I rolled all this around in my mind … Morelli, Ranger, the brains leaking out. Then I thought about the FBI guys, both fake and real, and the guy in the photo. And none of this was conducive to napping. Not to mention, I’m not on salary. If I don’t capture skips, I don’t make money. If I don’t make money, I can’t make my rent. If I don’t make my rent, I’ll be living in my car. And my car isn’t all that terrific.
I returned to the kitchen and went back over my files. I thought I had my best shot with the purse snatcher. True, they were usually runners, but the guy looked fat in his photo, and I might be able to run down a fat guy if he wasn’t in top shape. His name was Lewis Bugkowski, aka Big Buggy. Twenty-three years old. He’d robbed an eighty-three-year-old woman who was sitting on a park bench. Forty-five minutes later, Buggy was arrested when he tried to buy six buckets of fried chicken with the woman’s credit card and the counter clerk didn’t think Buggy looked like a Betty Bloomberg. So besides being fat, Buggy was probably not real smart.
I thought about taking my gun, but decided against it. It made my bag too heavy and gave me a neck cramp. Truth is, I never use the gun anyway. I took pepper spray and hair spray instead. I had my phone clipped to the waistband on my jeans and handcuffs in my back pocket. I was ready to roll.
Buggy lived with his parents just slightly beyond Burg limits. This is always a bummer situation, because I hate snagging people in front of their parents or their kids. I could get him at his workplace, but he hadn’t listed any. I drove to Broad, hooked a left, and cruised by the Bugkowski house, a small Cape Cod. Clean. Tiny front yard, neatly maintained. One-car garage. No cars parked at the curb in front of the house.
I dialed Buggy’s phone, and he picked up after two rings.
“Lewis Bugkowski?” I asked.
“Yeah?”
“Are you the home owner?”
“Nah, that’s my dad.”
“Is he at home?”
“No.”
“Your mother?”
“They’re both working. What do you want?”
“I’m conducting a survey on trash removal.”
Click.
Great. I’d found out everything I needed to know. Buggy was in the house alone. I parked one house down from the Bugkowskis, walked to their front door, and rang the bell.
A huge guy answered. He was easily 6′5″ and three hundred pounds. He was wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt that could have provided shelter for a Vietnamese family of eight.
“Yuh?” he asked.
“Lewis Bugkowski?”
He looked at me. “Is this about trash? You sound like that girl on the phone.”
“Bond enforcement,” I told him.
I whipped out my cuffs and attempted to clap one on his wrist. No good. The cuff wouldn’t close. His wrist was too big. The guy was a mountain.
I sent him a flirtatious smile. “I don’t suppose you’d want to come downtown with me to reschedule your court date?”
His eyes locked on to my messenger bag. “Is that what you use for a purse?”
Uh-oh.
“No,” I told him. “I use this for documents. Boring stuff. Let me show you.”
He grabbed the strap and ripped the bag off my shoulder before I could locate my pepper spray.
“Hey,” I said. “Give it back!”
He looked down at me. “Go away or I’ll hit you.”
“I can’t go away. The keys to my car are in the bag.”
His eyes lit up. “I could use a car. I’m hungry, and there’s no food in the house.”
I lunged for my bag, and he batted me away.
“I’ll drive you to Cluck-in-a-Bucket,” I said.
He closed his front door and stepped off the porch. “Don’t need you. I got a car now.”
I ran after him and latched on to the back of his T-shirt. “Help!” I yelled. “Police!”
He shoved me away, crammed himself behind the wheel, and the car groaned under the weight. He rolled the engine over and took off.
“That’s grand theft auto, mister!” I shouted after him. “You’re in big trouble!”
I watched Buggy disappear around a corner. I procrastinated a minute, then gave in and called Ranger.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“I’m at Rangeman.”
Rangeman was the security company he partially owned. It was housed in a nondescript building in the center of Trenton, and it was filled with high-tech equipment and large, heavily muscled men in black Rangeman uniforms. Ranger kept a private apartment on the seventh floor.
“Some big dopey guy just stole my car,” I said to Ranger. “And he has my bag. And he’s FTA.”
“No problem. We have your car on the screen.”
Ranger has this habit of installing tracking devices on my cars when I’m not looking. In the beginning, I found the invasion of privacy to be intolerable, but I’ve gotten used to it over the years, and there are times when it’s come in handy … like now.
“I’ll send someone out to get your car,” Ranger said. “What do you want us to do with the big dopey guy?”
“How about if you cuff him, cram him into the backseat, and drive him to the bonds bus. I’ll take it from there.”
“And you?”
“I’m good. Lula’s on her way to pick me up.”
“Babe,” Ranger said. And he disconnected.
Okay, so I fibbed to Ranger about Lula. Truth is, I wasn’t ready to face him. Especially since he sounded a tiny bit exasperated. I looked down at my naked ring finger, grimaced, and called Lula.
FOUR
“YOU GOT SOFT IN HAWAII,” Lula said. “You lost your edge. That’s what happens when you go on vacation and do whatever the heck it is that you did. Which, by the way, I don’t even care about no more.”
Lula had picked me up at Buggy’s house, and we were on our way to the bonds office.
“I didn’t go soft in Hawaii,” I said. “I never had an edge.”
“That could be true about the edge, but you’ve been out after two felons now, and they both whupped your butt. So I thought maybe it was on account of being distracted by whatever it is you’re distracted by. Not that I care what it is. And notice what a good friend I am, even though you don’t care to confide in me and I disturbed my nap to rescue you.”
“I’m not distracted. You can attribute both whuppings to pure incompetence.”
“Well, aren’t you little Miss Down-on-Yourself. I could fix that. You need a doughnut.”
“I need more than a doughnut.”
“What, like chicken? Fries? Maybe one of them giant two-pounder bacon burgers?”
“I wasn’t talking about food,” I said to Lula. “You can’t solve all your problems with food.”
“Since when?”
“I’m thinking about taking a self-defense class. Maybe learn kickboxing.”
“I don’t need no self-defense class,” Lula said. “I rely on my animal instincts to beat the bejeezus out of an offending moron.”
That didn’t always work for me. I wasn’t all that great at beating the bejeezus out of people. My fight-or-flight instinct ran more toward flight.
“Now that I’m up from my nap, I’m in a mood to go after the big one,” Lula said. “I want to bag Joyce. Where’s she living? Is she still in that hotel-size colonial by Vinnie?”
“No. The bond agreement lists her address as Stiller Street in Hamilton Township.”
So far as I know, Joyce is currently single. Although that might be yesterday’s news. It’s hard to keep up with Joyce. She’s a serial divorcée, working her way up the matrimonial ladder, kicking used-up husbands to the curb while negotiating lucrative settlements. She left her last marriage with a net gain of an E-class Mercedes and half of a $1.5 million house. Rumor has it he got the guinea pig.
Might as well have a look at Joyce’s house, I thought. Make a fast run out to Hamilton Township, and by the time I got back, hopefully, my car would be parked be
hind the bonds bus.
Twenty minutes later, we were rolling down Stiller.
“This clump of houses is brand new,” Lula said. “I didn’t even know this was here. This was a cornfield last week.”
The clump of attached town houses was called Mercado Mews, and it looked not only brand new but expensive. Joyce lived in an end unit with a two-car garage. Everything looked fresh and spiffy. No activity anywhere. No cars parked on the street. No traffic. No one tending the azalea bushes. No one walking a dog or pushing a stroller.
“Looks to me like lots of these houses aren’t sold yet,” Lula said. “They look empty. ’Course, Joyce’s house looks empty, too.”
According to the file notes, Connie had been calling every day, twice a day, since Joyce went missing. She’d called the cell number and the home phone, and no one ever picked up.
Lula pulled to the curb and we went to the door and rang the bell. No answer. She waded into the flowerbed and looked into the front window.
“There’s furniture in here, but no Joyce that I can see,” Lula said. “Everything looks nice and neat. No dead bodies on the floor.”
“Let’s snoop around back.”
We skirted the house and discovered the backyard was sealed off with a seven-foot-high wooden privacy fence. I tried the fence door. Locked.
“You’re gonna have to kick it in,” Lula said. “I’d do it, but I’m wearin’ my Via Spigas.”
We’ve done this drill many, many times. Lula was always wearing the wrong shoes, and I was inept.
“Go ahead,” Lula said. “Kick it.”
I gave a halfhearted kick.
“That’s a sissy kick,” Lula said. “Put something behind it.”
I kicked it harder.
“Hunh,” Lula said. “You don’t know much about kickin’ in doors.”
No kidding. We went through this routine at least once a week, and it was getting old. Maybe I didn’t need kickboxing lessons. Maybe I needed a new job.
“One of us is gonna have to alley-oop over the fence,” Lula said.
I looked up at the fence. Seven feet. Neither of us was exactly Spider-Man.
“Who’s going to alley, and who’s going to oop?” I asked her.
“I’d do the lifting, but I just got a manicure. And I notice you don’t have a manicure at all. Only thing noticeable about your hands is the missing tan on your ring finger that I don’t care about.”
“Okay, great. I’ll do the lifting, but you’re going to have to ditch the Via Spigas. I don’t want to get gored by a stiletto.”
Lula took her shoes off and threw them over the top of the fence into Joyce’s yard. “Okay, I’m ready. Give me a boost.”
I tried boosting, but I couldn’t get her off the ground.
“You’re going to have to climb onto my shoulders,” I said.
Lula put her right foot on my thigh, hoisted herself up, and wrangled her left leg over my shoulder. Her spandex skirt was up to her waist, and her tiger-striped thong was lost in the deep, dark recesses of her voluptuousness.
“Uh-oh,” she said.
“What uh-oh? I don’t like to hear uh-oh.”
“I’m stuck. You gotta get a hand under my ass and shove.”
“Not gonna happen.”
She wrapped her arms around my head to keep from slipping, and we went over backward. WUMP.
“Are you okay?” I asked her.
“Hard to tell with you laying on me. I might need a moment.”
We both got up and reassessed the situation.
“My Via Spigas are on the wrong side of the fence,” Lula said, tugging at her skirt. “No way am I losing them Via Spigas.” She hauled her Glock out of her purse and drilled five rounds into the gate lock.
“Holy cow!” I said. “You can’t do that. That’s loud. Everybody’s probably calling the police.”
“There’s no everybody,” Lula said. “This here’s a ghost town.” She tried the gate, but it was still locked. “Hunh,” she said. “Maybe we could dig under the fence.”
“Do you have a shovel?”
“No.”
“Then you’re going to have to decide between your manicure and your shoes,” I told her.
“Over you go,” Lula said.
She got me to the top of the fence, where I hung for a moment, swung one leg and then the other, and managed to fall without fracturing anything. I opened the gate, let Lula in, and we looked in the back windows. Same deal. No Joyce in sight. Back door was locked.
“I could get us in,” Lula said. “I could have a accident with one of these back windows.”
“No! No broken windows. And no more shooting at doors. I can get Ranger to sneak me in.”
“I bet,” Lula said. “Not that it’s any of my business or that I care about what’s going on with you and Mr. Mysterious. ’Course, if you were dying to tell me, I suppose I’d have to listen.”
“The only thing I’m dying to do is get out of here.”
We unlocked the gate from the inside, returned to Lula’s Firebird, and she drove me back to the bonds office.
“Looks to me like Ranger got your car washed,” Lula said, eyeing the RAV4 parked behind the bus. “I can’t ever remember seeing it that clean. Ranger’s like a full-service dude. He rescues your car from being stolen, and he returns it detailed. I’m guessing you must have made him real happy in Hawaii. Not that I care. I’m just taking a winger here.”
It was more like I made him happy, and then I didn’t make him happy, and then I made him happy. And then the shit hit the fan.
“He’s just a clean kind of guy,” I said to Lula.
“Yeah, I could see that.”
Lula took off, and I went to my car. The driver’s side door had been left unlocked. The key was tucked under the mat. There was no Big Buggy in the backseat.
I punched Ranger’s number into my cell phone. “Thanks,” I said. “Did you get my car detailed?”
“There was a problem with blood on your right front quarter panel, so Hal ran it through the car wash.”
“Omigod.”
“Nothing serious. Bugkowski slipped resisting arrest and smashed his face into your car.”
“Where is he now?”
“Bugkowski was screaming like a little girl and drawing a crowd, and Hal didn’t have the paperwork to justify a capture, so he had to let him go.”
“Did Hal get my messenger bag?”
“Yes. He brought it back here to Rangeman. He didn’t want to leave it in an unlocked car.”
“Maybe you could mail it to me?” I asked.
I was really, really not ready to see him.
“You can run, but you can’t hide,” Ranger said.
So true. I hung up and headed for home. I stopped at the supermarket and had my cart half filled with groceries when I realized I had no money, no credit cards, no ID. It was all in my messenger bag … with Ranger. Damn. I returned the groceries and called Morelli from my car.
“About tonight,” I said. “Is it going to involve dinner?”
“Not unless you want to eat at midnight.”
“Are you avoiding me?”
“I’m not that smart,” Morelli said.
I sat for a long moment after Morelli hung up, reviewing my current choices. I could drive to Rangeman and retrieve my bag from Ranger. I could go home and share a cracker with Rex. I could mooch dinner from my mom.
Twenty minutes later, I was at my parents’ house and Grandma was hustling to set a plate at the table for me. My mom had been making minestrone this morning, and that meant there’d also be antipasto, bread from the bakery, and rice pudding with Italian cookies.
“The table is set for four,” I said to Grandma. “Who’s coming to dinner?”
“This real interesting lady I met last week. I joined one of them bowling leagues, and she’s on my team. You might want to talk to her. She’s some kind of relationship counselor.”
“I didn’t know you could bowl.”
“Turns out it’s easy. You just gotta throw the ball down the alley. They gave me this shirt and everything. We’re the LWB. That stands for Ladies with Balls.”
My father was watching television in the living room. He rattled his newspaper and muttered something about women ruining bowling. He was watching national news and a bulletin came on showing a picture of a man found dead at LAX. He’d been hit with a blunt instrument, had his throat slashed, and he’d been stuffed into a trash can.
Ugh. As if this wasn’t horrific enough, I was pretty sure it was the guy sitting next to me for the first leg of the Hawaii flight home. I’d spoken to him briefly in the beginning but slept for the rest of the trip. I’d been surprised to find his seat empty when we reboarded. My impression had been that he’d planned to fly into Newark. I guess this explained his absence.
The doorbell rang. Grandma rushed to get it and ushered a brown-haired, pleasantly plump, smiling, forty-something woman wearing an LWB bowling shirt into the living room.
“This is Annie Hart,” she said. “She’s the best bowler we got. She’s our ringer.”
I knew Annie Hart. I’d been involved in a Valentine’s Day fiasco with her a while back and hadn’t seen her since. She was a perfectly nice woman who lived in LaLa Land, firmly believing she was the reincarnation of Cupid. Hey, I mean, who am I to say, but it seemed far-fetched.
“How wonderful to see you again, dear,” Annie said to me. “I think of you from time to time, wondering if you’ve resolved your romantic dilemma.”
“Yep,” I said. “It’s all resolved.”
“She got married in Hawaii,” Grandma told Annie.
My father shot straight out of his chair. “What?”
“She had a ring and everything,” Grandma said.
My father was wild-eyed. “Is that true? Why didn’t someone tell me? No one ever tells me anything around here.”
“Look,” I said, holding my hand in the air. “I’m not wearing a ring. I’d be wearing a ring if I was married, right?”
Explosive Eighteen Page 3