1 Assault with a Deadly Glue Gun (30 page)

Lucille leaned forward on her tree trunk arms and leveled one
of her trademark narrow-eyed glowers at him. "Don't you dare
blame my son for anything, young man. If your father were still
alive-"

"He'd be making even more of a mess than the one he left behind." Mama rose from the table and carried her empty plate and glass to the sink. "God forbid we blame the saintly Karl Marx Pollack for anything."

"Mama..."

She spun around. "Why pussyfoot around the subject, Anastasia? Karl hoodwinked you. But what can you expect, considering
he was raised by a traitor?" She jabbed a finger toward Lucille. "No
Christian values. Total disregard for the law. A lack of respect for
this wonderful country of ours. Under the circumstances, the man
didn't stand a chance of developing proper morals."

Lucille's face darkened to an extremely unbecoming shade of
magenta. "Traitor? I'll have you know that as a communist, I fight
for democracy!"

Alex and Nick traded uncomprehending glances. "That doesn't
make sense," said Alex. "How can-?"

"Enough!" I jumped to my feet. "I wasn't talking about Karl."

Puzzlement settled over Mama's face. "Then who?"

"Never mind." I snatched my purse off the kitchen counter,
fished inside for my cell phone and Batswin's card, then headed for
the back door. "I have to make a call."

The furrows of bafflement on Mama's forehead deepened.
"Outside?"

"Definitely outside" There were only two ways Ricardo could
have known as much as he did. Either he'd planted a bug in my
house, or he had inside help.

Under the yellow glow of the back porch light, I punched in
Detective Batswin's number. "Not only did your great plan fail," I
said when she answered, "but now I'm in worse shape financially
than I was before I let you talk me into playing a bag lady."

"Calm down, Mrs. Pollack. There could be any number of reasons why he didn't show tonight," she said. "He'll contact you to
set up another drop. We'll nab him then."

"He's on to you, Detective"

"What do you mean?"

I began to recount the evening's events from when I left the
mall. "By the way, I had to borrow two hundred dollars from the
money you gave me to buy food for my family."

She groaned. "Those were counterfeit bills."

"Counterfeit?" Angry cloud puffs of breath hung in the air as I
shouted into the phone. "You told me they were marked! Even I
know the difference."

"It wouldn't have made a difference if you'd followed orders."

"You're out to get me one way or the other, aren't you? If you
can't pin Marlys's murder on me, you'll arrest me for passing
bogus bills. What gives, Batswin? You down a few arrests on your
monthly collaring quota? Bucking for a promotion?"

"This has nothing to do with me. The counterfeit bills were
available."

"Available? You just happened to have fifty grand in counterfeit
bills lying around the station?"

"It's evidence from another case. We borrowed it. It was quicker
and easier than getting our hands on marked bills. You have any idea
what kind of red tape that involves? Besides, you weren't supposed
to spend any of that money."

"I had no choice! Ricardo stole every crumb of food in my
house. Even the pet food."

"You don't know Ricardo was the thief. According to the Westfield police, there've been a rash of burglaries in your area lately."

"He called me."

"Ricardo?"

"No, Antonio Banderas."

"When? We didn't pick anything up on your phone."

"That's because he knows my phone is bugged"

"Impossible"

"Really? He called on my cell a little while ago. Bragged about
knowing everything-including your sting. I'm lucky he only
robbed me blind tonight instead of killing my kids and mother." I
rubbed my arms and stamped my feet to ward off the cold from
both the winter night and the sickening dread infiltrating my
body.

Batswin grew defensive and accusatory, probably because she
was now up to her eyeballs in shit with her job on the line. I didn't
know much about police procedures, but I suspected "borrowing"
evidence from one case to use in another was a humongous no-no.

"He couldn't have found out about the sting unless you mentioned it to someone," she said. "We warned you not to say anything."

"I didn't."

"Then how the hell did he find out?"

"You tell me, Detective. The way I see it, either he bugged the
Trimedia conference room, or you've got a corrupt cop on the
force."

When she didn't respond, I thought the connection had gone
dead, but finally she said, "I'll have Trimedia swept for bugs and
contact the Union County police to do a sweep of your property.
If he's planted any sort of spying devices, we'll find them."

"And if there aren't any bugs?"

"We'll get to the source of this one way or another."

"Before or after he harms my family?"

"We won't let it come to that."

And she expected me to believe her? "You've got police in several jurisdictions working together, and Ricardo managed to outsmart all of you. What makes you think you'll even get another
shot at nabbing him?"

"He's greedy. He wants his money, and he's made it clear he'll
stop at nothing to get it."

"Oh, that makes me feel so much better. Good night, Detective.
I'm off to have a nightmare or two or twelve." I hung up the phone
and headed for bed, but sleep-nightmare-filled or otherwiseproved elusive.

At six-thirty the next morning, the doorbell rang. Dragging my
sleep-deprived body out of bed, I tossed on a robe, pulled on a
pair of thick socks, and padded to the front door. Batswin and
Robbins stood on the porch. "A little early for a house call, isn't it,
Detectives?"

"We came for the money," said Batswin.

I motioned them inside. "I wanted to give it back last night.
Why now?"

"We were in the neighborhood," said Robbins.

I got the impression he and Batswin had rehearsed this encounter before ringing my doorbell. They had screwed up bigtime. Their visit to retrieve the money was Step One in their Cover
Our Tushes cover-up.

Robbins unzipped his bomber jacket. The brown leather
looked like it had seen combat back in Vietnam-if not Korea.
Underneath, he wore an equally worn pair of jeans, a denim
button-down shirt, and an Inspector Gadget tie. A Yankees baseball cap covered his balding head; brown leather gloves covered his
hands.

Batswin wore a turquoise and emerald ski jacket, complete
with a Hunter Mountain lift tag hanging from the zipper pull, over
a pair of acid-washed jeans. No hat. No gloves. Silver and black
onyx fetish bears dangled from her ears. She kept her jacket
zipped.

I doubted Robbins' explanation. Westfield was out of their jurisdiction. Besides, they certainly didn't look dressed for duty. The
detectives didn't want me handing the money over last night because they feared the Essex County cops would discover the phony
Franklins used as bait.

Most likely, they'd taken the fifty grand without even signing
for it. They probably planned to slip the money back into the evidence room this morning and not say a word about the missing
two hundred dollars. After all, what were the odds of someone actually counting every counterfeit bill in each counterfeit stack?

"Where's the money?" asked Batswin.

"In the kitchen."

I headed down the hall. They followed. "I'd offer you a cup of
coffee," I said, opening the freezer and pulling out the Burberry
bag, "but Ricardo stole my coffeepot." Besides, I wanted them gone
before anyone else woke. Explaining Batswin's and Robbins's presence held as much appeal as a day at the endodontist.

Neither commented on my hiding place. Robbins took the bag
from me.

"What about the receipt?" asked Batswin.

I pointed to the tote. "Inside. Along with a signed I.O.U. for the
money I borrowed."

She grimaced.

Without another word, they both headed back toward the living room.

I followed. "What happens now?"

"We'll wait for Ricardo to make the next move," said Batswin.

"What about the murder investigation? Am I still a suspect?"

They both paused at the front door and turned toward me.
Robbins, his free hand poised on the doorknob, cleared his throat.
"We're not at liberty to discuss that."

I glanced at the bag of counterfeit money dangling from his
hand. I knew something that could plunge Batswin and Robbins
into deep doo-doo. They knew I knew. Maybe that would give
them incentive to get off my back and concentrate their investigation elsewhere.

I closed the door behind them and headed back to bed. Five
minutes later the phone rang. "Hello?"

"Mrs. Pollack?"

"Yes?"

"This is Angie at the We Care Animal Clinic. You can pick up
your pets this morning."

"They're okay?"

"Fine. Doc ran a few tests to be sure, but it looks like they were
only doped with Dimetapp."

"Cold syrup?"

"It's got the same ingredient they put in over-the-counter
sleeping pills. Apparently, your robber didn't intend to kill your
pets, just put them to sleep for awhile."

"A real animal lover," I muttered.

Too bad Ricardo didn't extend the same consideration to higher
order primates. I doubted he merely intended to slip my kids a
Mickey and tuck them into bed. Not after trussing them up like a
pair of Christmas turkeys and dumping them in the bathtub last
night.

"By the way," said the receptionist, "the bill comes to three
hundred twenty-seven dollars."

More good news. "Why so much?"

"Tests, boarding, and flea dip for all."

"They had fleas?"

"The dog did. We dipped the cat and parrot as a precautionary
measure.

"Fleas in the middle of winter?"

"It happens from time to time. You'd better check your house,
especially any of Manifesto's favorite curling-up places."

Just what I needed. I don't know why I should have been surprised, considering the current state of my Karma, or lack of it.

Have I mentioned that Lucille believes flea collars are a capitalist conspiracy to force hard-earned dollars from the hands of animal lovers throughout the country? When the dear Lord was
handing out the Rational Gene, my mother-in-law must have been
off protesting the use of In God We Trust on our currency.

So now her skewed sense of righteousness had cost me more of
my hard-earned-not to mention bordering on nonexistent-dollars. Thanks to Ricardo's pilfering fingers, I could count on neither Mama nor Lucille to kick in anything toward the vet bill. I had a
few piddling dollars left to my name. I hung up, hoping I could
spring the beasties with a post-dated check.

I also hoped that if there were any fleas residing in my house,
they'd all hitched a ride on Ricardo as he helped himself to our
possessions.

Mama and Lucille insisted on accompanying me to the animal
hospital. I wanted to sneak off without telling them, but the dog
and cat carriers were stored in the closet in their room. So the
three of us, along with the feline and canine transporters and
Ralph's birdcage, bundled up and shoehorned ourselves into the
Hyundai for the fifteen-minute drive to the We Care Animal
Clinic.

The car coughed and sputtered as I turned the ignition key and
depressed the gas pedal. As the Hyundai chugged to life, the needle
on the gauge dipped toward the red pump icon. I detoured into the
first gas station we came to, pulling out two minutes later with five
gallons of gas in the tank and less than two dollars left in my wallet.

When we arrived at the animal hospital, Lucille refused to
place Mephisto in his doggie transport. "He hates the carrier, and
he's traumatized enough after last night"

She clasped him to her chest and nuzzled the top of his head.
The Devil Dog squirmed and whined. "See? Poor baby. Don't
worry. Mother's here," she sang, clutching him even tighter.