Look Alive Twenty-Five

by Janet Evanovich

  “And the house?” I said.

  Wulf shrugged.

  Now it was my turn to smile. “You never searched his house,” I said.

  “That was an error on my part. Still, I trust you didn’t find anything significant.”

  “Not significant.”

  “Mildly important?” he asked.

  “Nothing worth mentioning,” I said.

  “Are you playing with me?”

  “Not intentionally.”

  He had crossed the room, and he was standing very close to me.

  “I could suggest a game,” he said.

  “I bet. No thank you. Maybe some other time.”

  He touched the back of my hand with his fingertip, and I felt a burning sensation. I looked down and saw that a blister was forming where he’d touched.

  “How did you do that?” I asked.

  “Magic,” he said. “Would you like to see what else I can do?”

  “Eugene!” I yelled.

  Eugene walked in from the hall, and Wulf gave his head a small shake. “Disappointing,” he said. “I expected foolish self-reliance from you.”

  “Are you going to disappear in a puff of smoke?” I asked him.

  “No,” he said. “We’ve had enough theatrics for one night.”

  Wulf left, and Eugene turned to me. “Would you like me to stay in the hall?”

  “Not necessary,” I said. “The Rangeman control room monitors my hall. They’ll let you know if Wulf returns.”

  I said good night to Eugene, and I locked my door. I had a brief conversation with Rex about the state of my life. I put some first-aid cream on my burn. I made a short phone call to Morelli. And I took my MacBook Air to bed with me and watched two episodes of House Hunters International before falling asleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  MY FIRST THOUGHT when I woke up was that it was Thursday, and I was going to have to go back to the Snake Pit. Maybe I’d get lucky, I told myself, and there’d be a cataclysmic ending of the world before Rockin’ Armpits took the stage. I was kidding, of course, because a cataclysmic ending of the world would be bad. On the positive side of the morning, Wulf wasn’t in my kitchen brewing coffee and scrambling eggs.

  An hour later I rolled into the office. Lula had already snarfed up the best donut, and Connie was paging through a Costco flyer.

  “How’d it go yesterday?” Connie asked. “Did you turn up anything new with Ranger?”

  “We went to Skoogie’s house and found some short videos. If you put them all together they sort of told a story. It started with a normal day at the deli with Stretch and Raymond, and it moved on to the kidnappings, the forehead tattoo, Victor Waggle with a meat cleaver, and then it returned to the deli with someone getting served what looked like a penis in a hot dog bun.”

  “A penis in a hot dog bun,” Lula said. “That’s sick. Did it fill the whole bun?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a good-size penis. What about condiments?”

  “There weren’t any.”

  “Hunh,” Lula said. “Everybody knows it’s all about the condiments. Who wants to eat a naked penis? If I’d been on the sandwich station that penis would have had mustard and relish on it, at the very least. Or it could have been a chili dog penis. Mustard and chili and chopped onion. That’s the way to serve a penis.”

  Connie and I exchanged glances. We didn’t know where to go with this.

  “Um, it’s a penis,” I finally said.

  “All the same,” Lula said. “I’m just sayin’.”

  “What’s on the schedule for today?” Connie asked.

  “I’m picking Annie Gurky up at ten o’clock. I’ll let you know when I have her in custody, and you can meet us at the courthouse. I have to get my laundry from my mother. And Lula and I should check on chicken farmer Darren Boot.”

  “And tonight, we get to go after Victor Waggle,” Lula said. “We can scope things out ahead of time when we look in on Boot.”

  “Do we have a full profile on Leonard Skoogie?” I asked Connie. “We know about his office and his condo. Does he own any other property?”

  Connie ran him through her system and shook her head. “His wives have picked him clean.”

  “What about Ernie Sitz? Does he have any hidden real estate?”

  “He has a house in the Burg. His wife is in it. She’s filed for divorce. He has a couple properties in Colombia. Everyone assumes he’s hanging out there now. He had a warehouse in an industrial park in Cherry Hill. It was foreclosed and sold at auction a year ago. That’s all of it.”

  I knew about the house and Colombian holdings. That information had been in my original file.

  “Just a thought,” I said. “The five kidnap victims are being held somewhere. It would be nice to discover property owned by Sitz or Skoogie that was previously overlooked.”

  “I can dig around,” Connie said.

  Lula looked out the front window. “Who’s following us around today?”

  “Carl,” I said. “He’s working the day shift.”

  “Doesn’t seem like there’s much danger lurking out there anymore,” Lula said. “Not that I’m opposed to a good-looking man riding on my bumper, but an armed guard doesn’t seem so necessary.”

  I glanced at the burn on my hand and thought about Waggle and the meat cleaver, and an armed guard seemed like an okay idea to me.

  “It’s almost ten o’clock,” I said. “Let’s see if Annie Gurky is ready to get rebonded.”

  “Do you want to drive, or do you want me driving?” Lula asked.

  “Carl is driving,” I said. “We’re going to use the Rangeman car.”

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  Annie was waiting on her friend’s porch. She was wearing a pale blue dress with a matching cardigan sweater. Her short hair was nicely styled, and she had a touch of pink lipstick. She was carrying a small purse, and she was holding a round tin.

  She got into the back seat, and she gave me the tin. “My friend Dolly and I baked you some cookies this morning. It was so nice of you to get Miss Muffy for me. She slept on the pillow next to me last night. It was wonderful.”

  I called Connie and told her we were on our way.

  “We’re going to check you in at the police station and walk you over to the courthouse,” I said. “Connie will meet you there and get you rebonded. After she bonds you out, she’ll take you back to Dolly’s house.”

  “That’s perfect,” Annie said. “I’m in a much better place now. I have my Miss Muffy. I’ve changed the locks on my house. And Dolly said she would adopt Miss Muffy if I have to go away to prison for a long time.”

  “I’m sure that’s not going to be necessary,” I said.

  An hour later Lula and I were back in the Rangeman SUV.

  “That was real nice of her to make us cookies,” Lula said, taking a cookie out of the tin. “Chocolate chip. My favorite.”

  I gave Darren Boot’s address to Carl and told him to do a slow cruise past the Snake Pit.

  “Hold on here,” Lula said. “I know this taste. I’ve had this cookie before. It’s got a edible in it. These are Hashy Smashies. They’re a controlled-substance tasty treat. This cookie could put you in a real good mood, but if you eat too many of them you want to stay close to a bathroom.”

  I took the cookie tin from Lula and put it in the cargo area behind the rear seat.

  “I’m not one to judge,” Lula said, “but seems to me Annie Gurky’s coping methods bear some examination. She should take up yoga or learn to play the saxophone.”

  There was no sign of life on the Snake Pit block. It was eerily quiet. The landscape was depressing. The area beyond it was even worse. We approached the junkyard and it was like a ray of sunshine. The big electro-magnet was working, moving cars to
the smashing machine.

  “I wouldn’t mind working here,” Lula said. “I like smashing things.”

  A half mile later we turned into Darren Boot’s driveway.

  “His pickup truck is parked in front of the house,” I said to Lula. “That’s a good sign.”

  A chicken flew out of the tall grass, flapping and squawking. It crashed into the Rangeman windshield and lay on the hood momentarily stunned. It got up, pooped, and flapped away.

  “That’s it for me,” Lula said. “There’s no way I’m getting out of this vehicle. Call Boot on the phone and tell him we’re parked and waiting for him.”

  I dialed Boot’s number. “He’s not picking up,” I said. “I’m going in.”

  “You could take Carl with you,” Lula said.

  Taking Carl with me had some appeal. Leaving Lula alone in the car had no appeal. In the past, Lula has sometimes decided she needed nachos and forgot she was supposed to wait for me.

  “Carl can stay here,” I said. “Darren won’t be a problem.”

  I kept my eyes on the path and made it to the house without getting pecked. Minnie Mouse answered and invited me in.

  “Darren is out back,” she said. “He’s working on the food truck.”

  “I didn’t know you had a food truck.”

  “Goodness, yes. It uses up the excess eggs and it brings in a nice amount of money. Just go through the kitchen and out the back door.”

  Darren was a slim man with thinning brown hair and a large Captain Hook nose. He was hosing down a food truck that looked like a refugee from the junkyard.

  “Howdy,” he said. “I’ll be with you in a minute. I just gotta get this washed off. The chickens make a terrible mess of it.”

  “What do you sell?” I asked him.

  “Breakfast burritos, mostly. We don’t sell them for breakfast, but they’re called that on account of we fill them with scrambled eggs. When you got a night of hard drugs and drinking there’s nothing better than a breakfast burrito. People stand in line forever for our burritos.”

  It suddenly clicked in my head. “I saw this truck at the Snake Pit,” I said.

  “Yep. That’s where we sell them. Every Thursday and Friday night. We’re famous because the big star of Rockin’ Armpits, Victor Waggle, won’t go onstage until he’s had one of our burritos. It’s a ritual for him. He shows up around ten o’clock. The security people bring him around to the back side of the truck so he doesn’t get mobbed.” Darren turned the hose off. “I guess you came to take me back to jail.”

  “Yes. You missed your court date.”

  “It’s hard to keep track of things like that. Problem is, this isn’t a good time for me. I’d appreciate it if you could come back in a couple days. I already bought the tortillas for tonight, and I’m in eggs up to my ears. And I don’t know what’ll happen if Victor doesn’t get his burrito.”

  “If we go now, court is in session, and I can get you rebonded and back home for dinner.”

  “I guess that would be okay.”

  I loaded Darren into the back seat of the Rangeman SUV, and called Connie.

  “We have to get him bonded out today,” I said. “He has to be working on his food truck tonight.”

  How good is this, I thought. I know exactly where Victor Waggle will be at ten o’clock. I can have everyone in place to make a capture with a minimum amount of fuss. We’ll get Waggle in cuffs, and hopefully he’ll know where the kidnap victims are being held.

  It was late afternoon when we went before the judge and the paperwork was completed. Lula returned to the office with Connie, and Carl and I took Darren home.

  “This turned out to be a real relaxing day,” Darren said. “It’s not often I get to sit around and do nothing. I’m usually collecting eggs or feeding chickens or selling eggs or feeding eggs or selling chickens or . . .”

  I was sitting in the front next to Carl, and I checked Darren out in the rearview mirror.

  “Are you okay back there?” I asked.

  “I’m freaking fine,” Darren said. “Why wouldn’t I be fine? I’m in this nice car and you even have bottled water and cookies back here for me. And by the way these cookies taste a little funny, but I like them anyway. They’re freaking fine.”

  I swiveled around and looked at him. “Cookies?”

  “Yep. The ones in the tin. I ate them all. I hope that was okay.”

  “Omigod,” I said to Carl. “He ate the Hashy Smashies.”

  “I don’t know from personal experience,” Carl said, “but I hear the edibles stay with you for a longer time than just smoking weed. And they aren’t always well tolerated.”

  “I feel a little sick,” Darren said.

  I squelched a grimace, and told Carl to drive faster.

  “Maybe I’m just hungry,” Darren said. “Are there any more cookies?”

  “No!”

  We had to detour around the Snake Pit. A flatbed was off-loading two giant spotlights. Vendors were finding their assigned spots on the street. Several black Escalades were lined up on the far end of the block.

  Carl blew past the junkyard, turned into Darren’s driveway, and skidded to a stop. I ran around and got Darren out of the car. He took two steps and projectile vomited half-digested Hashy Smashies.

  “Do you think he’ll be okay now?” I asked Carl.

  Carl shrugged. “Were there a lot of cookies in the tin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bummer.”

  I got Darren into the house, and Mrs. Boot helped me stretch him out on the couch. A chicken immediately jumped up and settled itself on Darren’s chest.

  “That’s Bobby Sunflower,” Mrs. Boot said. “She’s a cuddler.”

  “Darren ate some cookies that might not have agreed with him,” I told Mrs. Boot.

  “He has a sensitive stomach,” Mrs. Boot said. “I’m sure he’ll be okay if he just rests a little.”

  Carl was standing at the front door. “There’s a lot of chickens in here,” he said. “A lot of chickens.”

  “I don’t feel good,” Darren said, “but I don’t care. Sometimes you have to feel bad to feel good. Have you ever noticed that?”

  “Can you OD on cookies?” I asked Carl.

  “Doubtful,” he said. “And he lost half of them.”

  “Do you think he’s going to be able to drive the food truck?”

  “Doubtful again.”

  “Maybe you could drive it,” Mrs. Boot said to Carl.

  “I’d like to help, but I’m going off duty at seven o’clock, and I have to be back at Rangeman.”

  “Is someone coming to replace you?” I asked.

  “Jamil.”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “He’s good, but he’s a city boy. He might not be comfortable with the chickens.”

  “Tell him to pick Lula up on the way and bring her here.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THE FOOD TRUCK was packed with eggs and ready to go by seven o’clock, but it was without a driver. Darren was alternately dozing, rushing to the bathroom, or ranting nonsense. Mrs. Boot didn’t have a license and didn’t know how to drive the truck.

  Lula and Jamil were parked next to Carl’s SUV. They’d made a couple feeble attempts to get to the house, but had been beaten back by the chickens.

  “Darren would be setting out right about now,” Mrs. Boot said. “There’s traffic when you get up close to the street fair, and if the truck isn’t in its assigned spot by eight o’clock the spot will get given away.”

  I’d contacted Ranger and Morelli when I was at the courthouse and arranged for undercover men to be positioned around the food truck. If the food truck didn’t show up, the men would still be on location to take down Waggle, but it might be messy. The food truck would make it clean.

 
I went out back with Mrs. Boot and looked at the truck. It was old, but it seemed straightforward. It didn’t have eighteen gears and double clutches. It had the basics. Steering wheel. Brake pedal. Gas pedal. Recognizable gear shift.

  “I guess I could try this,” I said.

  “I can go along and help,” Mrs. Boot said. “I usually go with Darren.”

  The last thing I wanted was Darren’s mom caught in the middle of a police operation.

  “I’d rather you stay here and keep an eye on Darren,” I said. “Lula will be there to help me.”

  I got a ten-minute crash course in burrito making food truck style, and an additional five minutes of parking instruction. I climbed into the truck and got behind the wheel.

  “Drive carefully,” Mrs. Boot said. “Try not to break too many eggs. If you follow the driveway through the tall grass, it’ll take you out to the road a short distance from where your friends are parked.”

  The engine caught on the second try. I was cautious on the gas and eased the truck along the crude dirt driveway. I followed the ruts through the grass and stopped holding my breath when I reached the road. I met up with the two Rangeman SUVs, and Lula transferred over to the food truck.

  “We’re back in the food business,” I said to Lula.

  “It was meant to be. It’s an act of God.”

  It didn’t seem right to pin this fiasco on God, but I guess at the end of the day, he was the bottom-line guy. Or girl. Or gender-neutral entity.

  I crept along the road, past the junkyard and the high-rent parking area. I followed Mrs. Boot’s instructions and looked for the food truck entrance.

  “This is real organized,” Lula said. “Someone’s put some thought to this. It’s got professional-made signs, and the gang members aren’t killing each other. Not yet, anyway. I suppose it’s still early.”

  Jamil left me at the truck entrance, and my safety was transferred over to the Rangeman contingent on the inside. I handed an envelope filled with cash to the gate master, and in return I received a location number. I slowly rumbled along with my eggs and tortillas and stacks of fry pans.

  “Here we go,” Lula said. “Number fourteen.”