Four to Score

by Janet Evanovich

  “Yeah. I thought with the way you handled him in the club, and with you being a cop and all, this was a safe place to stay.” He held up his hands. “Just for a couple days! I don't want to impose.”

  “Shit,” Morelli said. “What does this look like, a halfway house for potential victims of homicidal maniacs?”

  “It might not be such a bad idea,” I said. “If Sally let it be known he was living here, we might draw Sugar in.”

  Truth is, I was enormously relieved to know the identity of the firebomber. And I was sort of relieved to find it was Sugar. Better than the mob. And better than the guy who cuts off fingers.

  “Two things wrong with that,” Morelli said. “Number one, I can't get excited about my house being turned into an inferno. Number two, grabbing Sugar won't do much good if we can't convict him of a crime.”

  “No problem there,” Sally said. “He told me about how he firebombed Stephanie's apartment and how he tried to burn down this house, too.”

  “You willing to testify to that?”

  “I can do better than testify. I've got his diary out in the car. It's filled with juicy details.”

  Morelli leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. “The only way I'll agree to this is if neither of you actually stays here. You put the word out that you're living with me, and twice a day you go in and out the front door, so it looks real. Then I put you in a safe house for the night.”

  “Put Sally in a safe house,” I said. “I'll help with surveillance.”

  “No way,” Sally said. “I'm not being left out on all the fun.”

  “Neither of you does surveillance,” Morelli said. “And it's not open to debate. It's my way or it's no way.”

  “What safe house did you have in mind?”

  Morelli thought about it a minute. “I could probably put you with one of my relatives.”

  “Oh no! Your grandmother would find me and give me the eye.”

  “What's the eye?” Sally wanted to know.

  “It's a curse,” I said. “It's one of those Italian things.”

  Sally shivered. “I don't like that curse stuff. One time I was down in the islands, and I accidentally ran over this voodoo person's chicken, and the voodoo person said she was gonna make my dick fall off.”

  “Well?” Morelli asked. “Did it fall off?”

  “Not yet, but I think it might be getting smaller.”

  Morelli grimaced. “I don't want to hear this.”

  “I'll go home to my parents,” I said. “And Sally can come with me.”

  We both looked at Sally in the skirt.

  “You have any jeans in the car?” I asked.

  “I don't know what I have. I was in a real rush. I didn't want to be there when Sugar got back with more gasoline.”

  Morelli put in a call to have Sugar picked up, and then we dragged Sally's clothes in from his car. We left the Porsche parked at the curb, behind the Buick, and we pulled the shades on the front downstairs windows. Then Morelli called his cousin, Mooch, to come get Sally and me at nine in the alley behind his house.

  Thirty minutes later Morelli got a call from Dispatch. Two uniforms had gone over to check on Sally's apartment and had found it on fire. The building had been evacuated without injury. And Dispatch said the fire was under control.

  “He must have come back right away,” Sally said. “I didn't think he'd set fire to everything if I was gone. It must have just about killed him to torch all of those cakes and pies.”

  “I'm really sorry,” I said. “Do you want me to go over there with you? Do you want to see it?”

  “I'm not going anywhere near that place until Sugar's strapped to a bed in the loony bin. Besides, it wasn't even my place. I was renting from Sugar. All the furniture was his.”

  * * * * *

  “YOU SEE, this is much better,” my mother said, opening the door for me. “I have your bedroom all ready. As soon as you called we put on new sheets.”

  “That's nice,” I said. “If it's okay with you, I'll let Sally sleep in my room, and I'll bunk with Grandma Mazur. It'll only be for a day or two.”

  “Sally?”

  “He's just behind me. He had to get his bags out of the car.”

  My mother looked over my shoulder and froze as Sally ambled into the foyer.

  “Yo, dudes,” Sally said.

  “What's happening?” Grandma chimed back.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” my father said, from his chair in the living room.

  I carted Rex off to the kitchen and set his cage on the counter. “No one's supposed to know Sally and I are living here.”

  My mother looked pale. “I won't tell a soul. And I'll kill anyone who does.”

  My father was on his feet. “What kind of getup is that?” he asked, pointing at Sally. “Is that a kilt? Are you a Scot?”

  “Heck no,” Grandma said. “He's no Scot. He's a transvestite . . . only he doesn't strap down his dingdong on account of it gives him a rash.”

  My father looked at Sally. “You mean you're one of them Tinkerbell boys?”

  Sally stood up a little taller. “You got a problem with that?”

  “What kind of car you drive?”

  “Porsche.”

  My father threw his hands in the air. “You see? A Porsche. Not even an American car. That's what's wrong with you weirdos. You don't want to do nothing like you're supposed to. There wasn't anything wrong with this country when everybody was buying American cars. Now everywhere you look it's some Japanese piece of caca and look at the trouble we're in.”

  “Porsche is German.”

  My father rolled his eyes. “German! Now there's a country. They can't even win a war. You think they're gonna help me get what I got coming to me from Social Security?”

  I grabbed one of the garbage bags. “Let me help you get this upstairs.”

  Sally followed after me. “You sure this is okay?”

  I had the bag halfway to the second floor. “Yeah. My father likes you. I could tell.”

  “No, I don't,” my father said. “I think he's a fruitcake. And any man who looks that bad in a skirt has a patriotic duty to stay in the closet where no one can see him.”

  I pushed the bedroom door open, set the bag inside, and gave Sally fresh towels.

  Sally was standing in front of the mirror I had on the back of my door.

  “You think I look bad in this skirt?” Sally asked.

  I studied the skirt. I didn't want to hurt his feelings, but he looked like a mutant from Planet of the Apes. He was probably the hairiest transvestite ever to wear a garter belt. “It's not terrible, but I think you're more of a straight skirt kind of guy. And leather is good on you.”

  “Dolores Dominatrix.”

  More like Wanda the Werewolf. “You could go with the wholesome look,” I said, “but it would require a lot of shaving.”

  “Fuck that,” Sally said. “I hate shaving.”

  “You could try a body waxing.”

  “Man, I did that once. Shit, it hurt like hell.”

  Good thing he didn't have ovaries.

  “Now what?” Sally said. “I can't go to bed this early. I'm a night person.”

  “We don't have a car so we're sort of limited, but Morelli's only about a half mile from here. We could walk over and see if anything's happening. Look through your stuff and see if you have something dark.”

  Five minutes later Sally came downstairs in black jeans and a faded black T-​shirt.

  “We're going for a walk,” I said. “Don't feel like you have to wait up. I have a key.”

  Grandma sidled up to me. “Do you want the 'big boy'?” she whispered.

  “No, but thanks for offering.”

  * * * * *

  SALLY AND I strained our eyes and ears all the way to Morelli's neighborhood. Unlike Lula, who never admitted to being scared, Sally and I were perfectly comfortable with the knowledge that Sugar had us ready to jump out of our skin.

  W
e stopped at the corner of Morelli's block and looked things over. There were cars on either side of the street. No vans. Morelli's truck was parked, so I guessed Morelli was home. Shades were still drawn, and the lights were on. I assumed there was someone watching the outside of the house, but I couldn't pick him out.

  This was a nice neighborhood. Similar to my parents'. Not as prosperous. Houses were mostly occupied by seniors who'd lived there all their adult lives or by young couples just starting out. The seniors were on fixed incomes, clipping coupons, buying tennis shoes on sale at Kmart, doing only the most essential house maintenance, thankful their mortgages were paid and they could stay in their homes for taxes. The young couples painted and papered and filled their houses with furniture from Sears. And they marked time while they built equity and hoped their properties would appreciate, so they could buy bigger tract houses in Hamilton Township.

  I turned to Sally. “Do you think Sugar will come here looking for you?”

  “If he doesn't come for me, he'll come for you. He was fucking flipped out.”

  We walked to the middle of the block and stared across the street at Morelli's house. A shoe scuffed on the stoop behind us, and a figure slid from deep shadow. Morelli.

  “Out for a stroll?” he asked.

  I looked beyond him at the bike parked on the small yard. “Is that a Ducati?”

  “Yeah. I don't get to ride it much.”

  I moved closer. It was the 916 Superbike. Red. The motorcycle to die for. Smart choice for tailing someone who'd just firebombed your house. Faster and better maneuverability than a car. I found myself liking Morelli more now that I knew he owned a Duc.

  “You out here alone?” I asked.

  “For now. Roice is coming on at two.”

  “I guess they weren't able to pick Sugar up.”

  “We're looking for the car, but so far it's a big zero.”

  Headlights appeared at the end of the street, and we all shrank back against the house. The car rolled past us and turned two blocks down. We eased forward, out of hiding.

  “Sugar have friends outside of the band?” Morelli asked Sally.

  “Lots of casual friends. Not many close ones. When I first joined the band, Sugar had a lover.”

  “Would Sugar go to him for help?”

  “Not likely. It wasn't a happy parting.”

  “How about the band? You have anything scheduled?”

  “Rehearsal on Friday. Club date on Saturday.”

  That seemed like a millennium away. And Sugar would have to be a fool to show up. It had been stupid of him to attack Morelli. Cops get touchy when someone drops a firebomb in a fellow officer's house.

  “Get in touch with the other band members,” Morelli said to Sally. “Let them know you're staying with Stephanie and me. Ask if they've seen Sugar.”

  I looked over at Morelli. “You'll call me if anything happens?”

  “Sure.”

  “You have my pager number?”

  “Committed to memory.”

  I'd done this drill before. He wouldn't call me. Not until it was all over.

  Sally and I crossed the street, entered Morelli's house, walked the length of it and exited the back door. I stood for a moment in the yard and thought about Morelli, lost in shadow again, his street appearing deserted. It gave me a creepy feeling. If Morelli could disappear, so could Sugar.

  * * * * *

  ONCE A WEEK Grandma Mazur went to the beauty parlor and had her hair shampooed and set. Sometimes Dolly would use a rinse and Grandma would have hair the color of an anemic apricot, but mostly Grandma lived with her natural color of steel gray. Grandma kept her hair short and permed with orderly rows of curls marching across her shiny pink scalp. The curls stayed miraculously tidy until the end of the week, when they'd begin to flatten and blend together.

  I'd always wondered how Grandma had managed this feat. And now I knew. Grandma rolled her pillow under her neck so barely any skull touched the bed. And Grandma slept like the dead. Arms crossed over her chest, body straight as a board, mouth open. Grandma never moved a muscle, and she snored like a drunken lumberjack.

  I crawled out of bed at six A.M. bleary-​eyed and rattled from my night's experience. I'd had maybe thirty minutes of sleep, and that had been accumulated time. I grabbed some clothes and dressed in the bathroom. Then I crept downstairs and made coffee.

  An hour later I heard movement overhead and recognized my mother's footsteps on the stairs.

  “You look terrible,” she said. “You feel okay?”

  “You ever try to sleep with Grandma?”

  “She sleeps like the dead.”

  “You got it.”

  Doors opened and slammed shut upstairs, and my grandmother yelled for my father to get out of the bathroom.

  “I'm an old lady,” she yelled. “I can't wait all day. What are you doing in there anyway?”

  More doors slamming, and my father clomped into the kitchen and took his place at the breakfast table. “I gotta go out with the cab this morning,” he said. “Jones is in Atlantic City, and I said I'd cover his shift.”

  My parents owned their house free and clear, and my father got a decent pension from the post office. He didn't need the money from hacking. What he needed was to get out of the house, away from my mother and my grandmother.

  The stairs creaked, and an instant later Sally's frame filled the doorway. His hair stood out from his head in snarls, his eyes were half closed and he stood stoop shouldered and barefoot, hairy arms dangling from my too-​small, fuzzy pink robe.

  “Man,” he said, “this house is frantic. I mean, like, what time is it, dude?”

  “Oh jeez,” my father said, grim-​faced, “he's wearing ladies' clothes again.”

  “It was in the closet,” Sally said. “Guess the clothes fairy left it for me.”

  My father opened his mouth to say something, my mother gave him a sharp look, and my father snapped his mouth shut.

  “What's that you're eating?” Sally asked.

  “Cereal.”

  “Far out.”

  “Would you like some?”

  He shuffled to the coffeemaker. “Just coffee.”

  Grandma Mazur hustled in. “What's going on? I didn't miss anything, did I?”

  I was sitting at the table, and I could feel her breath on the back of my head. “Something wrong?”

  “Just looking at this new-​style hairdo you got. Never seen anything like it, what with these big chunks cut outta the back.”

  I closed my eyes. The egg. “How bad is it?” I asked my mother. As if I didn't already know.

  “If you have some free time you might want to go to the beauty parlor.”

  “I thought it was some punk thing,” Sally said. “It'd be rad if it was purple. Maybe spiked out.”

  * * * * *

  AFTER BREAKFAST, Sally and I took another walk over to Morelli's house. We stood in the alley behind the house, and I dialed Morelli on my cell phone.

  “I'm in your yard,” I told him. “I didn't want to walk through your back door and get blown away.”

  “No problem.”

  Morelli was at the sink, rinsing out his coffee mug. “I was just getting ready to take off,” he said. “They found Kuntz's car parked in the farmers' market lot by the tracks.”

  “And?”

  “That's it.”

  “Blood? Bullet holes?”

  “Nope,” Morelli said. “A-​one condition. At first glance doesn't look like anything was stolen. No vandalism. No sign of struggle.”

  “Was it locked?”

  “Yep. My guess is it was left there sometime early this morning. Any sooner than that and it would have been stripped clean.”

  “Anything happen here last night?”

  “Nothing. Very quiet. What are you up to today?”

  I picked at my hair. “Beauty parlor.”

  A grin tugged at the corners of Morelli's mouth. “Going to ruin my handiwork?”

>   “You didn't take any more hair off than you absolutely had to, right?”

  “Right,” Morelli said, the grin still in place.

  Usually, I got my hair done by Mr. Alexander at the mall. Unfortunately, Mr. Alexander couldn't work me into his busy schedule today, so I opted for Grandma's salon, the Clip and Curl on Hamilton. I had a nine-​thirty appointment. Not that it mattered. My gossip rating was so high I could walk into Clip and Curl any time of the day or night, no waiting necessary.