Three to Get Deadly

  “There,” my mother said, handing me the bag. “Frank, are you ready? Stephanie is going now.”

  My father appeared in the kitchen door. “What?”

  My mother gave him the long-suffering face. “You never listen to me.”

  “I always listen. What are you talking about?”

  “Stephanie is going out looking for criminals. You should go with her.”

  I grabbed the leftovers bag and ran for the door, snagging my coat from the hall closet. “I swear I'm not doing anything dangerous,” I said. “I'll be perfectly safe.”

  I let myself out and quickly walked to the Buick. I looked back just before sliding behind the wheel. My mother and grandmother were standing in the doorway, hands clasped in front, faces stern. Not convinced of my safety. My father stood behind them, peering over my grandmother's head.

  “The car looks pretty good,” he said. “How's it running? You giving it high-test? You got any pings?”

  “No pings,” I called back.

  And then I was gone. On my way to Mo's store. Telling myself I was going to be smarter this time. I wasn't going to get knocked out, and I wasn't going to get faked out. I wasn't going to let Mo get the best of me with pepper spray. As soon as I saw him I was going to give him a snootful of the stuff. No questions asked.

  I parked across the street from the store and stared into the black plate-glass window. No light. No activity. No light on in the second-floor apartment. I pulled out and circled surrounding blocks, looking for Ranger's BMW. I tried the alley behind the store and checked the garage. No car. I returned to Ferris. Still no sign of life in the store. I parked a block away on King. Maybe I should try Ranger again. I reached over for my pocketbook. No pocketbook. I closed my eyes in disbelief. In my haste to get away without my father, I'd left my pocketbook behind. No big deal. I'd go back and get it.

  I put the car into gear and pulled onto Ferris. I glanced into the store windows one last time as I did a slow driveby. I saw a shadow move to the rear of the store.

  Damn!

  I angled the Buick into the curb two houses down and jumped out. I'd like the luxury of having a bag full of bounty hunter loot, like pepper spray and handcuffs, but I wasn't willing to risk losing the opportunity for it. I didn't really want to spray Mo anyway. I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to reason with him. Get some answers. Get him to come back into the system without hurting him.

  Stephanie Plum, master of rationalization. Believe whatever the moment calls for.

  I jogged to a dark spot across from the store and watched for more movement. My heart gave a lurch when a light flickered briefly. Someone had used a penlight and immediately extinguished it. The information on my answering machine had been right. Mo was in the store.

  Stephanie Plum 3 - Three To Get Deadly

  10

  I sprinted across the street and sought cover in the shadows to the side of the store. I hugged the brick wall, creeping back toward the rear exit, thinking I might barricade the door. I'd stand a better chance of capturing Mo if he had just one avenue of escape.

  I took a deep breath and peeked around the building corner. The back door to the store was wide open. I didn't think this was a good sign. Mo wouldn't have left the door open if he was in the store. I feared history had repeated itself, and Mo had flown the coop.

  I inched my way to the door and stood there listening. Hard to hear over the pounding of my heart but no footfalls carried to me from the neighborhood. No car engines being started. No doors slamming shut.

  I did another deep breath and poked my head into the gaping doorway, squinting into the dark hall that led to the counter area.

  I heard the scrape of a shoe from deep inside the store and almost passed out from adrenaline rush. My first instinct was to run away. My second instinct was to shout for help. I didn't follow either of these instincts because the cold barrel of a gun was pressed to my ear.

  “Be nice and quiet and walk into the store.”

  It was the wiry little guy who'd tried to give me money. I couldn't see him, but I recognized the voice. Low and raspy. A smoker's voice. North Jersey accent. Newark, Jersey City, Elizabeth.

  “No,” I said. “I'm not going into the store.”

  “I need some help here,” the guy with the gun said. “We need to persuade Miss Plum to cooperate.”

  A second man stepped out of the shadows. He was wearing the requisite ski mask and coveralls. He was taller and heavier. He was shaking a canister of pepper spray. Showing me he knew to make sure the gas is live.

  I opened my mouth to scream and was hit with the spray. I felt it suck back to my throat and burn, felt my throat close over. I went down hard to my knees and choked, unable to see, closing my eyes tight to the searing pain, blinded by the spray.

  Hands grabbed at me, digging into my jacket, dragging me forward over the doorstep, down the hall. I was thrown to the linoleum at the back of the store, knocking into a teary blur of wall and booth, still unable to catch my breath.

  The hands were at me again, wrenching my jacket over my shoulders to form a makeshift straitjacket, binding my arms behind my back and tearing my shirt in the process. I gasped for air and tried to control the fear, tried to ignore the manhandling while I fought the pepper spray. It'll pass, I told myself. You've seen people sprayed before. It passes. Don't panic.

  They moved off. Waiting for me to come around. I blinked to see. Three large shapes in the dark. I assumed they were men in ski masks and coveralls.

  One of them flashed a penlight in my eyes. “Bet you're not feeling so brave anymore,” he said.

  I adjusted my jacket and tried to stand but wasn't able to get farther than hands and knees. My nose was running, dripping onto the floor, mixing with drool and tears. My breathing was still shallow, but the earlier panic had passed.

  “What's it take?” Jersey City asked me. “We tried to warn you away. We tried to compensate you. Nothing works with you. We're out here trying to do a good deed, and you're being a real pain in the behind.”

  “Just doing my job,” I managed.

  “Yeah, well, do your job someplace else.”

  A match flared in the dark store. It was Jersey City lighting up. He sucked smoke deep into his lungs, let it curl out from his nose. I was still on hands and knees, and the man swooped down and held the glowing tip of the cigarette to the back of my hand. I yelped and jerked my hand away.

  “This is just the start,” Jersey City said. “We're going to burn you in places that are a lot more painful than the back of your hand. And when we're done you're not going to want to tell anyone about it. And you're not going to want to go chasing after Mo anymore. And if you do . . . we're going to come get you and burn you again. And then maybe we'll kill you.”

  A door slammed somewhere far off and footsteps sounded on the pavement behind the store. There was an instant of silence while we all listened. And then the back door was opened wide and a shrill voice called into the darkness. “What's going on here?”

  It was Mrs. Steeger. Any other time Mrs. Steeger would call the police. Tonight she decided to investigate on her own. Go figure.

  “Run!” I yelled to Mrs. Steeger. “Call the police!”

  “Stephanie Plum!” Mrs. Steeger said. “I might have known. You come out this instant.”

  A beam of light played across Mo's backyard. “Who's there?” another voice called. “Mrs. Steeger? Is that you in Mo's backyard?”

  Dorothy Rostowski.

  A car parked at the curb. Headlights blinked off. The driver's door opened, and a man stepped onto the sidewalk.

  “Shit,” Jersey City said. “Let's get out of here.” He got down on one knee and put his face close to mine. “Get smart,” he said. “Because next time we'll make sure nobody saves you.”

  James Bond would have shown disdain with a clever remark. Indiana Jones would have sneered and said something snotty. The best I could come up with was, “Oh yeah?”

  There was
scuffling at the back door and some frightened exclamations from Dorothy and Mrs. Steeger.

  I dragged myself to my feet and leaned against a booth for support. I was sweating and shivering, and my nose was still running. I wiped my nose on my sleeve and realized my shirt was open and my Levi's were unzipped. I sucked in some air and clenched my teeth. “Damn.”

  Another deep breath. Come on, Stephanie, get it together. Get yourself dressed and get out there to check on Dorothy and Mrs. Steeger.

  I tugged at my jeans, putting a shaking hand to the zipper. My eyes were still watering, and saliva was still pooling in my mouth and I couldn't get the zipper to slide easily. I burst into tears and gave my nose another vicious swipe with my sleeve.

  I gathered my shirt together with one hand and lurched toward the back door. Dorothy was standing, arms crossed over her chest. Self-protective. Mrs. Steeger was sitting on the ground. A man squatted in front of her, talking to her. He helped her to her feet and turned to look when I appeared in the doorway. Morelli. Wouldn't you know it.

  Morelli raised questioning eyebrows.

  “Not now,” I said.

  I backed up a few paces and sidestepped into the bathroom. I flicked the light on and locked the door. I looked at myself in the rust-rimmed mirror over the sink. Not a pretty sight. I used half a roll of toilet paper to blow my nose. I splashed water on my face and hand and buttoned my shirt. Two of the buttons were missing, but they weren't crucial to modesty.

  I did deep breathing, trying to compose myself. I blew my nose some more. I looked at myself again. Not bad except my eyes looked like tomatoes and the cigarette burn was turning into a beauty of a blister.

  Morelli had knocked on the door three times, asking if I was okay. My reply each time had been a cranky “Yes! Go away!”

  When I finally opened the door, the lights were on in the candy store, and Morelli was behind the counter. I slid onto a stool in front of him, leaned my elbows on the counter and folded my hands.

  Morelli set a hot fudge sundae in front of me and gave it a good dose of whipped cream. He handed me a spoon. “Thought this might help.”

  “Wouldn't hurt,” I said, gnawing on my lip, trying hard not to cry. “How's Mrs. Steeger?”

  “She's okay. She got shoved out of the way, and it knocked her on her ass.”

  “Gee, I always wanted to do that.”

  He gave me the once-over. “Like your hair,” he said. “Trying something new?”

  I flicked a spoonful of whipped cream at him, but I missed, and it went splat on the wall and slimed its way down to the back counter.

  Morelli made a sundae for himself and took the stool next to me. We ate in silence, and when we were done we still sat there.

  “So,” Morelli finally said. “Let's talk.”

  I told him about the phone call and the assault and about the attempted payoff.

  “Tell me about these men,” Morelli said.

  “They always wear ski masks and coveralls, and it's always been dark, so I've never been able to get a good look. The eerie part is that I think they're regular people. It's like they're from the community, and they're trying to protect Mo but they've turned violent. Like a lynch mob.” I looked down at my hand. “They burned me with a cigarette.”

  A muscle worked in Morelli's jaw. “Anything else?”

  “Under the coveralls they look respectable. Wedding bands on their fingers and nice running shoes. This wiry little guy seems to be the leader.”

  “How little is he?”

  “Maybe five-nine. Got a smoker's voice. I've named him Jersey City because he has a Jersey City accent. The other two were bigger and chunkier.”

  Morelli covered my hand with his, and we sat some more.

  “How did you know I was here?” I asked.

  “I accessed your answering machine,” Morelli said.

  “You know my code?”

  “Well . . . yeah.”

  “You do that a lot? Listen in on my messages?”

  “Don't worry,” Morelli said. “Your messages aren't that interesting.”

  “You're scum.”

  “Yeah,” Morelli said. “You've told me that before.”

  I scraped at a little fudge that was left on the side of the sundae dish. “What did you want to see me about?”

  “We got ballistics back on Leroy Watkins. Looks like the same gun that killed Cameron Brown and Ronald Anders also killed Leroy Watkins.”

  I stopped scraping at the fudge and stared at Morelli.

  “Oh boy,” I said.

  Morelli nodded. “My exact thought.”

  I shifted on my stool. “Is it me, or is it warm in here?”

  “It's warm in here,” Morelli said. “Mo must have turned the heat up when he came by to visit.”

  “Doesn't smell all that good either.”

  “I wasn't going to mention it. I thought it might be you.”

  I sniffed at myself. “I don't think it's me.” I sniffed at Morelli. “It's not you.”

  Morelli was off the stool, moving through the store. He got to the hall and stopped. “It's pretty strong in the hall.” He opened the cellar door. “Uh-oh.”

  Now I was off my stool. “What's uh-oh?”

  “I think I know this smell,” Morelli said.

  “Is it dookey?”

  “Yeah,” Morelli said. “It's dookey . . . among other things.” He flipped the light at the top of the stairs.

  I stood behind Morelli and decided I should be thankful my nose was still partially clogged. “Somebody should go down and investigate.”

  Morelli had his gun in his hand. “Stay here,” he said.

  Which was as good as guaranteeing I'd follow him down.

  We crept down together, noting at once that the cellar posed no threat. No bad guys lurking in corners. No nasty-breathed, hairy-handed monsters lying in wait.

  “Dirt floor,” I said.

  Morelli holstered his gun. “A lot of these old cellars have dirt floors.”

  A couple winter overcoats hung on wall pegs. Bags of rock salt, snow shovels, picks and heavy, long-handled spades lined the wall beside the coats. The furnace rumbled, central in the cellar. A jumble of empty cardboard boxes littered a large portion of the room. The smell of damp cardboard mingled with something more foul.

  Morelli tossed some of the boxes to one side. The ground beneath the boxes had been recently disturbed. Morelli became more methodical, moving the boxes with the toe of his boot until he uncovered a patch of dirt that showed black garbage bag peeking through.

  “Sometimes people get eccentric when they get old,” I said. “Don't want to pay for trash pickup.”

  Morelli took a penknife from his pocket and exposed more of the plastic. He made a slit in the plastic and let out a long breath.

  “What is it?” I asked. As if I didn't know.

  “It isn't candy.” He turned me around and pushed me toward the stairs. “I've seen enough. Let's leave this to the experts. Don't want to contaminate the scene any more than we already have.”

  We sat in his car while he called in to the station.

  “I don't suppose you'd consider going home to your parents' tonight?” he asked.

  “Don't suppose I would.”

  “I'd rather you didn't go back to your apartment alone.”

  Me too. “I'll be fine,” I said.

  A blue-and-white cruised to the curb behind Morelli's 4x4. Eddie Gazarra got out of the car and walked our way. We met him on the street, and we all looked to the store.

  “Break out the crime tape,” Morelli said.

  “Shit,” Gazarra said. “I'm not going to like this.”

  Nobody was going to like this. It was not good etiquette to bury bodies in the basement of a candy store. And it would be especially loathsome to accuse Mo of doing the burying.

  Another blue-and-white showed up. Some more homicide cops arrived on the scene. The ID detective came with his tool kit and camera. People started appea
ring on front porches, standing with arms crossed, checking out the traffic jam. The crowds on the porches grew larger. A reporter stood, hands in pockets, behind the crime tape.

  Two hours later I was still sitting in Morelli's car when they brought out the first body bag. The media coverage had grown to a handicam and a half dozen reporters and photographers. Three more body bags were trundled out from the cellar. The photographers hustled for shots. Neighbors left the comfort of their living rooms to return to the porches.