Plum Boxed Set 1, Books 1-3 Stephanie Plum Novels)

by Janet Evanovich

  I parked in the lot attached to the station and squired Eula through the front hall to the cop at the front desk. If it had been after business hours, or if I’d had an unruly fugitive on my hands, I’d have gotten myself buzzed through the back door directly to the docket lieutenant. None of that was necessary for Eula, so I sat her down while I tried to determine if the judge who’d originally set her bond was working cases. It turned out he wasn’t, and I had no recourse but to take her to the docket lieutenant anyway and have them hold her.

  I gave her the locker keys, picked up my body receipt, and left through the back door.

  Morelli was waiting for me in the parking lot, leaning against my car, hands shoved into his pockets, doing his imitation of a street tough, which probably wasn’t an imitation.

  “What’s new?” Morelli said.

  “Not much. What’s new with you?”

  He shrugged. “Slow day.”

  “Un-huh.”

  “Got any leads on Kenny?” he asked.

  “Nothing I’d share with you. You swiped the phone bill last night.”

  “I didn’t swipe it. I forgot I had it in my hand.”

  “Un-huh. So why don’t you tell me about the Mexican numbers?”

  “Nothing to tell.”

  “I don’t believe that for a second. And I don’t believe you’re putting all this effort into finding Kenny because you’re a good family person.”

  “You have a reason for your doubts?”

  “I have a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.”

  Morelli grinned. “You can take that to the bank.”

  Okay. Different approach. “I thought we were a team.”

  “There’s all kinds of teams. Some teams work more independent of each other.”

  I felt my eyes roll back in my head. “Let me get this straight,” I said. “What this comes down to is that I share all my information, but you don’t. Then when we find Kenny you spirit him off for reasons as yet unknown to me and cut me out of my recovery.”

  “It’s not like that. I wouldn’t cut you out of your recovery.”

  Give me a break. It was exactly like that, and we both knew it.

  Morelli and I had done battle before with only short-lived victories on both sides. I suspected this would be another war, of sorts. And I figured I’d have to learn how to live with it. If I went head-on with Morelli, he could make my life as a bounty hunter difficult to impossible.

  Not to say that I should be a total doormat. What was important was that I look like a doormat at appropriate moments. I decided this wasn’t one of those moments and that my demeanor now should be angry and offended. This was an easy act to pull off, since it was true. I peeled out of the police lot, pretending to know where I was going when in fact I didn’t. It was close to four, and I had no more stones to turn in the hunt for Mancuso, so I headed home, driving on autopilot, reviewing my progress.

  I knew I should go see Spiro, but I couldn’t muster a lot of joy over the project. I didn’t share Grandma’s enthusiasm for mortuaries. Actually, I thought death was just a bit creepy, and I though Spiro was downright subterranean. Since I wasn’t in all that good of a mood anyway, procrastination seemed like the way to go.

  I parked behind my building and skipped the elevator in favor of the stairs since the morning’s blueberry pancakes were still oozing over the top of my Levi’s. I let myself into my apartment and almost stepped on an envelope that had been shoved under the door. It was a plain white business-size envelope with my name printed in silver paste-on letters. I opened the envelope, removed the single piece of white paper, and read the two-sentence message, which had also been formed from paste-ons.

  “Take a vacation. It will be good for your health.”

  I didn’t see any travel agency brochures stuck in the envelope, so I assumed this wasn’t a cruise advertisement.

  I considered the other option. Threat. Of course, if the threat was from Kenny, that meant he was still in Trenton. Even better, it meant I’d done something to get him worried. Beyond Kenny I couldn’t imagine who would be threatening me. Maybe one of Kenny’s friends. Maybe Morelli. Maybe my mother.

  I said howdy to Rex, dumped my pocketbook and the envelope on the kitchen counter, and accessed my phone messages.

  My cousin Kitty, who worked at the bank, called to say she was keeping her eye on Mancuso’s account just like I’d asked, but there was no new activity.

  My best friend since the day I was born, Mary Lou Molnar, who was now Mary Lou Stankovic, called to ask if I’d dropped off the face of the earth since she hadn’t heard from me since God knows when.

  And the last message was from Grandma Mazur.

  “I hate these stupid machines,” she said. “Always feel like a dang fool talking to nobody. I saw in the paper where there’s gonna be a viewing for that gas station fellow tonight, and I could use a ride. Elsie Farnsworth said she’d take me, but I hate to go with her because she’s got arthritis in her knees and sometimes her foot gets stuck on the gas pedal.”

  A viewing for Moogey Bues. That seemed worthwhile. I went across the hall to borrow the paper from Mr. Wolesky. Mr. Wolesky kept his TV going day and night, so it was always necessary to pound real loud on his door. Then he’d open it and tell you not to knock his door down. When he had a heart attack four years ago, he called the ambulance but refused to get wheeled out until after Jeopardy! was over.

  Mr. Wolesky opened the door and glared out at me. “You don’t have to knock the door down,” he said. “I’m not deaf, you know.”

  “I was wondering if I could borrow your paper.”

  “As long as you bring it right back. I need the TV section.”

  “I just wanted to check the viewings.” I opened the paper to the obits and read down. Moogey Bues was at Stiva. Seven o’clock.

  I thanked Mr. Wolesky and returned his paper.

  I called Grandma and told her I’d pick her up at seven. I declined my mother’s dinner invitation, promised her I wouldn’t wear jeans to the viewing, disconnected, and, doing pancake damage control, searched my refrigerator for fat-free food.

  I was plowing through a salad when the phone rang.

  “Yo,” Ranger said. “Bet you’re eating salad for supper.”

  I stuck my tongue out and crossed my eyes at the handset. “You have anything to tell me about Mancuso?”

  “Mancuso don’t live here. He don’t visit here. He don’t do business here.”

  “Just out of morbid curiosity, if you were going to look for twenty-four missing caskets, where would you start?”

  “Are these caskets empty or full?”

  Oh shit, I’d forgotten to ask. I squeezed my eyes closed. Please God, let them be empty.

  I hung up and dialed Eddie Gazarra.

  “It’s your nickel,” Gazarra said.

  “I want to know what Joe Morelli’s working on.”

  “Good luck. Half the time Morelli’s captain doesn’t know what Morelli’s working on.”

  “I know, but you hear things.”

  Heavy sigh. “I’ll see what I can dig up.”

  Morelli was vice, which meant he was in a different building, in a different part of Trenton than Eddie. Vice did a lot of work with DEA and Customs and kept pretty closemouthed about their projects. Still, there was bar talk and clerical gossip and talk among spouses.

  I shucked my Levi’s and did the panty hose—business suit bit. I slid my feet into heels, fluffed my hair up with some gel and hairspray, and swiped at my lashes with mascara. I stepped back and took a look. Not bad, but I didn’t think Sharon Stone would drive off a bridge in a jealous rage.

  “Look at that skirt,” my mother said when she opened the door to me. “It’s no wonder we have so much crime today what with these short skirts. How can you sit in a skirt like that? Everyone can see everything.”

  “It’s two inches above my knee. It’s not that short.”

  “I haven’t got all day to stand here
talking about skirts,” Grandma Mazur said. “I got to get to the funeral parlor. I gotta see how they laid this guy out. I hope they didn’t smooth over those bullet holes too good.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” I told Grandma Mazur. “I think this will be closed coffin.” Not only was Moogey shot, but he was also autopsied. I figured it would take all the king’s horses and all the king’s men to put Moogey Bues back together again.

  “Closed coffin! Well, that would be darn disappointing. Word gets out that Stiva is having closed coffins and his attendance’ll drop like a rock.” She buttoned a cardigan sweater over her dress and tucked her pocketbook under her arm. “Didn’t say anything in the paper about closed coffins.”

  “Come back after,” my mother said. “I made chocolate pudding.”

  “You sure you don’t want to go?” Grandma Mazur asked my mother.

  “I didn’t know Moogey Bues,” my mother told her. “I’ve got better things to do than to go to a viewing of some perfect stranger.”

  “I wouldn’t go either,” Grandma Mazur said, “but I’m helping Stephanie with this here manhunt. Maybe Kenny Mancuso will show up, and Stephanie will need some extra muscle. I was watching television, and I saw how you stick your fingers in a person’s eyes to slow them down.”

  “She’s your responsibility,” my mother said to me. “She sticks her finger in anybody’s eye I’m holding you accountable.”

  The double-wide viewing room door was propped open to better accommodate the crush of people who’d come to see Moogey Bues. Grandma Mazur immediately began elbowing her way to the front with me in tow.

  “Well, don’t that beat all,” she said when she reached the end of the chairs. “You were right. They got the lid down.” Her eyes narrowed. “How are we supposed to know if Moogey’s really in there?”

  “I’m sure someone has checked.”

  “But we don’t know for certain.”

  I gave her the silent stare.

  “Maybe we should peek inside and see for ourselves,” she said.

  “NO!”

  Conversation paused as heads swiveled in our direction. I smiled apologetically and put a restraining arm around Grandma.

  I lowered my voice and added some stern to my whisper. “It’s not polite to peek into a closed casket. And besides, it’s none of our business, and it doesn’t really matter to us if Moogey Bues is here or there. If Moogey Bues is missing, it’s police business.”

  “It could be important to the case,” she said. “It could have to do with Kenny Mancuso.”

  “You’re just nosy. You want to see the bullet holes.”

  “There’s that,” she said.

  I noticed Ranger had also come to the viewing. As far as I knew, Ranger wore only two colors: army green and bad-ass black. Tonight he was bad-ass black, the monotony broken only by double-stud earrings, sparkling under the lights. As always, his hair was pulled back into a ponytail. As always, he wore a jacket. This time the jacket was black leather. One could only guess what was hidden under the jacket. Probably enough firepower to wipe out a small European country. He’d positioned himself against a back wall, standing with arms crossed, body relaxed, eyes watchful.

  Joe Morelli stood opposite him in a similar pose.

  I watched a man slide past a knot of people congregated at the door. The man took a fast survey of the room, then acknowledged Ranger with a nod.

  Only if you knew Ranger would you know he replied.

  I looked at Ranger, and he mouthed “Sandman” to me. Sandman. The name didn’t mean anything.

  Sandman approached the casket and studied the polished wood in silence. There was no expression to his face. He looked like he’d seen it all and didn’t think much of it. His eyes were dark, deep-set, and lined. I guessed the lines were from dissipation more than sun and laughter. His hair was black, oiled back from his face.

  He caught me staring and our eyes locked for a moment before he turned away.

  “I need to talk to Ranger,” I said to Grandma Mazur. “If I leave you alone will you promise not to get into trouble?”

  Grandma sniffed. “Well, that’s plain insulting. I guess after all these years I know how to behave myself.”

  “No fooling around, trying to see in the casket.”

  “Hmmph.”

  “Who was the guy that just paid his respects?” I asked Ranger. “Sandman?”

  “His name is Perry Sandeman. Got the name of Sandman on account of if you irritate him he’ll put you to sleep for a real long time.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “He gets around. Buys a little dope from the brothers.”

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “Works at the garage.”

  “Moogey’s garage?”

  “Yeah. I hear he was there when Moogey got shot in the knee.”

  Someone screamed in the front of the room, and there was the sound of a heavy object being slammed shut. A heavy object like a coffin lid. I felt my eyes involuntarily roll skyward.

  Spiro appeared in the doorway not far from me. Two small frown lines had fixed themselves between his eyebrows. He strode forward, cutting a swath through the crowd. I had a clear view in his wake, and the view was of Grandma Mazur.

  “It was my sleeve,” Grandma said to Spiro. “It got caught by accident on the lid and the dang thing just opened up. It could of happened to anyone.”

  Grandma looked back at me and gave a thumbs-up.

  “Is that your granny?” Ranger wanted to know.

  “Yup. She was checking to make sure Moogey was here.”

  “You’ve got a helluva gene pool, babe.”

  Spiro tested the lid to make sure it was securely closed and replaced the flower spray that had fallen to the floor.

  I hustled up, ready to lend support to the lid-caught-on-the-sleeve theory, but support wasn’t necessary. Spiro clearly wanted to minimize the incident. He made some sounds of comfort to the closest mourners and was busy wiping Grandma’s fingerprints off the glossy wood.

  “I couldn’t help but notice while the lid was up that you did a nice job,” Grandma said, hovering over Spiro. “Couldn’t hardly see those holes at all, except for where your mortician’s putty’d sunk in a little.”

  Spiro nodded solemnly, and with the touch of a fingertip to Grandma’s back, deftly turned her away from the casket. “We have tea in the lobby,” he said. “Perhaps you would like a cup of tea after this unfortunate experience?”

  “I guess a cup of tea wouldn’t hurt,” Grandma said. “I was pretty much done here anyway.”

  I accompanied Grandma to the lobby and made sure she was actually going to drink tea. When she settled into a chair with her cup and some cookies, I went on my own in search of Spiro. I found him loitering just outside the side door, standing in a halo of artificial light, sneaking a smoke.

  The air had grown cool, but Spiro seemed oblivious to the chill. He dragged the smoke deep into his lungs and exhaled slowly. I figured he was trying to absorb as much tar as possible, the sooner to end his wretched life.

  I knocked lightly on the glass door to get his attention. “Would you like to discuss the, um, you know … now?”

  He nodded to me, took one last long drag, and pitched his cigarette onto the driveway. “I would have called you this afternoon, but I figured you’d come to see Bues tonight. I need these things found yesterday.” He shifted his eyes over the lot to make sure we were alone.

  “Caskets are like anything else. Manufacturers have surplus, they have seconds, they have sales. Sometimes it’s possible to buy bulk and get a good price. About six months ago I put in a bulk bid and got twenty-four caskets below cost. We’re short on storage space here, so I stowed the caskets in a rental locker.”

  Spiro took an envelope from his jacket pocket. He removed a key from the envelope and held it up for my inspection. “This is the key to the locker. The address is inside the envelope. The caskets were wrapped in protective plasti
c for shipment and crated so they could be stacked. I’ve also included a photograph of one of the caskets. They were all the same. Very plain.”

  “Have you reported this to the police?”

  “I haven’t reported the theft to anyone. I want to get the caskets back and generate as little publicity as possible.”

  “This is out of my league.”

  “A thousand dollars.”

  “Jesus, Spiro, these are caskets we’re talking about! What kind of a person would steal caskets? And where would I begin to look? You have clues or something?”

  “I have a key and an empty locker.”

  “Maybe you should cut your losses and collect the insurance.”

  “I can’t file for insurance without a police report, and I don’t want to bring in the police.”

  The thousand dollars was tempting, but the job was beyond bizarre. I honestly didn’t know where to start looking for twenty-four lost caskets. “Suppose I actually find the caskets … what then? How do you expect to get them back? Seems to me if a person’s low enough to steal a casket, he’s going to be mean enough to fight to keep it.”

  “Let’s just go one step at a time,” Spiro said. “Your finder’s fee doesn’t involve retrieving. Retrieving will be my problem.”

  “I suppose I could ask around.”

  “We need to keep this confidential.”

  No sweat. As if I’d want people to know I was looking for caskets. Get real. “My lips are sealed.” I took the envelope and stuffed it into my pocketbook. “One other thing,” I said. “These caskets are empty, right?”

  “Right.”

  I went back to look for Grandma, and I was thinking maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Spiro had lost a shitload of caskets. They wouldn’t be that easy to hide. It wasn’t as if you could pack them into the trunk of your car and drive away. Someone had come in with a flatbed or a semi and taken those caskets. Maybe it was an internal job. Maybe someone from the locker company had ripped Spiro off. Then what? The market for caskets is pretty limited. You could hardly use them as planters or lamp stands. The caskets would have to be sold to other mortuaries. These thieves had to be on the cutting edge of crime. Black-market caskets.