Mabel was standing at the door when I drove up. Still on the lookout for Fred, I guess.
“I'm so glad you're here,” she said, ushering me into the house. “I don't know what to think.”
As if I could help her in that department.
“Sometimes I expect Fred to walk in the door, just like always. And then other times I know he'll never be back. And the thing is . . . I really need a new washer and dryer. In fact, I've needed them for years, but Fred was so cautious about spending money. Maybe I'll just go down to Sears and take a look. It doesn't hurt to look, does it?”
“Looking sounds good to me.”
“I knew I could count on you,” Mabel said. “Would you like some tea?”
“No thanks on the tea, but I have some more questions. I want you to think about places Fred might go that would have four or five garbage bags sitting outside on garbage day. The bags would be sitting on asphalt. And there might be a light-colored stucco wall behind them.”
“This is about those photographs, isn't it? Let me think. Fred had a routine, you know. When he retired two years ago, he took over the errands. In the beginning we did the marketing together, but it was too stressful. So I started staying home and watching my television shows in the afternoon, and Fred took over the errands. He went to the Grand Union every day. And sometimes he'd go to Giovichinni's Meat Market. He didn't go there too often because he thought Giovichinni gypped him on the meat scale. He only went there if he wanted kielbasa. Once in a while he'd splurge on Giovichinni's olive loaf.”
“Did he go to Giovichinni's last week?”
“Not that I know of. The only thing different about last week was that he went out in the morning to the garbage company. He didn't usually go out in the morning, but he was really in a state over that missed day.”
“Did he ever go out at night?”
“We went to the seniors' club on Thursdays to play cards. And we went to special events sometimes. Like the Christmas party.”
We were standing in front of the living room window, talking, when the RGC garbage truck rumbled up the street, bypassed Mabel's house, and stopped next door.
Mabel blinked in disbelief. “They didn't take my garbage,” she said. “It's right out there on the curb, and they didn't take it.” She threw the door open and trotted out to the sidewalk, but the truck was gone. “How could they do this?” she wailed. “What am I going to do with my garbage?”
I went to the Yellow Pages, found the number for RGC, and dialed the number. Larry Lipinski answered the phone.
“Larry,” I said, “this is Stephanie Plum, remember me?”
“Sure,” Larry said, “but I'm a little busy right now.”
“I read about Martha—”
“Yeah, Martha. What's on your mind?”
“My aunt's garbage. The thing is, Larry, the truck went right by her house just now and didn't pick up her garbage.”
There was a big sigh. “That's because she didn't pay her bill. There's no record of payment.”
“We went through all that yesterday. You said you'd take care of it.”
“Look, lady, I tried, okay? But there's no record of payment, and frankly I'm thinking Martha was right, and you and your aunt are trying to gyp us.”
“Listen, Larry!”
Larry disconnected.
“You dumb fuck!” I yelled at the phone.
Aunt Mabel looked shocked.
“Sorry,” I said. “I got carried away.”
I went down to the cellar, got the canceled RGC check off Fred's desk, and dropped it into my shoulder bag.
“I'll take care of this tomorrow,” I said. “I'd do it today, but I don't have time.”
Mabel was wringing her hands. “That garbage is going to smell if I leave it sitting out there in the sun,” she said. “What will the neighbors think?”
I did some mental head-banging. “No problem. Don't worry about it.”
She gave me a tremulous smile.
I said good-bye, marched to the curb, extracted Mabel's nicely tied up plastic garbage bag from her container, and stuffed it into the trunk of my car. Then I drove to RGC, pitched the bag onto the sidewalk in front of their office, and raced away.
Am I a take-charge woman or what?
I drove away thinking about Fred. Suppose Fred saw someone do that? Well, not exactly what I just did. Suppose he saw someone take a garbage bag out of the trunk of their car and put it on the curb, alongside someone else's garbage. And suppose for one reason or another he got to wondering what was in the garbage bag?
This made a reasonable picture to me. I could see this happening. What I didn't understand, if in fact any of this occurred the way I imagined, was why Fred didn't report it to the police. Maybe he knew the person dumping the bag. But then why would he take pictures?
Hold on, let's reverse it. Suppose someone saw Fred dump the bag. They went to investigate, found the body and took pictures for evidence, then tried to blackmail Fred. Who would do such a thing? Bunchy. And maybe Fred all of a sudden got spooked and left for points south.
What's wrong with this picture? I couldn't see Fred taking a chain saw to some woman. And you'd have to be pretty dumb to blackmail Fred, because Fred didn't have any money.
THE SKIRT TO my black suit hit two inches above my knee. The jacket sat high on my hipbone. My stretchy white jersey tucked into the skirt. I was wearing sheer, barely black pantyhose and black heels. My .38 was in my black leather shoulder bag. And for this special occasion, I'd taken the time to put some bullets in the stupid thing . . . just in case Ranger showed up and gave me a pop quiz.
Bunchy was in the parking lot, parked behind my Buick. “Going to a funeral?”
“I have a job chauffeuring a sheik from Newark. It's going to take me out of town for the rest of the afternoon, and I'm worried about Mabel. Since you like to sit around and do nothing, I thought you might sit around and do nothing across from Mabel's house.” Give him something to do, I thought. Keep the guy busy.
“You want me to protect the people I'm squeezing?”
“Yeah.”
“It doesn't work that way. And what the hell are you doing going off on a chauffeuring job? You're supposed to be looking for your uncle.”
“I need money.”
“You need to find Fred.”
“Okay, this is the honest-to-God truth . . . I don't know how to find Fred. I run down leads and they don't go anywhere. Maybe it would help if you told me what you were really after.”
“I'm after Fred.”
“Why?”
“You better get going,” Bunchy said. “You're gonna be late.”
THE GARAGE AT Third and Marshall didn't have a name. It was probably listed under something in the phone book, but on the outside of the building there was nothing. Just a redbrick building with a paved parking lot, enclosed by chain-link fencing. There were three bays in the side of the building, opening out to the lot. The bay doors were open and men worked on cars in each of the bays. A white stretch limo and two black Town Cars were parked in the lot. I pulled the Buick into a slot next to one of the Town Cars, locked the Buick, and dropped the keys into my shoulder bag.
A guy who looked like Antonio Banderas on an off day sauntered over to me.
“Nice car,” he said, eyeing the Buick. “Man, they don't make cars like this anymore.” He ran a hand over the back fender. “Cherry. Real cherry.”
“Uh-huh.” The cherry car got four miles to a gallon and cornered like a refrigerator. Not to mention it was all wrong for my self-image. My self-image called for fast and sleek and black, not bulbous and powder blue. Red would be okay, too. And I needed a sunroof. And a good sound system. And leather seats . . .
“Earth to Babe,” Banderas said.
I dragged myself back to the moment. “You know where I can find Eddie?”
“You're looking at him, Cookie. I'm Eddie.”
I extended my hand. “Stephanie Pl
um. Ranger sent me.”
“I got a car ready and waiting.” He rounded the nearest Town Car, opened the driver's side door, and took a large white envelope from behind the visor. “Here's everything you need. The keys are in the ignition. The car's gassed up.”
“I don't need a chauffeur's license to do this, do I?”
He stared at me blank-faced.
“Yeah, right,” I said. Probably nothing to worry about anyway. It wasn't easy to get a permit to carry concealed in Mercer County. And I wasn't one of the chosen. If I got stopped by a cop he'd be so overjoyed to be able to arrest me for illegally carrying concealed that he'd no doubt forget to charge me for the driving thing.
I took the envelope and slid behind the wheel. I adjusted the seat and leafed through the papers. Flight information, parking directions, some procedural instructions, name and brief description, and snapshot of Ahmed Fahed. No age was given, but he looked young in the photo.
I eased the Lincoln out of the lot and headed for Route 1. I picked up the turnpike in East Brunswick and glided along in my big, black, climate-controlled car, feeling very professional. Chauffeuring wasn't so bad, I thought. Today a sheik, tomorrow . . . who knows, maybe Tom Cruise. Definitely better than getting some computer nut out of his apartment. And if it wasn't for the fact that I couldn't stop thinking about that severed right hand and decapitated head, I'd really be enjoying myself.
I took the airport exit and found my way to Arrivals. My passenger was coming in from San Francisco, flying commercial. I parked in the area reserved for limos, crossed the road, entered the terminal, and checked the monitors for gate information.
A half hour later, Fahed strolled through the gate, wearing two-hundred-dollar sneakers and oversize jeans. His T-shirt advertised a microbrewery. His red plaid flannel shirt was wrinkled and unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbow. I'd expected sheik clothes with the head thing and robe. Fortunately for me, he was the only arrogant Arab departing first class, so it wasn't hard to pick him out.
“Ahmed Fahed?” I asked.
His eyebrows raised ever so slightly in acknowledgment.
“I'm your driver.”
He looked me over. “Where's your gun?”
“In my shoulder bag.”
“My father always orders a bodyguard for me. He's afraid someone will kidnap me.”
Now it was my turn to raise an eyebrow.
He shrugged. “We're rich. Rich people get kidnapped.”
“Hardly ever in Jersey,” I said. “Too much overhead. Hotel rooms and food bills. The payoff's better on extortion.”
His gaze dropped to my chest. “You ever do it with a sheik?”
“Excuse me?”
“You could get lucky today.”
“Yeah. And you could get shot. How old are you, anyway?”
He tipped his chin up an eighth of an inch. “Nineteen.”
My guess would be closer to fifteen, but hey, what do I know about Arabs? “You have luggage?”
“Two bags.”
I led the way to baggage, snagged his two pieces, and rolled them out of the building across the pick-up lanes to the parking garage. When I had my charge settled into the backseat, I cruised off into gridlocked traffic.
After a couple minutes of creeping along Fahed was antsy. “What's the problem?”
“Too many cars,” I said. “Not enough road.”
“Well, do something.”
I glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “What did you have in mind?”
“I don't know. Just do something. Just go.”
“This isn't a helicopter. I can't just go.”
“Okay,” he said. “I've got an idea. How about we do this?”
“What?”
“This.”
I turned in my seat and looked at him. “What is this?”
He wagged his wonkie at me and smiled.
Great. A fifteen-year-old sex fiend, exhibitionist sheik.
“I can make it do tricks,” he said.
“Not in my car, you can't. Put it back in your pants, or I'll tell your father.”
“My father would be proud. Look at me . . . I'm hung like a horse.”
I pulled a knife out of my shoulder bag and flipped it open. “I can make you hung like a hamster.”
“American whore bitch.”
I rolled my eyes.
“This is intolerable,” he said. “I hate this traffic. And I hate this car. And I hate sitting here doing nothing.”
Fahed wasn't the only one experiencing road rage. Other drivers were coming unglued. Men were swearing to themselves and tugging at ties. Fingers drummed impatiently on steering wheels. Someone behind me leaned on his horn.
“I'll give you one hundred dollars if you let me drive.” Fahed said.
“No.”
“A thousand.”
“No.”
“Five thousand.”
I glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “No.”
“You were tempted,” he said, smiling, looking satisfied.
Ugh.
An hour and a half later we managed to reach the New Brunswick interchange.
“I need something to drink,” Fahed said. “There's nothing to drink in this car. I'm used to having a stretch with a bar. I want you to find a place to get me a soda.”
I wasn't sure if this was limo protocol, but I figured what the hell, it was his nickel. I picked up Route 1 and looked for fast food. Not much of a challenge. The first thing that came up was a McDonald's. It was dinnertime and the drive-through lane looked like the Jersey Turnpike, so I junked the drive-through and parked the car.
“I want a Coke,” he said, sitting tight, clearly not interested in standing in line with the rest of New Jersey.
Don't freak out, I told myself. He's used to being waited on. “Anything else?”
“French fries.”
Fine. I grabbed my bag and crossed the lot. I swung though the door and chose a line. Two people in front of me. I studied the menu over the counter. One person left in front of me. I hiked my bag higher on my shoulder and looked out the window. I didn't see my car. There was a small twinge of alarm just below my heart. I scanned the lot. No car. I left the line and pushed through the door into the cool air. The car was gone.
Shit!
My first fear was that he'd been kidnapped. I'd been hired as a chauffeur and bodyguard for the sheik, and the sheik's been kidnapped. The fear was short-lived. No one would want this rotten kid. Face it, Stephanie, that little snot took the car.
I had two choices. I could call the police. Or I could call Ranger.
I tried Ranger first. “Bad news,” I said. “I sort of lost the sheik.”
“Where did you lose him?”
“North Brunswick. He sent me into a McDonald's for a soda, and next thing I knew, he was gone.”
“Where are you now?”
“I'm still at the McDonald's.” Where else would I be?
“Don't move. I'll get back to you.”
The connection was severed. “When?” I asked the dead phone. “When?”
Ten minutes later the phone rang.
“No problem,” Ranger said. “Found the sheik.”
“How'd you find him?”
“I called the car phone.”
“Was he kidnapped?”
“Impatient. Said he got tired of waiting for you.”
“That little jerk-off!”
Several people stopped in their tracks and stared.
I lowered my voice and turned, facing the phone. “Sorry, I got carried away,” I said to Ranger.
“Understandable, Babe.”
“He's got my jacket.”
“Bones will get it when he gets the car. You need a ride home?”