Explosive Eighteen

  “You don’t scare me,” Buggy said. “You can’t shoot an unarmed man.”

  “Says who?” Lula said. “I shoot unarmed men all the time.”

  I scrambled to my feet, came up behind Buggy, pressed the stun gun prongs to his neck, and held the button down. Buggy went dead still, sank to his knees, and wet his pants.

  “Third time’s a charm,” Lula said.

  I slipped the plastic Flexi-Cuffs around his wrists and secured them behind his back. Buggy was still on his knees, his eyes were glazed, and he was drooling.

  “How are we gonna get him in the car?” Lula stared at him. “He must weigh three hundred pounds, and he got wet pants. We need a forklift to move him. Maybe one of them skyhooks.”

  “Maybe now that he’s cuffed, he’ll be reasonable,” I said.

  Buggy’s eyes snapped into focus. “Grrrrr,” he said.

  Lula looked down at him. “He don’t look reasonable.”

  Buggy struggled to free his hands. “GRRRRR!” He came off one knee and then the other. He shook his head as if to clear it, stood, and swayed a little getting his balance.

  “You know that movie where they bring the Frankenstein monster back to life?” Lula said. “This is like that movie. You know what happened when Frankenstein first woke up? He wasn’t happy.”

  “We need to go downtown and get you rebonded,” I said to Buggy. “It won’t take long.”

  Buggy lunged at me. His hands were bound behind his back, and his gait was awkward. He lunged at me a second time, but I jumped away. He stumbled, went down to the ground, and rolled onto his back. That’s where he stayed, kicking his feet, unable to right himself.

  “He’s like a big giant turtle,” Lula said. “What are we gonna do with him?”

  I didn’t know. We couldn’t lift him. I wasn’t even sure we could drag him. When we got near, he kicked out at us. His face was red and sweating, and veins were popped out in his forehead and corded on his neck.

  “You need to calm yourself,” Lula said to Buggy. “You’re gonna give yourself a stroke. And you’re not a real attractive man to begin with, so you don’t want to make it worse with the whole bulging vein thing. It’s not a good look for you.”

  He was rocking side to side and grunting. “Unh, unh, UNH!” And on the last UNH, he broke out of the Flexi-Cuffs, rolled to hands and knees, then stood beady-eyed, arms out, mouth open. Killer grizzly.

  “YOW!” Lula said. “Every man for himself.”

  She ran for the Buick, and I ran for the RAV4. I jumped in, pulled the door closed, and took off with Lula following.

  I drove to my parents’ house, parked at the curb, and sat for a couple beats, getting it together. Lula rapped on the driver’s side window, and I got out.

  “You see, that’s what I’m talking about,” Lula said. “You got a juju issue. That wasn’t a wonderful experience. You ever see anyone break out of those plastic handcuffs before? I don’t think so.”

  ELEVEN

  GRANDMA WAS AT the front door, waving at us. “You’re just in time for lunch,” she said.

  Lula’s face brightened. “Lunch! That’s what I need after my traumatic experience.”

  Grandma led the way to the kitchen. “What happened?”

  “We almost got torn limb from limb by a idiot,” Lula said. “Only we avoided it and came here.”

  My mother was putting food on the kitchen table, trying not to rant over the thought of me getting my limbs torn off.

  “Ham, olive loaf, Swiss cheese, some macaroni salad,” she said. “Help yourself.”

  I sat down and Grandma gave me a small glass bottle.

  “Annie dropped this off for you this morning. She said you should drink it next time you see your true love, and it’ll take care of your indigestion.”

  Lula looked across at me. “Does this mean you decided on your true love? Not that I especially care, but I was wondering for the sake of conversation if it has something to do with the ring that used to be on your finger.”

  My mother and grandmother stopped eating and leaned forward a little, waiting for my answer.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sakes,” I said. “Why is everyone making such a big deal about this stupid tan line? It’s just a tan line!”

  “Yeah,” Lula said, “but you’ve been real secret about it, and all this talk about true love and indigestion has me putting it together, and I finally got it figured out. You’re preggers!”

  My mother clapped a hand over her mouth, made a strangled sound, and went facedown into the olive loaf. For a brief moment, I thought she’d had a heart attack, and I was responsible.

  “She just fainted,” Grandma said. “She used to faint all the time when she was a little girl. A real drama queen.”

  We stretched my mom out on the floor, and Grandma got a wet towel. My mom finally opened her eyes and looked up at me. “Who? What?”

  “I’m not pregnant,” I said.

  “Are you sure?”

  I had to think about it for a minute. “Pretty sure.” I’d be more sure in a week.

  We sat my mom back in her chair, I got the whiskey from the cupboard, and we all chugged some.

  “I can’t take it anymore,” Lula said to me. “I want to know about the ring. I want to know who you married. What the heck happened in Hawaii anyhow?”

  “Yeah,” Grandma said. “I want to know, too.”

  “Ditto,” my mom said, taking another hit from the whiskey bottle.

  I’d been avoiding this. There were parts to my vacation that were spectacular, but there were also parts I’d just as soon forget … like the ending. Not only didn’t I want to talk about it, I had no idea what to say. It was all too awkward. Unfortunately, I owed Lula and my family an explanation. I just wouldn’t tell them all of it.

  “It was nothing. It was business. I’ll tell you what happened, but you have to swear not to repeat it.”

  Everyone made the sign of the cross, drew zippers across their mouths, and threw the keys away.

  “I offered the second free plane ticket to Morelli,” I said, “but he couldn’t get away from work. He never gets away from work. So I went by myself. I got off the plane in Honolulu, and as I was walking through the terminal, I spotted Tootie Ruguzzi.”

  “Get the heck out,” Lula said. “The Rug’s wife?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Those two disappeared off the face of the earth,” Grandma said. “We all thought they got planted.”

  Simon Ruguzzi, better known as The Rug, is a local celebrity hit man. He’s part of the Colichio crime family, but he’s also been known to do freelance. Three years ago, he executed seven members of a Hispanic gang that was trying to muscle in on Colichio territory. Two other gang members witnessed the massacre but escaped and fingered The Rug. He was arrested and charged and somehow managed to get released on a ridiculously high bail bond. That was the last anyone ever saw The Rug or Tootie. Vinnie had written the bond, and Ranger and I have been looking for The Rug ever since.

  “Was The Rug with her?” Lula asked.

  “Not in the terminal. She was alone. I followed her outside and watched her get on a shuttle to a resort. I picked up my rental car and drove to the address on the side of the shuttle. It was one of those really expensive beachfront, view-of-Diamond-Head resorts that cater to special-events packages. I tried to get in, but it was married-couples-only retreat month. High-security, exclusive, strictly enforced privacy.”

  “They weren’t even letting bounty hunters in?” Lula asked.

  “My name wasn’t on the guest list. End of story.”

  “How about if you were a guest?”

  “I had to be married.”

  “I’m getting a picture,” Lula said.

  “It was more complicated than that,” I told her. “Even if I captured The Rug, I don’t have the authority to return him to Jersey. Vinnie and Ranger handle the high stakes bonds and extradition.”

  “So you called Ranger,” Lula said. br />
  “Yes. He caught the next flight, and we checked into the resort as Mr. and Mrs. Manoso.”

  Lula fanned herself with her napkin. “Lordy, lordy.”

  My mother had her hands over her ears. “I’m not listening.”

  “I’m listening,” Grandma said. “This is getting good.”

  Grandma had no idea how good. And I wasn’t going into details, but Ranger arranged for a beachfront cottage with total privacy for enjoying the spa au naturel and a king-sized bed for après spa.

  “So the whole marriage thing was fake to get into the resort,” Lula said.

  “Yep.”

  “Did you get The Rug?”

  “No, but he was there. They were in a cottage on the other side of the property. Unfortunately, they checked out and disappeared before we were able to make contact.”

  Okay, truth is, we probably didn’t try as hard as we might have. The spa that went with our cottage was pretty darn fantastic, and I’m not sure Ranger was totally motivated to make an apprehension and leave the island.

  Lula took seconds on the macaroni salad. “So why’d you keep saying things were complicated? And why all the secrecy?”

  “We haven’t given up on capturing The Rug,” I said. “I don’t want it passed around that I spotted him in Hawaii, and I don’t want him spooked.”

  Not to mention that Morelli had felt bad because I was vacationing alone and showed up as a surprise. Fortunately, I was fully clothed and not in the spa when he badged his way past the front desk and appeared on my doorstep. Unfortunately, Morelli’s temper kicked in the minute he saw Ranger, and Morelli coldcocked him with a fist in the face. The result of all this was the hospital drop-off and my early departure.

  “I was hoping for a better story than that,” Lula said. “But I guess you could still be pregnant.”

  “It’s not likely,” I told her.

  “Yeah, but you never know. There could be a chance,” Lula said.

  I cut my eyes to my mother to see if she was going to faint again. She had her hand wrapped around the almost-empty whiskey bottle, she was smiling, and her eyes were unfocused.

  “She’s shit-faced,” Grandma said. “You should take the bottle away from her before she takes another header into the olive loaf.”

  I pried the bottle out of my mother’s hand and returned it to the cupboard.

  “Did you by any chance tell Morelli where I was staying in Hawaii?” I asked Grandma.

  “Yeah, he called just before you came home. I guess he thought you were in a different hotel, so we told him about the new one. He said he was going to surprise you, and we figured you were spending the last couple days together.”

  Okay, so that mystery was solved. I finished my sandwich, dropped Annie’s bottle into my bag, and stood.

  “I have to keep moving,” I said to Grandma. “Let me know if you hear anything about anything. I’ve got my RAV back, so I’m leaving the Buick here.”

  • • •

  Lula and I buckled ourselves into the RAV, and Lula looked through my files.

  “We need a capture to break the cycle,” Lula said. “We gotta get the juju turned around. Especially if you’re pregnant.”

  “I’m not pregnant.”

  “Yeah, but you said that about being married.”

  “And I wasn’t married.”

  Lula held fast. “You were sort of married.”

  Good grief.

  “Anyways, I’m voting we go looking for Magpie,” Lula said, “because we could snag him for sure if we could just find him.”

  Donald Grezbek, better known as Magpie, was wanted for burglary. He’d been caught on tape breaking into a flea-market stall at the fairgrounds and making off with about $700 worth of gold chains. It wasn’t his first arrest. Usually, it was shoplifting. Magpie took things that caught his eye. He loved things that were glittery or shiny. After he got his treasures, he had no clue what to do with them. Mostly, he wore them until someone found him and confiscated the loot.

  Magpie lived hand to mouth out of a beat-up Crown Vic. And that was the problem. He had no job, no permanent address, no relatives, no friends. No favorite parking place. He preferred to squat on seldom-used roads. Once in a while, he was known to set up housekeeping in a cemetery.

  “He could be anywhere,” I said. “I wouldn’t know where to begin looking.”

  “We could rent a helicopter and try to spot him from the air,” Lula said.

  “The helicopter would cost more than I’d make from the capture.”

  “It’s not always about money,” Lula said.

  “It is if you don’t have any.”

  My cell phone rang, and the display showed an unfamiliar Jersey number.

  “I’m looking for Stephanie Plum,” a woman said. “I need to talk to her about Richard Crick.”

  “You’re not another FBI agent, are you?” I said. “I’m up to my armpits in FBI agents.”

  “I was Ritchy’s fiancée.”

  “Jeez,” I said. “I’m sorry for your loss. I didn’t know he had a fiancée.”

  “I need to talk to you. You must have been one of the last people to see him.”

  “I was sitting next to him on the plane, but I slept through most of the flight.”

  “You’re in Trenton, right? I am, too. I’d really appreciate it if I could meet you someplace.”

  “There’s a coffee shop on Hamilton, next to the hospital,” I said.

  “Thanks. I’m not far from there.”

  “What was that about?” Lula looked over at me when I disconnected.

  “That was Richard Crick’s fiancée. How does everyone find me? The real FBI guys I get, because they have resources. But what about everyone else? They know I was sitting next to Crick. They know where I live. They know my cell phone number.”

  “It’s the electronic age,” Lula said. “We aren’t the only ones got search programs. And then there’s the whole social network. ’Course, you wouldn’t know about that since you’re in the Stone Age. You don’t even tweet.”

  I put the RAV in gear. “Do you tweet?” I asked Lula.

  “Hell, yeah. I’m a big tweeter.”

  • • •

  I drove to the coffee shop and parked. Connie was back in the window. No Vinnie. Lula and I went inside and pulled chairs up to Connie’s table.

  “Do we have an office?” I asked Connie.

  “Yeah, Vinnie signed the papers. He wanted to come back here and punch out DeAngelo, but I told him he had to stay and wait for the furniture-rental truck. With any luck, by the time the furniture’s delivered, DeAngelo will have gone home for the day.”

  “What all furniture did you rent?” Lula asked. “You got a big ol’ comfy couch, right? And one of them flat-screen televisions.”

  “I got two cheap desks and six folding chairs. I’m counting on this being short-term.”

  A woman walked into the coffee shop, looked around, and came over to the table.

  “Is one of you Stephanie Plum?” she asked.

  I raised my hand.

  “I’m Brenda Schwartz, Ritchy’s fiancée. I just talked to you on the phone. Could we go outside?”

  She was about 5′5″ and excessively curvy. She had a lot of overprocessed blond hair piled on top of her head in a messy upsweep. Her makeup was close to drag queen. She was wearing platform heels, a tight black skirt, and a red scoop-neck sweater that showed a lot of boob enhanced with spray-on tan. Hard to tell exactly what was under the makeup, but I was guessing she was in her forties.

  I followed her out, and she immediately lit up. She sucked the smoke in all the way down to her toes and blew it out her nose.

  “This cigarette tastes like ass,” she said.

  I wasn’t sure what ass tasted like, but she looked like she would know, so I was willing to take her word for it.

  She took another hit. “I’m trying to get off menthol, and it’s a real bitch. I swear, I’m just inches away from trying one o
f those electronic things.”

  “You wanted to see me about Richard Crick?”

  “Yeah. Poor Ritchy. It’s so sad.” She squinted at me through the smoke haze. “The worst part is he was bringing me a picture. He said it was a special present for me, but they didn’t find it when they dug him out of the garbage can. So I was wondering if you knew anything about it, because it would be real sentimental for me. It would help with the pain of losing Ritchy.”

  “What kind of picture are we talking about?”

  “A picture of a person.”

  “Man or woman?”

  “This is sort of embarrassing, but poor Ritchy didn’t say.”

  “And it’s important, why?”

  “Because Ritchy took the photo. And it was, like, his last wish that I have it. And now he’s dead.” She sniffed and contorted her face like she might cry. “I just want something to remember Ritchy. Something he did for me, you know?”

  “Ritchy must have been a sweet guy.”

  “Yeah, and he liked photography. He was always taking pictures.”

  “I’d love to help you out,” I said, “but I don’t have the photograph.”

  “Maybe you have it stuffed somewhere, and you don’t even know it. Like, have you emptied all your suitcases and bags?”

  “Yes. I don’t have it.”

  “Okay, here’s the thing. Ritchy called me from LAX, and he said he might have misplaced the photo, and he was sitting next to you, and he was pretty sure he might have accidentally put it in your bag.”

  “Why didn’t Ritchy just get back on the plane?”

  “He wasn’t feeling good. And then he was … you know, dead.”

  “Jeez.”

  “Shit happens,” Brenda said. “So where’s the photograph?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t have it.”

  Her lips compressed. “You want money, right? How much?”

  “I don’t want money. I don’t have the stupid photograph.”