Turbo Twenty-Three

by Janet Evanovich

  “No,” he said. “That’s what I’ll charge you to haul it to the junkyard.”

  “So when can we expect her new car?” Lula asked.

  “I’ll get Wayne working on it right away,” Gaylord said. “Where do you want it delivered?”

  “You could call my cellphone, and I’ll let you know where we’re at,” Lula said.

  “We need full payment when we deliver,” Gaylord said to me. “And I only take cash. Eliminates overhead, if you know what I mean.”

  Oh boy.

  I emptied out the Explorer, and Lula drove us back to Trenton.

  “Now what are we going to do?” Lula wanted to know.

  “I need to get cash for my capture check and my bank is closed.”

  “No problem. I know someone who can fix that too if you don’t mind a twenty-five-dollar transaction fee.”

  • • •

  It was a little after five when I walked into my apartment. I dropped the envelope with $5,000 in cash onto the counter, grabbed a cold beer from the fridge, and made myself a peanut butter sandwich for dinner. Rex came out of his soup can and looked at me, whiskers twitching, eyes bright. I gave him a corner of my sandwich. He stuffed it into his cheek and scurried back into his can.

  I called Ranger and gave him the details on the ice cream truck explosion. I told him about Kenny Morris. I told him the Jolly Bogart clown was a lunatic.

  “Babe,” Ranger said.

  “Dude,” I said back at him.

  I thought I sensed him smile, but I could be wrong.

  We disconnected, and Morelli called me. “Were you the second clown in the ice cream truck?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I can’t get the red greasepaint off my nose, but aside from that I’m good.”

  “Do we have a plan for tonight? Are you babysitting Gazarra’s kids?”

  “Babysitting was canceled, but I have some errands to run.”

  “ ‘Errands’?”

  “Work related. I should be home around eleven o’clock. Also, if anyone finds a semiautomatic in whatever is left of the ice cream truck they should run a ballistics test against the bullet taken out of Arnold Zigler.”

  “Are you kidding? You think the Jolly Bogart clown killed Zigler?”

  “All I’m saying is that he had a gun, and why not test it if it turns up?”

  “Fair enough.”

  I pulled the two reports out of my messenger bag and took them to my dining room table to read. There wasn’t much on Ducker. He lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment in a large apartment complex in Hamilton Township. He drove a leased Kia. He had a bunch of credit cards. He had no arrest history. He was a high school graduate. After high school he’d enlisted in the Army and served for three years. Never saw combat. Was unemployed for almost a year after the Army. Eventually was hired by Bogart. Never married. His parents lived in Newark. His father was a butcher.

  Kenny Morris graduated from Lafayette College and went to work in his father’s ice cream business. He worked on the floor for a year and then moved to a corner office, where he presided over the test kitchen. He’d been in the corner office for two years. He was twenty-five years old. His two older brothers weren’t interested in ice cream. One was a lawyer in Philadelphia with a wife and two kids. The other was a graphic designer, working in Silicon Valley. Kenny also had no arrest history. His credit rating was top-notch. He drove a black Jeep Wrangler Rubicon Hard Rock, which I thought was a badass car. He lived at home with his parents. And he was in love with Bogart’s daughter. Connie had included Kenny’s college yearbook picture. Blond hair, blond eyebrows, shy smile. A little bland looking.

  I opened my computer and was about to check my email when I got a call from Lula.

  “Gaylord got a car for you,” Lula said. “They’re getting it detailed now, and then it’ll get brought over to your building. Wayne’s got all the paperwork, and all you gotta do is give him the money.”

  “What kind of car is it?”

  “Don’t know,” Lula said. “I forgot to ask, but Gaylord said it didn’t have no dents and it wasn’t leaking nothing.”

  “I need to go to Kranski’s Bar in north Trenton. Do you want to tag along?”

  “Sure. We were going to do a filming but it got canceled, so I got the night free.”

  “Was this another Naked and Afraid episode?”

  “No. It was this other idea I had where I say I feel like I’m a guy today, and I go into a public men’s room. And then we film my positive experience. Only problem was I did a test run this afternoon and there were already a bunch of women in there with the men. The men were all standing back, looking confused, and the women were taking selfie videos of themselves trying to use the urinals. It was a ugly scene. Those women weren’t having any luck with those urinals. I like to think I’m a open-minded person, but I don’t see where this whole unisex thing is going to work. It don’t even make good television. I mean, if you can’t make a decent reality show out of a situation, what’s the point of going there?”

  This was wrong on so many levels I almost had a seizure from rolling my eyes, and yet in the end her point was sort of valid.

  “I’ll pick you up at nine o’clock,” I said. “Hopefully I won’t have to spend a lot of time at Kranski’s, because I’d like to also take another look at Butchy’s house.”

  “What kind of bar is Kranski’s? I need to know so I make the appropriate wardrobe choice.”

  “I’ve never been there, but I think it might be a small neighborhood dive. And if we get lucky and Butchy isn’t home we might try to break into his garage, so dark colors would be good.”

  • • •

  Wayne delivered my car at seven-fifteen. He was excessively polite and neatly dressed in a three-button collared knit polo shirt and dress slacks. He handed me an envelope with my registration and bill of sale, plus information on Bua’s Takeout Chicken, Renee Nails, Fancy Dan’s Detailing, and Kitty’s Escort Service.

  “I’d like to see the car first,” I said.

  “Of course. Let’s go take a look.”

  We took the stairs to the parking lot. Wayne led me over to a black Lexus GS F and gave me the keys.

  I was speechless for a full minute. “This is it?”

  “It’s not new,” Wayne said. “It’s a 2013, but it’s in excellent condition.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It has a little scratch on the left rear quarter panel, but you can hardly see it. I know Lula said she liked red, but this car came available and Gaylord thought it suited you.”

  “It’s hot, isn’t it?”

  Wayne smiled, showing a lot of really white teeth. “It will be with you in it.”

  “I mean it’s hot like stolen.”

  “Would that be a problem?”

  “Yes!”

  “Then it’s definitely not stolen.”

  “Good to know,” I said.

  Crap! It was for sure stolen.

  “We’ve attached your plates and taken care of all the title transfers. The nonstolen VIN number is displayed wherever required. And we’ve given you a full tank of gas.”

  I handed him an envelope with my $5,000 in cash.

  “Enjoy,” Wayne said.

  A Cadillac Escalade pulled up, Wayne got in, and the SUV drove off.

  Little black dots floated in front of my eyes, and there was a roaring sound in my ears. I put my hand out onto the Lexus to steady myself and sucked in air.

  Okay, so he said it wasn’t stolen. And he was very nice and neatly dressed. And he thought I’d look hot in the car. True, it was a $30,000 car that I got for $5,000, but there were reasons for the discrepancy, right? Like low overhead and sales incentives. And it had a scratch. And best not to dwell on how the title transfer was accomplished on a Saturday night.

  When the vertigo cleared and my breathing was more or less normal, I got into the car and drove it around the parking
lot. It was a great car. And even if it was stolen, chances were good that by the time the police caught up with me, the car would already have been flattened by a cement truck. My cars didn’t last all that long.

  NINETEEN

  I DRESSED IN black jeans, a black V-neck stretchy T-shirt, and a black hoodie. It was the perfect outfit for breaking and entering, with the exception of my nose, which was shining like Rudolph’s. I told Rex I’d be home later, I hiked my messenger bag onto my shoulder, and I left my apartment. It was almost nine o’clock, and the sun had set. I got into my new car and drove to Lula’s apartment.

  “Girlfriend,” Lula said, “look at you! This is an excellent car. It isn’t red, but it’s excellent all the same.”

  “I think it’s stolen.”

  “You don’t know that for sure,” Lula said, belting herself in. “Mostly Gaylord deals with insurance scamming. He takes a car off a lot and the insurance company pays.”

  “That’s still stealing.”

  “I guess, but it’s an insurance company, and everyone hates those people.”

  “I don’t hate them.”

  “Well, you’re weird,” Lula said. “Do you like the car?”

  “I love the car.”

  “There you go. And by the way, you might want to put a dab of concealer on your nose.”

  Kranski’s Bar was on the corner of Mayberry Street and Ash. This was a neighborhood very similar to the Burg, but the houses were a little larger, the cars were newer, the kitchen appliances were probably stainless. I parked in the small lot beside the tavern, and Lula and I sashayed into the dim interior. Bertie was working behind the bar that stretched across the back of the room. A bunch of high-top tables were scattered around the front of the room. Two women sat at one of the tables, eating nachos and drinking martinis. At one end of the bar four men were drinking beer and watching the overhead television. I spotted Kenny Morris at the other end. He was alone, nursing what looked like whiskey.

  Bertie caught my eye, tilted his head toward Kenny, and I nodded back.

  “I guess that’s the guy you’re looking for,” Lula said. “You want to tag-team him?”

  “No. I just want to talk to him. I’ll go it alone.”

  Lula hoisted herself onto a barstool by the four men, and I approached Kenny.

  “Anyone sitting here?” I asked him.

  “No,” he said. “No one ever sits there.”

  “Why not?”

  “The television is at the other end.”

  “But you’re here.”

  “Yeah, I’m not into the team television thing.”

  He looked a lot like his yearbook photograph. His hair was a little longer. He was slim. Medium height. Pleasant looking. Wearing jeans and a blue dress shirt with the top button open and the sleeves rolled.

  He was staring at my nose with an intensity usually displayed by dermatologists during a skin cancer exam. I couldn’t blame him. I’d smeared some makeup on it, but even in the dark bar it was emitting a red glow.

  “It’s a condition,” I said. “It comes and goes. It’s not contagious or anything. Do you come in here often?”

  “Couple times a week.”

  I got Bertie’s attention and ordered a glass of wine.

  “I was supposed to meet someone here, but I think she might be a no-show,” I said to Kenny.

  He knocked back his drink. “Women. That’s the way they are. No show.”

  Bertie brought my wine and another glass of whiskey for Kenny.

  “It sounds like you’ve had women problems,” I said.

  “Make that singular. One woman. No backbone. No mind of her own. Has to do what her asshole father wants her to do. I can’t believe I got mixed up with her and her stupid family.”

  “Sounds like you’re still mixed up with her.”

  “I’m working at it.” He chugged his drink and held his finger up to Bertie for another.

  I had no idea where to go with this. I wasn’t a brilliant conversationalist. I had no clue how to pick up a man at a bar. And here was another reminder that I sucked as Nancy Drew.

  “Do you have a name?” he asked. “A job?”

  Bam! I was back in business. “Stephanie. And I work at the Bogart Ice Creamery.”

  “I hate Bogart ice cream.”

  “I’ve only worked there a couple days.”

  “Well, you should quit. Bogart is evil. And his ice cream is crap. Did you know the Jolly Bogart truck got blown up today? Good riddance. Too bad the clown wasn’t in it. That would have been good. Not as good as the guy who got turned into a Bogart Bar, but still pretty good.”

  “I’m told they don’t know who did it.”

  “Whoever it is, he deserves a medal. I hope more people get frozen.”

  “Most of the people working there are nice. Maybe not the clown, but most of the people.”

  “Then they should leave, because that factory is going down. Someone is out to destroy it.”

  “Would that be you?” I asked him.

  “I wish,” he said. “If it was me I’d do it differently. I’d cut off the head. Literally. And maybe I will someday.”

  “Bogart?”

  “He should die.”

  “Have you ever thought about talking to someone about anger management?”

  Bertie brought Kenny another drink. “Last one,” Bertie said. “This is your limit. You want something to eat before I call a car for you?”

  “Nachos. Extra cheese.”

  I leaned toward Kenny a little and lowered my voice. “Were you serious? Would you really cut off Bogart’s head?”

  “In a heartbeat.”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  “No guts. Haven’t got the right sort of knife. And I faint at the sight of blood.”

  That got a smile out of me. I was liking Kenny Morris. From the corner of my eye I saw Lula get off her barstool and head for us.

  “I’m trying to decide if I should order food,” Lula said to me. “What do you think?”

  “Is this the person you’ve been waiting for?” Kenny asked.

  I dropped a twenty on the bar and stood. “No. We’re going to go looking for her. It’s been nice talking to you. I hope things work out.”

  • • •

  “He seemed okay,” Lula said. “One of them preppy individuals.”

  “He’s having a personal problem.”

  “Well, we all got them. What are we doing now? Are we gonna snoop around Butchy’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  I drove across town, keeping my eyes open for police officers who might be under the mistaken impression that I was driving a stolen vehicle. I relaxed a little when I reached the Burg without getting pulled over. Lights were off in Butchy’s house. His truck wasn’t in the driveway.

  “Nobody home,” Lula said.

  I parked three houses down on the opposite side of the street, and Lula and I walked back to Butchy’s house. I had a big Maglite, and Lula had her purse.

  “What are we looking for?” Lula asked.

  “I don’t know exactly. Evidence of chocolate syrup and chopped nuts. A huge freezer. Bloodstains.”

  “The usual stuff,” Lula said.

  We stood across the street in front of the house for a couple minutes and watched for movement, then crossed to the driveway and went directly to the garage. It was overcast with not even a sliver of moon showing. The garage was lost in deep shadow.

  “I can’t see where I’m walking,” Lula said. “Last time we did this in the dark I stepped on a dead person. I still get nightmares.”

  I had a small penlight besides the Maglite, but I didn’t want to use it in the yard. Lights were on in the houses flanking Butchy’s place. Last thing I wanted was for someone to call the police or send out a killer dog.

  We circled the garage but didn’t see a way in. There were bars on the only window, and the door was locked. I took a closer look at the front of the garage and found a keypad. I tapped
in 0000, and the door opened.

  “Boy, you’re good,” Lula said. “I would never have figured that out.”

  We stepped in, and I hit the button that closed the door. When the door was entirely closed I flipped the light switch next to the garage opener, and the garage was flooded with light.

  One wall was lined with boxed microwave ovens. They were four boxes deep and seven boxes high, running the length of the garage. Large cartons of Nike shoes lined the other wall. And there was an island of toaster ovens.

  “This boy has a lucrative sideline going,” Lula said.

  I looked around. “I don’t see any chocolate syrup or blood.”

  “No, but he has a freezer.”

  I walked to the large chest freezer that was under the window on the side wall. It was about five feet long and three feet wide.

  “Do you suppose he has another body in there?” Lula asked.

  “It would have to be someone short.”

  “Not necessarily. You could fold him up and freeze him and then when you take him out you could hit him with a hammer and straighten him out.”

  “I wish you hadn’t shared that,” I said to Lula.

  “Just sayin’.”

  I held my breath, opened the freezer, and we looked in. It was filled with Bogart Bars.

  “I’m thinking he didn’t buy all these,” Lula said.

  “I’m thinking you’re right.”

  I was also thinking it could be the ice cream that was removed from the truck to make room for Arnold Zigler.

  I closed the lid on the freezer. We took one last look around and left the garage. We walked around the house, looking in windows, but it was too dark to see anything.

  “Do you want to get in?” Lula asked. “I got a knack for getting in.”

  Her knack for getting in was to break a window or door.

  “No breaking in,” I said. “I don’t want him to know someone was snooping around.”

  We were on the side of the house, and my heart skipped a beat when Butchy’s truck drove up. He turned into the driveway and cut the engine.

  Lula and I froze, not sure if we’d been seen. I heard the driver’s door open and close, and I held my breath. I couldn’t see the driveway or the front of the house, but I heard Butchy’s footsteps. He walked from the truck to the front door, the door opened and closed, and a light flashed on in the living room. A moment later a light flashed on in the kitchen. I crept closer to the window, and I saw Butchy go to a drawer next to the sink and take out a gun.