“A hundred, and nothing illegal or life-threatening.”
“Deal,” Diesel said.
Here’s the sad truth, I had nothing better to do. And I needed money. The bonds office was beyond slow. I had one FTA to hunt down, and Diesel had her locked away.
“Just exactly what am I supposed to do?” I asked him. “Annie’s bond agreement lists her occupation as a relationship expert.”
Diesel gave a bark of laughter. “Relationship expert. I guess that could cover it.”
“I don’t even know what that means! What the heck is a relationship expert?”
Diesel had dropped a battered leather knapsack onto my counter when he popped into my kitchen. He went to the knapsack, removed a large yellow envelope, and handed it over to me. “It’s all in this envelope.”
I opened the envelope and pulled out a bunch of folders crammed with photographs and handwritten pages.
“She’s got a condensed version for you clipped to the top folder,” Diesel said. “Got everything prioritized. Says you better hustle because Valentine’s Day is coming up fast.”
“And?”
“Personally, I don’t get turned on by Valentine’s Day, with the sappy cards and creepy cupids and the hearts-and-flowers routine. But Annie is to Valentine’s Day what Santa Claus is to Christmas. She makes it happen. Of course, Annie operates on a smaller scale. It’s not like she’s got ten thousand elves working for her.”
Diesel was a really sexy-looking guy, but I thought he might be one step away from permanent residence at the funny farm. “I still don’t get my role in this.”
“I just handed you five open files. It’s up to you to make sure those five people have a good Valentine’s Day.”
Oh boy.
“Listen, I know it’s lame,” Diesel said, “but I’m stuck with it. And now you’re stuck with it. And I’m going to have a power shortage if I don’t get breakfast. So find me a diner. Then I’m going to do my thing and look for Bernie, and you’re going to do your thing and work your way down Annie’s list.”
I clipped a leash onto Bob’s collar and the three of us walked down the stairs and out to my car. I was driving a yellow Ford Escape that was good for hauling felons and Bob dogs.
“Does Bob go everywhere?” Diesel wanted to know.
“Pretty much. If I leave him at home, he gets lonely and eats the furniture.”
Forty minutes later, Diesel was finishing up a mountain of scrambled eggs, bacon, pancakes, home fries, and sourdough toast with jam . . . all smothered in maple syrup.
I’d ordered a similar breakfast but had to give up about a third of the way through. I pushed my plate away and asked that the food be put in a to-go box. I drank my coffee and thumbed through the first file. Charlene Klinger. Age forty-two. Divorced. Four children, ages seven, eight, ten, and twelve. Worked for the DMV. There was an unflattering snapshot of her squinting into the sun. She was wearing sneakers and slacks and a sweater than didn’t do a lot to hide the fact that she was about twenty pounds overweight. Her face was pleasant enough. No makeup. Not a lot of hairstyle going on. Short brown hair pushed behind her ears. The smile looked tense, like she was making an effort, but she had bigger fish to fry than to pose for the picture.
There were four more pages in Charlene’s file. Harvey Nolen, Brian Seabeam, Lonnie Brownowski, Steven Klein. REJECT had been written in red magic marker across each page. A sticky note had been attached to the back of the file. THERE’S SOMEONE FOR EVERYONE, the note read. I supposed this was Annie giving herself a pep talk. And a second sticky note below the first. FIND CHARLENE’S TRUE LOVE. A mission statement.
I blew out a sigh and closed the file.
“Hey, it could be worse,” Diesel said. “You could be hunting down a skip who thinks it’s open season on bounty hunters. Unless you really piss her off, Charlene probably won’t shoot at you.”
“I don’t know where to begin.”
Diesel stood and threw some money on the table. “You’ll figure it out. I’ll check in with you later.”
“Wait,” I said. “About Annie Hart—”
“Later,” Diesel said. And in three strides he was across the room and at the door. By the time I got to the lot, Diesel was nowhere to be seen. Fortunately, he hadn’t commandeered my car. It was still in its parking space, Bob looking at me through the back window, somehow understanding that the Styrofoam box in my hand contained food for him.
The bail bonds office is a small storefront affair on Hamilton Avenue, just a ten-minute drive from the diner. I parked at the curb and pushed my way through the front door. Connie Rosolli, the office manager, looked up when I entered. Connie is a couple years older than me, a couple pounds heavier, a couple inches shorter, a lot more Italian, and consistently has a better manicure.
“You must be tuned in to the cosmic loop this morning,” Connie said. “I was just about to call you. Vinnie’s bananas over Annie Hart.”
Vinnie’s ferret face appeared in the doorway of his inner office. “Well?” he asked me.
“Well what?”
“Tell me you’ve got her locked up nice and neat. Tell me you’ve got a body receipt.”
“I’ve got a lead,” I told Vinnie.
“Only a lead?” Vinnie clapped his hands to his head. “You’re killing me!”
Lula was on the faux leather couch, reading a magazine. “We should be so lucky,” Lula said.
Lula is a 180-pound black woman crammed into a five-foot, five-inch body. At the moment, she was wearing a red skin-tight spandex T-shirt that said KISS MY ASS in iridescent gold lettering, jeans with rhinestones marching down side seams that looked like they might burst apart at any minute, and four-inch high-heeled boots. Lula does the office filing when she’s in the mood, and she rides shotgun for me when I need backup.
“What’s the lineup look like?” I asked Connie.
“Nothing new. Annie Hart is the only big bond in the wind. It’s always slow at this time of the year. All the serious crackheads killed themselves over Christmas, and it’s too cold for the hookers and pushers to stand on the street corners. The only good crime we’ve got going on is gang shooting, and those idiots get held without bond.”
“It’s so slow Vinnie’s going on a cruise,” Lula said.
“Yeah, and the cruise isn’t cheap,” Vinnie said. “So get your ass out there and find Annie Hart. I’m not running a goddamn charity here. I take a hit on Hart’s bond, and I’ll have to fake a stroke and cash in my cruise insurance. And Lucille wouldn’t like that.”
Lucille is Vinnie’s wife. Her father is Harry the Hammer, and while Harry might understand about the need for the occasional illicit nooner, he definitely wouldn’t be happy to see Lucille get stiffed on the cruise.
“It’s one of them champagne Valentine’s Day cruises,” Vinnie said. “Lucille’s got her bags packed already. She thinks this is going to rejuvenate our marriage.”
“Only way it’ll rejuvenate your marriage is if Lucille brings handcuffs and a whip and Mary’s little lamb,” Lula said.
“So sue me,” Vinnie said. “I’ve got eclectic tastes.”
We all did a lot of eye rolling.
“I’m out of here,” I told Connie. “I’ll be on my cell if you need me.”
“I’m going with you,” Lula said, grabbing her Prada knockoff shoulder bag. “I’m feeling lucky today. I bet I could find Annie Hart right off.”
“Thanks,” I said to Lula, “but I can handle it.”
“The hell,” Lula said. “Suppose you gotta go into some cranky neighborhood, and you need some muscle. That would be me. Or suppose you need to make a doughnut choice at that new place on State Street. That would be me, too.”
I cut my eyes to Lula. “So what you’re saying is that you want to test-drive the new doughnut shop on State?”
“Yeah,” Lula said. “But only if you need a doughnut real bad.”
Fifteen minutes later, I cruised away from Donut Delish and headed
for the DMV.
“I can’t believe you’re not eating any of these doughnuts,” Lula said, a bag of doughnuts resting on her lap. “These are first class. Look at this one with the pink and yellow sprinkles on it. It’s just about the happiest doughnut I ever saw.”
“I had a huge late breakfast. I’m stuffed.”
“Yeah, but we’re talking about primo doughnuts here.”
Bob was in the cargo area of the Escape. His head was over the backseat, and he was panting in our direction.
“That dog could use a breath mint,” Lula said.
“Try a doughnut.”
Lula flipped Bob a doughnut. Bob caught the doughnut midair and settled down to enjoy it.
“Where the heck are we going?” Lula wanted to know. “I thought we were going after Annie Hart. Don’t she live in North Trenton?”
“It’s complicated. I had to make a deal. Annie Hart is inaccessible until I wrap up her caseload.”
“Are you shitting me? And what’s that mean anyways? Does that mean you’re taking on her customers? Personally, I can’t see you doing that. I read her file. She said she was a relationship expert, and I figured that’s code for ’ho.”
“It’s not like that. It’s more like matchmaking. First person on my list is Charlene Klinger. She’s forty-two and divorced, and we need to find her true love.”
“Oh boy, true love. That’s a bitch. You sure she wouldn’t be satisfied if we just found her some nasty sweaty sex? I got a couple names in my book for that one.”
“I’m pretty sure it has to be true love.”
2
Charlene Klinger was behind the counter at the DMV, working the registration-only line. She was prettier in person. Her hair still lacked style, but it was thick and glossy and suited her. Her face was animated, and she smiled a lot. After thirty-five minutes, Lula and I had inched our way up to her. I introduced myself to Charlene and explained I was substituting for Annie Hart.
“That woman is a nut,” Charlene said. “I don’t know where she came from, but good riddance if she’s gone. And I don’t need a substitute nutcase. I’m doing fine. I don’t want a man in my life. I’ve got enough problems.”
“Didn’t you hire Annie?”
“Heck no. She just popped into my kitchen one day. Happens to me all the time. The kids leave the door open and next thing I know, some half-starved cat’s wandered into the house and won’t leave.”
“I was under the impression you wanted to find your true love,” I said to Charlene.
Charlene looked at the powdered sugar that had sifted onto Lula’s chest. “I’d sooner find a bag of doughnuts. Don’t have to shave your legs to enjoy a bag of doughnuts.”
“Amen to that,” Lula said.
“You’re going to have to move along if you don’t want to register something,” Charlene said. “You hold up the line too long and this crowd will get ugly.”
Lula and I left the building and hustled to my car. It was freezing cold, and we walked with our heads tucked down against the wind.
“Now what?” Lula wanted to know.
I slid behind the wheel and pulled another file out of the envelope. “I have more.”
Lula picked a doughnut out of the bag. “Me, too.”
“Yesterday you told me you were going on a diet.”
“Yeah, but it’s something new. It’s called the afternoon diet. You get to eat all you want until noon. Then the diet starts.”
“Next up is Gary Martin. Runs a vet clinic on Route 1. Never been married. Looks like a nice guy.” I passed his picture to Lula.
“He looks like a dork,” Lula said. “He’s wearing a bow tie, and he’s got a comb-over. He don’t need a matchmaker. He needs a woman with scissors.”
I put the car in gear and rolled out of the lot. “According to Annie’s file, he needs help getting his girlfriend back.”
“And we’re gonna help him? Excuse me if I’m a skeptic, but it don’t seem to me we’re all that good at relationships. I only date losers, and you have commitment issues. Plus, you can’t even make up your mind about who you want as your commitment recipient. You’re double-dipping with Morelli and Ranger.”
“I’m not double-dipping.”
“You’re mentally double-dipping.”
“That doesn’t count. Everyone mentally double-dips. Keep your eyes open for Municipal Animal Hospital.”
The Municipal Animal Hospital waiting room was bright and cheery and sparkling clean. And it was empty of patients. A young woman sat behind the big wraparound desk. She was also sparkling clean, but she didn’t look all that cheery.
“Yo,” Lula said to her. “I’m Lula, and this here’s the world-famous Stephanie Plum, and we’re looking for Gary Martin.”
“He’s in surgery,” the woman said. “Office hours start at one o’clock.”
“Maybe he could squeeze us in between surgeries,” Lula said. “It’s a personal matter.”
“Dr. Martin doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s in surgery.”
“See, here’s the thing,” Lula said. “I got a doughnut with my name on it out in the car, and I don’t want to sit around until one o’clock. I mean, it’s not like ol’ Gary’s doing open heart. He’s cutting the balls off a cat, right?”
I pointed stiff-armed to the door. “Out,” I said to Lula.
“Just trying to communicate with Miss Stick-up-her-ass,” Lula said.
“Out!”
I waited until Lula left, and then I turned to the receptionist. “Maybe I could leave a note for Dr. Martin.”
There was a long awkward pause, and I assumed the receptionist was contemplating hitting the police button on the security system . . . or at the very least unleashing Dobermans from a holding pen. This was a vet office. They had dogs, right?
Finally, the woman exhaled and slid a pad and pen my way. “I guess that would be okay,” she said.
I was halfway through the note when Gary Martin emerged from a back room and approached the receptionist.
“Any emergency calls?” he asked her. “Any, um, personal calls?”
She shook her head, no.
“Are you sure? Not a single personal call?”
Gary Martin looked like a big, forty-year-old cherub. He was about five foot six with chubby cheeks and a soft middle. He was wearing a light blue lab coat that was unbuttoned over tan slacks and a yellow button-down shirt. He was entirely adorable in a dorky kind of way. And he was clearly disappointed that no one had called.
I stuck my hand out and introduced myself. “Annie Hart is temporarily indisposed,” I said. “I’m her replacement.”
I wasn’t sure what to expect after Charlene Klinger, but Gary Martin seemed excited to see me. He ushered me into his little office and closed the door.
“I’ve been waiting,” he said. “I was expecting Ms. Hart, but I’m sure you’re wonderful, too.”
“I understand you need help getting your girlfriend back.”
“I don’t know what happened. Two weeks ago, she just said it was over. I don’t know what went wrong. I must have done something terrible, but I don’t know what it was. I was going to ask her to marry me on Valentine’s Day. And now I don’t know what to do. She won’t talk to me on the phone, and she won’t let me into her apartment. And last time I tried to talk to her she said I was a pest. A pest!”
“I’m curious,” I said. “How did you hear about Annie Hart?”
“It was odd. I found her card in my jacket pocket. Someone must have given it to me. It said Ms. Hart was a relationship expert . . . and I thought, that’s just what I need! So I called Ms. Hart, and we had a meeting. That was four days ago.” Martin took a photo off his desktop and handed it to me. “Ms. Hart wanted a picture of Loretta.”
The sticky note attached to the back told me this was Loretta Flack, and Martin had neatly printed Loretta’s address and phone number below her name. The front of the photo showed a smiling blond with a Barbie doll shape. It had
been taken at some sort of street fair, and she was holding a teddy bear.
“She’s a bartender,” Martin said. “She works the lunch shift at Beetle Bumpkin. It’s a sports bar just up the road. They have good sandwiches at lunchtime, but Loretta said she didn’t want me in there anymore.”
“She’s pretty,” I said.
“Yes, she’s way too pretty for me. And probably too young. I don’t know why she even went out with me in the first place. I thought maybe you could tell her I joined a gym, and I have a private trainer now. And I think my hair is growing back.”
I looked up at the three strands of hair plastered to the top of his dome.
“I thought I might have seen some fuzz this morning,” Gary Martin said.
“Anything else you want me to tell her?”
“I’ll leave it up to you. You’re a relationship expert, right? I mean, you know the right things to say.”
Oh boy, we were in trouble. I never said the right thing. Lula was right. I was a relationship disaster.
“Sure,” I told him. “Leave it to me. I’ll get this fixed up.”
Lula settled her ass on a Beetle Bumpkin barstool and looked around. “Beetle Bumpkin is one of them new mini chains,” she said. “There’s one just opened downtown. The sandwiches are good because they fry them. Everything’s fried. That’s the Beetle Bumpkin secret ingredient.”
Loretta Flack was taking an order at the other end of the bar. Her hair was yellow under the Bumpkin bar lights, and her breasts were packed into a red Beetle Bumpkin T-shirt. I figured she was maybe fifteen years younger than Gary Martin.
“Let me do the talking this time,” I said to Lula.
“My lips are sealed. I’m only here in case you need backup. Like suppose she tries some karate moves or she pulls a gun on you.”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
“You never know. Best to be prepared, I always say. People are unpredictable. I learned that in my human behavior course at the community college. Did I ever tell you I took a human behavior course?”
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