To the Nines

  I woke up the next morning thinking maybe I only had thirty percent of Morelli, but it was a damn good thirty percent.

  My schedule for fighting crime began considerably later in the day than Morelli's, so by the time I wandered into the kitchen Morelli was already at work. I got coffee brewing and dropped a frozen waffle into the toaster. The morning paper was on the table. I did a fast scan, but saw nothing about a body found floating in the Delaware.

  I took a mug of coffee and padded out to the living room, opened the door, and looked up and down the street for Tank. No Tank in sight. That didn't mean he wasn't there.

  I called Ranger and told him about the latest email. “I don't suppose you've seen Carl Rosen this morning?” I asked.

  “No. His car hasn't surfaced. And he didn't show up for work.”

  “Is Tank out there? I didn't see him.”

  “He saw you. He said you were frightening.”

  “I haven't taken a shower yet. My hair might be a little unruly.”

  “Takes a lot to scare Tank,” Ranger said. And he was gone.

  I took a shower and I did the full-​on hair thing. Hot rollers, gel, the works. I tweezed my eyebrows, painted my toenails, and spent an hour applying makeup. I shrugged into a swirly flowered skirt and finished it all off with a stretchy little white knit top. I was Jersey Girl right down to the strappy sandals with the four-​inch heels. Not only did I have to do some image correction for Tank, but I'd be damned if I was going to die needing a pedicure.

  I clacked out of the house carrying my big leather shoulder bag and took off for the office in the Escape. I looked great, but I couldn't run for a damn in the shoes so I had sneakers in my shoulder bag. . . just in case I had to chase down a bad guy.

  I turned onto Hamilton and Andrew Cone called.

  “I have something for you,” he said. “This is really good. Can you stop around?”

  Andrew sounded excited. Maybe this was my lucky day. Hot dog.

  Connie was at her desk when I swung in. “Uh-​oh,” she said, “big hair and full face paint, high heels, and a Barbie shirt. What's going on?”

  “It's too complicated to explain.” And I wasn't sure I understood, anyway. “Where's Lula?”

  “She's up the street. She's still on the diet. Went through all her meat in a half hour and had to walk up to the coffee shop for some bacon.”

  “Lula walked to the coffee shop? That's two blocks away. Lula never walks anywhere.”

  “She parked in back and got blocked in by someone. I guess she figured it was faster to walk.”

  “She must have really needed the bacon.”

  “She was on a mission.”

  I moseyed over to the door, looked up the street, and spotted Lula at the end of the block. She was walking fast in her Via Spiga heels, holding a white food bag against her chest. Two dogs, a beagle and a golden retriever, trotted close behind Lula. A third dog crossed the street and joined the pack. Every couple steps Lula would turn and yell something at the dogs. When the beagle jumped for the bag when Lula was half a block away, Lula let out a shriek and started running.

  “Stop running,” I yelled at her. “You're making it worse. They think it's a game.”

  They were snapping at her heels now and barking.

  “Do something,” Lula yelled. “Shoot them!”

  “Drop the bag! They want the bacon.”

  “No way I'm giving up my bacon.”

  Lula was running knees high, arms pumping. She was wearing the Via Spigas and a short black spandex skirt that was hiked up to her waist, showing Hamilton Avenue what a big woman looks like in a red satin thong.

  “Open the door!” Lula shouted. “I can make it. I'm almost there. Just hold the damn door open!”

  Lula tossed the dogs a slice of bacon from the bag, the dogs dove after the bacon, and Lula rushed past me into the office. I slammed the door shut and we all stood looking at the dogs milling around outside.

  Lula tugged her skirt down. “Tank's out there, isn't he?”

  “Yep.”

  “I explained pretty good about the pork chop, but I'm at a loss here.”

  “It speaks for itself,” I said to Lula.

  Grease stains were starting to show through the bag. “I love this diet,” Lula said. “I love pork chops. And I love ribs. And I love bacon. I love bacon most of all.”

  Lula was eating bacon like it was popcorn, chomping on it out of the bag, rolling her eyes in gastronomic ecstasy.

  “How much bacon do you have there?” Connie wanted to know.

  “Three pounds minus the one strip I gave up to the dogs.”

  “Sounds like a lot of bacon,” Connie said.

  “I'm pushing the boundaries of science here,” Lula said. “I'm gonna be a supermodel with a smile on my face on account of I'm gonna be full of bacon.”

  “I need to go to TriBro,” I said. “I'm looking for someone to ride shotgun.”

  “That would be me,” Lula said.

  Lula and Tank waited in the lot while I went in to talk to Andrew Cone.

  “This is really good,” Cone said. “I had to tell you this in person. First thing this morning I found an email from one of the people I do business with in Vegas. Bill Weber. He said Samuel Singh filled out a job application and Weber was emailing to check references. I got so excited, I called the guy. Got him out of bed. Forgot about the time change.”

  “Singh's in Vegas? And he was dumb enough to list you as a reference?”

  Cone bobbed his head up and down, smiling wide. “Yes.”

  “I bet he even gave a street address.”

  “He did.” Cone slid a piece of paper my way with all the information neatly printed out. “I told Weber about the visa bond and he's going to string Singh along until you get there. You're going to go get him, right?”

  “Right.”

  Lula was looking kind of sick when I got back to the car.

  “How much of that bacon did you eat?” I asked her.

  “I ate it all. It didn't seem like so much while I was eating it, but it doesn't feel like it fits in my stomach now.”

  I called Ranger and told him about Singh. “He's in Vegas, waiting for you to go get him,” I said.

  “I'm having a small legal problem with Nevada on a weapons violation,” Ranger said. “You're going to have to make the capture. Take Tank. I don't want you to go alone.”

  Good grief.

  Stephanie Plum 9 - To The Nines

  Chapter Nine

  Lusa was up straight in her seat. “What's this about Vegas?”

  “Samuel Singh is in Vegas and Ranger can't make the capture. So either I go or Vinnie farms the capture out to a Vegas agency.”

  “Don't even suggest farming it out. All my life I've wanted to go to Vegas. I hear there's a shopping center that's just like being in Venice with canals and boats and everything. And there's all those casinos and fancy hotels. There's the Strip. The Strip! I could get to see the Strip.” Lula stopped and blinked. “You were gonna take me, right?”

  “Ranger wants me to go with Tank.”

  “Tank? Are you shittin' me?” Lula pulled back, eyes bugged out with the injustice of it all. “Hunh. I get to go along on all the chicken-​shit stuff. Sit in the car while you go into TriBro. And I'm the one goes to the back door when you go to the front door on a bust. I always get the back door. Do I complain? Hell no. I guess I know where I stand here.”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “Are you done?”

  “No way. I'm not done. And I'm feeling anxious now. I need a burger or something.”

  “You just ate three pounds of bacon!”

  “Yeah, but the dogs ate one of those strips.”

  I drove out of the lot and headed for the office. “Okay, fine. I'll take you to Vegas if you can clear it with Connie.”

  “I knew it,” Lula said. “I knew you wouldn't go without me. We're a team, right? We're like those two cops in the Lethal Weapon movies. We're like Mel
Gibson and Danny Glover.”

  More like Thelma and Louise, driving off a cliff.

  The office was quiet when we walked in. No Mrs. Apusenja. No Vinnie. Only Connie, sitting at her desk, reading the latest Nora Roberts.

  “I found Singh,” I told her. “He's in Vegas.”

  “Vegas! I love Vegas,” Connie said.

  “You see? Everybody's been to Vegas but me,” Lula said. “It's not fair. I lead a deprived life. Bad enough I grew up underprivileged and all and now I'm the only one not been to Vegas.”

  “Let me go get my violin,” Connie said.

  “What do you want to do about this now that I've found him?” I asked Connie. “Can we forcibly bring him back? Has he violated his bond agreement?”

  “The bond agreement states that he can't leave the tristate area without permission. So the answer is yes, you can forcibly bring him back. I'll page Vinnie to double-​check, but I'm sure he'll want Singh brought back here.”

  “Ranger can't go to Vegas to make the capture,” I told Connie.

  Connie nodded. “He's got an outstanding weapons violation. Stepped on a few toes last time he was in Nevada. His lawyer's working on it.”

  “So that leaves me, I guess,” I said. “And Lula.”

  “I get the picture,” Connie said.

  “And Tank,” I added. “Ranger said I should take Tank.”

  “Anyone else?” Connie asked, turning to the computer. “You want a permit for a parade?”

  “Boy, this here's going to be fun,” Lula said. “And what with this new diet, I'll probably be real thin by the time I get there.”

  “It's only a five-​hour flight,” I told her.

  “Yeah, but this diet works fast.”

  “Okay, here we go,” Connie said. “I've got us on a flight out of Newark at four o'clock. We have a plane change in Chicago and we arrive in Vegas at nine. It's not a direct flight, but it's the best I can do.”

  “Us?”

  “You don't think I'm going to send you and Lula to Vegas without me, do you? I'm feeling lucky. I'm going straight to the craps table. I'm not going to page Vinnie, either. I'm going to leave him a note.”

  We didn't have a lot of time if we were going to catch a four o'clock flight. “Here's the plan,” I said. “It doesn't make sense to take more than one car. I'll tell Tank he's driving and he can pick all of us up. Everyone go home and pack and be ready to go in an hour. And remember, there's tight security now. No guns, no knives, no pepper spray, no nail files.”

  “What? How am I supposed to travel without a nail file?” Lula wanted to know.

  “You have to put it in your suitcase and check your suitcase.”

  “What if I break a nail getting onto the plane and I got to file it down?”

  “You'll have to gnaw it down with your teeth. I'll get you in an hour.”

  Tank was parked in front of the bonds office and he was being surveillant. I went out to him and gave him the game plan. He said his assignment was to stick to me and he didn't need to pack.

  “Not even a toothbrush?” I asked. “Not even an extra pair of tighty whiteys?”

  Tank almost smiled.

  Okay then. I ran to my car and took off for my apartment. I hit the ground running when I got to my building. I took the stairs two at a time, barefoot with my shoes in my hands. Tank was ahead of me in the hall. He opened my apartment door and stepped inside. Four eight-​by-​ten glossies were spread across the floor. We bent to look at them without touching anything. They were photos of a man with half his head blown away. Like the first set of photos, they were enlarged to hide the victim's identity. My first thought, of course, was of Carl Rosen.

  “Do you recognize him?” Tank asked.

  “No.”

  Tank closed the front door and gave me a gun. “Stay here while I check the rest of the apartment.” Moments later he was back. “No one here. No more photos that I can see. I didn't go through your drawers.”

  “Okay,” I said, “here's what we do. We leave these photos exactly where they are. We try not to disturb any prints that might have been left. I pack as fast as possible and we get the hell out. When we're ready to board I'll call Morelli. If I call him now I'll have to stay for questioning and we'll never make the plane.”

  “Works for me,” Tank said.

  Ten minutes later I was out of the apartment, a change of clothes and essential makeup in a tote bag slung over my shoulder. We left my car in the lot and took Tank's SUV.

  Connie lived in the Burg, so she was next on the pickup list. We beeped once when we pulled to the curb and Connie hustled out to us. Connie's house was a narrow single family, similar to my parents' duplex, but half of Connie's house had been chopped away. Vito Grecci used to live in the adjoining half house. Vito was a Mob bagman who came in with a light bag one time too many. Next day Vito's house mysteriously caught fire and Vito turned up in the Camden landfill. Fortunately for Connie, the fire didn't go beyond the brick firewall between the two adjoining houses. Connie bought Vito's fire-​gutted half at a bank auction, tore the trashed house down, and never rebuilt. Connie liked having the empty lot. She put a big free-​standing pool with a wraparound cedar deck in the newly created side yard. And she set up a shrine to the Virgin for sparing her house.

  Lula lived on the other side of Hamilton, down by the train station. There wasn't a lot of money in the neighbor hood, but year after year it held its own. Lula rented a tiny two-​room apartment on the second floor of a small house. The house was gray clapboard with touches of Victorian trim. Last year the owner painted the trim pink. In a weird way it seemed just right for Lula.

  Lula was on the curb waiting when we drove down her street. She had two huge suitcases with her, a big leather purse hung on her shoulder, and she was holding a large canvas tote.

  Tank smiled. “I bet they're all filled with pork chops.”

  “We're only staying overnight,” I told Lula when she climbed into the backseat next to Connie.

  “I know that, but I like to be prepared. And I couldn't decide what to wear. I got a whole suitcase filled with shoes. You can't go to Vegas without a change of shoes. How many shoes did you bring?” Lula asked me.

  “The shoes I'm wearing and sneakers.”

  “How about you?” she asked Connie.

  “Four pairs of shoes,” Connie said.

  “Dog,” Lula said to Tank. “How many shoes you got?”

  Tank looked at Lula in the rearview mirror and didn't say anything.

  Lula turned and checked out the luggage in the back of the SUV. “I don't even see any Tank suitcases,” Lula said. “Where's your suitcases?”

  “Tank hasn't got any suitcases,” I said. “Tank's traveling light.”

  “Where's he keep his extra tighty whiteys?” Lula wanted to know.