Two for the Dough

  “The door won't lock, but I was able to attach the security chain,” Morelli called from the foyer. I heard him walk to the living room and stop. Silence followed.

  “Joe?”

  “Un-huh.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Watching your cat.”

  “I don't have a cat.”

  “What do you have?”

  “A hamster.”

  “Are you sure?”

  A little ripple of alarm raced through my chest. Rex! I rushed from the bedroom into the living room, where Rexy's glass aquarium rested on an end table beside the couch. I halted dead center in the room and clapped a hand to my mouth at the sight of a huge black cat stuffed into the hamster cage, the mesh lid held tight with duct tape.

  My heart beat with sickening clarity and my throat closed over. It was Mrs. Delgado's cat, and the cat sat hunkered down, ditty-eyed and as pissed off as any cat could get. It didn't look especially hungry, and Rex was nowhere in sight.

  “Shit,” Morelli said.

  I made a sound that was half gurgle, half sob and bit into my hand to keep from wailing.

  Morelli had his arm around me. “I'll buy you a new hamster. I know this guy who owns a pet store. He's probably still up. I'll get him to open the store—”

  “I don't want a new h-h-hamster,” I cried. “I want Rex. I loved him.”

  Morelli held me tighter. “It's okay, honey. He had a good life. I bet he was pretty old too. How old was he?”

  “Two years.”

  “Hmmm.”

  The cat squirmed in the cage and growled low in its throat.

  “It's Mrs. Delgado's cat,” I said. “She lives directly above me, and the cat lives on the fire escape.”

  Morelli went into the kitchen and returned with scissors. He cut the duct tape, lifted the mesh lid, and the cat jumped out and bolted for the bedroom. Morelli followed after the cat, opened the window, and the cat scurried on home.

  I looked into the cage, but I didn't see any hamster remains. No fur. No little bones. No yellow fangs. Nothing.

  Morelli looked too. “Pretty thorough job,” he said.

  This drew another sob.

  We stayed like that for a minute, squatting in front of the cage, numbly staring at pine shavings and the back of Rex's soup can.

  “What's the soup can for?” Morelli wanted to know.

  “He slept in the soup can.”

  Morelli tapped on the can, and Rex rushed out.

  I almost fainted with relief, caught midway between laughing and crying, too choked to speak.

  Rex was clearly in the same state of emotional overload. He rushed from one end of his cage to the other, nose twitching, beady black eyes bugging out of his head.

  “Poor guy,” I said, reaching into the aquarium, taking Rex in my hand, raising him up to my face for a closer look.

  “Maybe you should let him relax a while,” Morelli said. “He seems pretty agitated.”

  I stroked his back. “Hear that, Rex . . . are you agitated?”

  Rex responded by sinking his fangs into the tip of my thumb. I let out a shriek and jerked my hand away, flipping Rex off into space like a Frisbee. He sailed halfway across the room, landed with a soft thunk, lay stunned for five seconds, and then scrambled behind a bookcase.

  Morelli looked at the two puncture wounds in my thumb, then he looked at the bookcase. “You want me to shoot him?”

  “No, I don't want you to shoot him. I want you to go into the kitchen, get the big strainer, and trap Rex in it while I wash my hands and get a Band-Aid.”

  When I came out of the bathroom five minutes later, Rex was crouched still as stone under the strainer, and Morelli was at the dining room table eating the spice cake. He'd set out a wedge for me and poured glasses of milk.

  “I think we can hazard a pretty good guess at the identity of the villain here,” Morelli said, glancing at my business card impaled on my carving knife, which was sunk into the middle of my square wood table. “Nice centerpiece,” he offered. “Did you say you left your calling card with one of Sandeman's neighbors?”

  “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  Morelli finished his milk and cake and rocked back in his chair. “How spooked are you about all of this?”

  “On a scale of one to ten, I guess I'm at six.”

  “Do you want me to stay until you can get your door fixed?”

  I took a minute to consider. I'd been in worrisome situations before, and I knew it was no fun being alone and scared. Problem was, I didn't want to admit any of this to Morelli. “You think he'll be back?”

  “Not tonight. Probably not ever unless you push him again.”

  I nodded. “I'll be okay. But thanks for the offer.”

  He stood. “You've got my number if you need me.”

  I wasn't about to touch that one.

  He looked at Rex. “You need any help getting Dracula settled in?”

  I knelt down, lifted the strainer, scooped Rex up, and gently set him back in his cage. “He doesn't usually bite,” I said. “He was just excited.”

  Morelli gave me a chuck under the chin. “Happens to me sometimes, too.”

  I slid the chain home after Morelli left and jury-rigged an alarm system for myself by stacking glasses in front of the door. If the door opened, it'd knock the pyramid over, and the glasses smashing on the linoleum floor would wake me up. There was the added advantage that if the intruder was barefoot, he'd cut himself on the broken glass. Of course, this was unlikely since it was November and forty degrees.

  I brushed my teeth, got into my jammies, put my gun on the table beside my bed, and crawled into bed, trying not to be disturbed by the writing on my wall. First thing in the morning I'd call the super to get my door fixed, and while I was at it, I'd mooch some paint.

  I lay awake for a long time, unable to sleep. My muscles were twitchy with nerves and my brain was uneasy. I hadn't shared my opinion with Morelli, but I was pretty sure Sandeman hadn't vandalized my apartment. One of the messages on my wall had mentioned conspiracy, and a silver letter K had been pasted below the message. Probably I should have shown Morelli the K, and probably I should have shown him the silver-lettered note suggesting I take a vacation. I wasn't sure why I'd held back. I suspected the reason was childish. Sort of like . . . you won't tell me your secret, then I won't tell you mine. Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah.

  My mind wandered in the dark. I wondered why Moogey was killed, and why I couldn't find Kenny, and if I had any cavities.

  I awoke with a start, finding myself sitting bolt upright in bed. The sun was streaming in through the crack in my bedroom curtains, and my heart was pounding. There was a scraping sound from far away. My mind cleared, and I realized it had been the glasses crashing to the floor that had jolted me awake.

  Stephanie Plum 2 - Two For The Dough

  6

  I was on my feet with my gun in my hand, but I couldn't make a decision on direction. I could call the cops, jump out my window, or rush out and attempt to shoot the son of a bitch at my door. Fortunately, I didn't have to choose because I recognized the voice cussing in the hall. Morelli's.

  I looked at the bedside clock. Eight. I'd overslept. Happens when you don't close your eyes until daybreak. I slipped my feet into my Doc Martens and shuffled to the foyer, where glass shards were scattered over a four-foot area. Morelli had managed to work the chain off the latch and was standing in the open doorway, surveying the mess.

  He raised his eyes and gave me the once-over. “You sleep in those shoes?”

  I sent him a nasty look and went to the kitchen for a broom and dustpan. I handed him the broom, dropped the dustpan on the floor, and crunched my way over glass, back to the bedroom. I exchanged my flannel nightgown for sweatpants arid sweatshirt and almost screamed out loud when I caught sight of myself in the oval mirror above my dresser. No makeup, bags under my eyes, hair out to here. I wasn't sure brushing would make much of a difference, so I
slapped on my Rangers hat.

  When I got back to the foyer the glass was gone, and Morelli was in the kitchen making coffee.

  “You ever think of knocking?” I asked him.

  “I did knock. You didn't answer.”

  “You should have knocked louder.”

  “And disturb Mr. Wolesky?”

  I stuck my head in the refrigerator and pulled out the remains of the leftover cake, then divided it up. Half for me. Half for Morelli. We stood at the kitchen counter and ate our cake while we waited on the coffee.

  “You're not doing too good here, babe,” Morelli said. “You've had your car stolen, your apartment vandalized, and someone tried to snuff your hamster. Maybe you should drop back and punt.”

  “You're worried about me.”

  “Yeah.”

  We both shuffled our feet some at this.

  “Awkward,” I said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Hear anything about my Jeep?”

  “No.” He pulled some folded papers from his inside jacket pocket. “This is the report of theft. Look it over and sign it.”

  I did a fast read-through, added my name to the bottom, and returned it to Morelli. “Thanks. I appreciate the help.”

  Morelli stuffed the papers in his pocket. “I need to get back downtown. Do you have a plan for the day?”

  “Fix my door.”

  “Are you going to report the break-in and vandalism?”

  “I'm going to make repairs and pretend it didn't happen.”

  Morelli acknowledged this and stared down at his shoes, making no move to leave.

  “Something wrong?” I asked.

  “Lots of things.” He blew out a long breath. “About this case I'm working on . . .”

  “The big top-secret one?”

  “Yeah.”

  “If you tell me about it, I won't tell a soul. I swear!”

  “Right,” Morelli said. “Only Mary Lou.”

  “Why would I tell Mary Lou?”

  “Mary Lou is your best friend. Women always blab everything to their best friend.”

  I slapped my forehead. “Unh. That is stupid and sexist.”

  “So sue me,” Morelli said.

  “Are you going to tell me, or what?”

  “This is to be kept quiet.”

  “Sure.”

  Morelli hesitated. Clearly a cop between a rock and a hard place. Another exhale. “If this gets around . . .”

  “It won't!”

  “Three months ago a cop was killed in Philadelphia. He was wearing a Kevlar vest but he caught a couple high-penetration rounds square in the chest. One tore into his left lung; the other hit the heart.”

  “Cop killers.”

  "Exactly. Illegal armor-piercing bullets. Two months ago Newark had a real effective drive-by where the weapon of choice was a LAW—Light Anti-Tank Weapon. Army issue. Significantly decreased the population of the Sherman Street Big Dogs and turned Big Dog Lionel Simms's new Ford Bronco into pixie dust. The casing from the rocket was recovered and traced to Fort Braddock. Braddock ran an inventory and discovered some munitions missing.

  “When we got Kenny into custody we put his gun through NCRC, and what do you think?”

  “It came from Braddock.”

  “Yeah.”

  This was an excellent secret. This made life much more interesting. “What'd Kenny say about the hot gun?”

  “Said he bought it on the street. Said he didn't know the vendor by name, but he'd work with us to try to make an ID.”

  “And then he disappeared.”

  “This is an interagency operation,” Morelli said. “CID wants it kept confidential.”

  “Why did you decide to tell me?”

  “You're in the middle of it. You need to know.”

  “You could have told me sooner.”

  “In the beginning it looked like we had good leads. I was hoping we'd have Kenny in custody by now and wouldn't have to involve you.”

  My mind was moving at warp speed, generating all sorts of wonderful possibilities.

  “You could have bagged him in the parking lot when he was doing his thing with Julia,” I said to Morelli.

  He agreed. “I could have.”

  “That might not have told you what you really wanted to know.”

  “Which is?”

  “I think you wanted to follow him to see where he was hiding out. I think you aren't just looking for Kenny. I think you're looking for more guns.”

  “Keep going.”

  I was feeling really pleased with myself, now, trying hard not to smile too wide. “Kenny was stationed at Braddock. He got out four months ago and started spending money. He bought a car. Paid cash. Then he rented a relatively expensive apartment and furnished it. He filled the closets with new clothes.”

  “And?”

  “And Moogey was doing pretty good, too, considering he was living on a gas station attendant's wages. He had a megabucks car in his garage.”

  “Your conclusion?”

  “Kenny didn't buy that gun on the street. He and Moogey were involved in the Braddock ammo rip-off. What was Kenny doing at Braddock? Where did he work?”

  “He was a shipping clerk. He worked in the warehouse.”

  “And the missing munitions were stored in the warehouse?”

  “Actually they were stored in a compound adjacent to the warehouse, but Kenny had access to it.”

  “Ah-ha!”

  Morelli grinned. “Don't get all wired over this. Kenny's working in the warehouse is hardly conclusive proof of guilt. Hundreds of soldiers have access to that warehouse. And as far as Kenny's affluence goes . . . he could be dealing drugs, betting on horses, or blackmailing Uncle Mario.”

  “I think he was running guns.”

  “I think so, too,” Morelli said.

  “Do you know how he got the stuff out?”

  “No. CID doesn't know either. It could all have gone out at once, or it could have trickled out over a period of time. No one checks inventory unless something is needed or, in this case, unless something turns up stolen. CID is conducting a background search on Kenny's army friends and coworkers in the warehouse. So far none of those people have been labeled suspects.”

  “So where do we go from here?”

  “Thought it might be helpful to talk to Ranger.”

  I grabbed the phone off the kitchen counter and tapped out Ranger's number.

  “Yo,” Ranger answered. “This better be good.”

  “It has potential,” I said. “You free for lunch?”

  “Big Jim's at twelve.”

  “Going to be a threesome,” I told him. “You and me and Morelli.”

  “He there now?” Ranger wanted to know.

  “Yeah.”

  “You naked?”

  “No.”

  “Still early,” Ranger said.

  I heard the disconnect, and I hung up.

  When Morelli left I called Dillon Ruddick, the building superintendent, who was also an all-around good guy and friend. I explained my problem and about half an hour later, Dillon showed up with his trusty box of tools, a half gallon of paint, and assorted paint paraphernalia.

  He went to work on the door, and I tackled the walls. It took three coats to cover the spray paint, but by eleven my apartment was threat free and had all new locks installed.

  I took a shower, scrubbed my teeth, dried my hair, and got dressed in jeans and black turtleneck.

  I placed a call to my insurance company and reported the theft of my car. I was told my policy did not cover car rental and that payment would be made in thirty days if my car didn't turn up by then. I was doing some heavy sighing when my phone rang. Even before I touched the receiver the urge to scream told me it was my mother.

  “Have you gotten your car back?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Not to worry. We have it all figured out. You can use your uncle Sandor's car.”

  Uncle Sandor h
ad gone into a nursing home last month, at the age of eighty-four, and had given his car to his only living sister, Grandma Mazur. Grandma Mazur had never learned to drive. My parents and the rest of the free world weren't anxious for her to start now.