my apartment building, going one block over and coming into the lot from the service entrance. I paused behind an SUV and looked and listened. There weren’t a lot of cars parked. Residents were out doing weekend things. This is good, I thought. Fewer places for the bad guys to hide. I could see my messenger bag lying on the ground by the Buick. I ventured out and was almost at the Buick when Sanchez and the gym monkey appeared from behind Mr. Mullen’s ancient Lincoln Town Car.

  “No more fun time,” gym monkey said. “You run this time and Sanchez is going to shoot you.”

  Sanchez had a wad of tissues stuffed into his nose, and even at a short distance the nose looked crooked and his eyes were beginning to bruise and swell.

  “I’m a crack shot,” Sanchez said, “and I’m not going to shoot to kill. I’m going to shoot you someplace real painful, and then when we bring you to Mr. Shine, you’re going to be cooperative. And maybe he’ll let us play with you when he’s done.”

  I’d skinned my knee when I fell off the porch and I didn’t know how much more running I had in me. I thought I might be able to dodge around a couple of cars and make it to my building’s back door. If luck was with me Sanchez wouldn’t be a crack shot with a broken nose and swollen eyes.

  I ran for the nearest car, ducked down behind it, and Sanchez got off a shot that zinged over my head. I ran to another car, ducked down, and in my peripheral vision I caught a flash of black. It was Gabriela in the Mercedes. She sped past me and drove straight for Sanchez. He uttered something in Spanish and pointed the gun at the Mercedes. Gabriela slammed into him before he could get a shot off, punting him at least twenty feet. She skidded to a stop, put the car into reverse, and took down gym monkey. He went down with a cell phone in one hand and a gun in the other. Gabriela put the Mercedes into drive and ran over him a second time.

  I worried that I might be next, but she drove out of the lot and didn’t look back.

  Sanchez wasn’t moving. Gym monkey was moaning a little, and there was what looked like leg bone sticking out of a tear in his trousers. I retrieved my messenger bag, ran into the building, and locked myself in my apartment. I walked to the window on shaky legs, looked down at the parking lot, and dialed 911. I told dispatch that a hit-and-run had occurred, but I hadn’t gotten a good look at the car.

  I wasn’t sure what to do about identifying Gabriela. She probably saved my life. Why was the big question.

  While I was on the line with 911, the blue pickup raced into the lot. A couple of young guys in jeans and T-shirts got out, scooped up Sanchez and gym monkey, and took off.

  “Hold on a minute,” I said to dispatch. “The two hit-and-run victims just left. Sorry for the false alarm.”

  I stood at the window for a couple of minutes, staring down at the empty pavement. Good thing my jeans were torn, and my knee was bleeding, because otherwise I might think I hallucinated the entire episode.

  I went into the kitchen and searched for something comforting, settling on a handful of Froot Loops and a spoonful of peanut butter.

  “My life is crap,” I said to Rex. “On the other hand, I didn’t just get run over by a car, twice. And I think my hair still looks good. Even Arnold Rugalowski thought it was pretty.”

  No comments from Rex.

  I put a huge Band-Aid on my knee, changed into new jeans, and went back to the kitchen for more peanut butter. I was contemplating washing the peanut butter down with a beer, and I heard something bump against my front door. I looked out my peephole and saw the back of Potts’s head.

  “I had a feeling you were home,” he said when I opened the door. “It was one of those telepathic things. So, what are we doing today?”

  “I need to find Shine.”

  “That might be difficult.”

  “And I wouldn’t mind talking to Gabriela.”

  “Sometimes she parks by the dumpster. She kind of hides behind it in her little car. It’s like the stealth car.”

  “Was she there when you got here?”

  “No. I didn’t see her.”

  I thought she was probably getting the dents taken out of the Mercedes and having it detailed to get rid of the blood.

  I called Connie and asked if her mother had any thoughts on where Shine might be hiding.

  “Mom isn’t here,”
Connie said. “She’s with Benny’s sister. They’re making the funeral arrangements. I’ll ask if she’s heard anything when she comes home.”

  “I had two of Shine’s men try to kidnap me just now. Young. Late twenties. One was bulked up with muscle and the other was thin. The thin one was named Sanchez and had a scar running the length of his face. They were trying to shoot me in my parking lot, and Gabriela came out of nowhere in her Mercedes and ran them over.”

  “For real?”

  “Yeah. For real. Sanchez ended up a crumpled heap on the pavement and the muscle guy had a compound fracture of his right leg. Probably a bunch of other body parts were also broken, but I couldn’t see those. I was calling 911 when a blue pickup drove into the lot, scooped them both up, and drove off. You have a lot of nurse contacts. Could you call around and see if they checked into any of the hospitals or clinics?”

  “I’m on it,” Connie said.

  “Wow,” Potts said when I hung up. “You didn’t tell me any of that. I must have just missed it. Were they really shooting at you in the parking lot?”

  “Only one of them.”

  “So, you’re going to try to track down these guys and get them to tell you where to find Shine?”

  “Yes. While Connie is checking hospitals and clinics, I’m going to check on the house in Ewing.”

  “Do you think we should be doing this all by ourselves?” Potts asked. “Maybe we should get Lula. She has a gun.”

  I wasn’t interested in Lula’s gun. Half the time she couldn’t find it in her massive purse. And if she did find it, chances of her hitting what she aimed at were zip, and that was usually a good thing. However, I could use her car. Her Firebird stood out, but it didn’t shout Stephanie Plum like the Buick.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Lula was on the sidewalk in front of her apartment when I drove up. I parked the Buick, and Potts and I got out and transferred over to the Firebird.

  “I was surprised when you called,” Lula said. “I thought you’d be taking a day off after the funeral and the car squashing. And it sounded to me like you were at another dead end.”

  I told her about Shine’s two thugs and Gabriela.

  “So, you’re ramping up the Shine search? Are you sure you don’t just want to move to Santa Fe? I hear it’s real nice there. You could get some kick-ass snakeskin cowboy boots.”

  “The cowboy boots have some appeal,” I said, “but I’m a Jersey girl. And Jersey girls always get their man.”

  “Fuckin’ A,” Lula said. “Let’s do it. Where are we going?”

  I gave Lula the address, she pulled away from the curb, and Potts started his nervous humming. He had a right to be nervous. He’d been punctured, shot at, and kidnapped. And in spite of all that, he was sticking with me. That took guts. There was strength of character buried under all his weirdness. Unfortunately, that didn’t make him any less annoying.

  “If you don’t stop humming, you’re gonna have to ride on the roof,” Lula said to Potts.

  “Is this going to be dangerous?” Potts asked. “I need to prepare myself if it’s going to be dangerous.”

  “How are you going to prepare?” Lula asked him.

  “I might take a pill,” Potts said. “I have Xanax, Imodium, a multivitamin, Benadryl, lithium, and a couple orange pills that aren’t entirely legal.”

  “I’d go with the multivitamin,” Lula said. “It’s a good start.”

  “Yep,” I said. “Definitely the multivitamin.”

  We got to the house and did a slow drive-by. There were no vehicles in the driveway. No activity on the street. Lula parked a couple of houses down and we sat for ten minutes.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m going to take a look around.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Lula said.

  “Me, too,” Potts said.

  “No. It’ll attract too much attention with all of us creeping around,” I said. “I’ll signal you if I need backup.”

  “What’s the signal going to be?” Potts asked. “You could do a special bird whistle. Can you whistle?”

  “I was thinking about waving my hand,” I said.

  “Okay,” Potts said, “but if this gets made into a movie or a video game, we’ll need something better.”

  I walked down the street to the safe house, went to the door, and rang the bell. No answer. The shades were open on the front windows. No one walking around. No television playing. I went to the backyard and looked in the kitchen window. No mess. No lights on. No dishes in the sink. The back door was locked. I returned to the car.

  “It looks empty,” I said. “I couldn’t see in the garage or in any of the bedrooms, but the downstairs is clean.”

  “I could open a door for you, if you want,” Lula said. “I’m real good with a screwdriver and a hammer.”

  “You have a screwdriver and a hammer?” I asked.

  “Of course, I have a screwdriver and a hammer,” Lula said. “Who doesn’t carry a screwdriver and a hammer? Actually, it’s not a big hammer. It’s more like a mini hammer, but it works fine if you put some muscle into it.”

  We left Potts in the car and Lula and I walked around to the back of the house. We banged on the door and when no one answered, Lula did her thing and popped the new door lock open.

  “You’re right about it being clean,” Lula said, looking in the refrigerator. “Nothing much in here. Some mustard and ketchup.”

  We did a fast search of the rest of the house and found nothing. Closets were empty. No car in the garage. Trash had all been taken out.

  “They must have had one of those maid services come in here yesterday,” Lula said. “There’s little points on the toilet paper like you see in a hotel. It doesn’t look like the new guys were staying here. How many houses does Shine have?”

  “Maybe the new guys don’t need a house. Maybe they’re local. Jersey or Pennsylvania. Hopefully Connie gets a hit at one of the hospitals. They got scooped up and tossed into a blue pickup. I didn’t get a chance to check the plate, but it looked like the same truck Shine’s nephew was driving.”

  “Are you sure one of them wasn’t the nephew?” Lula asked.

  I shook my head. “They were new.”

  We returned to the car and Lula drove out of the neighborhood. “Now what?” she asked.

  “The Mole Hole,” I said.

  Potts started humming, caught himself, and stopped.

  “Isn’t that like walking into the hornets’ nest?” Lula asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s exactly what it is.”

  “Okay,” Lula said. “I’m in.”

  “Me, too,” Potts said.

  * * *

  There were only a handful of vehicles in the Mole Hole parking lot and none of them was a blue pickup, a white Taurus, a black Escalade, or a Mercedes sports car. It was midafternoon and the dining area was empty when we walked in. The bar was half full and a rhythm-challenged woman was on the pole.

  I went to the bar and the bartender came over.

  “You again,” he said.

  I nodded. “Nice to see you, too. Guess who I’m looking for?”

  “Someone alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “That eliminates a bunch of people.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “I know where he isn’t. He isn’t here.”

  “Suppose I wanted to talk to him. Where would I find him?”

  “I’m a bartender. I don’t know these things. Are you going to order, or what?”

  “Is anyone in the back room?”

  “No. They’re all out extorting money and killing people.”

  “Do you know when they’ll stop by?”

  “When they get hungry.”

  I returned to Lula and Potts, and Morelli called.

  “Someone just dumped two bodies behind the bail bonds office,” he said. “One of them has a broken leg. I thought you might want to take a look at this.”

  “Are they dead?”
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  “Yes.”

  “I don’t want to look.”

  “Let me state this another way. I’m the principal on this and I suspect you have information I would want.”

  “Why would you suspect that?”

  “You called a hit-and-run in this morning for two men, one of them having a broken leg. One of these men has a broken leg plus tire tracks on his trousers.”

  Crap.

  “I’m out with Lula. I’m about a half hour away.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. This is going to take a while. I’m waiting for the photographer and the medical examiner.”

  “I need to go to a crime scene,” I said to Lula. “Take me back to the Buick.”

  * * *

  Potts and I transferred over to the Buick and waved adios to Lula. I dropped Potts off at his parents’ house and drove to the bail bonds office. Morelli was standing inside the yellow tape when I got there. He motioned me over, and I ducked under the tape.

  “Sorry I had to make you do this,” he said. “I need the backstory. They aren’t carrying any ID.”

  Both men were on their backs, sprawled at awkward angles. Shot once in the head and once in the chest. From the lack of blood at the scene I was guessing they were shot somewhere else, and then probably pitched off the pickup.

  “They tried to kidnap me this morning when I came out of my apartment building,” I said. “They said Shine wanted to talk to me. I declined the invitation, they chased me around the neighborhood, and finally they pinned me down when I tried to return to my parking lot. The guy in the suit is named Sanchez. I don’t know any more than that. He got off a shot at me, a car came out of nowhere and ran him over, and then ran the other guy over. The car sped off and I went to my apartment and called 911. I was looking out the window, talking to dispatch, when a blue pickup drove into the lot, scooped both guys up, and drove away with them.”