“Maybe we should take a second look.”
I made the trip back to Trenton in less than thirty minutes. Traffic was non ex is tent at midday, and I didn‘t get a single red light. Diesel took credit for this, but I thought his claim might register a ten on the bullshit-o-meter. Then again, maybe not.
I turned onto Crocker and immediately saw two cop cars and an EMT truck angled into the curb in front of Munch‘s house. I did a slow drive-by, turned at the corner, and stopped at the entrance to the alley. There were two more cop cars parked with lights flashing halfway down, plus a crime lab truck, an unmarked cop car, and what looked like the medical examiner‘s meat wagon.
“This doesn‘t look good,” I said to Diesel.
Diesel stared down the alley. “Call your boyfriend and find out what happened.”
I crept forward, parked just past the alley, and dialed Morelli.
“Is there something going on in Martin Munch‘s house on Crocker Street?” I asked him.
“A call came in reporting two women and a monkey doing a B&E,” Morelli said. “One of the women was fat and black and stuffed into not nearly enough green spandex, and the other was wearing jeans and a red T-shirt. I don‘t suppose you were in the area?”
“Who, me?”
“Shit,” Morelli said. “Where‘d you get the monkey?”
“What monkey?”
“Fine. I don‘t actually want to know. Fortunately, it‘s not my case. I have a nice, sane, multiple gang-slaying to work on.”
“What happened?”
“The usual. A bunch of kids shot each other.”
“No. What happened at Munch‘s house?”
“A uniform responded to the call. He looked in the windows and tried the doors and was on his way back to his car parked in the alley when his attention was caught by a pack of vultures sitting on a white ‘91 Cadillac. The car was parked one house down from Munch‘s. Long story short, there was a body in the trunk.”
“And?”
“Unidentified male. Not Munch. No bullet holes or stab wounds. Bucky Burlew pulled the case, and since the guy‘s head was facing in the wrong direction, Bucky‘s thinking his neck was broken. Ordinarily, I wouldn‘t know any of this, but I was supposed to meet Bucky at Pino‘s for lunch. This is half-price day for meatball subs.”
“Did you get a sub anyway?”
“Yeah. I went with Joe Zelock. He‘s in town with those naked male dancers. He‘s their token heterosexual.”
Zelock used to be a Trenton cop. He rose in the ranks, went politico, and got busted for acting in a porno film. Somehow, he got himself onto one of those reality talent shows. He didn‘t win, but he got a gig with a traveling Chippendales-style dance troupe. Word on the street is that he‘s making okay money. Of course, some of it gets stuffed into some pretty strange places, but I guess a little disinfectant spray, and the money‘s as good as any other.
I disconnected and told Diesel about the dead guy.
“Did Morelli say there was anything unusual about the victim?”
“Like what?”
“I‘ve seen Wulf‘s handiwork. He likes to break his victim‘s neck. Nice and neat. Doesn‘t get blood on his clothes. He uses an ancient Chinese technique that only a few men have ever mastered. In fact, it‘s said you have to be born with the Dragon Claw.”
“What‘s a Dragon Claw?”
“Wulf can channel energy to his hands and use them to burn a brand into flesh. When he uses his hands to kill, he also inflicts a perfect print of his hand on the victim‘s neck.”
I felt the blood drain out of my brain, my vision went cobwebby, and bells clanged in my head.
Diesel reached over and put his hand to the back of my neck. “Breathe,” he said.
His hand was warm, and the warmth radiated out to my fingertips and toes and everyplace in between.
“Are you okay?” he asked me. “Your face turned white, and I felt your blood pressure drop.”
“Too much information. I didn‘t need to know about the Dragon Claw.”
Diesel smiled wide. “You‘re such a girl.”
“I‘m going to take that as a compliment.”
“I need to crash,” Diesel said. “I was brought in from Moscow last night and I‘m beat.”
“Where do you want me to drop you?”
“Take me home.”
“You have a home?”
“Take me to your home. I‘m staying with you.”
“Oh no. No, no, no.”
“Give it up,” Diesel said. “It‘s not like you can kick me out.”
“You are not staying in my apartment. Where will you sleep?”
“I‘ll sleep with you.”
“Never happen. No way. Forget about it.”
“You‘ll come around. Anyway, I want your bed, not your body.”
“Really?”
“No. That was a flat-out lie.”
“Get out.”
“Honey, kicking me out of your car won‘t change anything.”
I pointed stiff-armed. “Out!”
Diesel heaved himself out of the Jeep. “Do you want me to take the monkey?”
“Yes.”
Carl hopped out of the backseat onto Diesel‘s shoulder. I suspected they‘d both be in my apartment waiting for me when I returned to night, but at least I wouldn‘t have driven them there. Sort of a hollow victory, but it was the best I could manage. I took off, and from my rearview mirror I could see Carl give me the finger.
I reached the corner and blew out a sigh. I couldn‘t do it. I couldn‘t abandon Carl. I hooked a U-turn to retrieve the little guy, but Diesel and Carl had disappeared. Poof.
Stephanie Plum 14.5 - Plum Spooky
FOUR
FORTY MINUTES AND twelve red lights later, I rolled to a stop in front of the bail bonds office.
“You look confused,” Lula said when I pushed through the front door. “You got that what-the-heck-just-happened look to your face.”
“Remember Diesel? He‘s back.”
“I wouldn‘t be lookin‘ confused at that,” Lula said. “I‘d be lookin‘ hello, hotstuff.”
“He‘s not normal,” I said to Lula.
“Don‘t I know it. He was at the head of the line when God was handing out the good stuff. I bet he got a great big power tool, too.”
I had enough problems without dwelling on Diesel‘s power tool. I was fifty dollars short on my rent, my mother expected me for dinner, and I had a monkey.
“I‘m at a dead end with Martin Munch,” I said. “I thought I‘d go after one of the new guys.”
“I guess I could help you with that,” Lula said. “So long as I don‘t have to chase some fool all the hell over the place. I‘m wearing my Via Spigas today, and I don‘t do that shit in my Via Spigas. So I‘m voting we go clap the cuffs on the idiot with the shot-up foot.”
“Works for me,” I said. I was wearing sneakers, but I didn‘t want to chase some fool all the hell over the place, either.
“Where‘s the monkey?” Lula asked. “You still got the monkey?”
“The monkey went with Diesel.”
“That monkey‘s a lucky duck,” Lula said. “I wouldn‘t mind going with Diesel.”
I pulled the case file out of my bag. “Denny Guzzi lives in an apartment on Laurel Street.”
“That‘s not such a good neighborhood,” Lula said. “That‘s off Stark. Probably Guzzi was robbing stores trying to get himself a better way of life.”
“Probably he was robbing stores so he could buy dope,” Connie said.
“See, now that‘s uncharitable,” Lula said. “You‘re judging him without knowing the circumstances. He could have had a reason. He could have a sick mama who needed medicine.”
Connie didn‘t look convinced. “Would you rob a store at gunpoint if your mother needed medicine?” she asked Lula.
“I didn‘t need to,” Lula said. “I had skills. I had a honest profession.”
r />
“You were a hooker.”
“Exactly,” Lula said, taking her purse out of a bottom file drawer and poking around in it, looking for her car keys. “I‘ll drive on account of you probably still got monkey cooties in your car.”
Lula drives a red Firebird with a pimped-out sound system. She had her radio tuned to rap, and by the time we reached Guzzi‘s house on Laurel, I was afraid my fillings had been rattled loose from the bass vibration. Lula parked, we got out of the car, and we stood looking at the building. It was originally yellow brick, but at the present moment, it was solid graffiti.
“This here‘s a good example of urban art,” Lula said. “Denny Guzzi‘s probably a sensitive guy to live in this building.”
I cut my eyes to her. “It‘s graffiti. A bunch of loser gang members marked their territory on this building.”
“Yeah, but they did a good job of expressing themselves. I got a better point of view than you because I‘ve been taking a course at the community college on positive thinking. I‘m a glass-is-half-full person now, and your sorry ass is still in half-empty country. I‘m willing to give people the benefit of the doubt, and all you got is the doubt.”
I opened the front door and stepped into the dimly lit foyer. “Your glass wasn‘t half full when you saw I had a monkey.”
“He took me by surprise. And anyway, monkeys don‘t count.”
A row of mailboxes lined one wall. Twelve mailboxes in all. No names on any of the mailboxes. No elevator. This was a three-story walk-up. Four apartments to a floor. The building wasn‘t large. Probably, the apartments were all studios with kitchenettes. Denny Guzzi lived in 3B.
Lula and I hiked up two flights of stairs, and I listened at the door to 3B. The door was wood, without a security peephole. The veneer was cracked and stained. The area around the doorknob was grimy. I could hear a tele vision droning inside the apartment. Lula stood to one side, and I stood to the other. I reached out and knocked on the door.
“What?” someone yelled from inside the apartment.
The voice was male. Probably Guzzi.
“It‘s Lula, honey,” Lula called out. “I got somethin‘ for you, sugah. Open the door.”
“Go fuck yourself,” came back at her.
“He must be a man of high moral fiber,” Lula whispered to me.
I did an eye roll and knocked again. No answer.
“Hunh,” Lula said to me. “I guess you‘re gonna have to kick the door down.”
Kicking down doors wasn‘t a skill I had ever actually mastered. The men in my life could put the heel of their boot to a lock and destroy it. The best I could do was scuff up the finish.
“Bond enforcement,” I yelled. “Open the door.”
Over the background noise of the tele vision, there was the unmistakable sound of a shotgun ratchet. Lula and I jumped back, and the jerk in the apartment blasted a two-foot hole in his door.
Lula and I looked through the hole at Denny Guzzi, holding a shotgun, sitting in a chair with his foot propped on a couple cases of beer.
“What the dev il was that?” Lula said to Guzzi. “Are you friggin‘ nuts? You don‘t go around shooting at people like that. And after I was real nice to you, giving you an invitation and all. How the hell is that to treat a woman?”
Guzzi ratcheted and aimed, and Lula and I dove away from the door. Boom! Guzzi took out a good-sized chunk of wallboard on the other side of the hall. I looked over at Lula, and she was on her ass, holding the spike heel to her shoe.
“Sonovabitch,” Lula said, eyes narrowed, face scrunched up. “That worthless piece of pig shit made me break the heel on my Via Spiga. That‘s it for me. That‘s the end of my charitable ways. He‘s going down. He‘s gonna die.” Lula got to her feet, pulled a nickel-plated Glock out of her purse, and fired off about ten rounds at the door.
“Jeez,” I yelled at Lula. “You can‘t just shoot at the guy like that.”
“Sure I can,” Lula said. “I got lots more ammo in my purse.”
“If you kill him, there‘s a mountain of paperwork.”
Lula stopped shooting. “I hate paperwork.”
BAM! Guzzi fired through the door again, and Lula and I took off down the stairs. We got to the second landing, and Lula stumbled on her broken shoe. She knocked into me, and we both went head over teakettles down the last flight of stairs. We sprawled spread-ea gle on our backs on the filthy foyer floor and sucked air.
“Been here, done this,” I said. More than once.
“I need to go to Macy‘s,” Lula said. “They‘re having a shoe sale. I got a big date to night, and now I need replacement hot shoes.”
I got to my feet and limped out onto the sidewalk, where two scrawny guys in baggy pants and wall-to-wall tattoos were standing by Lula‘s Firebird, trying to jimmy the door.
“Get away from my baby,” Lula shouted. And she opened fire on the two guys.
“Stop shooting,” I said.
“You can‘t kill them, either.”
“You got a lot of rules,” Lula said to me. “To hear you talk, I can‘t kill anybody.”
The two guys peeked out from behind the Firebird.
“Crazy bitch,” the one said. “We were just gonna steal your car. It‘s not like it‘s a big deal. You park a car here, it gets stolen. Everyone knows that.”
“I just broke my Via Spigas, and I‘m in no mood,” Lula said. “I‘m giving you two seconds to get invisible, and then I‘m putting a cap in your ass.”
The two guys grabbed hold of their pants and walked away, swaying as they walked on feet encased in unlaced basketball shoes that seemed way too big for their stick bodies.
“Between the pants and the shoes, it‘s a wonder they can walk at all,” Lula said.
This coming from a woman in four-inch heels and a dress that fit her like a condom.
Lula checked her car over to make sure it wasn‘t scratched, and we got in and motored back to the bonds office.
“So what‘s this big date?” I asked her.
“Me and Tank are gonna talk about the wedding. You know, we didn‘t have enough time to do the June wedding, what with Tank needing a special-made tuxedo and all, so now I‘m thinking a Christmas wedding would be okay.”
“Does Tank want a Christmas wedding?”
“Hard to tell. He don‘t say. He starts to sweat soon as I talk about it. I swear, sometimes I wonder if I want to spend eternity with a man who sweats like that. He‘s gonna sweat all over my wedding gown. I‘m gonna have to treat it with one of them water-repellent chemicals before I wear it. I‘m gonna have to wear a raincoat when we dance.”
“Tank dances?”
“He don‘t now, but I signed him up for lessons.”
“No wonder he‘s sweating.”
Lula pulled to the curb in front of the office. “Tell Connie I got a shopping emergency, and I‘ll see her tomorrow.”
I waved Lula off and went in to see Connie.
“Anything on the police bands about the body in the car on Crocker?” I asked her.
“Not much. I heard the call go in. At first, I thought it was just another body in a car, but then I caught a conversation from one of the EMS guys. He said the victim‘s neck was broken, and he had two handprints burned into his neck.”
Crap. Diesel was right.
“Has the dead guy been identified?”
“I haven‘t heard anything.”
I told Connie about Guzzi and Lula‘s shopping emergency. I took a couple candies from the jar on Connie‘s desk and speed-dialed Morelli‘s number on my cell phone.
“Yeah?” Morelli said.
When Morelli left my apartment at five-thirty this morning, he was in jeans and an oversize blue-and-white striped shirt from the Gap. His black hair was still damp from the shower, a month overdue for a cut, curling around his ears and down the nape of his neck. The memory was warm and sexy down low in my stomach, resurrected by the sound o
f his voice.
“I want to know the latest on the guy in the trunk,” I said to Morelli.
“I‘ll get back to you.”
I was halfway through Connie‘s candy jar when Morelli called back.
“We have a tentative ID on the guy in the trunk. His name is Eugene Scanlon, and he was Munch‘s immediate boss. Scanlon ran the project at the lab. Something to do with ions and magnets.”