Hard Eight

  “Hardly. It's not that complicated. You press the prongs against someone's skin and push the button.”

  “Like this?” Kloughn said, pressing the prongs against his arm, pushing the button. He gave a tiny squeak and slumped in his seat.

  I took the stun gun from his inert hand and studied it. It seemed to work okay now.

  I dropped the stun gun back into my bag, drove back to the Burg, and stopped at Corner Hardware. Corner Hardware was a ramshackle affair that had been in existence for as long as I could remember. The store itself occupied two adjoining buildings with a door carved into the common wall. The floor was unvarnished wood and cracked linoleum. The shelves were dusty, and the air smelled of fertilizer and socket wrenches. Everything you might need could be found in the store at a price higher than could be found elsewhere. The advantage to Corner Hardware was the location. It was in the Burg. No need to drive down Route 1 or go to Hamilton Township. The additional advantage for me today was the fact that no one at Corner Hardware would think it odd that I was schlepping around with a guy with two black eyes. Everyone in the Burg would have heard about Kloughn.

  By the time I got to the hardware store, Kloughn was starting to come around. His fingers were twitching, and he had one eye open. I left Kloughn in the car while I ran into the store and bought twenty feet of medium-weight chain and a padlock. I had a plan for capturing Bender.

  I dumped the twenty feet of chain onto the street behind the CR-V. I got the cuffs from Kloughn's back pocket, and I attached one end of the chain to one of the bracelets. Then I padlocked the other end of the chain to the tow hitch on my car. I tossed the remaining chain and cuffs into the back window and got behind the wheel. I was soaked, but it was worth it. No way was Bender going to run off with my cuffs this time. The instant I cuffed Bender, he'd be attached to my car.

  I drove across town, idled one block over from Bender's apartment, and dialed his number. When he answered I hung up.

  “He's home,” I told Kloughn. “Let's roll.”

  Kloughn was examining his hand, wiggling his fingers. “I feel kind of tingly.”

  “That's because you zapped yourself with my stun gun.”

  “I thought it didn't work.”

  “I guess you fixed it.”

  “I'm real handy,” Kloughn said. “I'm good at all kinds of things like that.”

  I jumped the curb in front of Bender's apartment, drove across the mud yard, and parked with my rear bumper pressed to Bender's front stoop. I leaped out of the car, ran to Bender's door, and barged into his living room.

  Bender was in his chair, watching television. He saw me enter and went bug-eyed and slack-jawed. “You!” he said. “What the fuck?” A second later he was out of his chair, bolting for the back door.

  “Grab him,” I yelled to Kloughn. “Gas him. Trip him. Do something!”

  Kloughn took a flying leap and caught Bender by the pants leg. Both men went down to the floor. I threw myself on Bender and cuffed him. I rolled off, elated.

  Bender scrambled to his feet and ran for the door, dragging the chain behind him.

  Kloughn and I did a high five.

  “Boy, you're smart,” Kloughn said. “I would never have thought of hooking him up to the bumper. I gotta hand it to you. You're good. You're really good.”

  “Make sure the back door is locked,” I said to Kloughn. “I don't want the apartment burgled.” I clicked the television off, and Kloughn and I walked to the door just in time to see Bender drive off in my CR-V.

  Shit.

  “Hey,” Kloughn yelled to Bender, “you've got my handcuffs!”

  Bender had his arm out the window, holding the door on the driver's side closed. The chain snaked from the door to the back bumper, a loop of chain dragging on the ground, sending up sparks. Bender raised his arm and gave us the finger just before turning the corner and disappearing from view.

  “I bet you left the key in the ignition,” Kloughn said. “I think that might be illegal. I bet you didn't lock your door, either. You should always take the key and lock the door.”

  I gave Kloughn my bitch look.

  “Of course, these were special circumstances,” he added.

  KLOUGHN HUDDLED UNDER the small overhang that protected the front stoop to Bender's apartment. I was at curbside, in the rain, sopping wet, waiting for the blue-and-white. You reach a point with rain where it just doesn't matter anymore.

  I'd hoped to get Costanza or my pal Eddie Gazarra when I'd put the call in for a stolen vehicle. The car that responded wasn't either.

  “So you're the famous Stephanie Plum?” the cop said.

  “I almost never shoot people,” I said, sliding onto the backseat of the cruiser. “And the fire in the funeral parlor wasn't my fault.” I leaned forward and water dripped from the tip of my nose onto the floor of the car. “Usually Costanza answers my calls,” I said.

  “He didn't win the pool.”

  “There's a pool?”

  “Yeah. Participation really dropped after that thing with the snakes.”

  Fifteen minutes later the blue-and-white left, and Morelli showed up.

  “Listening to your radio again?” I asked.

  “I don't have to listen to my radio anymore. As soon as your name pops up somewhere in the system, I get forty-five phone calls.”

  I did a small grimace, which I hoped was endearing. “Sorry.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Morelli said. “Bender drove away chained to the car.”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “And your handbag was in the car?”

  “Yep.”

  Morelli looked over at Kloughn. “Who's the little guy in the tassel loafers and black eyes?”

  “Albert Kloughn.”

  “And you brought him along because . . . ?”

  “He had the handcuffs.”

  Morelli struggled not to smile and lost. “Get in the truck. I'll take you home.”

  We dropped Kloughn off first.

  “Hey, you know what?” Kloughn said. “We never had lunch. Do you think we should all go to lunch? There's Mexican just down the street. Or we could catch a burger, or an egg roll. I know a place that makes good egg rolls.”

  “I'll call you,” I said.

  He waved us out of sight. “That'll be great. Call me. Do you have my number? You can call anytime. I hardly ever sleep, even.”

  Morelli stopped for a light, looked at me, and shook his head.

  “Okay, so I'm wet,” I said.

  “Albert thinks you're cute.”

  “He just wants to be part of the gang.” I brushed a clump of hair from my face. “How about you? Do you think I'm cute?”

  “I think you're crazy.”

  “Yes. But besides that, you think I'm cute, right?” I gave him my Miss America smile and fluttered my lashes.

  He glanced over at me, stone-faced.

  I was feeling a little like Scarlett O'Hara at the end of Gone with the Wind when she's determined to get Rhett Butler back. Problem was, if I got Morelli back, I wasn't sure what I'd do with him.

  “Life is complicated,” I said to Morelli.

  “No shit, cupcake.”

  I WAVED GOOD-BYE to Morelli and dripped through the lobby to my building. I dripped in the elevator, and I dripped down the hall to my next-door neighbor, Mrs. Karwatt. I got my spare key from Mrs. Karwatt and then I dripped into my apartment. I stood in the middle of my kitchen floor and peeled my clothes off. I toweled my hair until it stopped dripping. I checked my messages. None. Rex popped out of his soup can, gave me a startled look, and rushed back into the can. Not the sort of reaction that makes a naked woman feel great . . . even from a hamster.

  An hour later I was dressed in dry clothes, and I was downstairs waiting for Lula.

  “Okay, let me get this straight,” Lula said when I settled into her Trans Am. “You need to do surveillance and you don't got a car.”

  I held my hand up to ward off
the next question. “Don't ask.”

  “I'm hearing 'don't ask' a lot lately.”

  “It was stolen. My car was stolen.”

  “Get out!”

  “I'm sure the police will find it. In the meantime, I want to take a look at Dotty Palowski Rheinhold. She's living in South River.”

  “And South River is where?”

  “I've got a map. Turn left out of the lot.”

  South River jug-handles off Route 18. It's a small town squashed between strip malls and clay pits and has more bars per square mile than any other town in the state. The entrance provides a scenic overlook of the landfill. The exit crosses the river into Sayreville, famous for the great dirt swindle of 1957 and Jon Bon Jovi.

  Dotty Rheinhold lived in a neighborhood of tract houses built in the sixties. Yards were small. Houses were smaller. Cars were large and plentiful.

  “You ever see so many cars?” Lula said. “Every house has at least three cars. They're everywhere.”

  It was an easy neighborhood for surveillance. It had reached an age where houses were filled with teenagers. The teenagers had cars of their own, and the teenagers had friends who had cars. One more car on the street would never be noticed. Even better, this was suburbia. There were no front-porch-stoop sitters. Everyone migrated to the postage stamp-size backyards, which were crammed full of outdoor grills, above-ground pools, and herds of lawn chairs.

  Lula parked the Trans Am one house down and across the street from Dotty. “Do you think Annie and her mom are living with Dotty?”

  “If they are, we'll know right away. You can't hide two people in your cellar with kids underfoot. It's too weird. And kids talk. If Annie and Evelyn are here, they're coming and going like normal house guests.”

  “And we're going to sit here until we figure this out? This sounds like it could take a long time. I don't know if I'm prepared to sit here for a long time. I mean, what about food? And I have to go to the bathroom. I had a super-size soda before I picked you up. You didn't say anything about a long time.”

  I gave Lula the squinty eye.

  “Well, I gotta go,” Lula said. “I can't help it. I gotta wee.”

  “Okay, how about this. We passed a mall on the way in. How about if I drop you at the mall, and then I take the car and do the surveillance.”

  Half an hour later, I was back at the curb, alone, snooping on Dotty. The drizzle had turned to rain and lights were on in some of the houses. Dotty's house was dark. A blue Honda Civic rolled past me and pulled into Dotty's driveway. A woman got out and unbuckled two kids from kiddie seats in the back. The woman was shrouded in a hooded raincoat, but I caught a look at her face in the gloom, and I was certain it was Dotty. Or, to be more precise, I was certain it wasn't Evelyn. The kids were young. Maybe two and seven. Not that I'm an expert on kids. My entire kid knowledge is based on my two nieces.

  The little family entered the house and lights went on. I put the Trans Am into gear and inched my way up until I was directly across from the Rheinholds'. I could clearly see Dotty now. She had the raincoat off, and she was moving around. The living room was in the front of the house. A television was switched on in the living room. A door opened off the living room, and the room beyond was obviously the kitchen. Dotty was traveling back and forth across the doorway, from refrigerator to table. No other adult appeared. Dotty made no move to draw the living room curtains.

  The kids were in bed and their bedroom lights were out by 9:00. At 9:15 Dotty got a phone call. At 9:30 Dotty was still on the phone, and I left to pick Lula up at the mall. A block and a half from Dotty's house, a sleek black car slid by me, traveling in the opposite direction. I caught a glimpse of the driver. Jeanne Ellen Burrows. I almost took the curb and ran across a lawn.

  Lula was waiting at the mall entrance when I got there.

  “Get in!” I yelled. “I have to get back to Dotty's house. I passed Jeanne Ellen Burrows when I was leaving the neighborhood.”

  “What about Evelyn and Annie?”

  “No sign of them.”

  The house was dark when we returned. The car was in the driveway. Jeanne Ellen was nowhere to be found.

  “You sure it was Jeanne Ellen?” Lula asked.

  “Positive. All the hair stood up on my arm, and I got an ice-cream headache.”

  “Yep. That would be Jeanne Ellen.”

  LULA DROPPED ME at the door to my apartment building. “Anytime you want to do surveillance, you just let me know,” Lula said. “Surveillance is one of my favorite things.”

  Rex was in his wheel when I came into the kitchen. He stopped running and looked at me, eyes bright.

  “Good news, big guy,” I said. “I stopped at the store on the way home and got supper.”

  I dumped the contents of the bag on the counter. Seven Tastykakes. Two Butterscotch Krimpets, a Coconut Junior, two Peanut Butter KandyKakes, Creme-filled Cupcakes, and a Chocolate Junior. Life doesn't get much better than this. Tastykakes are just another of the many advantages of living in Jersey. They're made in Philly and shipped to Trenton in all their fresh squishiness. I read once that 439,000 Butterscotch Krimpets are baked every day. And not a heck of a lot of them find their way to New Hampshire. All that snow and scenery and what good does it do you without Tastykakes?

  I ate the Coconut Junior, a Butterscotch Krimpet, and a KandyKake. Rex had part of the Butterscotch Krimpet.

  Things haven't been going too great for me lately. In the past week I've lost three pairs of handcuffs, a car, and I've had a bag of snakes delivered to my door. On the other hand, things aren't all bad. In fact, things could be a lot worse. I could be Living in New Hampshire, where I would be forced to mail order Tastykakes.

  It was close to twelve when I crawled into bed. The rain had stopped and the moon was shining between the broken cloud cover. My curtains were drawn, and my room was dark.

  An old-fashioned fire escape attached to my bedroom window. The fire escape was good for catching a cool breeze on a hot night. It could be used to dry clothes, quarantine house plants with aphids, and chill beer when the weather turned cold. Unfortunately, it was also a place where bad things happened. Benito Ramirez had been shot to death on my fire escape. As it happens, it isn't easy to climb up my fire escape, but it isn't impossible, either.

  I was laying in the dark, debating the merits of the Coconut junior over the Butterscotch Krimpet, when I heard scraping sounds beyond the closed bedroom curtains. Someone was on my fire escape. I felt a shot of adrenaline burn into my heart and flash into my gut. I jumped out of bed, ran into the kitchen, and called the police. Then I took the gun out of the cookie jar. No bullets. Damn. Think, Stephanie—where did you put the bullets? There used to be some in the sugar bowl. Not anymore. The sugar bowl was empty. I rummaged through the junk drawer and came up with four bullets. I shoved them into my Smith & Wesson five-shot .38 and ran back into my bedroom.

  I stood in the dark and listened. No more scraping sounds. My heart was pounding, and the gun was shaking in my hand. Get a grip, I told myself. It was probably a bird. An owl. They fly at night, right? Silly Stephanie, freaked out by an owl.

  I crept to the window and listened again. Silence. I opened the curtain a fraction of an inch and peeked out.

  Yikes!

  There was a huge guy on my fire escape. I only saw him for an instant, but he looked like Benito Ramirez. How could that be? Ramirez was dead.

  There was a lot of noise, and I realized I'd fired all four rounds through my window, into the guy on my fire escape.

  Rats! This isn't a good thing. First off, I might have killed someone. I hate when that happens. Second, I haven't a clue if the guy had a gun, and the law frowns on shooting unarmed people. The law isn't even all that fond of citizens shooting armed people. Even worse, my window was trashed.

  I ripped the curtain aside, and pressed my nose to the window pane. No one out there. I looked more closely and saw that I'd blasted a life-size cardboard cutout. It was laying flat o
n the fire escape and there were a bunch of holes in it.

  I was standing there dumbfounded, breathing heavy with the gun still in my hand, when I heard the police siren whining in the distance. Good going, Stephanie. The one time I call the police, and it turns out to be an embarrassing false alarm. An evil prank. Like the snakes.

  So who would do something like this? Someone who knew about Ramirez getting killed on my fire escape. I gave up a sigh. The entire state knew about Ramirez. It was in all the papers. Okay, someone who had access to a life-size cutout. There had been a lot of the cutouts floating around when Ramirez was fighting. Not many of them floating around now. One person came to mind. Eddie Abruzzi.