Seven Up

  Bob smiled and wagged his tail at me, and then Bob went back to watching television.

  “I'm assuming you know the guy who took his clothes off in your hall,” Morelli said.

  “Mooner. He wanted to show me his underwear.”

  “Makes perfect sense to me.”

  “He said Dougie's gone missing. He said Dougie went out yesterday morning and never came back.”

  Morelli dragged himself away from the boxing. “Isn't Dougie coming up to trial?”

  “Yes, but Mooner doesn't think Dougie skipped. Mooner thinks something's wrong.”

  “Mooner's brain probably looks like a fried egg. I wouldn't put a lot of stock in what Mooner thinks.”

  I handed Morelli the phone. “Maybe you could make a few phone calls. You know, check the hospitals.” And the morgue. As a cop, Morelli had better access than I did.

  Fifteen minutes later Morelli had run through the list. No one meeting Dougie's description had checked into St. Francis, Helen Fuld, or the morgue. I called Mooner and told him our findings.

  “Hey man,” Mooner said, “it's getting scary. It's not just Dougie. Now my clothes are gone.”

  “Don't worry about your clothes. I've got your clothes.”

  “Boy, you're good,” Mooner said. “You're really good.”

  I did some mental eye rolling and hung up.

  Morelli patted the seat next to him. “Sit down and let's talk about Eddie DeChooch.”

  “What about DeChooch?”

  “He's not a nice guy.”

  A sigh inadvertently escaped from my lips.

  Morelli ignored the sigh. “Costanza said you got to talk to DeChooch before he took off.”

  “DeChooch is depressed.”

  “I don't suppose he mentioned Loretta Ricci?”

  “Nope, not a word about Loretta. I found Loretta all by myself.”

  “Tom Bell's primary on the case. I ran into him after work, and he said Ricci was already dead when she was shot.”

  “What?”

  “He won't know the cause of death until after the autopsy.”

  “Why would someone shoot a dead person?”

  Morelli did a palms-up.

  Great. “Do you have anything else to give me?”

  Morelli looked at me and grinned.

  “Besides that,” I said.

  I WAS ASLEEP, and in my sleep I was suffocating. There was a terrible weight on my chest and I couldn't breathe. Usually I don't have dreams about suffocating. I have dreams about elevators shooting out the tops of buildings with me trapped inside. I have dreams of bulls stampeding down the street after me. And I have dreams of forgetting to get dressed and going to a shopping center naked. But I never have dreams of suffocating. Until now. I dragged myself awake and opened my eyes. Bob was sleeping next to me with his big dog head and front paws on my chest. The rest of the bed was empty. Morelli was gone. He'd tippy-toed out at the crack of dawn, and he'd left Bob with me.

  “Okay, big guy,” I said, “if you get off me I'll feed you.”

  Bob might not understand all the words, but Bob almost never missed the intent when it came to food. His ears perked up and his eyes got bright and he was off the bed in an instant, dancing around all happy-faced.

  I poured out a caldron of dog crunchies and looked in vain for people food. No Pop-Tarts, no pretzels, no Cap'n Crunch with Crunchberries. My mother always sends me home with a bag of food, but my mind had been on Loretta Ricci when I left my parents' house, and the food bag had been forgotten, left on the kitchen table.

  “Look at this,” I said to Bob. “I'm a domestic failure.”

  Bob gave me a look that said, Hey lady, you fed me, so how bad could you be?

  I stepped into Levi's and boots, threw a denim jacket on over my nightshirt, and hooked Bob up to his leash. Then I hustled Bob down the stairs and into my car so I could drive him to my archenemy Joyce Barnhardt's house to poop. This way I didn't have to do the pooper-scooper thing, and I felt like I was accomplishing something. Years ago I'd caught Joyce boinking my husband (now my ex-husband) on my dining room table, and once in a while I like to repay her kindness.

  Joyce lives just a quarter mile away, but that's enough distance for the world to change. Joyce has gotten nice settlements from her ex-husbands. In fact, husband number three was so eager to get Joyce out of his life he deeded her their house, free and clear. It's a big house set on a small lot in a neighborhood of upwardly mobile professionals. The house is red brick with fancy white columns supporting a roof over the front door. Sort of like the Parthenon meets Practical Pig. The neighborhood has a strict pooper-scooper law, so Bob and I only visit Joyce under cover of darkness. Or in this case, early in the morning before the street awakens.

  I parked half a block from Joyce. Bob and I quietly skulked to her front yard, Bob did his business, we skulked back to the car, and zipped off for McDonald's. No good deed goes unrewarded. I had an Egg McMuffin and coffee, and Bob had an Egg McMuffin and a vanilla milkshake.

  We were exhausted after all this activity, so we went back to my apartment and Bob took a nap and I took a shower. I put some gel in my hair and scrunched it up so there were lots of curls. I did the mascara and eyeliner thing and finished with lip gloss. I might not solve any problems today, but I looked pretty damn good.

  A half hour later Bob and I sailed into Vinnie's office, ready to go to work.

  “Uh-oh,” Lula said, “Bob's on the job.” She bent down to scratch Bob's head. “Hey Bob, what's up.”

  “We're still looking for Eddie DeChooch,” I said. “Anyone know where his nephew Ronald lives?”

  Connie wrote a couple addresses on a sheet of paper and handed it over to me. “Ronald has a house on Cherry Street, but you'll have more luck finding him at work at this time of the day. He runs a paving company, Ace Pavers, on Front Street, down by the river.”

  I pocketed the addresses, leaned close to Connie, and lowered my voice. “Is there anything on the street about Dougie Kruper?”

  “Like what?” Connie asked.

  “Like he's missing.”

  The door to Vinnie's office burst open and Vinnie stuck his head out. “What do you mean he's missing?”

  I looked up at Vinnie. “How did you hear that? I was whispering, and you had your door closed.”

  “I got ears in my ass,” Vinnie said. “I hear everything.”

  Connie ran her fingers along the desk edges. “Goddamn you,” Connie said, “you planted a bug again.” She emptied her cup filled with pencils, rifled through her drawers, emptied the contents of her purse onto the desktop. “Where is it, you little worm?”

  “There's no bug,” Vinnie said. “I'm telling you I got good ears. I got radar.”

  Connie found the bug stuck to the bottom of her telephone. She ripped it off and smashed it with her gun butt. Then she dropped the gun back into her purse and threw the bug in the trash.

  “Hey,” Vinnie said, “that was company property!”

  “What's with Dougie?” Lula asked. “Isn't he coming tip to trial?”

  “Mooner said he and Dougie were supposed to watch wrestling together on Dougie's big screen, and Dougie never showed up. He thinks something bad's happened to Dougie.”

  “Wouldn't catch me missing a chance to see those wrestling guys wearing little spandex panties on a big screen,” Lula said.

  Connie and I agreed. A girl would have to be crazy to miss all that beefcake on a big screen.

  “I haven't heard anything,” Connie said, “but I'll ask around.” The front door to the office crashed open and Joyce Barnhardt stormed in. Her red hair was teased out to its full potential. She was wearing SWAT-type pants and shirt, the pants tight across her butt and the shirt unbuttoned halfway down her sternum, showing a black bra and a lot of cleavage. BOND ENFORCEMENT was written in white letters across the back of the shirt. Her eyes were black-rimmed, and her lashes were heavily mascaraed.

  Bob hid under Connie's desk, and Vinni
e ducked into his office and locked the door. A while back, after a short consultation with his johnson, Vinnie had agreed to hire Joyce on as an apprehension agent. Mr. Nasty was still happy with the decision, but the rest of Vinnie didn't know what to do with Joyce.

  “Vinnie, you limp dick, I saw you sneak back into your office. Get the hell out here,” Joyce yelled.

  “Nice to see you in such a good mood,” Lula said to Joyce.

  “Some dog did his business on my lawn again. This is the second time this week.”

  “Guess you have to expect that when you get your dates from the animal shelter,” Lula said.

  “Don't push me, fatso.”

  Lula narrowed her eyes. “Who you calling fatso? You call me fatso again and I'll rearrange your face.”

  “Fatso, fat ass, lard butt, blimpo . . .”

  Lula launched herself at Joyce, and the two of them went down to the floor, scratching and clawing. Bob stayed firmly under the desk. Vinnie hid in his office. And Connie moseyed over, waited for her opportunity, and buzzed Joyce on the ass with the stun gun. Joyce let out a squeak and went inert.

  “This is the first time I've used one of these things,” Connie said. “They're kind of fun.”

  Bob crept out from under the desk to take a look at Joyce.

  “So, how long you been taking care of Bob?” Lula asked, heaving herself to her feet.

  “He spent the night.”

  “You suppose it was Bob-size poop on Joyce's lawn?”

  “Anything's possible.”

  “How possible? Ten percent possible? Fifty percent possible?”

  We looked down at Joyce. She was starting to twitch, so Connie gave her another buzz with the stun gun.

  “It's just that I hate to use the pooper-scooper . . .” I said.

  “Hah!” Lula said on a bark of laughter. “I knew it!”

  Connie gave Bob a doughnut from the box on her desk. “What a good boy!”

  Stephanie Plum 7 - Seven Up

  3

  “SINCE BOB WAS such a good boy, and I'm in such a good mood, I'm gonna help you find Eddie DeChooch,” Lula said.

  Her hair was sticking straight up from where Joyce had pulled it, and she'd popped a button off her shirt. Taking her along would probably ensure my safety because she looked genuinely deranged and dangerous.

  Joyce was still on the floor, but she had one eye open and her fingers were moving. Best that Lula and Bob and I left before Joyce got her other eye open.

  “So what do you think?” Lula wanted to know when we were all in the car and on our way to Front Street. “Do you think I'm fat?”

  Lula didn't look like she had a lot of fat on her. She looked solid. Bratwurst solid. But it was a lot of bratwurst.

  “Not exactly fat,” I said. “More like big.”

  “I haven't got none of that cellulite, either.”

  This was true. A bratwurst does not have cellulite.

  I drove west on Hamilton, toward the river, to Front Street. Lula was in front riding shotgun, and Bob was in back with his head out the window, his eyes slitty and his ears flapping in the breeze. The sun was shining and the air was just a couple degrees short of spring. If it hadn't been for Loretta Ricci I'd have bagged the search for Eddie DeChooch and taken off for the shore. The fact that I needed to make a car payment gave me added incentive to point the CR-V in the direction of Ace Pavers.

  Ace Pavers rolled asphalt and they were easy to find. The office was small. The garage was large. A behemoth paver sat in the chain-link holding pen attached to the garage, along with other assorted tar-blackened machinery.

  I parked on the street, locked Bob in the car, and Lula and I marched up to the office. I'd expected an office manager. What I found was Ronald DeChooch playing cards with three other guys. They were all in their forties, dressed in casual dress slacks and three-button knit shirts. Not looking like executives and not looking like laborers. Sort of looking like wise guys on HBO. Good thing for television because now New Jersey knew how to dress.

  They were playing cards on a rickety card table and sitting on metal folding chairs. There was a pile of money on the table, and no one appeared happy to see Lula or me.

  DeChooch looked like a younger, taller version of his uncle with an extra sixty pounds evenly distributed. He put his cards facedown on the table and stood. “Can I help you ladies?”

  I introduced myself and told them I was looking for Eddie.

  Everyone at the table smiled.

  “That DeChooch,” one of the men said, “he's something. I heard he left you two sitting in the parlor while he jumped out the bedroom window.”

  This got a lot of laughs.

  “If you'd known Choochy you'd have known to watch the windows,” Ronald said. “He's gone out a lot of windows in his time. Once he got caught in Florence Selzer's bedroom. Flo's husband, Joey the Rug, came home and caught Choochy going out the window and shot him in the . . . what do you call it, glutamus maximus?”

  A big guy with a big belly tipped back on his chair. “Joey disappeared after that.”

  “Oh yeah?” Lula said. “What happened to him?”

  The guy did a palms-up. “No one knows. Just one of those things.”

  Right. He was probably an SUV bumper like Jimmy Hoffa. “So, have any of you seen Choochy? Anyone know where he might be?”

  “You could try his social club,” Ronald said.

  We all knew he wouldn't go to his social club.

  I put my business card on the table. “In case you think of something.”

  Ronald smiled. “I'm thinking of something already.”

  Ugh.

  “That Ronald is slime,” Lula said when we got into the car. “And he looked at you like you were lunch.”

  I gave an involuntary shiver and drove away. Maybe my mother and Morelli were right. Maybe I should get a different job. Or maybe I should get no job. Maybe I should marry Morelli and be a housewife like my perfect sister, Valerie. I could have a couple kids and spend my days coloring in coloring books and reading stories about steam shovels and little bears.

  “It could be fun,” I said to Lula. “I like steam shovels.”

  “Sure you do,” Lula said. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Kids' books. Remember the book about the steam shovel?”

  “I didn't have books when I was a kid. And if I did have a book it wouldn't have been about a steam shovel . . . it would have been about a crack spoon.”

  I crossed Broad Street and headed back into the Burg. I wanted to talk to Angela Marguchi and possibly take a look in Eddie's house. Usually I could count on friends or relatives of the fugitive to help me with the chase. In Eddie's case, I didn't think this was going to work. Eddie's friends and relatives weren't of the snitch mentality.

  I parked in front of Angela's house and told Bob I'd only be a minute. Lula and I got halfway to Angela's front door and Bob started barking in the car. Bob didn't like being left alone. And he knew I was fibbing about the minute.

  “Boy, that Bob sure can bark loud,” Lula said. “He's giving me a headache already.”

  Angela stuck her head out the door. “What's making all that noise?”

  “It's Bob,” Lula said. “He don't like being left in the car.”

  Angela's face lit. “A dog! Isn't he cute. I love dogs.”

  Lula opened the car door and Bob bounded out. He rushed up to Angela, put his paws on her chest, and knocked her on her ass.

  “You didn't break nothing, did you?” Lula asked, picking Angela up.

  “I don't think so,” Angela said. “I got a pacemaker to keep me going, and I got stainless steel and Teflon hips and knees. Only thing I have to watch out for is getting hit by lightning or getting shoved in a microwave.”

  Thinking about Angela going into a microwave got me to thinking about Hansel and Gretel, who faced a similar horror. This got me to thinking about the unreliability of bread crumbs as trail markers. And that led to th
e depressing admission that I was in worse shape than Hansel and Gretel because Eddie DeChooch hadn't even left bread crumbs.

  “I don't suppose you've seen Eddie,” I asked Angela. “He hasn't returned home, has he? Or called and asked you to take care of his houseplants?”

  “Nope. I haven't heard from Eddie. He's probably the only one in the whole Burg I haven't heard from. My phone's been ringing off the hook. Everybody wanting to know about poor Loretta.”