High Five

  “Your gun! Give me your gun!”

  I called the police and went back upstairs with the gun in my hand. My apartment door was wide open. Shempsky was gone. And Briggs was still alive in my closet.

  I ripped the tape off. “Are you okay?”

  “Shit,” he said. “I messed my pants.”

  THE UNIFORMS CAME first, then the paramedics and finally the homicide detectives and the medical examiner. They had an easy time finding my apartment. Most of them had been there before. Morelli had arrived with the uniforms.

  It was now three hours later, and the party was winding down. I'd given my statement, and the only thing left was to get Ramirez into a body bag and haul him off my fire escape. Rex and I had set up camp in the kitchen while the professionals did their thing. Randy Briggs gave his statement and left, deciding his apartment without a door was safer than living with me.

  Rex still looked perky, but I was exhausted. I was all out of adrenaline, and I felt like my blood level was a pint low.

  Morelli wandered in, and for the first time all night we had a moment alone together. “You should be relieved,” he said. “You don't have to worry about Ramirez anymore.”

  I nodded. “It's a terrible thing to say, but I'm glad he's dead. Any word on Shempsky?”

  “Nobody's seen him or his car. He didn't go home.”

  “I think he's flipped out. And he has the flu. He looked really bad.”

  “You'd look bad too if you were wanted for multiple murders. We're leaving a uniform here tonight to make sure no one comes in through your window, but it's going to be cold in your bedroom. Probably you want to stay someplace else. My vote's for my house.”

  “I'd feel safe at your house,” I said. “Thanks.”

  The gurney with the body clattered over the hall floor and rolled out my door. My stomach lurched, and I reached for Morelli. He pulled me to him and wrapped his arms around me. “You'll feel better tomorrow,” he said. “You just need some sleep.”

  “Before I forget. You left a message on my machine that you needed to talk to me.”

  “We brought Harvey Tipp in for questioning, and he squealed like a pig. I wanted to warn you about Shempsky.”

  I WOKE UP to the sun streaming in through Morelli's bedroom window, but no Morelli next to me. I had a dim recollection of falling asleep on the ride to his house. And falling asleep again, next to Morelli. I had no recollection of any kind of sexual encounter. I was wearing a T-​shirt and underpants. Since the underpants were on me and not on the floor that probably told me something.

  I got out of bed and padded barefoot into the bathroom. There was a damp bath towel hanging on the hook on the door. A set of clean towels had been set out for me, neatly stacked on the tub. A note was taped to the mirror over the sink. “Had to leave for work early,” the note said. “Make yourself at home.” He also confirmed what I'd suspected—that I'd zonked out the minute my head hit the pillow. And since Morelli appreciated response to his lovemaking, he'd passed on last night's opportunity to collect on his debt.

  I took a shower and got dressed and went to the kitchen in search of breakfast. Morelli didn't stock Pop-​Tarts, so I settled on a peanut butter sandwich. I was halfway through the sandwich when I remembered the chauffeuring job. I'd never gotten around to reading the notecard, and I had no idea when I was supposed to get the sheik. I shuffled through the mess in my shoulder bag and found the card. It said Tank would drop the limo off at nine. I was to pick the sheik up at ten and drive him to Newark Airport. It was almost eight, so I finished my sandwich, stuffed yesterday's clothes into the tote, and called Mary Lou to bum a ride.

  “Boy, you really get around,” Mary Lou said. “When I dropped you off you were with Ranger. You must have had a busy night.”

  “You don't know the half of it.” I explained to her about the kiss, and Ramirez, and Shempsky, and finally about Morelli.

  “I can't imagine being too tired to do it with Morelli,” Mary Lou said. “Of course, I've never been attacked by a homicidal rapist, held at gunpoint by a screwy banker, and had a guy killed outside my bedroom window.”

  Mrs. Bestler was waiting by the elevator when I walked into the lobby. “Going up?” she asked. “Second floor. . . belts, handbags, body bags.”

  “I'm taking the stairs,” I told her. “I need the exercise.”

  I opened my apartment door and surprised a young cop who was feeding Rex Cheerios.

  “He looked hungry,” the cop said. “I hope you don't mind.”

  “Not at all. Feel free to join him for breakfast. Just poke around in the fridge until you find something you like.”

  The cop smiled. “Thanks. There's a guy here fixing your window. Morelli arranged it. I'm supposed to leave as soon as he's done.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I went into the bedroom and collected my chauffeur uniform of black suit and stockings and heels. I changed in the bathroom, added some lipstick and a swipe of mascara, and sprayed my hair. When I came out, the window man was gone, and my window looked sparkly clean. The cop was gone, too.

  I grabbed my shoulder bag, said good-​bye to Rex, and hustled down to the parking lot.

  Tank was waiting for me when I swung through the back door at nine o'clock sharp. He had a map and directions.

  “Should take you about a half hour from here,” Tank said.

  “Does he know I'm driving him?”

  Tank's face creased in a wide grin. “We thought it would be a nice surprise.”

  I took the keys to the Town Car and slid in behind the wheel.

  “You're carrying, right?” Tank asked.

  “Right.”

  “And you're okay after last night?”

  “How do you know about last night?”

  “It's in the paper.”

  Terrific.

  I gave Tank a little finger wave and drove away. I got to Hamilton and turned right. I drove several blocks and turned into the Burg. I had no intention of destroying another black car. I parked at my parents' house and went inside to get the garage keys.

  “You made the paper again,” Grandma said. “And the phone's been ringing off the hook. Your mother's in the kitchen, ironing.”

  My mother always irons during times of disaster. Some people drink, some take drugs. My mother irons.

  “How's Dad?” I asked.

  “He's out at the store.”

  “No problems left over from the stun gun?”

  “Well, he isn't the happiest person I ever saw, but aside from that he's doing okay. Looks like you got another car.”

  “It's a loaner. I have a job as a chauffeur. I'm going to leave the black car here and take the Buick. I feel safer in the Buick.”

  My mother came out of the kitchen. “What's this about being a chauffeur?”

  “It's nothing,” I said. “I'm driving a man to the airport.”

  “Good,” my mother said. “Take your grandmother.”

  “I can't do that!”

  My mother pulled me into the kitchen and lowered her voice. “I don't care if you're driving the Pope, your grandmother is going with you. If she says the wrong thing to your father when he gets home, he'll go after her with a steak knife. So unless you want more bloodshed on your hands, you will fulfill your obligation as a granddaughter and get your grandmother out of this house for a few hours until things calm down. This is all your fault anyway.” My mother snapped a shirt onto the ironing board and snatched at the iron. “And what kind of a daughter has shootouts on her fire escape? The phone's been ringing all morning. What am I supposed to say to people? How can I explain these things?”

  “Just tell people I was looking for Uncle Fred, and things got complicated.”

  My mother shook the iron at me. “If that man isn't dead I'm going to kill him myself.”

  Hmm. Mom appeared to be a little stressed. “Okay,” I said, “I guess I can take Grandma with me.” Might not be a bad idea anyway. I didn't think the pervert sheik
would be so fast to flash his johnson with Grandma on board.

  “It's a shame we can't take that nice black car,” Grandma said. “It looks more like a chauffeur car.”

  “I'm not taking any chances,” I told her. “I don't want anything to happen to the black car. It's getting locked up nice and safe in the garage.”

  I loaded Grandma into the Buick, backed it out the driveway, and parked it on the street. Then I carefully eased the Lincoln into the garage and secured the doors.

  In exactly thirty-​five minutes I was at the address Tank had given me. It was in a neighborhood of expensive houses on two- and three-​acre lots. Most houses were behind gated drives, tucked into yards filled with mature trees and professionally landscaped shrubs. I pushed the button on the call box and gave my name. The gates opened, and I drove up to the house.

  “I guess this is pretty,” Grandma said, “but they aren't gonna get many trick-​or-​treaters up here. I bet Halloween is a big bust.”

  I told Grandma to stay put and went to the door.

  The door opened, and Ahmed looked out at me and frowned. “You!” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Surprise,” I said. “I'm your driver.”

  He looked over at the car. “And what's that supposed to be?”

  “That's a Buick.”

  “There's an old lady in it.”

  “That's my grandmother.”

  “Forget it. I'm not riding with you. You're incompetent.”

  I put my arm around him and tugged him to me. “I've been having a difficult couple of days here,” I said in confidential tones. “And I'm running a little low on patience. So I'd appreciate it if you'd get into the car without a lot of fuss. Because otherwise, I'm going to shoot you.”

  “You wouldn't shoot me,” he said.

  “Try me.”

  A man stood behind Ahmed. He was holding two suitcases, and he was looking uncomfortable.

  “Put them in the trunk,” I said to the man.

  A woman had come to the door.

  “Who's that?” I asked the kid.

  “My aunt.”

  “Wave to her and smile and get in the car.”

  He sighed and waved. I waved, too. Everybody waved. And then I drove away.

  “We would have brought the black car,” Grandma said to Ahmed, “only Stephanie's been having real bad luck with cars.”

  He slouched lower, sulking. “No kidding.”

  “You don't have to worry with this one, though,” Grandma told him. “We had this one locked up in the garage so no one could plant a bomb on it. And knock on wood, it hasn't blown up yet.”

  I picked up Route 1 and followed it to New Brunswick, where I moved over to the turnpike. I got on the turnpike and headed north, barreling along in the Buick, thankful that my passenger was still fully dressed and Grandma had fallen asleep, mouth open, hanging from her shoulder harness.

  “I'm surprised you're still working for this company,” Ahmed said. “If I had been your employer I would have fired you.”

  I ignored him and turned the radio on.

  He leaned forward. “Perhaps it's difficult to get a competent person to do a menial job like this.”

  I glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

  “I'll give you five dollars if you'll show me your breasts,” he said.

  I rolled my eyes and raised the volume on the radio.

  He slouched back in his seat. “This is boring,” he shouted at me. “And I hate this music.”

  “Are you thirsty?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you like to stop for a soda?”

  “Yes!”

  “Too bad.”

  I had my cell phone plugged into the cigarette lighter and was surprised to hear it chirp.

  It was Briggs. “Where are you?” he asked. “This is your cell phone, right?”

  “Yeah. I'm on the Jersey Turnpike, exit ten.”

  “Are you shitting me? That's great! Wait until you hear this. I've been working all night hacking into Shempsky's files, and I've got something. Late last night he made plane reservations. He's supposed to be flying out of Newark in an hour and a half. He's flying Delta to Miami.”

  “You are the man.”

  “Hey, don't piss off a little person.”

  “Call the police. Call Morelli first.” I gave him Morelli's numbers. “If you can't get Morelli, call the station. They'll get in touch with the right people in Newark. And I'll watch out for Shempsky on the road.”

  “I can't tell the police I hacked into the bank!”

  “Tell them I got the information and asked you to pass it on.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I slowed for the tollbooth to exit the turnpike. Grandma was awake, looking for the tan Taurus, and Ahmed was silent in the back, arms sullenly crossed over his chest.

  “It's him!” Grandma said. “I see him ahead of us. Look at that tan car that's just leaving the tollbooth all the way to the left.”

  I paid the toll and glanced at the car. It did sort of look like Shempsky, but it was the fourth time Grandma had been sure she'd seen Shempsky in the last five minutes. There were a lot of tan cars on the Jersey Turnpike.

  I put my foot to the pedal and roared up behind the car to check it out. The car was a Taurus, and the hair color seemed right, but I couldn't tell much from the back of his head.

  “You've got to get to his side,” Grandma said.

  “If I come up on his side, he'll see me.”

  Grandma pulled a .44 magnum out of her purse. “Everybody duck, and I'll shoot out his tires.”

  “No!” I shouted. “No shooting. You shoot one single thing, and I'll tell Mom on you. We aren't even sure it's Allen Shempsky.”

  “Who's Allen Shempsky?” Ahmed wanted to know. “What's going on?”

  I was riding right on the Taurus's rear. It would be safer to put a car or two between us, but I was afraid I'd lose him in traffic.

  “My father hired you to protect me,” Ahmed said, “not to go off chasing men.”

  Grandma leaned forward, keeping her eye on the Taurus. “We think this guy killed Fred.”

  “Who's Fred?”

  “My uncle,” I told him. “He's married to Mabel.”

  “Ah, so you're avenging a murder in the family. This is a good thing.”

  Nothing like a little avenging to bridge the culture gap.

  The Taurus took the airport turnoff, and the driver checked his mirror as he merged with traffic, then turned in his seat and took a quick, disbelieving look back. It was Shempsky. And I was made. Not many people in Jersey driving a '53 powder blue and white Buick. Probably wondering how the devil I found him.

  “He sees us,” I said.

  “Ram him,” Ahmed said. “Disable his car. Then we'll all rush out and subdue the murdering dog.”

  “Yeah,” Grandma said, “plow this baby right up his behind.”

  In theory, that sounded like a reasonable idea. In practice, I was afraid it'd result in a twenty-​three-​car pileup, and headlines that read BOMBSHELL BOUNTY HUNTER CAUSES CATASTROPHE.

  Shempsky swerved in front of me, jumping out of his lane. He passed two cars, then swerved back. He was approaching the terminal, and he was panicking, determined to lose me. He changed lanes again and sideswiped a blue van. He overcorrected and crashed into the back of an SUV. Everyone stopped behind the accident. I was four cars back, and I couldn't get closer. No one was moving.

  Shempsky was boxed in with his right front fender smashed into his right front wheel. I saw his door open. He was going to bolt. I hurled myself out of the car and hit the pavement running. Ahmed was behind me. And behind him was Grandma.

  Shempsky pushed through the curbside check-​in, dodging people with kids and bags. I lost him for a moment in the crowded terminal, then picked him out just ahead of me. I ran as fast as I could, not caring who I knocked over. I lunged when I was almost on Shempsky's heels, and I snagged his jacket. Ahmed grabbed Shempsky hal
f a second after me, and the three of us went down. We rolled around a little, but Shempsky didn't put up much of a fight.

  Ahmed and I had Shempsky pinned to the ground when Grandma came clattering up on her patent pumps. She had her gun in her hand and both our handbags tucked into the crook of her arm. “You should never leave your purse in the car,” she said. “Do you need a gun?”