Notorious Nineteen

“Your hand. It’s on my leg, and I’d like it removed.”

  “Can’t hear you,” he said. “Got a hearing problem in that ear.”

  I leaned in and caught the attention of the woman sitting on the man’s other side. “Are you with this guy?” I asked.

  “I’m his wife,” she said.

  “He has his hand on my leg.”

  She reached for a roll. “Better you than me.”

  I rapped the drooler on his hand with my spoon, and the hand was withdrawn.

  “Problem solved,” I said to Ranger.

  “Too bad,” he said. “I haven’t shot anyone all day. I was hoping for later.”

  “Tell me about the cryptic messages.”

  “A few words written on plain white paper and sent through the mail. Things like Your death won’t come easy, and I will grant you salvation through pain. The last message received was It will start soon.”

  “That’s creepy. Have you reported this to the police?”

  “Not yet. No real crime has been committed.”

  The man next to me had his hand back on my leg.

  “Itsy bitsy spider climbed up the waterspout,” he said, his fingers walking their way up to the waterspout.

  “Your wish is going to come true,” I said to Ranger. “Shoot him.”

  He stood and pulled my chair out. “Change seats with me.”

  I took Ranger’s seat and looked around. Everything seemed normal enough. No obviously deranged Special Forces guerrilla guys lurking about. Waiters were serving the entrée and pouring wine. The meal consisted of a chunk of steak, mashed potatoes, green beans and carrots. Straight from the massive casino kitchen. In deference to the fact that the owner was in the room the chef had ordered up a sprig of parsley and an artistic swirl of gravy on each plate.

  I had a few bites of steak and some green beans. I tasted the potatoes, but couldn’t get excited about them.

  “Waiting for dessert?” Ranger asked.

  “I had a ton of hors d’oeuvres. And the mashed potatoes taste funny.”

  Ranger was watching Kinsey, who’d already cleaned his plate and was looking uncomfortable and flushed practically to purple.

  “Does Kinsey have high blood pressure?” I asked. “He’s sweating, and his face is the color of the pinot noir.”

  “Stay here,” Ranger said, scraping his chair back. “Keep your eye on the room.”

  By the time Ranger reached him, Kinsey had slumped in his chair and his face was deathly white. Ranger got him to his feet and moved him through a side door and out of the room. No one paid attention. People were eating and talking. Amanda followed Ranger.

  I kept watch for five minutes, and when Ranger didn’t return I went to the side door. Kinsey was on the floor in the hall, doubled over in a fetal position. Amanda was on her knees beside him. A man in a suit was also on his knees beside Kinsey.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked Ranger.

  “Stomach cramps and nausea.”

  I didn’t feel all that great either, but I wasn’t sick enough to curl up on the floor. I walked a short distance and found a chair. I was light-headed and sweating, and I was working hard at convincing myself I wasn’t going to throw up. I realized I was losing the no throwing up argument, managed to find the ladies’ room in time, and sent a bunch of Swedish meatballs and cocktail wieners into the casino sewage system. Ten minutes later I was back in the hall, and paramedics were strapping Kinsey onto a gurney.

  “How’s he doing?” I asked Ranger.

  “They’re taking him to the hospital to run some tests. The house doctor thinks it might be appendicitis.” He slid an arm around me. “You’re almost as white as Kinsey.”

  “I need air. I took one look at Kinsey on the carpet and got sick.”

  Ranger got me as far as the parking garage, and I threw up again.

  “Jeez,” I said. “I’m really sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “Let’s get you into the car, and we’ll follow Kinsey to the hospital and get you checked out.”

  “I don’t want to go to the hospital.”

  “Babe, you’re green.”

  “Yeah, maybe I shouldn’t have eaten all those cocktail wieners.”

  Ranger stopped and stood hands on hips when he got to the Porsche. A circle with what looked like a double cross sliced by a line had been spray-painted onto the driver’s side door. Just below it was a skull and crossbones.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “It’s the insignia from my unit. And it’s the sign for poison. It’s a message.”

  I had my arms wrapped across my stomach and I was doubled over. “Oh boy,” I said. “This isn’t good.”

  Ranger coaxed me into the car. “Stomach pains?”

  “Yeah. Is appendicitis catching?”

  “No. You haven’t got appendicitis. We changed seats, and you got the plate that was intended for me. If I’m reading the message correctly, you and Kinsey were poisoned.”

  Something halfway between a sob and a groan escaped from my mouth. “I don’t want to be poisoned. Am I going to die?”

  “Not on my watch,” Ranger said. “Hang on. I’m taking you to the medical center.”

  He chirped his tires and flew out of the garage and onto the street. He drove two blocks, and I clapped my hand over my mouth. “Pull over! I’m going to be sick. I’m going to be sick!”

  “You’re going to have to be sick in the car. I’m not stopping.”

  I had lots of junk in my car. Fast food bags and cookie boxes. Ranger had nothing. Ranger’s car was pristine. Ranger had nothing to contain the last remnants of meatball that were about to leave my stomach. So I did what any woman would do in an emergency. I threw up in my evening purse, all over Ranger’s gun.

  “Good catch,” Ranger said. And he put his foot to the floor.

  They were off-loading Kinsey when Ranger pulled into the ER drive-through. Amanda and her father were standing to the side. Ranger helped me out of the car, I put my hand on the rear quarter panel to steady myself and retched. Nothing left in my stomach to come up.

  Ranger eased me into a wheelchair and corralled Amanda’s father.

  “I think Kinsey and Stephanie might have been poisoned,” Ranger said. “Have the medical people work on that assumption. I’m going back to the casino to see if I can find the source.”

  Ranger kissed me on the forehead. “Don’t let them remove your appendix.”

  My stomach was sore but not cramping, and I was weak but no longer nauseous. I went through the routine of talking to nurses, an intern, and finally a resident. I had my blood pressure checked, and a blood test taken. I accepted an icky drink to settle my stomach, but I refused more invasive tests. I was feeling better as time went on. Amanda came to check on me at regular intervals and to report on Kinsey.

  An ER’s waiting room isn’t wonderful at the best of times, and this wasn’t the best of anything. In the short time I was there I watched a gunshot victim roll through, a guy get wheeled in with a broken leg and a bloody foot wrapped in a T-shirt, and a very old woman complaining of chest pains being brought in by an equally old man. I was overjoyed when Ranger finally walked through the door.

  “You’re looking better,” he said, standing in front of me.

  “I’m feeling better.”

  “And Kinsey?”

  “He seems to be okay, but they’re keeping him overnight as a precaution. What did you find?”

  “I spoke to the waiter who served you and Kinsey. The plated meals come up from the kitchen on large three-tier rolling carts. Special diet and allergy plates are marked with a name and a seat number. Kinsey and I had plates with an allergy marker.”

  “How did they get an allergy marker?”

  “No one knew. I’m guessing someone slipped in and put something in the food, probably the mashed potatoes, and stuck the marker on the plate.”

  “And no one noticed?”

  “I was in the kitchen. It’s
massive and chaotic. Anyone could walk into that kitchen in a chef coat or a waiter’s uniform and have total access to the food, and unless they were seven feet tall and wearing a red clown nose no one would remember them. The food from your plate had already been discarded, but I requested to have someone inspect the kitchen for possible contamination.”

  “I’d really like to go home.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “They gave me some stuff to drink and took a blood test. And they told me I was good to go, but to call if I had further problems.”

  He pulled me to my feet, wrapped an arm around me, and walked me to the Porsche. I sunk into the passenger seat and closed my eyes for a moment, happy to be going home, relieved that the poisoning episode hadn’t been worse. Ranger got behind the wheel and drove us back to the Expressway. Traffic was light, and the interior of the car was dark and would have felt intimate if I didn’t smell ever so slightly of upchucked meatballs.

  “I realize I’m getting paid,” I said, “and I don’t want to seem unappreciative, but this was a sucky date.”

  Ranger glanced over at me. “We’ve had better. I’m sorry this happened to you. I didn’t expect poisoning. I just wanted another set of eyes in the room.”

  “Have you been in contact with the rest of your unit?”

  “There were seven of us. One was killed in the line of duty. Two are out of country. The other two are on the West Coast. Everyone claims not to have told anyone the code. And so far, Kinsey and I are the only ones receiving the messages.”

  “Someone’s fibbing.”

  “The envelopes were postmarked in Philadelphia and Camden. I ran the four remaining men through the search system and no one has relatives or business ties in the area.”

  “So what next?”

  “I wait.”

  Ranger pulled into my apartment building lot and parked next to Morelli’s green SUV. On the surface Ranger never showed much emotion over my relationship with Morelli. From what I could tell he neither respected it nor resented it. Mostly he ignored it.

  “You have company,” Ranger said.

  “It seemed like a good idea yesterday when I had to break the date.”

  Ranger walked me into the building, escorted me to the elevator, and pushed the button for my floor. “Say hello to Morelli for me.”

  I let myself into my apartment, Bob rushed up to me, slammed on the brakes, took a big sniff, and backed off.

  Morelli was watching from the couch. “That’s not a good sign,” he said. “Did you fall into the Dumpster again?”

  “I got sick. Food poisoning.” I held a plastic bag up for him to see. “I threw up in my evening purse. They bagged it for me at the hospital.”

  Morelli got to his feet. “I have to hand it to Ranger. He knows how to show a girl a good time. Is there anything I can do for you? Pepto-Bismol? Tums? French fries?”

  “I need a shower.”

  Morelli got happy. “I’ll help.”

  “No! I don’t need a sexy shower.”

  “I can give you a non-sexy shower.”

  “No, you can’t. It’s not in your genetic makeup.”

  “How are you going to feel after the shower?”

  “Tired,” I told him.

  “Before I forget, Schmidt thinks something is off with the Cubbin case. He’s watched the security tapes from the hospital, and he can’t figure how Cubbin got out.”

  “Grandma said there’ve been budget cuts, and she thought the security cameras might not be working.”

  “The hall camera and the elevator cameras were working. If Cubbin left his room he would have been caught on video.”

  “How about the window?”

  “No sign of impact below the window,” Morelli said.

  “Vinnie’s going to be out a lot of money if I can’t find Cubbin. And I could use the recovery fee.”

  “That’s a nice dress,” Morelli said. “Do you need help getting it off?”

  “No!”

  EIGHT

  “SO HOW’D YOUR big date go?” Lula asked when I walked into the office.

  “It wasn’t a big date. It was business.”

  “I wouldn’t mind doing some business with him. I swear he’s the finest man ever made.”

  Connie looked up from her computer. “Did I miss something?”

  “Stephanie had a date with Ranger last night,” Lula said.

  “It was business,” I told Connie. “He needed someone to attend an event with him. It wasn’t social.”

  “It don’t have to be social to be sexual with Ranger,” Lula said. “Unfortunately I don’t know firsthand, but I have a active fantasy life.”

  “If you don’t have any leads on Cubbin you might try to find Brody Logan,” Connie said to me. “He’s got a medium high bond, and he’s got his collateral. Vinnie made the mistake of not confiscating it when he bonded him out.”

  I pulled the file out of my bag and glanced at it. “It says here ‘religious icon.’ What does that mean? Is it a cross? A picture of the Virgin Mary?”

  “It’s a tiki,” Connie said. “It’s three foot high and carved out of some sacred Hawaiian tree.”

  “I thought a tiki was one of them thatched huts they got in the Bahamas,” Lula said. “They serve the best drinks at them tikis.”

  “Different tiki,” Connie said.

  “Do you have a picture?” I asked.

  “No, but I think if you’ve seen one tiki you’ve seen them all. How different can a tiki be?”

  “I never seen one,” Lula said.

  “I have,” I told her. “They had one at the hotel when I was in Hawaii. They sort of look like a piece of a totem pole.”

  “This might be a good time to get Logan,” Connie said. “He’s probably still hanging out under the bridge.”

  “You got big bags under your eyes,” Lula said to me. “You sure you didn’t have a night of hot love with Ranger?”

  “Positive. I got food poisoning and threw up three times.”

  “Bummer,” Lula said. “That probably put a crimp in his style.”

  I hung my messenger bag on my shoulder and turned toward the door. “I’m off.” I looked at Lula. “Are you coming with me?”

  “Yeah, I’m hoping to see the tiki.”

  I took Hamilton to Broad and turned off Broad at Third Avenue. The Freemont Street Bridge was two blocks down Third. It was a good location for someone like Logan because it was close to a city soup kitchen, and the blocks around the soup kitchen had a lot of panhandling potential. I parked on the street, and Lula and I got out and walked across a rough patch of rogue weed and assorted trash. The bridge itself spiraled overhead, connecting Third Avenue to the freeway. A slum had developed under the bridge, with cardboard box huts and plywood shanties. Three men stood smoking in the shade.

  “It’s like a little town here,” Lula said. “I bet it could be cozy in one of them cardboard boxes except for the rats. And probably they got no cable.”

  “They’re also missing indoor plumbing.”

  “Maybe they got a box designated for that.”

  The men watched us approach. One of them looked drugged out and crazy. The other two just looked tired.

  “Howdy,” Lula said. “How’s it going?”

  “The usual,” one of them said. “What’s up?”

  “We’re looking for Brody Logan,” Lula told him. “Is he here?”

  No one said anything, but one of the men nodded toward a small bedraggled tent. I gave him a couple dollars and went to the tent. I squatted down and pulled the flap away. “Brody?”

  “What?”

  He was wearing a faded orange T-shirt and jeans, and sitting cross-legged in front of the tiki. Two red patches instantly colored his checks, and his eyes went round in what I took for panic. I introduced myself and showed him my ID.

  “Oh man,” he said. “Give me a break. I’m real close.”

  “Close to what?” I asked.

&nbs
p; “To getting this guy home. He’s like a tiki, you know? He’s supposed to be living in this cool shrine, having the good life, takin’ in the volcano vibes. Problem is some idiot snatched him and smuggled him out of Hawaii in a bag of dirty laundry. Seemed like a good idea. Like the tiki would be a conversation piece and get the dude chicks. And like the tiki would enhance the dude’s tent. But turns out the tiki isn’t turned on by Jersey. So now he’s bummed and havin’ like a hissy fit and bringing this idiot dude bad juju.”

  “Are you the idiot dude who smuggled him out?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Wow, you’re smart. How’d you know that?”

  “Lucky guess.”

  “Tiki and me have been working the bridge traffic and the Starbucks crowd, and I’ve almost got enough saved up to get us back to Hawaii. So going to jail doesn’t fit into the plan.”

  “I want to know why you trashed the cop car,” Lula said.

  “The stupid cop took Tiki.”

  “The wooden thing.”

  “Yeah. He has a name besides Tiki but I forgot it so I call him Tiki.”

  “The tiki is named Tiki?”

  “He doesn’t mind,” Logan said. “He’s cool with it. Anyway, Tiki was sitting in front of Starbucks waiting for me to come back with a cinnamon latte, and the cop picked him up. The cop said Tiki looked stolen, but I think he just wanted Tiki. Like the cop was the one doing the stealing. Like the cop had a tiki fetish or something. I came out and about freaked when I saw Tiki locked up in the cop car. And Tiki was freaked too. Let me out, let me out, he was saying.”

  “You heard it talking?” Lula asked.

  “Yeah, of course. Well, you know, in my head. That’s how Tiki always talks to me.”

  “He talkin’ to you now?” Lula wanted to know.

  “Not now, but before you came he was telling me he wanted eggs for breakfast.”

  “How’s he take his eggs?” Lula asked.

  “Usually scrambled. And some wheat toast.”

  “I bet you smoke a lot of weed,” Lula said. “Maybe do some ’shrooms.”

  “No way. I’m pure. Maybe in the past, you know, but Tiki doesn’t like that stuff.”

  “Good to know,” Lula said. “Back to the cop car. Why’d you bash it in?”

  “Well, at first I just smashed the window to get Tiki out, but then I got into it, like it was a rush. I mean, have you ever trashed a cop car? It’s the best.”