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

by Janet Evanovich

  “Yeah.”

  “Then watch out for my tires when I go into Stiva’s.”

  Stiva’s little side lot was totally filled with the matinee crowd, forcing me to park on the street. I got out of the Buick and tried to be cool about looking for Morelli. I couldn’t find him, but I knew he was close because my stomach felt hot and squishy.

  Spiro was in the lobby doing his best impersonation of God directing traffic.

  “How’s it going?” I said.

  “Busy. Joe Loosey came in last night. Aneurysm. And Stan Radiewski is here. He was an Elk. The Elks always get a big turnout.”

  “I have some good news and some bad news,” I said. “The good news is … I think I found your caskets.”

  “And the bad news?”

  I took the blackened clasp out of my pocket. “The bad news is … this is all that’s left.”

  Spiro looked at the clasp. “I don’t get it.”

  “Someone barbecued a bunch of caskets last night. Had them all stacked up in one of the loading bays at the pipe factory, soaked the caskets in gasoline, and lit a fuse. They were pretty badly burned, but there was enough of one to identify as a casket in a crate.”

  “And you saw this? What else got burned? Was there anything else?”

  Like a few LAWs? “From what I could see there were just caskets. You might want to check for yourself.”

  “Christ,” Spiro said. “I can’t go now. Who’s gonna babysit all these fucking Elks?”

  “Louie?”

  “Jesus. Not Louie. It’s going to have to be you.”

  “Oh no. Not me.”

  “All you have to do is make sure there’s hot tea and say a lot of crapola like … the Lord moves in mysterious ways. I’ll only be gone a half-hour.” He dug his keys out of his pocket. “Who was there when you got to the pipe factory?”

  “The fire marshal, a uniform, some guy I didn’t know, Joe Morelli, a bunch of firemen packing up.”

  “They say anything worth remembering?”

  “Nope.”

  “You tell them the caskets belonged to me?”

  “No. And I’m not staying. I want my finder’s fee, and then I’m out of here.”

  “I’m not handing over any money until I see this for myself. For all I know they could be someone else’s caskets. Or maybe you’re making all this up.”

  “Half-hour,” I yelled to his back. “That’s all you get!”

  I checked the tea table. Nothing to do there. Lots of hot water and cookies set out. I sat down in a side chair and contemplated some nearby cut flowers. The Elks were all in the new addition with Radiewski, and the lobby was uncomfortably quiet. No magazines to read. No television. Music to die by softly filtered over the sound system.

  After what seemed like four days, Eddie Ragucci ambled in. Eddie was a CPA and a big magoo in the Elks.

  “Where’s the weasel?” Eddie asked.

  “Had to go out. He said he wouldn’t be long.”

  “It’s too hot in Stan’s room. The thermostat must be broken. We can’t get it to cut off. Stan’s makeup is starting to run. Things like this never happened when Con was here. It’s a damn shame Stan had to go when Con was in the hospital. Talk about the lousy breaks.”

  “The Lord moves in mysterious ways.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  “I’ll see if I can find Spiro’s assistant.”

  I pushed a few buttons on the intercom, yelling Louie’s name into the thing, telling him to come to the lobby.

  Louie appeared just as I got to the last button. “I was in the workrooms,” he said.

  “Anybody else in there?”

  “Mr. Loosey.”

  “I mean, are there any other employees? Like Clara from the beauty parlor?”

  “No. Just me.”

  I told him about the thermostat and sent him to take a look.

  Five minutes later he trundled back. “The little thing was bent,” he said. “It happens all the time. People lean on it, and the little thing gets bent.”

  “You like working in a funeral home?”

  “I used to work in a nursing home. This is a lot easier on account of you can just hose people down here. And once you get them on the table they don’t move around.”

  “Did you know Moogey Bues?”

  “Not until after he was shot. Took about a pound of putty to fill in his head.”

  “How about Kenny Mancuso?”

  “Spiro said it was Kenny Mancuso that shot Moogey Bues.”

  “You know what Kenny looks like? He ever come around here?”

  “I know what he looks like, but I haven’t seen him in a while. I hear people say how you’re a bounty hunter, and that you’re looking for Kenny.”

  “He failed to appear in court.”

  “If I see him I’ll tell you.”

  I gave him a card. “Here are some numbers where I can be reached.”

  The back door banged open and was slammed closed. A moment later Spiro stalked into the room. His black dress shoes and the cuffs of his slacks were powdered with ash. His cheeks were an unhealthy red, and his little rodent eyes were dilated black.

  “Well?” I asked.

  His eyes fixed over my shoulder. I turned and saw Morelli cross the lobby.

  “You looking for someone?” Spiro said to Morelli. “Radiewski’s in the addition.”

  Morelli flashed his badge.

  “I know who you are,” Spiro said. “There a problem here? I leave for a half-hour, and I come back to a problem.”

  “Not a problem,” Morelli told him. “Just trying to find the owner of some caskets that burned.”

  “You found him. And I didn’t set the fire. The caskets were stolen from me.”

  “Did you report the theft to the police?”

  “I didn’t want the publicity. I hired Ms. Marvel here to find the damn things.”

  “The one casket that was left looked a little plain for a burg casket,” Morelli said.

  “I got them on sale from the army. Surplus. I was thinking maybe I’d franchise out into other neighborhoods. Maybe take them down to Philly. Lot of poor people in Philly.”

  “I’m curious about this army surplus stuff,” Morelli said. “How does this work?”

  “You submit a bid to the DRMO. If the bid gets picked up, you’ve got a week to haul your shit off the base.”

  “Which base are we talking about?”

  “Braddock.”

  Morelli was a study of calm. “Wasn’t Kenny Mancuso stationed at Braddock?”

  “Yeah. A lot of people are stationed at Braddock.”

  “Okay,” Morelli said, “so they accept your bid. How do you get the caskets back here?”

  “Me and Moogey went down with a U-Haul.”

  “One last question,” Morelli said. “You have any idea why someone would steal your caskets and then set a match to them?”

  “Yeah. They were stolen by a nut. I’ve got things to do,” Spiro said. “You’re done here, right?”

  “For now.”

  They locked eyes, a muscle worked in Spiro’s jaw, and he wheeled off to his office.

  “See you back at the ranch,” Morelli said to me, and he was off, too.

  The door to Spiro’s office was closed. I knocked and waited. No answer. I knocked louder. “Spiro,” I yelled, “I know you’re in there!”

  Spiro ripped the door open. “Now what?”

  “My money.”

  “Christ, I have more things to think about than your chickenshit money.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like crazy Kenny Mancuso setting fire to my goddamn caskets.”

  “How do you know it was Kenny?”

  “Who else could it be? He’s looney tunes, and he’s threatening me.”

  “You should have told Morelli.”

  “Yeah, right. That’s all I need. Like I haven’t got enough problems, I should have the cops looking up my butt.”

  “I’ve
noticed you’re not fond of cops.”

  “Cops suck.”

  I felt breath on the back of my neck and turned to find Louie Moon standing almost on top of me.

  “Excuse me,” he said, “I’ve got to talk to Spiro.”

  “Talk,” Spiro said.

  “It’s about Mr. Loosey. There’s been an accident.”

  Spiro didn’t say a word, but his eyes bore like drill bits into Louie’s forehead.

  “I had Mr. Loosey on the table,” Louie said, “and I was gonna get him dressed, and then I had to go fix the thermostat, and when I got back to Mr. Loosey I noticed he was missing his … um, private part. I don’t know how this could happen. One minute it was there, and then the next minute it was gone.”

  Spiro knocked Louie aside with a sweep of his hand and charged out, yelling, “Jesus H. Christ and mother fucker.”

  Minutes later, Spiro was back in his office, his face mottled, his hands clenched. “I don’t fucking believe this,” he roared through clenched teeth. “I leave for half an hour, and someone comes in and hacks off Loosey’s dick. You know who that someone was? Kenny, that’s who. I leave you in charge, and you let Kenny come in and hack off a dick.”

  The phone rang and Spiro snatched at it. “Stiva.”

  His lips narrowed, and I knew it was Kenny.

  “You’re nuts,” Spiro said. “Too much nose candy. Too many of those little tattoos.”

  Kenny did some talking, and Spiro cut in.

  “Shut up,” Spiro said. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. And you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing when you mess with me. I see you around here, and I’ll kill you. And if I don’t kill you I’ll have Cookie here kill you.”

  Cookie? Was he talking about me? “Excuse me,” I said to Spiro, “what was that last part?”

  Spiro slammed the phone down. “Fucking jerk.”

  I put palms flat on his desk and leaned forward. “I am not a cookie. And I am not a hired gun. And if I was in the protection business I would not protect your slimy body. You are a mold spore, a boil, a dog turd. If you ever tell anyone I will kill them on your behalf again, I’ll make sure you sing soprano for the rest of your life.”

  Stephanie Plum, master of the empty threat.

  “Let me guess … you’re on the rag, right?”

  Good thing I didn’t have my gun with me, because I might have shot him.

  “There are a lot of people who wouldn’t pay you anything for finding burned-up stuff,” Spiro said, “but because I’m such a good guy I’m going to write you a check. We could consider it like a retainer. I could see where it’d be handy to have a chick like you around.”

  I took the check and left. I didn’t see the value in talking any further since there clearly wasn’t anyone home. I stopped to get gas and Morelli pulled in behind me.

  “This is getting strange,” I said to Morelli. “I think Kenny’s gone over the edge.”

  “Now what?”

  I told him about Mr. Loosey and his mishap, and about the phone call.

  “You should be giving this car high-test,” Morelli said. “You’re going to get engine knock.”

  “God forbid I’d get engine knock.”

  Morelli looked disgusted. “Shit,” he said.

  I thought this seemed like a strong reaction to my lack of automotive maintenance. “Is engine knock that bad?”

  He leaned against the fender. “A cop was killed in New Brunswick last night. Took two hits through his vest.”

  “Army ammo?”

  “Yeah.” He raised his eyes to me. “I have to find this stuff. It’s right under my nose.”

  “You think Kenny could be right about Spiro? You think Spiro could have emptied the caskets and hired me to cover his ass?”

  “I don’t know. Doesn’t feel right. My gut instinct is that this started off with Kenny, Moogey, and Spiro, and somehow a fourth player came in and screwed everything up. I think someone snatched the stuff out from under Kenny, Moogey, and Spiro and started them fighting among themselves. And it’s probably not someone from Braddock, because it’s being sold piecemeal in Jersey and Philly.”

  “It would have to be someone close to one of those three. A confidant … like a girlfriend.”

  “It could be someone who found out by accident,” Morelli said. “Someone who overheard a conversation.”

  “Like Louie Moon.”

  “Yeah. Like Louie Moon,” Morelli said.

  “And it would have to be someone who had access to the locker key. Like Louie Moon.”

  “There are probably lots of people Spiro could have talked to and who would have had access to his key. Everyone from his cleaning lady to Clara. Same with Moogey. Just because Spiro told you no one but him had a key doesn’t mean it’s true. Probably all three of them had keys.”

  “If that’s the case, then what about Moogey’s key? Has that been accounted for? Was it on his key chain when he was killed?”

  “His key chain was never found. It was assumed that he left his keys somewhere in the garage and sooner or later they’d turn up. It didn’t seem like an important issue at the time. His parents came with an extra key and drove his car home.

  “Now that the caskets have surfaced I have some cause to harass Spiro. I think I’ll go back and lean on him. And I want to talk to Louie Moon. Can you keep out of trouble for a while?”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. I thought maybe I’d go shopping. See if I could find a dress to go with the purple shoes.”

  The line of Morelli’s mouth tightened. “You’re lying. You’re going to do something stupid, aren’t you?”

  “Boy, that really hurts. I thought you’d be excited about a purple dress with the purple shoes. I was going to look for spandex, too. A short spandex dress with bugle beads and sequins.”

  “I know you, and I know you’re not going shopping.”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die. I’m going shopping. I swear to you.”

  One corner of Morelli’s mouth hitched up a fraction of an inch. “You’d lie to the pope.”

  I caught myself halfway through the sign of the cross. “I almost never lie.” Only when it’s absolutely necessary. And on those occasions when the truth doesn’t seem appropriate.

  I watched Morelli drive away, and then I headed over to Vinnie’s office to get some addresses.

  Connie and Lula were yelling at each other when I walked into the office.

  “Dominick Russo makes his own sauce,” Connie shouted. “With plum tomatoes. Fresh basil. Fresh garlic.”

  “I don’t know about any of that plum tomato shit. All I know is the best pizza in Trenton comes from Tiny’s on First Street,” Lula shouted back. “Ain’t nobody makes pizza like Tiny. That man makes soul pizza.”

  “Soul pizza? What the hell is soul pizza?” Connie wanted to know.

  They both turned and glared at me.

  “You settle it,” Connie said. “Tell know-it-all here about Dominic’s pizza.”

  “Dom makes good pizza,” I said. “But I like the pizza at Pino’s.”

  “Pino’s!” Connie curled her upper lip. “They use marinara sauce that comes in five-gallon cans.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I love that canned marinara sauce.” I dropped my pocketbook on Connie’s desk. “Glad to see you two getting along so well.”

  “Hunh,” Lula said.

  I plopped onto the couch. “I need some addresses. I want to do some snooping.”

  Connie got a directory from the bookcase behind her. “Who you need?”

  “Spiro Stiva and Louie Moon.”

  “Wouldn’t want to look under the cushions in Spiro’s house,” Connie said. “Wouldn’t look in his refrigerator, either.”

  Lula grimaced. “He the undertaker guy? Shoot, you aren’t gonna do breaking and entering on an undertaker, are you?”

  Connie wrote an address on a piece of paper and searched for the second name.

  I looked
at the address she’d gotten for Spiro. “You know where this is?”

  “Century Court Apartments. You take Klockner to Demby.” Connie gave me the second address. “I haven’t a clue on this one. Somewhere in Hamilton Township.”

  “What are you looking for?” Lula asked.

  I stuffed the addresses into my pocket. “I don’t know. A key, maybe.” Or a couple crates of guns in the living room.

  “Maybe I should come with you,” Lula said. “Skinny ass like you shouldn’t be sneaking around all by yourself.”

  “I appreciate your offer,” I told her, “but riding shotgun isn’t part of your job description.”

  “Don’t think I got much of a job description,” Lula said. “Seems to me I do whatever got to be done, and right now I’ve done it all unless I want to sweep the floor and scrub the toilet.”

  “She’s a filing maniac,” Connie said. “She was born to file.”

  “You haven’t seen anything yet,” Lula said. “Wait’ll you see me be an assistant bounty hunter.”

  “Go for it,” Connie said.

  Lula packed herself into her jacket and grabbed her pocketbook. “This is gonna be good,” she said. “This is gonna be like Cagney and Lacey.”

  I searched the big wall map for Moon’s address. “Okay by me if it’s okay with Connie, but I want to be Cagney.”

  “No way! I want to be Cagney,” Lula said.

  “I said it first.”

  Lula stuck her lower lip out and narrowed her eyes. “Was my idea, and I’m not doing it if I can’t be Cagney.”

  I looked at her. “We aren’t serious about this, are we?”

  “Hunh,” Lula said. “Speak for yourself.”

  I told Connie not to wait up, and held the front door for Lula. “We’re going to check out Louie Moon first,” I said to her.

  Lula stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and looked at Big Blue. “We going in this big motherfucker Buick?”

  “Yep.”

  “I knew a pimp once had a car like this.”

  “It belonged to my uncle Sandor.”

  “He a businessman?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Louie Moon lived on the far perimeter of Hamilton Township. It was almost four when we turned onto Orchid Street. I counted off homes, searching for 216, amused that such an exotically named street had been blessed with a lineup of unimaginative crackerbox houses. It was a neighborhood built in the sixties when land was available, so the plots were large, making the two-bedroom ranches seem even smaller. Over the years homeowners had personalized their carbon-copy houses, adding a garage here, a porch there. The houses had been modernized with vinyl siding of various muted shades. Bay windows had been inserted. Azalea bushes had been planted. And still the sameness prevailed.