Twisted Twenty-Six

by Janet Evanovich

  This was made even more ridiculous by the fact that I didn’t know how many keys were involved or what those keys looked like. Big? Little? Key cards? I didn’t know what the keys opened. And I didn’t know what sort of treasure they kept locked away.

  There were six La-Z-Boys. One was dead. One was unknown. One was going to avoid me at all costs because he was a fugitive. That left Lou Salgusta, Benny the Skootch, and Julius Roman. It would help if I could get one of them to talk to me. First thing tomorrow I’d have Connie run background checks. Next thing I’d start knocking on doors. Trying to talk to them at the Mole Hole wasn’t going to work. I was going to have to get them alone. I suspected my funeral grace period was over, so I needed to be extra vigilant.

  I checked on Grandma at six o’clock. It was all good. Maybe it would stay good. It could happen, right? The keys could turn up. They could be in the pocket of a jacket that was taken to the cleaners, or they could be in the freezer behind the cookie dough ice cream. Jimmy was old. He probably misplaced things all the time.

  Morelli called at seven o’clock. “I got stuck doing paperwork and then I got talked into football with some guys from work. Is everything okay with you?”

  “Jimmy’s sister Rose tried to run over Grandma and me when we were walking home from the bakery, but we jumped out of the way. Grandma shot off a side mirror, and Rose took off down the road.”

  “I don’t know who’s crazier . . . Rose or Grandma.”

  “Yeah, that’s a tough one. Where are you? It sounds like you’re in a sports bar.”

  “I’m home. Some of the guys came with me to watch the game. There’s still pizza left if you want to come over.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass. I’ve got stuff to think about.”

  I called Grandma at eight o’clock and at ten o’clock. Nothing new going on. No firebombs. No break-ins. No attempted kidnappings. Yay!

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I DROVE PAST my parents’ house on my way to work. There were no strange cars parked on the street, and the house felt benign, so I continued on to the bail bonds office. Connie had just arrived and unlocked the front door. Lula wasn’t there yet.

  “This doesn’t happen often,” Connie said, setting the box of donuts on her desk. “You get first pick.”

  “I woke up at four-thirty and couldn’t get back to sleep. I’m worried about Grandma. Everyone’s out to get her. Jimmy’s sisters. The La-Z-Boys. Who knows who else.”

  “I thought the keys would have turned up by now,” Connie said. “Hard to believe no one knows where Jimmy kept them.”

  “Maybe someone did know. Maybe someone got to the keys and is sitting on them.”

  “One of the other La-Z-Boys?”

  I shrugged. “Could be anyone. There were six chairs in the back room at the Mole Hole. They belonged to Jimmy, Benny, Charlie Shine, Lou Salgusta, and Julius Roman. Do you know who owns the sixth chair?”

  “I don’t think it was ever occupied after Big Artie.”

  “So, when someone dies the chair stays empty?”

  “That’s my understanding, but I’m not sure,” Connie said. “I’ll ask my mom. She might know.”

  I took the lone Boston Kreme. “Rose tried to run Grandma and me over yesterday. She jumped the curb and almost took out Gary Luckett’s maple tree.”

  “The sisters were counting on getting some money,” Connie said. “Jimmy’s ex-wife Barbara isn’t happy, either. Word on the street is that Grandma’s going to get everything. Being that they were only married for forty-five minutes, it’s not sitting well.”

  The front door crashed open and Lula stomped in. She was in full-on biker chick mode with chunky black motorcycle boots, a black leather miniskirt, and a black leather vest with an eagle stitched onto the back.

  “I can’t believe you got here before me,” she said. “And I see you got the Boston Kreme. I was counting on that donut. I needed it. I had a bad night. Just look at my hair.”

  Connie and I moved our eyes off the black leather up to Lula’s hair. The first two inches off her scalp were still pink, but beyond that it was significantly reduced in volume and singed black.

  “I was on a date with Mr. Amazing Saturday night and some yodel set my hair on fire,” Lula said. “Me and my date were getting it on at a bar, and the idiot next to me had his electronic cigarette explode. Took out half his face and fried my hair. Do you believe it? You know how long it takes me to grow quality hair? It’s not like overnight. And I couldn’t get an appointment with Lateesha until this afternoon.”

  “Jeez,” I said, “was the guy okay?”

  Lula poked around in the donut box and settled on a chocolate glazed. “I don’t know. It didn’t look like he was gonna die, but his nose is never gonna be the same. My opinion is it was better when people smoked and died of lung cancer. At least they didn’t set innocent bystanders’ hair on fire.”

  “What happened to Mr. Amazing?” Connie asked.

  “He turned out to be not so amazing,” Lula said. “He was all freaked out by the guy on the floor. And he said my hair smelled like I’d been incinerated. I don’t know how he knew about incinerated hair, but anyway, he left, and I had to take an Uber home.”

  There was a lot of silence after that since Connie and I didn’t know where to go with it. Finally, Connie’s computer dinged, and she pulled off three new FTAs.

  “Bad Friday,” she said. “There were three no-shows in court. Vinnie’s not going to be happy.”

  She printed them out and handed them over to me.

  “Where is the little turd?” Lula asked.

  “Vegas,” Connie said. “Some kind of conference.”

  I looked at the three FTAs.

  “What have we got?” Lula asked.

  “A shoplifter. A hijacker. Attempted murder.”

  “That’s a group with good variety to it,” Lula said. “It could almost make up for me having to start my day off with a lame-ass chocolate glazed donut.”

  “And we need to find the keys,” I said.

  Lula finished her donut and picked out a second. “You got a plan?”

  “I thought Connie could run the remaining Boys through the system for me. Then I can try to find a weak link to talk to me. It would help if I at least knew what the keys looked like and the number of keys involved.”

  “I’ll get right on it,” Connie said. “Give me an hour or two.”

  I thumbed through the three new files. “The shoplifter should be easy,” I said. “Let’s round her up while Connie does my search.”

  “You didn’t read carefully,” Connie said. “It’s a guy. Carol Joyce. And he’s a pro. Goes into a store with a shopping bag and walks out with stacks of T-shirts, lingerie, whatever is out of sight and easy to pick up. Knows how to avoid security cameras. He’s been at it for years. Started shoplifting when he was seventeen, but this is the first time he’s been busted. I know about him because my Uncle Sal fences for him sometimes.”

  I read his bio background. “He lives with his mother. Cherry Street. That’s North Trenton. He’s twenty-one years old. Looks younger.”

  Lula looked over my shoulder at the file photo. “Boyish. Clean cut. White. Someone you could trust to go into a store with a shopping bag. Boom.”

  I shoved the files into my outside pocket. “We’ll be back,” I said to Connie. “Call me if anything key worthy pops up.”

  * * *

  —

  Cherry Street is in a pleasant middle-income neighborhood. Houses and yards are small but neatly maintained. Interiors are filled with overstuffed furniture, flat-screen televisions, and technology only a fourteen-year-old could master. The Joyce house was no exception. It was a two-story white house with a red front door and a small front porch.

  The woman who answered the door was perfect for the house. Medium height. Medium weight.
Medium short brown hair. Dressed in tan slacks and a pink striped shirt. She smiled a hello to me and took a step back when she saw Lula in her biker dominatrix outfit.

  “I’m looking for Carol,” I said.

  “I’m afraid he isn’t home right now,” the woman said. “I’m his mother. Is there anything I can relay to Carol?”

  “I represent his bail bonds agent,” I said. “Carol missed his court date, and I wanted to help him reschedule.”

  “That’s very nice of you. I’m sure he would welcome the help.”

  “Do you expect him home soon?”

  “He’s at work right now. He’s a personal shopper. He doesn’t really have a set schedule.”

  “Do you know where he’s shopping today?”

  “Goodness, no. He shops everywhere. He’s always on the lookout for a bargain. Although he is partial to Quaker Bridge Mall, and there’s another mall on the highway. I forget the name of it. He shops there first thing sometimes because it opens early.”

  We returned to my car, and Lula looked around. “You haven’t got Rangeman guys with you today,” she said. “What’s with that?”

  “Maybe Ranger thinks the danger level has dropped off to yellow. Or maybe last night when I was asleep, he installed cameras and listening bugs besides the usual GPS tracker.”

  “He’s hot, but he’s a little whackadoodle,” Lula said.

  “He’s had a troubled past.”

  “He’s someone else who would benefit from a cat.”

  Omigod, Ranger with a cat. That was a mental image that would haunt me for days.

  “Where are we going now to find this personal shopper?” Lula asked.

  I checked the time. It was a couple minutes after nine. “Quaker Bridge doesn’t open until ten, so he isn’t there,” I said. “The other mall she was referring to must be Greenwood. It’s not far from here.” I handed the file over to Lula. “I’ll cruise the Greenwood parking lot. He drives a black Cadillac Escalade. You have the license plate number in the file.”

  “I’m on it. I’m looking at all the cars we’re passing, too. It’s easy to spot a Escalade on account of they’re so big. It’s actually a good choice of vehicle for a shoplifter of his magnitude. You could fit a lot of T-shirts in a Escalade.”

  I turned in to the Greenwood lot and drove up and down the aisles. Greenwood isn’t half the size of Quaker Bridge, and there were only a few cars parked. None of them was an Escalade.

  “Quaker Bridge will be opening soon,” Lula said. “I vote we go to Quaker Bridge next. And if we take a small detour onto Sutter Boulevard, we could fit in a stop at the Dunkin’ Donuts there. It’s got a drive-thru, and it’s an excellent Dunkin’ Donuts.”

  “You didn’t have enough donuts at the office?”

  “I didn’t have a Boston Kreme.”

  I left Greenwood, drove ten minutes down the highway, and exited at Sutter Boulevard. Dunkin’ Donuts was immediately on the right side of Sutter. The parking lot was packed, and there were eight cars in line at the drive-thru.

  “I’ll run in,” Lula said. “It’ll be faster, and I’ll get a better choice of donut.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Lula hustled back to the car with a box of donuts and two large coffees.

  “This is great,” Lula said, handing me a coffee and opening the box. “Just you and me and a box of donuts. This is the way people bond over good memories and shit.”

  I looked at the donuts. “They’re all Boston Kremes.”

  “Exactly. It’s so we don’t have to argue who gets what. And I got a dozen so there’s lots to go around.”

  * * *

  —

  It was almost ten-thirty when we reached Quaker Bridge. I went directly to the Macy’s parking lot, and we spotted Carol’s Escalade immediately.

  “We’re on a hot streak,” Lula said. “This is gonna be three in a row. And I’m looking forward to seeing this person. I’m always interested in a successful entrepreneur on account of I got entrepreneurial tendencies too. Not to mention he’s a cutie. You could tell from his photo he’s a nice guy.”

  “It was a mug shot. He’s officially a felon.”

  “Okay, but that don’t mean he isn’t nice. His mama likes him, so that says a lot.”

  We prowled through ladies’ shoes, men’s sportswear, and cosmetics, and found Carol walking through women’s sportswear. He was carrying two large shopping bags with the Macy’s logo on them. The bags looked full.

  I approached him from behind and called his name. “Carol?”

  No response. He kept walking.

  “Maybe we got the wrong dude,” Lula said.

  “It’s him,” I said.

  Lula moved up, practically stepping on his heels. “Hey!” she said, using her outdoor voice. “Are you Carol Joyce? Hold up a minute. We need to talk to you. What do you have in those bags, anyway?”

  Carol swung around and caught Lula on the side of the head with a shopping bag. Lula staggered back, and Carol took off running. He was headed for the mall entrance, but he was burdened by the heavy bags, and he had to dodge early shoppers. I caught up to him and grabbed the back of his shirt, and he stumbled into two women in front of him. Lula was behind me, huffing like a steam train, pounding down the aisles in her big, clunky chopper boots. She didn’t pull up in time, plowed into the four of us, and we all went down to the floor. The two women were screaming and flailing around. Lula was on top of me, trying to right herself. By the time I got to my feet, Carol was gone, out of sight. The bags were on the floor, and women’s jeans and a colorful collection of men’s three-button knit shirts were scattered around us.

  A small crowd had gathered and was standing at a distance. The women were babbling about being attacked and knocked down, and Lula was adjusting the girls and tugging her skirt down over her ass. Two mall security guards approached us.

  I explained the situation and handed the guards my credentials, including the Carol Joyce file that gave me the right to pursue and apprehend.

  “You’re going to have to come with us,” one guard said. “We’ll need a statement and verification of these papers.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Lula said. “We haven’t got time for that. We got important shit to do. And why aren’t you thanking us for stopping a shoplifter? He would have walked out with all this merchandise if it wasn’t for us. And I’ll tell you what else, it’s obvious you’re doing profiling here. You looked at this woman with metallic blue extensions and you decided she needed investigating. That’s blatant extension discrimination.”

  Lula snatched the papers from the guard and handed them over to me.

  “Hunh,” she said to the guard as her parting remark.

  We turned and walked out of the store. We got to the parking lot and Lula cut her eyes to me. “Are they following us?”

  I looked over my shoulder. “No.”

  “Idiots,” Lula said.

  “We lost Carol. His car is gone.”

  “I’m rearranging my opinion of him. That wasn’t nice of him to hit me with the shopping bag. It was heavy, and it could have broke something. I need a donut after that disillusioning experience. Good thing we got some.”

  I unlocked the Buick, we got in, and we each had a donut.

  “Sometimes I find human nature to be real disappointing,” Lula said. “I guess that’s why God made metallic extensions and pink hair dye. Sometimes you gotta compensate.”

  I turned the key in the ignition. “So true.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CONNIE LOOKED UP from her computer when we walked in. “I’m almost done,” she said. “There’s a lot of information on the Boys. Mostly it falls into three categories. Crimes, social clubs and civic events, and personal history. Too much to print out right now, so I sent you most of it in digital form. You can read it when you get the chance.
I figured you were interested in recent personal information, so that’s what I printed. Not sure what you’ll gain from any of this. The Boys have become pretty sedentary. Charlie Shine is the youngest and most active.” Connie handed me the folder. “I also included information on the younger guys who hang at the Mole Hole. Probably some of them know more than they’re supposed to know, and it might be easier to get them to talk.”

  I took the folder to the couch and paged through it. Charlie Shine was seventy-eight years old. The other three Boys were in their early eighties.

  “Do you think we’re all overly concerned about these men?” I asked Connie. “They all have medical problems, and I don’t see them engaged in a lot of activities.”

  “From my firsthand knowledge of Italian mobsters, I can tell you their biggest fear is to get put out to pasture,” Connie said. “The men who are sitting in the La-Z-Boy chairs are still accorded the utmost respect, because they’ve gotten more ruthless with age as they try to maintain the illusion of power. The La-Z-Boys were all assassins and enforcers. There’s less opportunity for wet work in today’s mob, so the four remaining Boys hang at the Mole Hole, watching the pole dancers and talking about the good old days. For whatever reason, they’re now focused on the keys, and I wouldn’t underestimate what they’d do to get them back. For that matter, they could be using the keys as an excuse to flex their atrophied mob muscles.”

  “Have you seen Benny the Skootch lately?” I said. “It takes two people to get him out of his chair.”

  “Yes,” Connie said, “but he has those two people. In fact, he has a whole posse to help him get the job done, whatever it is. He has people who would help him in the bathroom. He has people to help hold his hand steady while he cuts your heart out.”