Turbo Twenty-Three

by Janet Evanovich

  “Absolutely,” Soon said. “I appreciate that you’ve taken the time to introduce yourself. This is an awkward time for Bogart Ice Cream. And it’s especially difficult since Mr. Bogart has taken a leave of absence.”

  “I wasn’t aware that he was on leave,” Ranger said. “Have you heard from him?”

  “No,” Soon said. “I was trying to make it sound better than I fear it is.” He passed a paper to Ranger. “I intended to take care of this business tomorrow, but since you’ve stopped by this is an excellent opportunity. Now that we have the system installed I think we would be better served to manage it in-house. I’m going to bring in my own security specialists and techs. I’ve done this in past positions, and I find it to be more economical and sometimes more efficient.”

  “Was this discussed with Mr. Bogart?”

  “Most certainly. We were finalizing our hires when he suddenly disappeared.”

  “He’d made it clear to me that I was to keep my men in place.”

  “Unfortunately he isn’t here to substantiate that. We will make final payment to you when you present your itemized bill for installation plus consulting fees.”

  Ranger smiled. “I wish you the best of luck. I’m sure Mr. Bogart will make a speedy return from his leave of absence.”

  “We can only hope,” Soon said.

  We were silent walking through the building. We buckled into Ranger’s Cayenne, and he called his office. “I want a full report on Jeff Soon. I want it stat. Get me the name of the primary on the Bogart investigation and get me permission to walk through Bogart’s house.”

  He put the Cayenne in gear and drove out of the lot.

  “You didn’t see that one coming,” I said.

  “No, but it’s beginning to pull together. I have to spend some time at my desk. I’m going to drop you at your car and we’ll pick this up later tonight. I’ll send you a text when I’m leaving the building.”

  It was a little after five o’clock when we got to the office, and the lights were out. My car was parked at the curb. Its doors were locked, but Lula had placed the keys in our usual hiding spot on top of the left rear wheel. I had no plans to see Morelli, so I drove to my parents’ house to mooch dinner.

  My grandmother opened the door for me. Her hair was red and she was wearing black Pilates pants and a Harley-Davidson T-shirt.

  “What do you think?” she asked me.

  “I like the red. It’s pretty.”

  And it was pretty, but it was going to take some time for me to get used to seeing it on Grandma.

  “I wanted a new look,” Grandma said. “Bertie gave me the T-shirt.”

  “How’s it going with Bertie?”

  “It’s going real good, but I’m not sure how long it’s going to last. There’s a lot of maintenance you gotta do to keep up with a relationship. There’s tweezing and shaving and moisturizing. Plus you gotta pretend you haven’t already heard his jokes. And I think I might be getting a rash down there from riding on his motorcycle. I don’t know if I’m cut out to be a biker chick.”

  “Is that Stephanie?” my mother yelled from the kitchen. “Is she staying for dinner? Tell her we’re having meatloaf and mashed potatoes.”

  “I’m staying!” I yelled back.

  My father was in his chair, watching television. I passed him on my way to the kitchen, and he grunted at me. “The news is terrible,” he said. “Every day it gets worse. I don’t know why I watch.”

  “Is Bertie coming to dinner?” I asked Grandma.

  “No. I’m meeting him later at the funeral home. They finally released the body of the Bogart Bar guy, and his viewing is tonight. It’s going to be big. I bet the TV people will be there. Bertie and I are going out after. We might go to the movies. There’s a horror flick at the multiplex that Bertie wants to see. I think it’s got zombies in it.”

  My mother was mashing the potatoes. “You can’t go to the viewing dressed like that,” she said to my grandmother. “And I don’t want to hear that you tried to get the lid up if it’s a closed casket.”

  “I’m hoping it won’t be closed casket,” Grandma said. “I wouldn’t mind seeing what a Bogart Bar man looks like.”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t look like a Bogart Bar man,” my mother said. “He’s had an autopsy!”

  “And I guess he would have melted by now anyway,” Grandma said. “Still, it would be interesting to see what’s left.”

  “Stephanie,” my mother said. “Stir the gravy.”

  My grandmother took the meatloaf to the table, and I leaned toward my mother.

  “Whatever happened last night with Bertie and Grandma?”

  “I don’t know. I fell asleep on the couch, and when I woke up it was morning. I guess he tiptoed past me.”

  “Did you talk to Grandma?”

  “No. I don’t know what to say.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it. I think it’ll resolve itself.”

  “Where’s the potatoes?” Grandma said. “We gotta keep on schedule. I don’t want to be late or I won’t get a good seat. Marion Wurtzer is picking me up at six-thirty sharp.”

  We all took our places and filled our plates.

  “You should go to this viewing,” Grandma said to me. “The killer might be there. That’s the way it is in the movies. The killer always makes a showing.”

  “Why on earth would she want to see the killer?” my mother said.

  “Gravy,” my father said.

  Grandma passed the gravy to him. “Everybody wants to see the killer. And besides, Stephanie is working with Ranger to get to the bottom of this.”

  “I’d think you were switched at birth,” my mother said, slanting a look at me, “but you have the Mazur nose.”

  “It’s a good one, too,” Grandma said. “It’s one of our best features.”

  Grandma might be right about the killer showing up at the viewing, but how was I supposed to recognize him? He wasn’t going to have “Killer” tattooed on his forehead. Plus, I don’t share Grandma’s enthusiasm for viewings. The flower smell makes me nauseous. I don’t like looking at dead people. And I’m not all that excited about talking to the live people.

  “I wonder if the Bogart people will be there,” Grandma said. “I’m hearing that the big Bogart guy, Harry Bogart, has taken off for parts unknown. It wouldn’t be right if no one from the company showed up. I mean, the deceased was made into a Bogart Bar. Seems like the least they could do is honor that memory.”

  I didn’t think there would be much representation from the Bogart family. Possibly some co-workers, but even that seemed unlikely.

  “When is the funeral?” I asked Grandma.

  “Tomorrow morning. It’s going to be a traffic stopper. Bertie and me are going on his motorcycle.”

  My mother gave a gasp. “You are not!”

  “Not what?” my father said. “Where’s the dessert?”

  Grandma hurried off to the kitchen and returned with cookies.

  “These are store-bought cookies,” my father said. “What’s this world coming to?”

  “You always eat store-bought cookies,” my mother said.

  “Not for dinner. I eat store-bought cookies for television.”

  Grandma went upstairs to change clothes, and I helped my mom clear the table.

  “She’s going to a funeral on a motorcycle,” my mother said. “She’s going to wear a motorcycle helmet to the church, and when she takes it off she’s going to have red hair.”

  “She’s enjoying herself. I think it’s okay. It’s not like she’s robbing banks.”

  “Your Aunt Marge and Uncle Tub moved to Scottsdale. They make it sound nice. I might like it there.”

  “I don’t think it’s that easy. Grandma would go with you.”

  “I could put her into Senior Living,” my mother said. “They have bingo every night. Her friend Alice Besty is there. They could have dinner together.”

  “Really?”

  “No, but I like to
think about it sometimes.”

  Grandma came into the kitchen to tell us she was leaving with Marion. She was dressed in skinny black slacks, a black-and-white-checked jacket, a white shirt, and black flats. And she was topped off by her red hair.

  My mother stared at her for a moment.

  “You look nice,” my mother said.

  “Thank you,” Grandma said. “Don’t wait up.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I TOOK THE elevator because I didn’t have the energy to walk up the stairs to my apartment. I let myself in, locked my door with three locks, and gave Rex a green bean. Ranger was going to call to do who-knows-what, and I was exhausted. It had been a long day. I stripped and stood in the shower until I felt a little revived. I might not be totally energetic, but at least I was clean. I dressed in a navy short-sleeved T-shirt and jeans and I crawled into bed.

  The text message came in a little after nine. He would pick me up in ten minutes. I dragged myself out of bed, laced up my running shoes, and went downstairs to wait for Ranger.

  I’m in and out of the building at all hours and don’t usually feel vulnerable, but I had a hollow feeling in my chest tonight. The building seemed unusually quiet. The parking lot looked unusually dark. I had my messenger bag with a small canister of pepper spray, some plasti-cuffs, and a stun gun that probably needed charging. Beyond that I was unarmed.

  I was relieved when I saw Ranger’s headlights swing in. He was still driving the Porsche Cayenne and wearing the black Rangeman fatigues. I relaxed when I got in beside him.

  “What’s the plan?” I asked.

  “I have unauthorized permission to go into Bogart’s house.”

  “What exactly does ‘unauthorized permission’ mean?”

  “It means the Trenton PD primary on the case, Gary Marble, will look the other way while I’m in the house but will charge me with breaking and entering if I get caught.”

  “And me?”

  “You too.”

  Yeesh.

  Ranger drove across town and into an affluent neighborhood. Large yards. Large houses. Lots of neatly trimmed shrubs and flower beds. Landscape lighting.

  “Have you been here before?” I asked him.

  “Yes. I talked to Bogart about a security system for his house. It wasn’t a complicated job, but he was distracted by his problems at the plant and never moved forward on the house system. I think he felt he was capable of protecting his family. He has an extensive gun collection. I got the impression he’d be happy to find justification to use it.”

  “Did he carry?”

  “Yes. Always.”

  “Isn’t that odd for a guy who makes ice cream and dresses his minions in yellow so everything looks happy?”

  “Looking isn’t being. Bogart was a businessman. And he wasn’t happy. His business was going south.”

  A Rangeman SUV was parked in front of Bogart’s house. Ranger pulled into the driveway.

  “Lookout?” I asked him.

  “Yes. And if someone stops to ask he can say we’re running routine checks on the house for Bogart.”

  We got out of the Porsche, and Ranger strapped on a sidearm. He unlocked the front door, we stepped inside, and he switched a penlight on.

  “I want to do a quick walk through the entire house,” he said, “but I’m really only interested in his home office.”

  “What are you looking for on the walk-through?”

  “Bodies. And evidence that someone has been in the house in the last couple days.”

  We covered the downstairs first and didn’t find any bodies. The milk in the fridge was expired. The loaf of bread on the kitchen counter had some mold. The upstairs bedrooms were also body free. Closets and dressers were full of clothes. Medicine cabinets were filled with the usual. The Bogarts obviously expected to return to their house.

  Bogart’s home office was on the first floor. Ranger drew the drapes, turned the light on, and looked around.

  “No computer,” he said. “He worked on a laptop, and it wasn’t in his office.”

  “The cameras should have been working when Bogart left the factory on Monday. Did he have his laptop?”

  Ranger called his control room and told them to have Tank run the Monday video and get back to him. He went through the desk drawers and file cabinet, briefly looking through one file before returning it.

  “I was hoping to find some financial information,” Ranger said. “Everything is digital now, but most people still keep paper copies of loan agreements and tax forms. Bogart didn’t have any in his office at the plant, and he doesn’t have any here.”

  “Safety-deposit box? Home safe?”

  “His home safe is small. Just enough for some cash and a little jewelry. I’d proposed a larger safe installation. If he has a safety-deposit box it’s not available to me.”

  “Can’t do your magical lock-opening thing on a safety-deposit box?”

  “I could, but I’d have to have a better reason than this.”

  “Are you able to talk to his wife or daughter?”

  “We had some initial contact, but they’re no longer picking up calls. They’ll sometimes answer a text message.”

  “Are they really at Disney?”

  “Yes. We can trace the location.”

  “And Harry Bogart?”

  “He used his cellphone to call the office to report the break-in, and an hour later the phone didn’t exist.”

  Tank called and told Ranger they had Bogart on video, leaving his office. He had a computer case hung from his shoulder and he was carrying a paper grocery bag. No way to tell what was in the bag.

  “We’ve been around the outside of this house,” Ranger said to me. “There’s no sign of forced entry. So Bogart either had his computer case in his car when he went to the office in the middle of the night, or else someone drove him back here to get it.”

  “He was wearing his pajama top when he got to the plant. Hard to believe he would have taken the time or had the presence of mind to take his computer,” I said.

  Ranger flipped the light off and opened the drapes, and we left the office and the house. He stopped briefly to talk to his man in the Rangeman SUV before getting behind the wheel of the Porsche.

  “Let’s see if Dottie is home,” he said. “Are you feeling lucky?”

  I thought about it for a moment and decided the answer was no.

  • • •

  The neighborhood surrounding the button factory was asleep. No lights on in any of the houses. No car traffic. Dottie’s house was dark. We parked on the street, went to the front door, and listened. All was quiet. Ranger was still wearing his Glock strapped to his leg. He had cuffs stuck into his gun belt, and he had a big-boy Maglite in his hand. I’d helped him clear a house before, and I knew the drill. He opened the door, stepped in, and I followed. Something went spronnng over my head, an alarm gave three blasts of noise, and I was instantly covered in gunk.

  Ranger and I froze for a nanosecond.

  “Booby trap,” Ranger said.

  Dottie thundered down the stairs. Ranger caught her in a beam of light, and she fired off a shot. The shot went wide, Ranger shoved me to the ground, and Dottie ran for the back door. Ranger threw the Maglite at her. It hit her square in the back. She said “Unh!” and went down to the floor. Ranger had her cuffed in seconds, and he came back to me.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’ve been slimed.”

  He flipped the light switch and looked me over. He swiped at the slime with his finger. “It looks like cooking oil, and it smells like bacon and fried chicken. Hang on until I come back with something to clean your face.”

  My face and hair were soaked with oil. My T-shirt was soaked and my jeans were splattered with the stuff. I stood perfectly still until Ranger returned and wiped me down.

  “Why me?” I asked. “You went through the door first, but you haven’t got a drop of oil on you.”

  “I’m special,” Ranger said.
>
  No doubt about that.

  He looked up at the top of the door. “She had a bucket rigged from a pulley attached to the ceiling. Pretty ingenious. When the bucket fell it set off the alarm. It might have done her some good if she’d been sober.”

  “It obviously wasn’t rigged up when we were here last time.”

  “I remember seeing the hook in the ceiling, but it didn’t compute to be a booby trap.”

  Dottie was lying flat on her back, looking like a beached whale in a faded multicolored floral muumuu.

  “How drunk is she?” I asked.

  “Totally wasted. If I hadn’t hit her with the flashlight she probably would have fallen over anyway.”

  Ranger hoisted her up, dragged her to the Cayenne, and strapped her in. I was standing by the side of the SUV, and I didn’t know what to do.

  “I’m going to ruin your car,” I said to Ranger.

  “No problem. It’ll clean up.”

  • • •

  Ranger carted Dottie into the police station and returned with my body receipt. He drove me home and walked me to my door. We knew Morelli was in my apartment because his car was in the lot.

  Ranger opened the door for me and helped me in. I was trying to be careful not to get slime everywhere.

  Morelli got up from the couch and walked over. He didn’t look all that surprised. He leaned forward and sniffed. “Bacon? Fried chicken?”

  “Booby trap,” Ranger said. “You might want to try tomato juice to cut the grease.” He hung my messenger bag on a coat hook next to my door, and he left.

  “Did he tie you to the roof rack, or did he actually let you in his car?” Morelli asked.

  “What are you doing here? I thought this was poker night.”

  “The game broke up early so I decided to surprise you.”

  “Get me a garbage bag for my clothes. I need to take a shower.”

  “I could help you in the shower.”

  “No! Just get me the garbage bag.”

  Morelli came into the bathroom and stuffed my clothes into the garbage bag. “Explain the booby trap.”

  I told him about Dottie while I soaped up. “I’ll get a big recovery fee,” I said. “She was a high bond.” I rinsed the soap out of my hair and stuck my head out from behind the shower curtain. “Take a look at my hair and tell me if it’s clean.”