Lean Mean Thirteen

  Smullen finally got to the counter and put in his order. He unbuttoned his coat to get his wallet, and I almost collapsed with relief. I had access to his pockets. He shuffled to the pickup counter, got his triple Frappuccino, and when he turned toward the door, he was flat against me. I had my boobs pressed into his chest and my leg between his.

  “Whoops,” I said, sliding my hand under his coat, dropping the bug into his pocket. “Sorry!”

  Smullen didn't blink. He just hung on to his Frappuccino as if this happened every morning. And maybe it did. There were a lot of people in the store. I took one step back and one step to the side to let Smullen get past me, and he inched his way toward the door and disappeared.

  I felt someone lean in to me from behind, and a coffee was placed in my hand.

  “Nice,” Ranger said, guiding me out to the sidewalk. “I couldn't have gotten that close. And he wouldn't have been distracted by my chest.”

  “I don't think he even noticed.”

  “A man would have to be dead not to notice,” Ranger said.

  “Morelli's worried I'll be involved in Dickie's disappearance. He said I should ask you for help.”

  “He's a good man,” Ranger said. “And you?” “I’m better."

  Lula WAS filing when I walked into the bonds office.

  “What s with this?” I asked.

  “Hunh,” Lula said. “You act like I never do nothing. It's just I'm so efficient I get my work done before anyone notices. My name should be Flash. You ever see any files laying around?”

  “I assumed you were throwing them away.”

  'Tour ass," Lula said.

  For a short time, we had a guy named Melvin Pickle doing our filing. Pickle was a filing dynamo. Unfortunately, he was so good he was able to get a better job. Les Sebring hired him to work in his bonds office, and Connie had to coerce Lula to take back filing responsibilities.

  Connie was carefully adding a topcoat to her nails. “Having any luck with the new batch of FTAs?”

  “No, but Milton Buzick is getting buried today. I'm waiting to get a jewelry report from Grandma.”

  “If he got a Rolex on, I don't want to know,” Lula said. “Two things I'm not doing. I'm not going back to that trailer, and I'm not sitting in no cemetery. Dead people creep me out.”

  “What about Carl Coglin?” Connie asked. “He looks pretty straightforward. He has a small shop attached to his home.”

  'Who's Carl Coglin?" Lula wanted to know.

  I pulled Carl's file out of my bag and flipped it open. “Sixty-four years old. Never married. Lives alone. His sister put up the bond. Accused of destruction of personal property. Doesn't go into detail. Lists his occupation as taxidermist.”

  “Taxidermist,” Lula said. “We never busted a taxidermist before. It could be fun.”

  A half hour later, we were in North Trenton, standing in front of Coglin's house. This was a working-class neighborhood filled with people stretched too thin to plant flowers in the spring. Houses were neat but shabby. Cars were tired.

  Coglin lived in a redbrick single-family house with mustard trim. The paint was blistered and the wood around the windows had some rot. The front porch had been enclosed as an afterthought, and a small sign on the door advertised Coglin's taxidermy business.

  “Don't look to me like taxidermy pays real well,” Lula said.

  A scrawny little guy answered my knock, and I knew from the picture on file that it was Coglin. Hair the color and texture of steel wool. Wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Carl Coglin?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I represent Vincent Plum Bail Bonds. You missed your court date last week, and I'd like to help you reschedule.”

  “That's nice of you,” Coglin said, “but I don't want to inconvenience you.”

  “Its my job.”

  “Oh,” Coglin said. “Well, what does this rescheduling involve?”

  “You need to go to the courthouse and get rebonded.”

  We were standing in Coglin's front-porch showroom, and it was hard not to notice the animals lining his walls.

  “Where's the mooseheads?” Lula asked Coglin. “I thought you taxidermy guys stuffed lions and tigers and shit. All I see is cats and dogs and pigeons.”

  “This is urban taxidermy,” Coglin said. “I restore pets and found objects.”

  “What's a found object?” Lula wanted to know.

  “Treasure found in nature. For instance, if you were walking through the park and you found a deceased pigeon, that would be a found object. And sometimes I make performance pieces. The performance pieces are mechanicals. There's a growing market for the mechanicals.”

  Lula looked at a woodchuck posed on a piece of Astro-turf. Some of its fur had been worn away, and it had what appeared to be part of a tire track imprinted on its back. “You're a sick man,” Lula said.

  “It's art,” Coglin said. “You don't understand art.”

  “I understand roadkill,” Lula said.

  “About that rescheduling,” I said to Coglin.

  “Maybe I could reschedule next week,” Coglin said. “I can't leave now. I have to stay at the house. I have a fresh opossum on the table.”

  “Oh boy,” Lula said.

  “It's hard to get an opossum at this time of year,” Coglin said. “I was lucky to find it. And it won't be good when it defrosts.”

  “This won't take long,” I told him.

  “You're not going to leave without me, are you?” he asked.

  “No.”

  Coglin looked at his watch. “I suppose I could go with you if this doesn't take long. Let me get my coat and lock the back door. In the meantime, feel free to browse my showroom. All these items are for sale.”

  “I'm glad to hear that,” Lula said. “I always wanted a stuffed dead dog.”

  Coglin disappeared into the house, and I tried not to look too hard at the critters. “These animals are creeping me out,” I said to Lula. “It's like being in a whacked-out pet cemetery.”

  “Yeah,” Lula said. “They've seen better days.” She picked up a stuffed squirrel. “This guy's got three eyes. He must have lived next to the nuclear power plant.”

  I heard the back door slam and then a motor crank over.

  “Car!” I said to Lula.

  We ran to the back of the house and saw Coglin pull away in a green Isuzu SUV. We turned and sprinted through the house, out the door to the Vic.

  “There he goes,” Lula said, pointing to the corner. “South on Centerline.”

  I had the Vic in gear and moving. I took the corner on two wheels and put my foot to the floor. Coglin was a block ahead of me.

  “He's turning,” Lula said.

  “I'm on it.”

  “He's got a light,” Lula said. “He has to stop for the light.”

  I jumped on the brake, but Coglin ran it. He sailed through the light and was lost in traffic. “Guess he didn't feel like going to jail,” Lula said.

  The light changed and I slowly moved forward. I looked over at Lula and saw she still had

  the squirrel.

  "We were in such a rush to get out of the house, I forgot I was holding this here mutant

  rodent," Lula said.

  “It doesn't look like a third eye,” I said to her. "It looks like a switch. Maybe this is a

  mechanical rodent."

  Lula pushed the switch and studied it. “It's making a noise. It's sort of ticking. It's…” BANG. The squirrel exploded.

  We both shrieked. I jumped the curb and sideswiped a streetlight.

  “What the fuck?” Lula said.

  “Are you okay?”

  "No, I'm not okay. That squirrel just friggin' blew hisself apart on me. I got squirrel guts on

  me."

  “Doesn't look like guts,” I said, examining the hair and skin plastered to the dashboard.

  “Looks like he was stuffed with some kind of foam that melted when it exploded.” “This guy's building rodent
bombs,” Lula said. "We should report him to someone. You

  can't just go around building rodent bombs, can you?"

  I backed up and tried to open my door, but it wouldn't open. I rolled the window down,

  climbed out Dukes of Hazzard style, and examined the damage. Some of the door was bashed

  in where I'd hit the light. I climbed back into the car and drove off the sidewalk. “I got foam and squirrel hair stuck to me,” Lula said. "I probably need a rabies shot or

  something."

  “Yeah,” I said. "Problem is, I don't know whether to take you to a veterinarian or an

  upholsterer."

  “Smells funky,” Lula said, sniffing her finger. “What's it smell like?”

  “Squirrel.”

  “I didn't know squirrels had a smell.”

  “This one does,” I told her.

  "I'm gonna need to take this coat to the dry cleaner, and I'm gonna send the bill to that

  Coglin freak. He got some nerve exploding a squirrel on me."

  “You took the squirrel.”

  “Yeah, but it was entrapment. I think I got a case.”

  “Maybe we should go to lunch,” I said to Lula. “Take your mind off the squirrel.” “I could use some lunch.”

  “Do you have any money?”

  “No,” Lula said. “Do you?”

  “No.”

  “There's only one thing to do then. Senior buffet.”

  Ten minutes later, I pulled into the Costco parking lot.

  “Where we gonna start?” Lula wanted to know, taking a shopping cart.

  “I like to start in produce and then go to the deli and then frozen.”

  Costco is the all-American free lunch. If you can't afford to buy food, you can buy a

  minimum membership at Costco and get freebies from the give-away ladies. You just have to

  kick your way through the seniors who stand ten deep around them.

  “Look over there,” Lula said. "They got a give-away lady frying up them little bitty

  sausages. I love those little sausages."

  We had some apple slices dipped in caramel, some carrots and raw broccoli dipped in ranch

  dressing, some goat cheese, some frozen pizza pieces, some tofu stir-fry, some brownie pieces

  from the bakery, and some of the sausages. We did a test-drive on Guatemalan coffee and

  sparkling apple cider. We used the ladies' room, and we left.

  “Whoever invented Costco knew what they were doing,” Lula said. "I don't know what I'd

  do without my Costco membership. Sometimes, I even buy shit there. Costco's got

  everything. You can buy a casket at Costco."

  We got into the Vic, and I drove us back to Coglin's house. I idled at the curb for a couple

  minutes, watching to see if anything was going on, then I motored around the block and took

  the alley that led to Coglin's backyard. No car in his parking place, so I parked there. “Gonna see if he's hiding in a closet?” Lula asked.

  “Yep.”

  I knocked on Coglin s back door and yelled, “Bond enforcement!”

  No answer.

  I opened the door and yelled again. Still no answer. I stepped into the kitchen and looked

  around. It was just as we'd left it over an hour ago, except for the opossum on the kitchen

  table. The opossum looked like a balloon with feet. And it smelled worse than squirrel. A lot

  worse.

  “Whoa,” Lula said. “He wasn't kidding about this sucker defrosting.”

  “Maybe we should put it in the freezer for him.”

  Lula had her scarf over her nose. "I'm not touching it. Bad enough I got squirrel on me. I

  don't need no 'possum cooties. Anyways, it's not gonna fit in his freezer with the way it's all

  swelled up."

  “Coglin isn't here,” I said to Lula. "He would have done something with this animal if he'd

  returned."

  “Fuckin' A,” Lula said. “I'm outta here.”

  I parked in front of the office, behind Lula's Firebird, and Lula and I got out of the Vic and

  gaped at the telephone pole at the corner. It was plastered with posters of me. It was a candid

  photo, and the caption read wanted

  FOR MURDER.

  “What the heck?” I said. My first reaction was panic deep in my chest. The police were looking for me. That only lasted a moment. This wasn't any sort of official “wanted” poster. This was made on someone's home scanner and printer. I tore the posters off the pole and looked down the street. I could see posters on a pole half a block away.

  “There's posters all over the place,” Lula said. “They're stuck to store windows, and they're stuck on parked cars.” She unlocked her Firebird. “I'm going home. I gotta get this squirrel funk off me.”

  I went into the office and showed Connie the posters.

  “It's Joyce,” Connie said. “I saw her putting them up, but I didn't realize what they were.” "They're probably all over town. I should probably ride around and take them down, but I

  have better things to do with my time… like find out who killed Dickie."

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Yes. I need a background search. Joyce says he's worth lots of money.”

  Connie punched his name into one of the search programs and the screen filled with

  information. “He leased a $, Audi a year ago. His house is appraised at $,. And it's mortgaged to the rafters. No litigation pending against him. Nothing derogatory in his file. He's part owner of the building housing his law firm. His partners are also listed as owners. Looks like the building was bought outright. No mortgage there.”

  Connie printed the report and passed it over to me.

  “Any calls for me?” I asked her.

  “No. Were you expecting calls?”

  “I was supposed to talk to Marty Gobel this morning. I expected him to call my cell.” Not

  that I wanted to talk to Marty Gobel, but it was better than having a warrant issued for my arrest.

  I dialed Morelli. No answer.

  Ranger was next up.

  “Babe,” Ranger said.

  “Anything new on Dickie?”

  “No, but the natives are restless. I can feel Smullen sweating on the bug.”

  I left the bonds office, climbed into the Vic, and drove to Dickie s house. It was easy to find since it was the only house on his block draped in yellow crime scene tape. It was a large cape with black shutters and a red door. Probably thirty years old but recently painted. Two-car garage. Nicely landscaped. Medium-size lot. Very respectable, if you overlooked the tape. I wasn't sure what I'd expected to find, but I'd felt compelled to do a drive-by. Morbid curiosity, I suppose, since Joyce had been impressed with his wealth. As it was, he seemed comfortable but not excessively rich.

  I did a mental reenactment of the crime. I imagined the door to Dickie's house open, and Dickie getting dragged out by whoever shot him. There would have been a car in the driveway. Shots were fired a little before midnight, so it was dark. Overcast sky. No moonlight. Still, you'd think someone would have at least seen the car leave. If you hear shots fired, and you care enough to call the police, you care enough to look out the window.

  I parked the Vic, crossed the street, and knocked on the door of the house across from Dickie s. The knock was answered by a woman in her fifties. “I'm investigating the Orr incident,” I told her. “I'd appreciate it if you could just answer a few questions for me.”

  “I suppose, but I've already spoken to the police. I don't have much more to say.”