“Did she take her purse?” I asked him.
Diesel looked at me blank-faced. “Don’t know.”
“Boots? Coat?”
“Don’t know.”
“Were the lights left on?”
“Don’t know.” He hung a U-turn and headed for the center of the city. “Let’s go take a look.”
Twenty minutes later, we were on a side street in downtown Trenton. Diesel used a passkey to get into an underground garage, parked the car, and we took the elevator to the seventh floor, leaving Bob in the car. There were four apartments on the floor. Diesel knocked on 704 and unlocked the door. We stepped inside and looked around. Lights were on. There was a purse on the kitchen counter. Wallet and assorted junk inside the purse. No keys. I checked closets. No winter coat or jacket. No boots.
“Here’s what I think,” I said to Diesel. “She took her keys and winter coat, but she left her purse behind. So I think she stepped out for a moment and didn’t intend to go far. Maybe she just needed air or wanted to walk a little. And then maybe something unexpected happened to her.”
It was a nice apartment. Not fancy, but tastefully decorated and comfortable. Small kitchen, living room, dining alcove, single bedroom, and bath.
“It’s a pleasant apartment,” I said to Diesel, “but I can see where Annie would get squirrelly after being cooped up here for a few days. Her phone wasn’t in her purse. Why don’t you try calling her phone again?”
Diesel dialed Annie on his cell. After a couple beats, we heard the phone ringing. We followed the sound to the bedroom and found her cell phone on the floor by the bed.
“I don’t know what to think,” I said to Diesel. “I take my phone everywhere with me. I don’t know why she’d leave her phone here, except that it’s on the floor so maybe it fell out of her pocket.”
Diesel wrote a note on a sticky pad in the kitchen and pasted the note to the refrigerator. The message was simple. CALL ME IMMEDIATELY.
We locked up behind ourselves and took the elevator to the garage. We drove out to the street, and I had a genius idea. We were only two blocks away from the Pleasure Treasure. It was open until ten on Saturdays, and it probably had a book Jeanine-the-Virgin would find helpful.
“Turn right at the next corner,” I told Diesel. “There’s a sex-toys store two blocks from here, and we might be able to find a book for Jeanine.”
I could see Diesel smile in the dark car. “Just when I think my day’s in the toilet you suggest a sex-toys store. Honey, you’re a ray of sunshine.”
“I hate to rain on your parade, but I know about this place because I made a bust here in the fall.”
“Then let’s hope this trip is more fun, because I could really use some fun.”
Diesel parked in the small lot next to the store. I promised Bob a bedtime snack if he’d be a good dog just a little longer, and Diesel and I went inside. We were the only shoppers. A solitary clerk was behind the counter reading a movie star magazine. She looked up when we entered and sucked in some air when she saw Diesel. She was in her twenties and completely punked-out with black-rimmed eyes and multiple piercings.
“Just browsing,” I told her.
“Sure,” she said. “Let me know if I can help.”
Diesel followed me to the book section, selected a book, and thumbed through.
“Is it good?” I asked.
“Yeah, look at this,” Diesel said. “Have you ever tried this?”
I looked at the picture. “That’s got to be uncomfortable, if not impossible.”
“Hey, pictures don’t lie. They’re doing it.” He draped an arm around me and put his mouth to my ear. “I bet I could do it.”
“You’re a sick man. Maybe we should ask Raccoon Woman if she has a starter book. If we show this to Jeanine, she’s liable to check herself into a nunnery.”
Diesel pulled another book off the shelf. “This looks more basic. It starts off with anatomy. And there are photographs . . . of everything. We should buy two of these.”
It was sort of embarrassing to be looking at crotch shots with Diesel. “Sure,” I said, “buy two.” I glanced at my watch. “Jeez, look at the time. If we hurry we can catch the end of the game.”
“What game is that?” Diesel wanted to know.
“I don’t know. Any game.”
Diesel moved to the video section. “We should get Jeanine a movie. They’ve got some good ones.”
“No. No movies for Jeanine. Jeanine isn’t into moaning, and they always do a lot of moaning in the movies.”
“Moaning is fun,” Diesel said.
I cut my eyes to him. “Do you moan?”
“Not usually.”
“Why not?”
“I’d feel stupid.”
“Exactly. Just pay for the books with your phony credit card and let’s go home.”
“Bet I could make you moan,” Diesel said, smiling.
“I feel like moaning now,” I told him. “And it has nothing to do with sex.”
I unwrapped my scarf and hung it on a hook on the wall next to my front door. I draped my heavy winter jacket over the scarf and exchanged my snow boots for shearling slippers.
“I can’t believe you bought all that stuff,” I said to Diesel.
“It’s for Jeanine . . . unless you want to take something for a test drive.”
“No.”
“Are you sure? We’ve got a bag full of fun here. I bet we’ve got samples of every condom ever invented.”
“No!”
Diesel set the bag on the kitchen counter and went to the refrigerator. He backed out with a couple beers. “You know what your problem is? You’re too uptight.”
“I’m not uptight. I’ve got a boyfriend, and I don’t mess around.”
“Admirable, but this living arrangement would work better if you had fewer scruples,” Diesel said. “I don’t fit on the couch.”
“Do you fit on the floor?”
“That’s cruel,” Diesel said.
I took a beer from him and unwrapped a loaf of bread that had been sitting on the counter. We made a stack of peanut butter sandwiches, gave one to Bob, and took the beer and the rest of the sandwiches into the living room and turned the television on.
“I want to know about Beaner,” I said to Diesel. “What are his powers? What kind of chaos does he cause?”
“I’d like to tell you, but then I’d have to kill you. . . .”
“Tell me anyway.”
“I’d really rather not.”
“Great. Don’t tell me. I’ll get the story from Mrs. Beaner tomorrow.”
“Okay, I’ll tell you,” Diesel said, “but if you laugh, I swear I’ll turn you into a toad.”
“You can’t actually do that, can you?”
“The better question is, would I? And the answer is, no.”
“About Beaner.”
Diesel washed a sandwich down with half a beer. “He can give you a rash.”
“A rash?”
“Yep.”
“That’s it?”
“Sweetie pie, this isn’t any ordinary rash. It’s the mother of all rashes. It makes you itch everywhere. It’s nonstop torture for anywhere from three days to three weeks. It’s related to poison sumac and looks like hives. Doesn’t necessarily leave scars unless you start carving yourself up with a knife because you can’t stand the itching.”
“Wow.”
Diesel sunk low into the couch and closed his eyes. “Who am I trying to kid? It’s a rash, for crying out loud. How bad can a rash be?” He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Used to be I tracked dangerous sexual deviants and insane despots. Last time I was here I disabled a guy who shut down the northeast power grid at Christmas. That’s the kind of stuff you can get your teeth into.” He sunk lower and groaned. “And now I’m hunting Mr. Itchy. Do you have any idea what this does for my image?”
“It’s not good?”
“It’s a nightmare. There’s no way to even put a
decent spin on it. Big bad Diesel is out to shut down a poor slob whose only claim to fame is his ability to give people hives.”
I burst out laughing. “I like it.”
I went to the kitchen and brought a bag of cookies back to Diesel. I opened the bag, and we each took a cookie and Bob got two.
“How does he do it?” I asked Diesel. “Is this some kind of contact skin disease?”
“I don’t know how he does it. I’ve never actually seen it happen firsthand, but I know he can spread the rash without contact.”
“Maybe Beaner would give Annie a rash, and be done with it. Maybe he just needs to get it out of his system,” I said to Diesel.
Diesel shook his head. “He’s nutso. He was stalking her, reinfecting her every chance he got. It was ugly. Annie had hives on top of hives.”
“Tell me more about Beaner.”
“He has some minor skills. He’s good with mechanical things. Used to own a garage. Sold it last year and is sort of retired. Probably was driving his wife nuts hanging around the house. He’s pretty much a normal guy with the exception of this rash thing. And until a week ago, it was completely undercover. People would break out in unexplained hives, and that was the end of it. When his wife left, and he decided Annie was responsible, he went public. For the first couple days it was just directed at Annie, but then he lost control and started lashing out at random people whenever he got angry.”
“Bummer.”
“Yeah, big whoopitydo. Anyway, I was told to shut him down.”
“You don’t mean shut him down as in . . . permanently?”
“Shut him down as in pull the plug on his power.”
“You can do that?”
“I have ways.”
I was curious about those ways, but I didn’t think he’d tell me. And probably it was better not to know, so I ate two more cookies and shoved off the couch. “I’m going to bed. See you in the morning.”
I woke up to the sun shining through the vertical crack in my bedroom curtain and a heavy arm draped across my chest. Diesel was sprawled next to me, looking more disreputable than ever with a four-day-old beard. Like I don’t have enough problems with the men in my life, now I have a third guy crawling into my bed. Too much of a good thing. At least I was still wearing my pajamas. That was comforting.
I eased away from Diesel, slithered from under the arm, and rolled out of bed. I grabbed some clean clothes, locked myself in the bathroom, and hopped into the shower. I had a full day ahead of me. Talk to Mrs. Beaner and check on Gary Martin, Charlene Klinger, and Larry Burlew. I had the Pleasure Treasure bag to take to Jeanine. And then there was Annie Hart. I was hoping Annie was back in her apartment, but I thought it was unlikely.
By the time I emerged from the bathroom, Diesel was out of bed, standing at my kitchen counter, eating a bowl of cereal.
“I fed and walked the dog,” Diesel said. “I didn’t know what to do about the rat.”
“Hamster.”
“Whatever.”
I gave Rex fresh water, filled his bowl with hamster crunchies, and poured out some cereal for myself. “Have you heard from Annie?” I asked Diesel.
“No. She didn’t answer when I called this morning, so I had Flash check on her apartment again. Still empty.” He put his cereal bowl in the dishwasher. “I need to go solo this morning and try to get a fix on Annie. I’m going to jump in the shower and take off. I wrote Beaner’s wife’s address on the pad on the counter. Her name is Betty. She’s expecting you. I don’t know how helpful she’ll be, but you can give it a shot. I’ll be on my cell. The number’s also on the pad.”
“Do you have a car?”
“I can get one.”
Okay, I wasn’t going to ask questions about that either.
I was standing at the counter, enjoying a second cup of coffee, when Diesel walked into the kitchen. His hair was still damp, and he smelled like my shower gel. He had his jacket on, and his scarf wound around his neck. “Catch up with you later,” he said.
I blinked, and he was gone. Not magically. Out the door, down the hall, to the elevator.
I rinsed my cup and went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I turned to leave the bathroom and bumped into Ranger. I shrieked and jumped away.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.
Usually I sense Ranger behind me by the change in air pressure and the hint of desire. I wasn’t paying attention today, and I was caught by surprise.
“Men keep sneaking up on me,” I told him.
“I saw Diesel leave.”
“Do you know Diesel?”
“From a distance,” Ranger said. “Is Diesel a problem?”
“No more than usual. We’re sort of working together.”
“I have to go out of town for a couple days. Tank will be here. And I’ll be on my cell. I need to talk to you when I get back.” He brushed a light kiss across my lips and left.
“The man of mystery,” I said to the closed door.
“I heard that,” Ranger said from the other side.
8
I dropped Bob at my parents’ house and asked them to dog-sit. I had coffee with my mother and Grandma, and by the time I rolled down Betty Beaner’s street, it was a little past nine. I parked in her driveway and checked out her house. Average suburbia in every way. Two-story colonial. Landscaped front yard. Fenced back yard. Two-car garage. Freshly painted.
I rang the bell, and Betty answered on the second ring. She was shorter than me and pleasantly round. She had a round face with a nice mouth that looked like it smiled a lot, round wide-open eyes, rounded hips, and big round breasts. She was a Rubenesque woman. She looked to be around fifty.
I extended my hand. “Stephanie Plum.”
“I’ve been expecting you,” she said. “Diesel called.”
“We thought you might be able to help us with Bernie.”
“I can’t believe he’s running around giving out hives like a senile old fool. I swear, the man is an embarrassment.”
I followed her through the living room and dining room and into the kitchen. She’d been at the small kitchen table, reading the paper, drinking coffee. It was a charming room decorated in warm tones. Rusts and yellows mostly. Small-print wallpaper and matching curtains on the windows.
Betty poured a cup of coffee out for me, and we sat at the table. I looked down at the paper and realized she’d been looking at the want ads.
“Getting a job?” I asked her.
Betty had a red pen on the table by the paper, but none of the ads were circled. “I’ve been thinking about it. Problem is, I can’t do anything. I’ve been a housewife all these years.”
“Two hundred?”
She smiled. “Yes. At least, it seems like that. Actually, Bernie and I have been married for thirty-five years. He was working in a garage, and I took my car in there to get fixed, and next thing we were married.”
I sipped my coffee, and I looked at Betty Beaner. She didn’t seem angry when she spoke of Bernie. If anything, there was affection. And tolerance. In fact, she reminded me of my mom. My parents didn’t have the perfect marriage, but over the years they’d developed a plan to make things work. My mother made my dad feel like he was king of the castle, and my dad abdicated the kingdom over to my mom.
“I know I’m going to sound nosey,” I said, “but I haven’t got a lot of time, and I’m trying to help Diesel fix things. What went wrong?”
“Snoring.”
“That’s it? That’s the whole thing?”
“Have you ever tried to sleep with a man who snores?”
“No. The men in my life don’t snore.”
“Bernie didn’t used to snore and then one day there it was . . . he was a snorer.”
“Aren’t there things you can do about snoring?”
“He refuses to believe he snores. He says I’m making a big thing of it, but he wakes me up all night long. I’m always tired. And if I go sleep in the guest room, he gets mad. He says m
arried people should sleep together. So, the hell with him, I’m filing for divorce.”
“He thinks this is about talking and sex.”
“Of course it’s about talking. Talking about snoring! It’s not like I wanted to have big touchy-feely discussions with Bernie. It’s not like I asked him to join a book group or something. I just wanted him to listen to me. When I say I can’t sleep, I mean I can’t sleep!”
“And what about the sex?”
“I threw that in as a bonus. I figured, what the heck, if I was going to complain I might as well do it right.”
Betty circled an ad in the paper with the red pen. “Here’s one I bet I could do. They’re looking for tollbooth money collectors on the Turnpike.”
“Have you thought about counseling?”
“Are you kidding? Do you think a man who won’t admit to snoring is going to sign up for counseling? I even tried recording him. He said it was a trick. He said it for sure wasn’t him.”
“If I could get Bernie to admit to snoring, would you take him back?”
“I don’t know. I’m getting used to being alone. The house is nice and quiet. And I get to watch whatever I want on television. Of course, it was a real pain to have to shovel the walk when it snowed.”
“This looks like a three-bedroom house. Suppose I could get you your own room with your own television for those nights when Bernie snores? And suppose I could throw in better sex? I don’t know firsthand, but I suspect Diesel knows what he’s doing. I could get him to talk to Bernie.”
This got both of us smiling. Diesel and Bernie discussing sex. Worth the price of a ticket right there.
I decided to take the Pleasure Treasure bag to Jeanine while I was in sex-help mode, so I called and told her I was on my way over.
“Thank goodness,” Jeanine said. “I have a date tonight. I was afraid I was going to have to fake an appendicitis attack.”
Twenty minutes later, I was at her door.
“Here it is,” I said, shoving the bag at her. “Everything you need to know about sex . . . I think.”
Jeanine looked inside. “What is all this?”
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