Look Alive Twenty-Five

by Janet Evanovich

  I got the truck into position, and I opened the canopy.

  “How are we going to do this?” Lula asked. “I didn’t make burritos at the deli.”

  “We have a big griddle, six burners, and a warming oven. Darren’s mom said it’s up to us how we want to cook stuff. Darren puts everything on the griddle, but his mom likes to use the fry pans. The refried beans are in the slow cooker. There are more cans of them underneath the counter. There’s only one thing on the menu, and it’s always made the same unless someone doesn’t want beans. This is a bare-bones burrito. You take a warm tortilla, you use this measuring cup to add scrambled eggs, you glop on some beans, and you squirt the magic secret hot sauce all over the eggs. Darren’s mom says it’s fresh eggs and hot sauce that keeps them coming back for more. There are a bunch of squeeze bottles of hot sauce next to the slow cooker.”

  “What about plates?”

  “No plates. We have wrappers. They’re in a stack at the end of the counter.”

  “I hope none of my fans are here,” Lula said. “They would be real disappointed. There’s no way for me to use my artistic talents.”

  “I guess they’ll just have to settle for the hot sauce.”

  There was a lot of activity in the area. Most of it coming from organizers and vendors. Ranger was watching from the other side of the street. He nodded to me, and I nodded back. Morelli was standing in the shadow of the Flamin’ Ribs and Hot Dogs food truck next to mine. Wulf was lurking a short distance from Ranger.

  The public started trickling in at eight o’clock. The bands wouldn’t start until ten, so this was a time to shop and socialize. We had our first customer a little after eight, and by nine o’clock we had people standing in line. I was on the griddle, and Lula was on the fry pans. I was soaked with sweat, and my hair looked like it had been electrocuted. It was pulled back in a ponytail, but it was total frizz with tendrils coming loose from the elastic band and sticking to my flushed, sweaty face. My only consolation was that I thought Lula looked no better.

  I saw a couple cops and some Rangeman guys wander past the truck. It was good to know everyone was in place, and I was relieved of the burden of capturing Waggle.

  At nine-thirty a large man with a lot of gold chains around his neck came to the truck and asked me for Victor’s burrito.

  “Sure,” I said. “Where’s Victor?”

  “He’s getting ready for his set.”

  “The owner of the truck said I was supposed to personally give the burrito to Victor.”

  “We’re doing things different today.”

  “Sorry, I can’t just give anyone Victor’s burrito. You’re going to have to move along. We have a line here.”

  The gold chains guy got on his phone and talked to someone. He looked over at me and shook his head. He looked down at his shoes. He paced around and talked some more. He hung up and came back to me.

  “Victor wants his burrito,” Gold Chains said. “He won’t go on until he gets his burrito.”

  “And?”

  “And either you give me the burrito, or else I’ll shoot you.”

  “You’d shoot me over a burrito?”

  “I’ve shot people for less.”

  Morelli was on his cellphone, and Ranger was meandering across the street, walking in my direction.

  “Personally, I think you’re just trying to cut the line,” I said to Gold Chains, “but I’m going to humor you. Step back and I’ll make your stupid burrito.”

  He took a step back, and Ranger and two of his men quietly disarmed him and removed him from the area.

  Ranger returned moments later. Morelli was still in place. Lula had kicked off her shoes and was working barefoot.

  “Look at me,” she said. “I’m a burrito-making machine.”

  This was true. She was making two to my one. We had large wire baskets of eggs on the counter, and we’d already gone through one entire basket.

  I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and was face-to-face with Victor Waggle.

  “I need my burrito,” he said. His eyes got wide as he recognized me. “You! I know who you are. You’re a cop.”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “I’m a bail bonds enforcement agent.”

  “I don’t like them either,” Victor said. “Where’s Darren and Minnie Mouse?”

  “Darren is sick,” I said. “I’m helping out.”

  “Hey!” someone yelled. “It’s Victor Waggle!”

  In an instant, the truck was surrounded by a crush of fans. Ranger’s men and Morelli’s men were on the perimeter, trying to work their way through, and the fans weren’t liking it. There was a lot of pushing and shoving. Someone threw a punch, and a fight broke out. The customers were smashed up against the truck, and the truck was rocking on its wheels.

  “Get away from my truck,” Lula shouted at them. “What’s the matter with you people? Where are your manners?”

  Someone tried to climb into the truck through the service window, and Lula threw an egg at him. It broke on his forehead and slimed down his face. A roar went up from the crowd, and I felt the truck begin to tip.

  “Abandon ship!” Lula yelled.

  Too late. The truck flopped over on its side, dumping eggs, beans, fry pans, and hot sauce everywhere. I went to my hands and knees, and instinctively crawled to the door.

  Event security was mixed in with the police and Rangeman guys, pulling people off the truck and pitching them into the crowd.

  I made it to the door and got to my feet. Victor followed. I saw the flash of a knife blade, and someone screamed. Victor grabbed me from behind, and put the knife to my neck. The blade sliced into me, and I saw a drop of blood soak into my shirt.

  “No one move,” Victor said. “Back off or I’ll cut her head off.”

  Everyone froze.

  “Drop your guns,” Victor said.

  About a hundred guns clattered to the ground.

  “I’m walking out with her,” Victor said. “No one even twitch because I’m not in a good mood. All I wanted was a goddamn burrito.”

  He pushed me forward, I heard a loud BONK, the knife fell out of his hand, and he crashed to the ground.

  Lula stood over him, holding a fry pan. “Burrito that,” she said. “And you shouldn’t use the Lord’s name in vain. It’s not nice.”

  Waggle was facedown on the road. He had a big gash in the back of his head, and he wasn’t moving. An event security person flipped him over, and he opened his eyes.

  “What the fuck?” Waggle said.

  There were a lot of men, wearing a variety of uniforms, doing crowd control, pushing people back from the truck. Morelli cuffed Waggle and called for medical. Ranger was at my side. Someone handed him a towel, and he pressed it to my neck.

  “It’s not a dangerous cut,” he said. “It’s bleeding, but it’s not deep.”

  I nodded. “I’m okay.”

  I said I was okay, but my teeth were chattering and my eyes were tearing up. A medic pushed his way through to me and examined the cut. I declined a trip to the hospital, but I got the wound cleaned and bandaged. Waggle was strapped to a stretcher and trundled into an EMS truck with a police escort.

  “What’s the plan?” Ranger said to Morelli. “One of us is going to have to get her cleaned up.”

  I looked down at myself. I was head-to-toe raw egg and refried beans.

  “Your turn,” Morelli said. “I have to stay with Waggle.”

  Ranger grinned at Morelli. “You trust me in the shower with her?”

  “No. I trust her. Plus, it’s going to take you an hour just to get the egg out of her hair, she’s got eight Steri-Strips holding that cut together in place of stitches, and if I find out anything inappropriate happened in the shower I’ll kill you.”

  “That sounds reasonable,” Ranger said.

 
Lula was nearby, giving an interview to a local cable station.

  “I don’t usually have beans in my hair,” she said to the woman with the microphone. “This isn’t my best look.”

  “I’m leaving with Ranger,” I said to Lula. “Jamil is waiting to drive you home.”

  Lula looked over and waved at Jamil. “Hey, sweetie,” she said. “I’ll be ready in a couple minutes.”

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  Ranger opened the door to his apartment, and I stepped inside. Lights were low. The air was cool. I stood in the hallway and a glob of refried beans fell off my jeans onto the immaculate polished floor.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Babe,” Ranger said, “it’s just beans.”

  I shucked my shoes and jeans, stripped off my T-shirt, and carefully made my way to Ranger’s bathroom. I had a waterproof patch over my cut, so in theory I could shower. Under other circumstances, using Ranger’s shower would be a luxury. He has limitless hot water, expensive shower gel and shampoo, and fluffy soft towels. Today it was a chore. My cut was throbbing, and the egg had dried in my hair.

  Ranger cut the elastic that was holding my ponytail and turned the water on for me.

  “Do you need help?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t want Morelli to have to kill you.”

  “I appreciate your concern. Let me know if you want to risk it.”

  Ranger left the bathroom, and I dropped my remaining clothes. I stepped into the shower and stood under the hot water until it felt like the goo in my hair was beginning to soften. I soaped up with his Bulgari Green shower gel and shampoo and rinsed off. I could still feel bits of eggshell stuck in my hair so I washed it two more times.

  When I finally stumbled out of the shower I thought I smelled pretty good, but I was exhausted. I blasted my hair with the hair dryer, wrapped myself in a towel, and went to stand in the middle of Ranger’s walk-in closet.

  “No clothes,” I said.

  Ranger took one of his perfectly folded black T-shirts from the stack of black T-shirts and dropped it over my head.

  “No undies,” I said.

  “Can’t help you there,” he said.

  “Is my hair okay?”

  He tucked a strand behind my ear. “Not an eggshell in sight.”

  “And the bandage on my neck?”

  “It looks good. We’ll change it tomorrow morning.”

  “You have a wonderful shower,” I said.

  Ranger moved me out of the closet and pointed me in the direction of the bed. “My bed is even better. And your boyfriend didn’t say anything about inappropriate behavior in my bed.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  RANGER WAS STANDING beside the bed when I opened my eyes.

  “Sorry to wake you,” he said, “but the morning is moving on without us. Waggle is talking, and Morelli wants you to hear what he has to say.”

  “I haven’t got any clothes.”

  “Ella found clothes for you. I put them in my closet. Grab something to eat and meet me in my office. We’ll change your bandage and head out.”

  I took a fast shower, got dressed in my new clothes, and went down to the fifth floor. I made a quick trip to the break room for coffee-to-go and a breakfast sandwich, and I walked the short hall to Ranger’s office.

  “Did Waggle give up any information about Hal?” I asked.

  “No. It doesn’t sound like he was part of that piece of the operation.” Ranger peeled the big bandage off my neck and replaced it with a smaller one. “I told Morelli we’d meet him at the police station.”

  I took my sandwich and coffee in the car with me and finished eating seconds before Ranger parked. I took my coffee into the building with me.

  Morelli was waiting in the hall for us, and led us into a small interview room. His eyes immediately went to the bandage on my neck.

  “It’s fine,” I said. “A little sore to the touch but other than that it’s good. No problems.”

  There was a small table with four chairs in the room. Morelli’s laptop was on the table.

  “How’s Waggle?” I asked.

  “His head wound is okay,” Morelli said. “Lula chose a good fry pan. If she’d gone with the cast iron she might have killed him, and then we’d have no one to talk to.”

  “She’s not much of a shot with a gun,” I said, “but she’s spot on with a fry pan.”

  “Beyond the head wound, the man has serious problems,” Morelli said. “Some of the problems are drug related. We did a blood test at the hospital, and he’s a walking pharmacy. I don’t know how he functions at all. Plus, I suspect there’s some underlying mental illness. Possibly bipolar. Possibly schizophrenia. He has lucid moments where we get snippets of information from him, and then he gets crazy eyes and goes off on a rant that’s unintelligible. I’ve had two sessions with him. One last night when we brought him in, and one this morning. I’m hoping you’ll pick up something I missed.”

  Morelli pulled the first session up on his laptop and turned the computer, so Ranger and I could see the screen. There were the usual niceties of “What is your name?” and the waiving of a lawyer. Waggle was sitting slumped in his seat. His head was bandaged. He mumbled his answers and was asked to speak up.

  “I want a burrito,” he said. “I’m not going onstage until I get a burrito.”

  Morelli carefully explained to him that he was in a police station, and he wouldn’t be going onstage.

  “Does that mean I won’t get a burrito?”

  Morelli made a sign to someone off camera.

  “We’ll try to get you a burrito,” Morelli said.

  “Some people do yoga, but I do burrito,” Waggle said.

  Morelli nodded. The good cop understanding and sympathizing. “Tell me about Leonard Skoogie,” Morelli said.

  There was an instant change in Waggle. If he hadn’t been shackled to the chair he would have been on his feet.

  “I hate Leonard Skoogie,” he said. “He was my agent, and he sold me out. I went to his office to kill him. I would have stabbed him and cut him up into tiny pieces until he looked like Skoogie confetti, but he was already dead by the time I got to him. How shitty is that? Nothing ever works out for me. I could hardly get the knife in him. It got stuck in his neck.”

  “Do you know who killed him?” Morelli asked.

  “No, but I hate the bastard who got to him first. I wanted to kill Skoogie. There’s no justice in this world.”

  “Yeah, bummer,” Morelli said.

  “He sold me out. I was supposed to star in the show. I was going to be a big television star, and he made the deal without me. He didn’t die of natural causes or anything, did he? I would hate that. I hope he suffered. Did he suffer?”

  “I don’t know,” Morelli said. “By the time I got to him he wasn’t talking, and he had your knife sticking out of his neck. Why did you put him in the closet?”

  “It seemed boring to leave him on the floor. People would come in and it would just be another dead guy on the floor. Having him pitch himself out of a closet is more memorable. And don’t forget the shoe. Did you like the shoe on the desk? It made you think, right? It added to the plotline and brought it all together.”

  “Tell me about the plotline,” Morelli said.

  Waggle’s eyes were darting around. “Where’s my burrito? You promised me a burrito.”

  Morelli looked to someone off camera. “Do we have the burrito?”

  Moments later a uniform came in holding a fast-food bag. He handed the bag to Morelli and left. Morelli opened the bag and passed it over to Waggle.

  “This isn’t a breakfast burrito,” Waggle said. “There’s no egg in this. And who made it? Bruce the Bear?”

  “It’s two in the morning,” Morelli said. “This was the only burrito w
e could find.”

  Morelli hit the button to end the video.

  “It deteriorates fast after this. It’s like once something sets him off he completely loses it. He actually asked for a knife. He said he had to stab something.”

  “And the second interview this morning?” Ranger asked.

  Morelli pulled the second interview up. Waggle was at the table, and he was jiggling his foot so hard his whole body was vibrating.

  “He’s strung out,” I said.

  Morelli nodded agreement. “We shipped him off to a state facility after this session.”

  “Tell me about the television show,” Morelli said, sitting across the table from Waggle, leaning forward a little. Friendly.

  “It was my idea,” Waggle said. “I had the idea, and I wrote the script. And they stole it. It was a good idea. It was about a deli for cannibals. It started out like an ordinary deli, but they weren’t making any money, so they got the idea to go gourmet niche.”

  He’d started out pale and agitated, but he was getting some color back in his cheeks as he talked about the show.

  “They would get people to work in the deli, and then they’d capture them and butcher them and serve them to cannibals. Genius, right? And then for future shows they could put the extra captured humans up for auction, like they do in stockyards. And there could be these cannibal deli places all over the world. So, what do you think?”

  “Wow,” Morelli said.

  “I even wrote a script for the musical,” Waggle said.

  The color went out of Waggle’s cheeks, and his eyes lost focus. “I don’t feel good,” he said. “I need my meds.”

  “We’re working on it,” Morelli said. “Why did you actually kidnap people if this was just for a television show?”

  “We couldn’t sell the show, so we thought we’d do a reality thing and get some publicity. And it worked. Skoogie finally sold it.”

  “What about the people you kidnapped? Where are they?”

  “I don’t know. I just came in when they needed me to be in a scene. They took them to the stockyard or the slaughterhouse or something.”

  Waggle started to shiver, and someone came in and wrapped a blanket around him.