Two for the Dough

by Janet Evanovich

  “He usually gets to work by nine.”

  Morelli knocked on my door at six-thirty, and I was way ahead of him. I'd already showered and dressed in what I'd come to think of as my work uniform. Jeans, warm shirt, shoes of the day. I'd cleaned Rex's cage and had Mr. Coffee cooking.

  “This is the plan,” Morelli said. “You follow Spiro, and I follow you.”

  I didn't think that sounded like much of a plan, but I didn't have anything better, so I didn't complain. I filled my thermos with coffee, packed two sandwiches and an apple into my little cooler, and turned my answering machine on.

  It was still dark when I walked to my car. Sunday morning. No traffic. Neither of us was in a talkative mood. I didn't see Morelli's truck in the lot.

  “What are you driving?” I asked.

  “A black Explorer parked on the street, to the side of the building.”

  I unlocked the Buick and threw everything into the backseat, including a blanket, which it looked like I wouldn't need. It had stopped raining and the air felt much warmer. In the fifties, I guessed.

  I wasn't sure if Spiro kept the same schedule on Sundays. The funeral home was open seven days a week, but I suspected weekend hours depended on bodies received. Spiro didn't seem like the sort to go to church. I crossed myself. I couldn't remember the last time I'd attended mass.

  “What was that all about?” Morelli asked. “What's with the sign of the cross?”

  “It's Sunday, and I'm not in church . . . again.”

  Morelli put his hand on the top of my head. It felt steady and reassuring, and heat seeped into my scalp.

  “God loves you anyway,” he said.

  His hand slid to the back of my head, he pulled me to him, and kissed me on the forehead. He gave me a hug, and then he was suddenly gone, striding across the lot, disappearing into the shadows.

  I stuffed myself into the Buick, feeling warm and fuzzy, wondering if something was going on with Morelli and me. What did a kiss on the forehead mean, anyway? Nothing, I told myself. It didn't mean anything at all. It meant that sometimes Morelli could be a nice guy. Okay, so why was I smiling like an idiot? Because I was deprived. My love life was nonexistent. I shared an apartment with a hamster. Well, I thought, it could be worse. I could still be married to Dickie Orr, the horse's patoot.

  The drive to Century Court was quiet. The sky had begun to lighten. Black layers of clouds and blue strips of sky. Spiro's apartment complex was dark, with the exception of Spiro's apartment. I parked and watched the rearview mirror for Morelli's headlights. No headlights appeared. I swiveled in my seat and scanned the lot. No Explorer.

  No matter, I told myself. Morelli was out there, somewhere. Probably.

  I had few illusions about my place in the scheme of things. I was the decoy, making myself clearly visible in the Buick, so Kenny wouldn't look too hard for a second man.

  I poured coffee and settled in for the long wait. A band of orange appeared on the horizon. A light blinked on in the apartment next to Spiro. Another light appeared a few apartments down. The charcoal sky turned azure. Ta daaa! It was morning.

  Spiro's shades were still drawn. There was no sign of life in his apartment. I was beginning to worry when his door opened and Spiro walked out. He tried his door to make sure it was locked and quickly walked to his car. He drove a navy blue Lincoln Town Car. The car of choice for all young undertakers. Undoubtedly leased and charged off to the business.

  He was dressed more casually than usual. Stone-washed black jeans and running shoes. Bulky dark green sweater. A white bandage was wrapped around his thumb and peeked out from under his sweater sleeve.

  He gunned the Lincoln out of the lot and turned onto Klockner. I'd expected some sort of acknowledgment, but Spiro barreled past without a sideways glance. Most likely he was concentrating on not messing his pants.

  I followed at a leisurely pace. There weren't a lot of cars on the road, and I knew where Spiro was heading. I parked half a block from the funeral home, at an angle where I could see the front entrance, the side entrance, and also the small parking lot on the side with the walkway leading to the back door.

  Spiro parked in the drive-through and entered through the side. The door stayed open while he punched in the security code. The door closed and a light flicked on in Spiro's office.

  Ten minutes later Louie Moon showed up.

  I poured more coffee and ate half a sandwich. No one else went in or out. At nine-thirty Louie Moon left in the hearse. He returned an hour later, and someone was rolled into the back of the house. I guessed this was why Louie and Spiro had to come in on a Sunday morning.

  At eleven I used my cellular phone to call my mother and make sure Grandma Mazur was okay.

  “She's out,” my mother said. “I leave the house for ten minutes, and what happens? You father lets your grandmother go off with Betty Greenburg.”

  Betty Greenburg was eighty-nine and was hell on wheels.

  “Ever since that stroke in August Betty Greenburg can't remember anything,” my mother said. “Last week she drove to Asbury Park. Said she meant to go to Kmart and made a wrong turn.”

  “How long has Grandma Mazur been gone?”

  “Almost two hours. They were supposed to be going to the bakery. Maybe I should call the police.”

  There was the sound of a door slamming and a lot of shouting in the background.

  “It's your grandmother,” my mother said. “And she's got her hand all wrapped up.”

  “Let me talk to her.”

  Grandma Mazur came on the phone. “You won't believe this,” she said, her voice trembling with anger and indignation. "The most terrible thing just happened. Betty and me were coming out of the bakery with a box full of fresh-made Italian cookies when none other than Kenny Mancuso himself walked out from behind a car, just as brazen as could be and came right up to me.

  " 'Well, looky here,' he says, 'it's Grandma Mazur.'

  " 'Yeah, and I know who you are, too,' I said to him. 'You're that no-good Kenny Mancuso.'

  “ 'That's right,' he says. 'And I'm gonna be your worst nightmare.' ”

  There was a pause, and I could hear her breathing, collecting herself.

  “Mom said your hand was bandaged?” I asked, not wanting to push her but needing to know.

  “Kenny stuck me. He took hold of my hand, and he stuck an ice pick into it,” Grandma said, her voice unnaturally shrill, her words thick with the pain of the experience.

  I pushed the big bench seat all the way back and put my head between my knees.

  “Hello,” Grandma said. “Are you still there?”

  I took a deep breath. “So how are you now? Are you okay?”

  "Sure I'm okay. They fixed me up good at the hospital. Gave me some of that Tylenol with codeine. You take some of that, and you could get run over by a truck and never feel a thing. And then on account of I was in a state, they gave me some relaxer pills.

  “Doctors said I was lucky that the pick missed everything important. Just kind of slid between the bones and such. Went in real clean.”

  More deep breathing. “What happened to Kenny?”

  “Took off like the yellow-bellied dog that he is. Said he'd be coming back. That this was just the beginning.” Her voice broke. “Can you imagine?”

  “Maybe it'd be best if you stay in the house for a while.”

  “That's what I think, too. I'm plain tired. I could use a cup of hot tea.”

  My mother came back on the line. “What's this world coming to?” she asked. “An old woman gets attacked in broad daylight, in her own neighborhood, coming out of a bakery!”

  “I'm going to leave my cellular phone on. Keep Grandma in the house, and call me if anything else happens.”

  “What else could happen? Isn't this enough?”

  I disconnected and plugged my cellular phone into the cigarette lighter. My heart was beating triple time, and my palms were slick with sweat. I told myself I had to think clearly, but my min
d was clouded with emotion. I got out of the Buick and stood on the sidewalk, looking for Morelli. I waved my arms over my head in a here-I-am signal.

  The cell phone chirped inside the Buick. It was Morelli, his voice laced with impatience or anxiety. Hard to tell which.

  “What?” Morelli said.

  I told him about Grandma Mazur and waited while the silence stretched taut between us. Finally there was an oath and a disgusted sigh. It had to be hard for him. Mancuso was family.

  “I'm sorry,” he said. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “You can help me catch Mancuso.”

  “We'll catch him.”

  What was left unsaid was the mutual fear that we wouldn't catch him soon enough.

  “You okay to follow the game plan?” Morelli asked.

  “Until six. I'm going home for dinner tonight. I want to see Grandma Mazur.”

  There was no further activity until one o'clock, when the funeral home opened for afternoon viewings. I trained my binoculars on the front-room windows and caught a glimpse of Spiro in suit and tie. Obviously he kept a change of clothes on the premises. Cars were constantly coming and going in the parking lot, and I realized how easily Kenny could get lost in the traffic. He could paste on a beard or a mustache, wear a hat or a wig, and no one would notice one more pedestrian coming into the front door, side door, or back door.

  I strolled across the street at two o'clock.

  Spiro sucked in some air when he saw me, and instinctively brought his injured arm closer to his body. His movements were unnaturally abrupt, his expression dark, and I had a sense of a disorganized mind. He was the rat dropped into a maze, scrabbling over obstacles, scurrying down dead-end corridors, looking for the way out.

  A man stood alone at the tea table. Fortyish, medium height, medium weight, upper body on the beefy side. He was wearing a sport coat and slacks. I'd seen him before. It took me a moment to figure it out. He'd been at the garage when they'd hauled Moogey out in a body bag. I'd assumed he was homicide, but maybe he was vice, or maybe he was a fed.

  I approached the tea table and introduced myself.

  He extended his hand. “Andy Roche.”

  “You work with Morelli.”

  He went immobile for a heartbeat while his regrouping reflex jerked into fast forward. “Sometimes.”

  I took a winger. “Fed.”

  “Treasury.”

  “You going to stay inside?”

  “As much as possible. We brought in a bogus body today. I'm the long-lost grieving brother.”

  “Very clever.”

  “This guy, Spiro, always piss in short jerks?”

  “He had a bad day yesterday. Didn't get a lot of sleep last night.”

  Stephanie Plum 2 - Two For The Dough

  12

  All right, so Morelli didn't tell me about Andy Roche. What's new. Morelli played his cards close to his vest. That was his style. He didn't show his whole hand to anyone. Not to his boss, not to his partners, and certainly not to me. Nothing personal. After all, the goal was to catch Kenny. I no longer cared how it was accomplished.

  I backed off from Roche and had a few words with Spiro. Yes, Spiro wanted me to tuck him in. And no, he hadn't heard from Kenny.

  I used the ladies' room and returned to the Buick. At five o'clock I packed it in, not able to shake the visions of Grandma Mazur getting stuck with an ice pick. I drove back to my apartment, threw some clothes in a laundry basket, added makeup, hair gel, and hair dryer, and dragged the basket out to the car. I went back and fetched Rex, set the answering machine, left the kitchen light burning, and locked the door behind me. The only way I knew to protect Grandma Mazur was to move back home.

  “What's this?” my mother said when she saw the glass hamster cage.

  “I'm moving in for a few days.”

  “You quit that job. Thank God! I always thought you could do better.”

  “I didn't quit my job. I just need a change.”

  “I have the sewing machine and the ironing board in your room. You said you'd never come home.”

  I had both arms wrapped around the hamster cage. “I was wrong. I'm home. I'll make do.”

  “Frank,” my mother yelled. “Come help Stephanie, she's moving in with us again.”

  I nudged my way past her and started up the stairs. “Only for a few days. It's temporary.”

  “Stella Lombardi's daughter said that same thing, and three years later she's still living with them.”

  I felt a scream starting somewhere deep inside.

  “If you'd given me some notice, I'd have cleaned,” my mother said. “I'd have gotten a new bedspread.”

  I pushed the door open with my knee. “I don't need a new bedspread. This one is fine.” I maneuvered around the clutter in the small room and set Rex on the bed while I cleaned off the top of the single dresser. “How's Grandma?”

  “She's taking a nap.”

  “Not no more I'm not,” Grandma said from inside her room. “There's enough noise out there to wake the dead. What's going on?”

  “Stephanie's moving back home.”

  “Why'd she want to do a thing like that? It's damn boring here.” Grandma peeked into my room. “You aren't pregnant, are you?”

  Grandma Mazur got her hair curled once a week. In between sets she must have slept with her head hanging over the side of the bed because the tight little rolls lost some precision as the week marched on, but never seemed totally disturbed. Today she looked like she'd spray-starched her hair and been put through a wind tunnel. Her dress was rumpled from sleep, she was wearing pink velour bedroom slippers, and her left hand was encased in bandage.

  “How's your hand?” I asked.

  “Starting to throb. Think I must need some more of them pills.”

  Even with the ironing board and sewing machine occupying space, my room hadn't changed much in the past ten years. It was a small room with one window. The curtains were white with a rubberized backing. The first week in May they were exchanged for sheers. The walls were painted dusty rose. The trim was white. The double bed was covered with a quilted, pink-flowered bedspread, softened in texture and color by age and the spin cycle. I had a small closet, which was filled with seasonal clothes, a single maple dresser, and a maple nightstand with a milk-glass lamp. My high school graduation picture still hung on the wall. And a picture of me in my majorette uniform. I had never completely mastered the art of baton twirling, but I'd been perfection in boots when I'd strutted onto a football field. Once during a half-time show I'd lost control of my baton and flipped it into the trombone section. A shudder ripped through me at the memory.

  I hauled the laundry basket up and stashed it in a corner, clothes and all. The house was filled with food smells and the clank of flatware being set. My father channel-surfed in the living room, raising the volume to compete with the kitchen activity.

  “Shut it down,” my mother shouted at my father. “You'll make us all deaf.”

  My father concentrated on the screen, pretending oblivion.

  By the time I sat down to dinner my fillings were vibrating, and I'd developed a twitch in my left eye.

  “Isn't this nice?” my mother said. “Everyone sitting down to dinner together. Too bad Valerie isn't here.”

  My sister, Valerie, had been married to the same man for a hundred years and had two children. Valerie was the normal daughter.

  Grandma Mazur was directly across from me and was downright frightening, with her hair still uncombed and her eyes focused inward. As my father would put it, her lights were on, but there was no one home.

  “How much of that codeine has Grandma taken so far?” I asked my mother.

  “Just one pill that I know of,” my mother said.

  I felt my eye jump and put my finger to it. “She seems to be . . . disconnected.”

  My father stopped buttering his bread and looked up. His mouth opened to say something, but he thought better of it and went back to buttering his
bread.

  “Mom,” my mother called out, “how many pills have you taken?”

  Grandma's head rotated in my mother's direction. “Pills?”

  “It's a terrible thing that an old lady can't be safe on the streets,” my mother said. “You'd think we lived in Washington, D.C. Next thing we'll have drive-by shootings. The burg was never like this in the old days.”

  I didn't want to burst her bubble about the old days, but in the old days the burg had a Mafia staff car parked in every third driveway. Men were walked out of their homes, still in pajamas, and taken at gunpoint to the Meadowlands or the Camden landfill for ceremonial dispatch. Usually families and neighbors weren't at risk, but there'd always been the possibility that a stray bullet would embed itself in the wrong body.