Hardcore Twenty-Four

by Janet Evanovich

  “I got a case of nerves,” Lula said. “I’m worried about the zombies. This could be the start of something. There could be an apocalypse coming. And what about the ones that are already walking around? How long before they stop looking for dead brains and start going after live brains? It could be any day now. And our brains are going to be at the top of their list because you ran over one of them and ripped off some of his rags.”

  Lula’s hair was au naturel today, resulting in a massive, impenetrable afro. I thought the zombies would have a hard time getting to Lula’s brain.

  “How about you?” Lula asked me. “Aren’t you nervous? Weren’t you agitated over the zombies all last night?”

  I shook my head. “I spent the night with Morelli. I was agitated over other things.”

  “Did you tell him you punted a zombie?”

  “Yes. I gave him the piece of cloth. He’s going to have it tested today. And he swapped cars with me so the lab guys could take a look at that too.”

  “You’ve got one sexy guy who gives you cars, and another sexy guy who agitates you,” Lula said. “It’s not fair that you have two sexy guys, and I’m depending on battery-operated devices.”

  It got better or worse depending on your point of view. There was a third guy in my life. I wasn’t sure what role he played, but he was definitely sexy.

  “We have two open files,” I said. “Chucci and Slick. I’m curious about Slick. I say we check on him first.”

  “I guess that would be okay,” Lula said, “but if I smell carnations and outhouse I’m out of there.”

  “Fair enough.”

  We left the office, and Lula was relieved to see we’d be using Morelli’s green SUV.

  “This is good,” she said. “This is an unrecognizable car for the zombies. They won’t immediately know who we are when we park in the cemetery lot.”

  I buckled up and pulled away from the curb. “You need to stop obsessing about zombies. They aren’t real. Something bad is happening, but it’s not the result of a zombie uprising.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  I didn’t have an answer for this. It was like believing in God. You did or you didn’t. Or in my case, I wasn’t sure so I hedged my bets by going to mass at Christmas. And I only used the Lord’s name in vain under extreme circumstances.

  “I just don’t think there are zombies,” I said.

  “So what did we see?”

  “I don’t know. Something made up to look like a zombie.”

  “What about the glowing red eyes?”

  “I have to admit, they were freaky.”

  “Fuckin’ A,” Lula said.

  I parked in the cemetery lot, and Lula and I walked to the gate. Lula had her gun drawn in case she had to shoot a zombie in the brain. My gun was at home in the cookie jar. The Rangeman gun was riding along with Morelli. I kept telling myself I didn’t believe in zombies, and mostly I didn’t. I also didn’t believe in giant spiders that could eat me alive and venom-spewing, anal-probing aliens from Uranus. All this not believing had little effect on the irrational fear I carried for zombies, spiders, and aliens.

  We passed through the gate, and Lula stopped and sniffed.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “It smells okay. And I’m not getting any zombie vibes. I say we keep going.”

  We followed the path to the tree where Slick had set up camp. The area was littered with his belongings, but he wasn’t there. A white Styrofoam cooler was overturned and empty. A blanket, his GoPro, his journal, and a ball cap were on the ground by the cooler.

  “I don’t like the looks of this,” Lula said.

  “Maybe he had to use the bathroom.”

  “Or maybe the zombies got him.”

  It bothered me that Slick’s GoPro and journal were lying out, and that the pen was several feet from the journal. I was trying not to be an alarmist, but I secretly agreed with Lula that this didn’t look good.

  Lula was standing by a tombstone, staring at the grave. “Does it look like someone started to dig this up again?”

  “Yes. Some of the sod has been dislodged.”

  I walked farther down the path, finding another grave that had been recently disturbed. Lula’s video camera was half buried in the soft dirt. I shouted for Slick, but no one answered. The cemetery was eerily quiet.

  I called Morelli, gave him the short version, and suggested he might want to take a look at the grave sites.

  Lula returned to the parking lot to direct the police when they arrived, and I stayed graveside. I knew there was a good chance that this was a crime scene and I needed to keep its integrity, but I wanted to read Slick’s journal and see what he’d caught on the cameras.

  I carefully brushed the dirt away from Lula’s camera and checked recent videos. There was nothing after Lula’s bungee-jumping disaster. I placed the camera back in the dirt and went to the GoPro. The rewind on this showed more. Two shadowy forms with glowing eyes could be seen moving toward the camera.

  Slick’s voice was a whisper. “Oh, no. Oh crap.”

  The creatures stopped and looked left. Slick panned with the camera, and I saw a third form. It was taller, and it quickly moved out of the frame. The camera was on infrared mode, making identification difficult, but there was something about the hair and the build of the third one that looked familiar. I replayed the video and had a chilling feeling in my gut. I couldn’t be certain, but I thought it looked like Diesel. The camera returned to the two red-eyed creatures as they rushed at Slick, arms outstretched, mouths gaping open. The video went to the dark sky, someone screamed, and the camera cut out.

  I heard cars entering the parking lot, and I was in a state of confused anxiety. I was having a hard time breathing and thinking. The red-eyed creatures in the video were terrifying. Slick was missing, and my stomach was sick at the possibility of finding his headless body behind a tombstone. And then there was Diesel. I was almost positive he was the man in the video. What the heck was he doing there? Was he one of them? Was he hunting them? And what was I supposed to say to Morelli? I think I recognize the tall guy in the video. He’s living with me. And he’s been sleeping in my bed. Naked. This brought on more nausea.

  Okay, get a grip. Breathe. It’s not so bad. It’s all been pretty innocent. No penetration. No exchange of bodily fluids. Not yet, anyway. And now that he might be a zombie, or maybe a zombie handler . . . I squinched my eyes closed. Don’t even go there. First off, there are no zombies. Second, there are no zombies.

  Two uniforms appeared on the path, and I realized I hadn’t looked at the journal. I dropped the GoPro, snatched the journal off the ground, and shoved it into my bag. I made the sign of the cross and told God I was only keeping the journal for a short time. It wasn’t like I was stealing something or tampering with evidence. I was actually safeguarding evidence so it didn’t get trampled by all the cops who were rushing into the cemetery.

  Morelli was close behind the uniforms. I stood to one side and waited for him to first take in the scene at the grave and then make his way to me.

  “Let me get this straight,” Morelli said. “Instead of taking Slick in, you decided to let him stay here to film the zombies.”

  “At the time, it sounded like an okay idea.”

  Morelli looked at the GoPro lying on the ground. “He was going to film them with this?”

  “Yes. And with a camera that Lula loaned him. We found Lula’s camera at the other grave.”

  “And no one’s touched any of this?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Small grimace from Morelli. “And?”

  “There’s nothing on Lula’s camera, but the GoPro shows a couple guys with glowing red eyes coming at Slick.”

  Morelli pulled on gloves, picked the camera up, and watched the rewind.

  “What do you think?” I as
ked him.

  “Zombies,” Morelli said. “No doubt about it.”

  He watched it a second time. “There’s someone on this video who doesn’t look like a zombie.”

  “Hmmm,” I said. “I must have missed that.”

  “He’s at a distance, and he’s only on camera for a heartbeat. I’ll have the tech enhance the frame, and I’ll take another look.”

  “How about the zombies? Did you recognize either of them?”

  “I thought one looked a little like Bugs Molinowski, but Bugs isn’t dead yet.”

  “Would that matter?”

  “Tape this off,” Morelli said to one of the uniforms. “And get it photographed.”

  “Do you want to see the other disturbed grave?” I asked him.

  “Sure. Disturbed graves are my favorite. Right behind headless bodies.”

  I led him along the path to the second grave, and Morelli knelt down and scooped up some earth.

  “The tombstone says this woman was buried seven months ago,” Morelli said, “but this is a fresh dig, and there was no attempt made to hide it. A professional like Diggery would have replaced the sod.”

  “He takes pride in his work,” I said.

  Morelli stood and looked around. “And he doesn’t want to get caught. Have you gone through the rest of the cemetery?”

  “No. I called you when I saw this, and I went back to Slick’s sleepover spot.”

  “I’ll have it canvassed, and I’ll let you know if we find Slick.”

  “Likewise,” I said.

  He cut his eyes to the path to make sure we were alone. He wrapped an arm around me and kissed me.

  “Last night was good,” he said. “With any luck, I won’t be working tonight either.”

  “That would be great. I love when we get to spend the night together. Especially at your house. It’s so comfy.”

  I wasn’t sure I’d survive a second night in a row with Morelli, but I was going to give it my all, because I absolutely wasn’t going to share a bed with Diesel. In fact, I might even move Rex temporarily to my mother’s house. I had no clue what Diesel’s relationship was to the zombie people, but I didn’t want to take a chance on someone drilling a hole in Rex’s head and sucking out his tiny hamster brain for an hors d’oeuvre.

  “When will I get my car back?” I asked.

  “They’re going over the car now. I’ll bring it home with me.”

  SIXTEEN

  LULA WAS WAITING in the cemetery parking lot.

  “What’s going on in there?” she asked.

  “Not much. They’re doing their cop thing.”

  “Any sign of Slick?”

  “No, but the police are just starting to look.”

  “What about us?”

  “We’re going to look for Johnny Chucci.”

  “I think his brother was telling us a fib, and Johnny’s with him. Johnny was driving his car. And I’d talk to the ex-wife. I bet he’s creeping around her house, looking in her windows. We should go there at night. That’s when obsessed lunatics go creeping. Only thing is I don’t know if I want to go out at night, what with the zombies roaming everywhere. Have you noticed they’re all over Trenton? I’d think they’d stay close to their cemetery. I mean, how did they get to the hardware store? Do they drive? Do they have zombie cars? Do they cart their decapitated heads around in cabs or Uber cars?”

  I hadn’t thought about it. It was a good question.

  Ranger called on my cellphone. “Babe, your car is at the police station, but your messenger bag is at the cemetery on Morley Street.”

  “I kind of punted a zombie off the right front quarter panel yesterday. The police are looking at the car for DNA and stuff.”

  There was silence on Ranger’s end, and I thought I caught a single burst of muffled laughter.

  “Are you laughing?” I asked him.

  “Yes. What happened to the zombie?”

  “He disappeared.”

  “Hard to take down a zombie,” Ranger said. “Was the car totaled?”

  “No. I’m still working on that.”

  “Counting down the days,” Ranger said.

  • • •

  I drove past Little Pinkie’s gym on my way to the Burg.

  “I don’t see a silver Honda in the lot,” Lula said. “Are we going to stop in again?”

  “No. Johnny isn’t going to be at the gym, and Little Pinkie isn’t going to help me find him. I’m going to take another look at Little Pinkie’s house, and then I’m going to talk to the ex-wife.”

  “I like that plan. I’m interested in the ex-wife. What would possess a woman to take up painting gnomes? It’s sick, but in a good way, you see what I’m saying? I think she must be a unique individual.”

  It was almost eleven o’clock by the time I cruised past Little Pinkie’s house. A driveway led to a detached single-car garage that sat at the back of the property. There were no cars in front of the house and no cars in the driveway. I circled the block and parked one house down from Little Pinkie on the same side of the road.

  Lula and I went to the door and rang the bell. No one answered, but the dog repeated his barking, snarling routine. Lula walked around and looked in the first-floor windows. I walked back to the garage and looked in the single grimy side-door window. We met back at the front of the house.

  “Well?” Lula asked.

  “The garage is empty. No car.”

  “And I didn’t see any people. I guess someone could be upstairs, but there was nothing that said a freeloading guest was hanging out.”

  I cut across the Burg to the ex-wife’s, and we picked our way through the gnomes to the front door.

  “The advantage to this is you don’t have to cut the grass, being that there isn’t any,” Lula said. “This lady got wall-to-wall gnomes.”

  I rang the bell, and Judy Chucci opened the door. She was a couple inches shorter than me and pleasantly plump. That’s an outdated expression, but it fit Judy Chucci perfectly. She had brown hair tucked back behind her ears, and she was wearing jeans and a gray sweatshirt. The sweatshirt looked like someone had dripped red paint on it or maybe had a massive nosebleed.

  “Omigod,” she said. “Stephanie Plum, right? You used to hang out with my little sister, Joanie. Joanie Beam.”

  “Wow,” I said. “I didn’t know you were Joanie’s sister.”

  “Yeah, I get that a lot. We don’t look alike, right? She’s all blond and thin, and I’m, you know, round.”

  “What’s she doing now? I haven’t seen her in years.”

  “She works at the tattoo parlor on State Street, downtown. She’s real good. I saw her tattoo Madonna on a guy once.”

  “It’s gotta be hard to do Madonna,” Lula said. “I guess being artistic runs in the family. Looks like your thing is gnomes.”

  “A lot of people don’t understand the finer points of gnome painting,” Judy said. “At first glance, they might all look the same, but it’s the details that count. Charlie, over in the corner, has a little pink in his red coat. And Harry, by the mailbox, has a crooked smile. And poor Mr. Murphy has a cataract. It was an accident. I added too much white to his eyes and next thing he was blind.” Judy bit into her lower lip. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered to Mr. Murphy.

  “Can’t you just paint over it?” Lula asked.

  Judy shook her head. “No. He’s blind. It’s irreversible.”

  “That’s too bad,” Lula said. “Seems like something could be done to help him.”

  “I’m told there’s a paint specialist in Denver who does wonderful work,” Judy said. “I’ve started a GoFundMe page for Mr. Murphy.”

  “That’s a excellent idea,” Lula said. “I hear those pages rake in big bucks. And they got a good variety of weed in Denver, too.”

  Judy nod
ded. “Mr. Murphy would like that. And he deserves it. He’s suffered so much.”

  “About Johnny,” I said.

  Judy stiffened and looked around. “He better not be here. I have a restraining order.”

  “He missed his court date,” I said. “I work for his bond agent, and I need to bring him in to get rescheduled. I was hoping you’d help me find him.”

  “In other words, you want to take him to jail?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m in. What do you want to know? What do I have to do?”

  “Boy, you must really dislike him,” Lula said.

  “He’s a douchebag,” Judy said, “but I don’t want to get into that in front of the gnomes.” Judy stepped back. “Would you like to come in? I have coffee cake.”

  We followed Judy along a narrow path through the living room. There were gnomes on every surface. They were on the floor, on the tables, on the couch, and on all the chairs. Ditto the dining room and kitchen. She had a gnome-painting workstation set up on the kitchen table.

  “You ever watch that television show about hoarders?” Lula asked Judy.

  “Yeah, those poor people get buried alive with their stuff. I don’t know why they don’t get help.”

  “You ever see any hoarder shows about gnomes?”

  Judy was searching through her kitchen. “I know I have a coffee cake here somewhere.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “We don’t really have time for coffee cake. I was hoping you could give me some information on Johnny. Do you know where he’s staying?”

  “From what I hear, he moves around. Nobody can tolerate him for more than two days. He’s so annoying. He has an opinion about everything. Talk, talk, talk. And he’s constantly cracking his knuckles, and there’s no polite way to say this . . . he farts. A lot.”

  “Maybe he’s got gluten issues,” Lula said.

  “Maybe he should double up on his underwear in the place that counts, instead of wearing a pair on his head,” Judy said.

  “Does he have a favorite bar or fast-food place?” I asked. “Is there any place he regularly hangs out?”

  “Yes,” Judy said. “Here! I have a restraining order against him because he skulks around my house every night and breaks my gnomes, but that doesn’t stop him. He leaves stupid presents on my doorstep.”