Look Alive Twenty-Five

by Janet Evanovich

  “Did any of them catch a drone?”

  “We saw one cross the lot when Hal was taken. It’s probably what lured him out of camera range.”

  “Is there a cellar under this building?” I asked.

  “No cellar. Just a crawl space with a dirt floor. I’ve already checked it out. Nothing interesting down there.”

  “There doesn’t seem to be anything interesting up here either.”

  “I didn’t expect there’d be any surprises,” Ranger said. “I’m hoping we get lucky on the second floor.”

  “Is it safe to go up there?”

  “The second deck is concrete. It’s a fire floor. I’m told the damage upstairs is minimal compared to the deli.”

  “How do we get up there?”

  “It has its own side entrance. I noticed it when I took the alley to move the car last night.”

  I followed Ranger to the side door and waited while he ripped the crime scene tape off and worked his magic on the police-installed padlock.

  The stairs were narrow and smelled like wet dog and smoke. Once we were out of the stairwell, the air got better. There were two rooms and a bathroom. The front room had an apartment kitchen at one end. The rest of the room was filled with water-logged furniture, a couple metal file cabinets, soggy rugs that had been rolled, a metal desk and desk chair, and a medium-size safe. The second room was unfurnished, but filled with empty vegetable crates, stacks of chipped plates, a garbage bag filled with soiled napkins, and other assorted treasures.

  “Can you get in the safe?” I asked Ranger.

  “I’m not a safe expert,” he said. “I’ll text Slick.”

  “You have someone working for you named Slick?”

  “He’s an independent contractor. He calls himself Slick, and he gets paid in cash. I don’t ask questions.”

  We each took a file cabinet and methodically went drawer by drawer.

  “I’m not finding anything helpful,” I said. “There’s an entire drawer of appliance instructions and warranties. I don’t imagine any of it covers grease fire. And there’s a drawer of Ernie’s income tax returns from twenty years ago.”

  It was a four-drawer file cabinet. I began paging through the third drawer and realized I was looking at movie and television scripts. I pulled them out and stacked them on the desk. I went to the last drawer and found folders labeled STORY IDEAS, PILOTS, CONTACTS, FUTURE PROJECTS. The folders were empty.

  “What do you make of this?” I said to Ranger.

  Ranger looked through the scripts. “These look like real scripts from movies and television shows.”

  “Why would you have a whole file drawer of other people’s scripts?”

  “If you had aspirations of writing or even producing you might want to study scripts that already made it to the screen.”

  “And what about the empty folders?”

  “They’re not pristine,” Ranger said. “I’m guessing they had material in them, and the material has been removed.”

  “Did you find anything in your cabinet?”

  “Papers from divorce settlements. Veterinary records for two dogs. Lease agreements for cars. Lease agreements for commercial properties. Nothing current.”

  There were footsteps on the stairs, and a slim older man wearing a small black nylon backpack came into the room.

  “You didn’t tell me to wear boots,” he said to Ranger. “It’s a mess out there.”

  “I’ll include an allowance for shoes,” Ranger said.

  “Nikes,” the man said. “Two hundred bucks.”

  Ranger nodded at the safe.

  Slick set his backpack on the floor and squatted in front of the safe. Ten minutes later, the safe was open, and Slick took his backpack and left.

  “That was disappointing,” I said to Ranger. “No dynamite. He didn’t even do any drilling. He just used an electronic gizmo.”

  Ranger opened the door wide, and we looked in. A small spiral notepad. Several bundles of hundred-dollar bills. A Smith & Wesson .38. Very similar to the gun I sometimes carried. A passport.

  Neither of us moved for a beat. Ranger showed nothing, but I know my eyebrows were raised. I’m not sure what I expected to find, but it wasn’t this. Ernie Sitz might have walked away from twenty-year-old tax returns and a collection of sitcom scripts, but he wouldn’t have left this much money in a building he no longer owned. That left Harry or Vinnie. Vinnie didn’t have this kind of money. Harry had varied interests and probably had money and fake passports stashed all over the place.

  Ranger took the passport and paged through it.

  “Ernest Jingle,” he said.

  “Is it a fake?”

  “Yep. And not a very good one.”

  Ranger returned the passport to the safe, took out the notepad, and flipped pages.

  “And?” I asked.

  “Financial transactions.”

  He showed me a page with numbers.

  “Offshore banking?” I asked.

  “Bitcoin,” Ranger said.

  “Anything else in the notepad?”

  “That’s it.”

  He used his phone to take a picture of the Bitcoin numbers, and he replaced the notepad. The bundles of money were left.

  “That’s a lot of money,” I said.

  Ranger examined one of the bundles. “It’s movie money. It’s a prop.”

  “The gun looks real,” I said.

  Ranger tossed the fake money into the safe and partially closed the door. There were footsteps on the stairs, and Morelli and a uniform walked into the room.

  “Looks like Krut is still sick,” Ranger said.

  “Pneumonia,” Morelli said. “I think he’s faking it so I have to take over as primary on this.”

  “There’s a lot of faking going on,” Ranger said. “The safe is full of fake things.”

  Morelli glanced over. “I saw Slick on the street. I appreciate that you left this open for me. I wouldn’t have cause to break in, and even if I did, Slick isn’t in my budget.”

  Ranger and I left, and Morelli stayed.

  “I have to get back to Rangeman,” Ranger said.

  I put my shoes on, and gave him my boots. “I’m going to the bonds office. I have some loose ends.”

  “Victor Waggle?”

  “For starters.”

  “Did you tell Morelli about your conversation with Wulf?” Ranger asked.

  “No. I thought it would just muddy the water. He’d have yet another useless lock put on my door. And he’s already got everyone looking for Waggle.”

  “Babe,” Ranger said, giving my ponytail a playful tug.

  I drove away from the deli with my Rangeman escort close behind. Don’t look, I told myself. Pretend he isn’t there. Ignore him.

  I parked in front of the bonds office, and he parked behind me. I got out of my car, and he beeped and waved. I gave him a little wave back.

  “Who’s on your bumper today?” Lula asked when I walked in.

  “I don’t know. They all look the same. They’re completely interchangeable.”

  “You sound like Miss Cranky,” Lula said.

  “The escort thing is getting old.”

  My phone rang, and I looked at the screen. Holy cow. It was Annie Gurky’s number.

  “Hello,” I said. “This is Stephanie.”

  “This is Annie Gurky,” she said. “I’m thinking that I might want to check in with the judge about my misunderstanding.”

  “That’s great. I can help with that.”

  “I have a small problem that I have to take care of first. It’s my cat, Miss Muffy. I want her back.”

  “Okay.”

  “And you need to get her for me.”

  Not okay.

  “I have it all figured out,” Anni
e said. “My scumbag, philandering ex-husband and his whore, who happens to be my ex-sister, are in Atlantic City for a cornhole tournament. They won’t be back until tomorrow, so I thought this would be the perfect time for you to get Miss Muffy.”

  “Why can’t you get Miss Muffy?”

  “I tried. I can’t get into their house. It’s all locked up. I could see Miss Muffy through the window, meowing at me. Poor thing.”

  “I understand that you love Miss Muffy,” I said, “but I can’t break into someone’s house to steal their cat.”

  “She’s not their cat. She’s my cat.”

  “It’s considered breaking and entering and robbery,” I said.

  “They catnapped Miss Muffy. They took her when I wasn’t home.”

  “Don’t you lock your house?”

  “The scumbag had a key.”

  “How about if I come pick you up and take you to the courthouse to get rescheduled? Then we can find a way to get Miss Muffy back.”

  “No. First, I get Miss Muffy, and then I’ll go with you. I’ve done some research. All you have to do is go to the door and holler that you’re a bounty hunter and you’re sure a felon is hiding out in the house. Then you can legally break the door down and get my cat.”

  Technically that was sort of true.

  “I’m not that kind of bounty hunter,” I said. “I don’t break doors down.”

  “These are desperate times,” Annie said. “You have my phone number, and I’m going to text you the address. It’s easy to recognize Miss Muffy because she’s fluffy. And she’s a cat. There should be a cat carrier by the back door. I could see it through the window. Just put Miss Muffy in the carrier. She’s very sweet.”

  I hung up, and my phone dinged with the texted address.

  “What was that about?” Lula asked.

  “Annie Gurky wants me to steal her cat back for her.”

  “That’s a worthy cause,” Lula said. “That’s righteous.”

  “It’s a felony.”

  “Not for us,” Lula said. “We go in looking for Annie, and we can’t help if the cat follows us out.”

  Connie had her hands over her ears. “I’m not hearing any of this.”

  Half Connie’s family is mob. She grew up knowing when not to listen.

  “It’s my understanding from last time we talked to Annie that her husband has the cat,” Lula said. “Does this intervention involve getting the husband out of the house?”

  “The house is empty,” I said. “The husband is at a cornhole competition in Atlantic City.”

  “Say what?”

  “Cornhole competition. That’s what Annie told me.”

  “That sounds like something sick,” Lula said. “What kind of a person would participate in a cornhole competition? I personally wouldn’t be involved in anything to do with cornholes. Even when I was working as a ’ho I didn’t touch cornholes.”

  “It’s a game with beanbags,” Connie said. “There’s a board with a hole in it, and you throw the beanbags and try to get them through the hole.”

  “Then why’s it called a cornhole competition?” Lula asked. “Why isn’t it a beanbag competition?”

  “I don’t know,” Connie said. “I got nothing.”

  “So where does this guy live?” Lula asked.

  “Hamilton Township.”

  “We should go take a look,” Lula said, settling her faux Vuitton tote onto her shoulder. “Scope it out. It could coincide with lunch at the new diner on Route 33. I understand they serve an excellent Taylor’s pork roll sandwich.”

  We took Lula’s Firebird and followed her GPS to Freestone Street. It was a neighborhood of nicely maintained single-family houses. Lots were just the right size to have a swing set in the back for the kids and a fenced yard for the dog. Sidewalks were shaded by mature trees. No graffiti. No bullet holes in the aluminum siding. Very respectable. Didn’t seem appropriate for the scumbag cat snatcher and his whore.

  “This is a real nice neighborhood,” Lula said. “I bet they got stainless appliances in these kitchens.”

  “We’re looking for number 3625 Freestone,” I said. “It’s the ranch just ahead on the right.”

  Lula idled in front of the house. “Not a lot of bushes around it,” she said. “And the neighbors’ houses are close on both sides. People are going to see us creeping around, looking to break in.”

  “We want to go in through the back door,” I said. “That’s where the cat carrier is located.”

  “I’m thinking we do this at night,” Lula said. “It’s harder to see me at night on account of I’m like a shadow then. I’m like Super Dark Shadow Girl.”

  I was like Super White Moonbeam, but I could tamp it down if I wore a black hoodie.

  Lula cruised on down the street, and the Rangeman guy followed close behind. We stopped at the diner and invited the Rangeman guy to join us for lunch, but he declined.

  “He looks like he eats granola bars made out of tree bark and beetles,” Lula said. “And I bet he goes commando.”

  The commando remark required a moment of silence from both of us while we enjoyed the mental image. At the end of the moment we gave up a sigh and ordered Taylor’s pork roll sandwiches with cheese and a side of fries.

  “Now that I’ve been a part of the food industry I’m seeing a lot of things differently,” Lula said. “These forks and knives we got don’t even have food stuck to them. That’s a sign of a superior establishment. And the plates that are coming out are all attractive with pickles as a garnish. It’s nice to have something green on the plate besides the sliced turkey.”

  I nodded in agreement. The grease fire was an act of God. It would only have been a matter of time before we poisoned someone if the deli had stayed open.

  “Wulf dropped in this morning,” I said. “He thinks I should be concentrating more on finding the kidnap victims than on trying to find the kidnapper.”

  “I agree with that, but I don’t know how you do it. It’s not like anyone left a forwarding address.”

  “He thinks I should try harder to capture Waggle.”

  “You’ll have your chance tomorrow night,” Lula said. “He’ll be at the Snake Pit.”

  “He’d be crazy to perform.”

  “What’s your point?” Lula asked.

  Lula was right. Victor Waggle was a crazy man.

  “I’m taking Ranger with me this time,” I said.

  “Don’t think you’re leaving me out. I got body armor and a new wig, so when my hair gets shot it’s not mine.”

  Our food arrived, and I ate on autopilot while I thought about my conversation with Wulf. He said the connection went from Sitz to Skoogie to Waggle. The kidnappings had been caught on video and put on YouTube. The safe and the file cabinets had been filled with television and movie stuff. It was like this whole bizarre horror was entertainment . . . like reality television, or dinner theater, or a personal diversion.

  I called Ranger.

  “I’d like to go back to Skoogie’s office,” I said. “Can you get me in?”

  “When you’re done with lunch, have Carl bring you around to the garage entrance. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Carl is the guy who’s been following me around?”

  “Yes.”

  Ranger disconnected, and I dug into my rice pudding.

  “Why are you going back to Skoogie’s office?” Lula asked.

  “I went through the deli building this morning with Ranger, and there were some files missing from a file cabinet. I want to see if they’re in Skoogie’s office.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  LULA WENT BACK to the office, and Carl took me to the Hamilton Building, where I transferred from the Rangeman SUV to Ranger’s Porsche 911 Turbo.

  “Let me guess,” Ranger said. “You want to look fo
r the missing files.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Am I wired? You heard me talking to Lula, right?”

  “Wrong. I had the same thought. There’s a theatrical connection between Sitz, Skoogie, and Waggle, and possibly a criminal one. I wouldn’t mind seeing what’s in the missing files.”

  “For instance, maybe under FUTURE PROJECTS would be a plan for kidnapping five men and leaving a shoe behind.”

  “It’s an interesting hook,” Ranger said.

  We parked and took the stairs to the second floor. Ranger opened the door to Skoogie’s office, startling Miriam. She was at her desk, looking lost.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d be here,” I said to Miriam.

  “It turns out, the business doesn’t stop with death. There are contracts in place, and new deals in progress, and checks to write. It’s all very confusing, because I don’t seem to be working for anyone. I thought about leaving a message on the answering machine that Mr. Skoogie is dead and the agency is closed, but it felt irresponsible.”

  “Did Mr. Skoogie have business partners?” I asked.

  “He had joint ventures,” Miriam said. “It’s common practice for multiple production companies to participate in a project. As far as I know the agency was solely owned by Mr. Skoogie. I suppose someone will inherit it, but I can’t imagine it continuing without Mr. Skoogie.”

  “We’re going to look around,” I said. “We won’t be long.”

  “Take your time. It’s nice to have the company. It’s creepy being alone in here now.”

  I took the desk, Ranger took the file cabinet, and we both came up empty.

  “Nothing,” I said. “No missing files.”

  “Did the police take anything out of the office?” I asked Miriam.

  “No,” she said. “Not to my knowledge.”

  “I’ve reviewed the security tape again,” Ranger said. “Skoogie entered the building with a messenger bag hung from his shoulder. I don’t see a messenger bag here. I also don’t see a computer on Skoogie’s desk.”

  “He worked on a laptop,” Miriam said. “A MacBook Air. He carried it in his messenger bag. It was so he could work from home or on the road.”

  “Did you back it up for him?” Ranger asked. “I didn’t see an external backup drive.”