Turbo Twenty-Three

  “The Firebird was just dropped off,” he said to Ranger, handing him the car keys. “It seems to be undamaged. There’s a purse in the backseat.”

  “Any sign of Larry Virgil?” Ranger asked.

  “No. I guess he left the car here and took off.”

  Ranger handed the keys over to Lula.

  “I got my baby back,” Lula said, taking the keys, exiting the Porsche. “Anything I can ever do for you just let me know,” she said to Ranger. She looked the Hulk over. “You too, big, black, and badass. Anything you need you just ask Lula.”

  TWO

  RANGER DROVE AWAY, leaving his man grinning at Lula.

  “She’ll take him apart and won’t put him back together again,” Ranger said. “Is your car at the office?”

  “No. Lula picked me up at home.”

  “Babe,” Ranger said.

  “Babe” covers a lot of ground for Ranger, depending upon inflection. Tonight it was said softly with an undertone of desire, as if he might take me home and stay awhile. It gave me an instant rush, and heat curled through a bunch of internal organs. I did my best to squash the heat and ignore the rush, but in the process of ignoring the rush I inadvertently gave up a sigh.

  “What?” Ranger asked.

  “Morelli.”

  Morelli and I have had an on-again, off-again relationship since I was five years old. Lately when we’re off again Ranger swoops in. At first glance it might appear that I’m lacking in moral character by bouncing around between men like this, but it’s only two men. I mean it’s not like I’m dating a football team. And let’s be honest about this. These guys are both twelve on a scale of one to ten. And I might only be an eight on a good day. So how lucky am I? A couple weeks ago, in a moment of euphoria, Morelli and I agreed to being engaged to be engaged. It was a good moment, but I think it’s a little like planning on winning the lottery or contemplating losing five pounds. I mean, what are the chances of it actually happening?

  “Unfortunate,” Ranger said, “but the night wasn’t a complete loss. I got to see a dead guy dressed up like a Bogart Bar. What were you doing with the freezer truck?”

  “Lula and I were staking out Larry Virgil, and he drove up in the semi. One thing led to another. Blah, blah, blah. And Lula crashed the truck into Eddie Gazarra’s squad car.”

  “And the deceased?”

  “We opened the door to look inside, and the guy fell out.”

  “As it turns out,” Ranger said, “I’ve been hired by Harry Bogart. He wants increased security in his factory. For years he’s been engaged in an ice cream war with Mo Morris. In the past it’s been confined to competitive pricing, ripping off recipes, ads that pushed the boundaries of slander, and occasionally a shouting match at a family function.”

  “They’re related?”

  “Cousins.”

  “And I guess they don’t like each other.”

  “Not even a little. Lately bad things have been happening to Harry Bogart. Salmonella in the double chocolate. A bomb hoax that shut down production for an entire day. One of the freezers was down for the night, and literally a ton of ice cream melted. Bogart is sure it’s Mo Morris out to ruin him, but he can’t prove anything.”

  “So he’s hired you.”

  “His factory is old-school. No security cameras. No instant alerts when equipment goes down. Locks that can be opened with a nail file. I guess he’s never needed more. It’s not like he’s doing nuclear research.”

  “You’re fixing all that.”

  “Yes, but it takes time. It’s a big job. He needs new wiring. He has to approve the system design. I’d like to give him a couple men on foot patrol until we get everything up and running, but he refuses. He says ice cream is happiness and comfort, and his customers would turn to birthday cake and mac and cheese if they thought his ice cream was under siege.”

  “He sounds like a nice man.”

  “He’s ruthless and miserly. So far I haven’t seen evidence of nice.”

  “He makes good ice cream.”

  Ranger nodded. “So I’ve been told.”

  “Do you think the dead guy could be Harry Bogart?”

  “No. Wrong body type. Bogart is a big man.”

  “Eats a lot of ice cream?”

  “Eats a lot of everything.” Ranger turned into my parking lot. “I need someone to go inside the two ice cream factories and look around. Do you have time to moonlight for me?”

  “What would I do?”

  “I’d put you on the line to start. Most of the line workers are women, so you would blend in. All you’d have to do is keep your ears open and look around. I’m told everyone gets to take a pint of ice cream home with them at the end of the shift in Mo Morris’s plant.”

  “Hard to pass that up.”

  Ranger stopped in front of my apartment building’s back door. I made a move to get out of the car, and he pulled me to him and kissed me. The kiss was light and lingering, sending a clear message of checked passion. He released me and relaxed back into his seat.

  “I’ll make the arrangements for you to start work at Bogart’s plant first and be back in touch,” Ranger said.

  It took me a couple beats to get myself together. “Okay then,” I said. “Be careful driving home.”

  “Babe,” Ranger said.

  • • •

  Morelli was on my couch watching television when I walked in. His big mostly golden retriever, Bob, was on the couch with him. There was a takeout pizza box on the coffee table.

  Morelli looked up at me and grinned. “Have a good night?”

  “Eddie Gazarra called you, didn’t he?”

  “Cupcake, everyone called me, including your mother and the Trenton Times.”

  “News travels fast.”

  “Not every day someone gets dipped in chocolate and sprinkled with nuts. Usually people in Trenton just get stabbed and shot.”

  I squeezed between Morelli and Bob, flipped the lid up on the pizza box, and took a slice. “I thought you might have gotten the call on this one.”

  “I just came off a double shift, so I was low in the rotation. Butch Zajak pulled it.”

  “I can’t stop thinking about the dead man.”

  “Yeah, me too. Eddie said he was dressed up like a Bogart Bar. I don’t suppose you have any.”

  “No, but the freezer truck was filled with cartons of them. It was like the man in the truck was part of the Bogart Bar run.”

  “All this talk about Bogart Bars is making me feel romantic,” Morelli said.

  Here’s the deal with Morelli. Everything makes him feel romantic.

  He wrapped an arm around me and nibbled at my neck. “I’m thinking after the pizza what I need is dessert. Like a Bogart Bar.”

  “I don’t have good feelings about Bogart Bars right now.”

  “Okay, how about a hot fudge sundae?”

  “I guess that would be okay.”

  “Do you have ice cream? Chocolate sauce?” Morelli asked.

  “No.”

  “Some of that whipped cream in a can?”

  “No.”

  “No problem. I can use my imagination.”

  I was warming to the idea.

  “And then you know what comes next,” Morelli said.

  “What?”

  “I get to be the sundae.”

  Damn! I knew there’d be a catch.

  THREE

  MORELLI IS ALWAYS up at the crack of dawn on a workday. When he’s in his own house he usually has breakfast at home. When he’s in my apartment he more often than not grabs coffee and a breakfast sandwich on the road. I’m not exactly a domestic goddess. I keep the apartment clean and I manage to have the basic necessities on hand, like peanut butter, olives, and Froot Loops for me, and green food nuggets for my hamster, Rex. Rex lives in an aquarium on my kitchen counter. He’s the perfect roommate. He sleeps in a soup can, and he never complains.

  The apartment was quiet when I opened my eyes. No warm body nex
t to me. I live on the second floor of a tired three-story apartment building on the edge of Trenton. My windows face the parking lot at the back of the building, and the sound of car doors slamming and people talking drifted up to my bedroom. The day had started without me. Just as well. Memories of the night before were mixed. Some were good and some were awful.

  An hour later I parked my ten-year-old Jeep Cherokee at the curb in front of the bail bonds office on Hamilton Avenue. I’d gotten the car on the cheap at Big Boomer’s Car Lot. It had survived a flood somewhere in the Midwest and was perfect if you didn’t count the electrical system and the slight scent of mold coming from the backseat.

  Connie Rosolli, the office manager and guard dog, was at her desk. Connie is a couple years older than me. My ancestry is half Italian and half Hungarian, and hers is full-on Italian. Her Uncle Lou is mob and a good guy to know if you want someone whacked. Her hair is teased, her upper lip is waxed, her bottom drawer has a loaded Glock in it. She was wearing a scoop neck sweater that showed a lot of cleavage and a short black skirt that also showed a lot of stuff that was pretty much hidden under her desk. Her nail polish was a glossy mahogany that perfectly matched Lula’s skin tone.

  The usual box of morning donuts was open on Connie’s desk. I chose a Boston Kreme and went to the coffee machine at the back of the room.

  “Where is everyone?” I asked Connie.

  “Lula called in to say she had to file a report at the police station this morning. Vinnie took Lucille to the airport. She’s visiting her sister in Atlanta.”

  Lucille is Vinnie’s wife. Vinnie owns the bail bonds office; Lucille’s father, Harry the Hammer, owns Vinnie. Vinnie is a decent bail bondsman but a fungus in every other way. He has a body like a ferret’s and a face to match. He keeps his hair slicked back. His pants are tight. It’s rumored he’s had an amorous adventure with a duck, and once in a while he fancies a good whipping from the local gypsy dominatrix, Madam Z.

  “Sounds like you and Lula had a fun night,” Connie said.

  “It defies description. You had to be there. Have you heard anything about the dead man? Have they identified him?”

  “Nothing on the dead man, but the factory is shut down. They’re going to have to scour it out and disinfect everything. Was the guy really covered in chocolate and sprinkled with nuts?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’ll be a long time before I don’t get the creeps when I see a Bogart Bar. And that really bothers me, because Bogart Bars were a favorite part of my childhood. I feel like someone’s trampled on my memories.”

  “I know what you mean,” Connie said. “I loved Bogart Bars when I was a kid, and this messes with my mind. It would have been better if the dead guy had been coated in liverwurst.”

  I had an instant mental picture of someone coated in liverwurst and flash frozen. I gave an inadvertent shiver and gagged.

  “Two new files came in late last night,” Connie said, taking the folders off her desk and handing them over to me. “Assault with a deadly weapon and Simon Diggery.”

  Simon Diggery was a professional grave robber. He lived in a dilapidated double-wide south of town.

  “What did Simon do now?”

  “He got caught digging up Myra Kranshaw. He said he was looking for worms to go fishing and didn’t realize Myra was down there.”

  “What did he get off her?”

  “Her diamond engagement ring and a pearl necklace.”

  “And I assume he didn’t show up for his court appearance.”

  “I called him and he said his truck was on the bum so he couldn’t get to the courthouse, but he’d be happy to say ‘Howdy do’ to the judge if he could get a ride.”

  I shoved the files into my messenger bag, finished my donut, topped off my coffee, and Lula hustled in.

  “Are there donuts left?” she asked. “Because I need a donut. They didn’t have nothin’ to eat at that police station. How is it that they ask you to come in first thing, and they don’t even have a donut for you? And you know they got them somewhere in that building. No cop worth anything starts his day without a donut.”

  “How’d it go?” I asked.

  “It went okay. I didn’t get arrested or anything. I think I might get charged with careless truck driving or something, but the cop who was taking down the information kept getting confused, so I don’t know what’s gonna come of it all. After a while he stopped writing things down, and his eyes got that far-off look.”

  “Imagine that,” Connie said.

  “I was being excellent about explaining it all to him, but he wasn’t getting the picture,” Lula said. “And he kept asking me dumb questions, like when was the last time I drove a tractor trailer and did I have a license.” Lula took a chocolate glazed out of the box and wolfed it down. “I’m starved,” she said. “I could use a bucket of chicken. Is it lunchtime yet?”

  I checked my watch. “It’s nine-thirty.”

  “Hunh,” Lula said. “Seems later than that.”

  “I need to escort Simon Diggery to the courthouse,” I said. “Are you on board?”

  “Say what? No way. Last time I was almost killed by his snake. You remember we were in his piece-of-doodie double-wide, and his snake jumped out of the closet at me.”

  “That was a mop. It fell out when you opened the door, and you freaked.”

  “Well, it could have been his snake.”

  “I’ll buy you a breakfast sandwich.”

  “Done and done,” Lula said. “Let’s go get Diggery. Only we gotta go in your car because I’m not putting him and his smelliness in my Firebird.”

  I hiked my messenger bag onto my shoulder, Lula helped herself to a second donut, and we left the bonds office. I stopped at Cluck-in-a-Bucket and took a call from Ranger while Lula ran in and ordered her food.

  “Bogart’s plant is shut down for a system-wide cleanup,” Ranger said. “It’s scheduled to go back on line tomorrow morning. Show up at the plant at eight o’clock tomorrow and they’ll find a job for you.”

  “Any information on the dead man?”

  “Arnold Zigler. He was in charge of human resources at Bogart Ice Cream. Lived alone. Last seen late Friday afternoon.”

  “Do you think he could have accidentally fallen into the chocolate mixer?”

  “It would have to be after he was shot in the head and frozen solid.”

  “Any suspects?”

  “I haven’t got any information on that. I’m on my way to the plant now. I’ll know more after I talk to Bogart.”

  I disconnected with Ranger, and Lula hustled over with a breakfast sandwich, a bucket of chicken, a side of biscuits with gravy, and a giant soda. I watched her buckle up and dig in to the chicken.

  “Aren’t you worried about the calories in all that food?”

  “It’s not as much as you might think on account of I got a diet soda. And I was careful to balance out my meal with something from different major food groups. I got fried protein, tasty carbohydrates, and gravy.”

  “Gravy isn’t a food group.”

  “Say what?”

  • • •

  A half hour later I was on a gravel road that wound through a couple hundred acres of Trenton that had as yet been unmapped by GPS. People who lived here were for the most part off the grid because there was no way they could or would pay an electric bill. Small, ramshackle houses were interspersed with rusted-out mobile homes set on cinder blocks. Broken-down cars and refrigerators littered front yards. Feral cats roamed in packs.

  Simon Diggery lived toward the end of the road. He was one of the more affluent inhabitants, having taken possession of a lopsided double-wide. Friends and relatives came and went in the double-wide. Simon and his pet boa constrictor were constant.

  I pulled off the road a short distance from Diggery’s Place and parked on the hard-packed dirt shoulder. Lula and I got out of the SUV, and I put my stun gun in my back pocket and tucked my handcuffs into the waistband of my jeans. I didn’t ex
pect to use either. Sometimes I had to run Diggery down, and sometimes he hid, but in the end he never resisted arrest.

  “I’m waiting here,” Lula said. “He’s got a nest of snakes under that rust bucket mobile home, and he got the big boa inside with him. No way am I going near that moldy old thing.”

  I didn’t especially want to go near it either. I walked a little closer and yelled for Diggery. “Simon! Are you in there?”

  Nothing. I took a couple more steps and saw that the snakes had come out to sun themselves. They were draped over the steps and sprawled on the patchy grass and dirt that constituted Diggery’s front yard. I stamped my feet and threw some stones at them and they slithered back under the double-wide.

  “It’s okay now,” I said to Lula.

  “No way,” Lula said. “You just pissed them off. They’re lurkin’. They’re waiting to jump out at you and fang you.”

  “Hey!” I yelled at the trailer. “Anybody home?”

  “Guess he’s not home,” Lula said. “Might as well leave.”

  “He’s always home during the day,” I said. “He only goes out at night to rob graves and steal food.”

  “I’m not leaving until you open the door,” I shouted at Diggery. “I know you’re in there.”

  The door to the double-wide opened, and Diggery looked out. “What do you want? You’re disturbing the peace.”

  Diggery was a rangy guy with shaggy gray hair and weathered skin. He was wearing a stained wifebeater T-shirt and baggy work pants, and he had a cigarette dangling from his bottom lip.

  “You need to come with me to reschedule your court date,” I said.

  “This here isn’t a good time,” Diggery said. “I’m in the middle of something.”

  “You can finish it when I bring you back. This won’t take long. Court’s in session.”

  “That’s a big whopper fib,” Diggery said. “They’re gonna lock me up and take their sweet-ass time to let me out.”

  “Yeah, but if you stay over lunchtime they give you a burger from McDonald’s,” Lula said. “Fries and everything.”