Finger Lickin' Fifteen (11 page)

“I can’t go in three minutes. I’m old. I’ve got a prostate the size of a basketball.”

“Just
go
!”

Myron trotted off to the bathroom, and Lula and I waited in the front room. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. I went to the bathroom door and knocked. No answer.

“Myron?”

Nothing. I tried the door. Locked. I called again and rapped louder.
Shit!

“I need something to pop the lock,” I said to Lula. “Do you have a safety pin? Chicken skewer? Knitting needle?”

“I got a bobby pin.”

Lula bent the pin open, shoved it in the little hole in the knob, and the door unlocked and we peeked in. No Myron in the bathroom. Open window.

“He gets around, for bein’ he’s so old,” Lula said, looking out the window.

This was the second time today I’d lost a skip through a window. I couldn’t even categorize myself as incompetent. I had to go with pathetically stupid.

“Now what are we gonna do?” Lula asked.

Ordinarily, I’d walk the neighborhood and try to ferret out my skip. Problem was, I had Lula in her yellow spandex, and we were way too visible. You could probably see Lula from the space shuttle.

“I’m going to drop you at the office, and I’m going back to work for Ranger,” I said. “Morelli told me the crime lab was done with your apartment. Is your landlord replacing your door?”

“I don’t know. I gotta call and find out.”

I DROVE PAST the bonds office twice before pulling to the curb to let Lula out.

“I don’t see anything suspicious,” I said to her. “I think you’re safe.”

“This has been another disturbin’ day, what with those two assholes lookin’ to kill me, and findin’ out that I’m fat. I might go back on that bacon diet.”

“The bacon diet is unhealthy. And you had packs of dogs chasing you down the street when you were on the bacon diet. All you need to do is control your portions. Stay away from the doughnuts and only eat one piece of chicken or one pork chop or one hamburger at a meal.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Lula said. “Nobody eats just one pork chop. I’d get weak and die.”

“Lots of people only eat one pork chop.”

“Who?”

“Me.”

“Hunh,” Lula said. “That’s un-American. How am I supposed to stimulate the economy when I’m only eating one plain-ass pork chop? Probably I can’t even have gravy on that pork chop.”

I made sure Lula got into the office without getting shot or decapitated, and then I pulled my map out of my handbag and started another run through Ranger’s accounts.

Morelli called a little after four. “We found the Town Car,” he said. “It was parked on a side street near the Bank Center. Easy to spot, since it had a bunch of bullet holes in it. No blood inside. I don’t know how she always manages to miss her target. It’s uncanny.”

“Owner?”

“It was stolen from a car service last night. The lab guys are doing their thing, but that car has been handled by half of New Jersey.”

“Thanks. I’ll pass this on to Lula.”

“Is she with you?”

“No. I dropped her at the bonds office. I’m riding a circuit for Ranger right now.”

“Word around town is that he’s losing accounts. Having a Rangeman security system has turned into a liability.”

“He’s working on it.”

I WAS HALFWAY through my account route, and I realized it was almost six o’clock. I took Olden to Hamilton, turned into the Burg, and slid to a stop in front of my parents’ house precisely on time.

I could smell the ham the minute I stepped into the foyer. It was an intoxicating aroma of warm, salty goodness and special occasions. My father was already at the table, waiting to stab into the first piece of ham. My grandmother was also seated. And a strange man sat beside Grandma.

“This is Madelyn Mooney’s boy, Milton,” my mother said to me, setting the green bean casserole on the table. “He just moved back to Trenton.”

“Yep,” Grandma said. “We thought we’d fix you up with some hotties since it’s kaput with Morelli.”

“I’m not interested in getting fixed up,” I said.

“You’re not getting any younger,” Grandma said. “You wait too long, and all the good ones get taken.”

I looked over at Milton. He was a sandbag. Overweight, slumped in his chair, pasty white skin, bad complexion, balding orange hair. I was guessing mid-thirties. Not to be judgmental, but he wasn’t at the top of the list when God was handing stuff out.

“Milton used to work in the auto industry,” Grandma said. “He had a real good job on the line at the factory.”

“Yeah,” Milton said. “It was sweet until I got fired. And then the bank foreclosed on my house, and my wife left me and took the dog. And now I’m hounded by collection agencies.”

“That’s awful,” I said. “So what are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“He’s living with his mother,” Grandma said. “Until he gets on his feet.”

“I guess it’s hard to get a job these days.”

“I’m not actually looking for a job,” Milton said. “The doctor who treated me after I had the nervous breakdown and set fire to my house said I should take it easy for a while.”

“You set fire to your house?”

“Technically, it wasn’t my house anymore. It was the bank’s house, and between you and me, I think they were happy I burned it down. They were real nice to me while I was in the mental hospital.” He speared a piece of ham, studied it, and turned his attention back to me. “My outpatient advisor tells me I need to get out of my mother’s house, so that’s why I’m considering marrying you. I was told you have your own apartment.”

My father picked his head up and paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Good God,” he said.

“I bet a big, strapping young guy like you has a lot of special talents,” Grandma said to Milton.

“I can make French toast,” Milton said. “And I can whistle.”

“Isn’t that something,” Grandma said. “Whistling’s a lost art. You don’t find many whistlers anymore.”

Milton whistled “Camptown Races” and “Danny Boy.”

“That’s pretty good,” Grandma said. “I wish I could whistle like that.”

My father shot my mother a look like he was in intense pain.

“Pass the potatoes to your father,” my mother said to me. “And give him more ham.”

I tried to sneak an inconspicuous peek at my watch.

“Don’t even think about it,” my mother said. “You leave now, and you don’t get dessert . . . ever.”

TWELVE

MILTON LEFT AT eight o’clock so he could get home in time to take his meds. I helped my mom with the dishes, had an extra piece of chocolate cake, and said good night at nine, pulling away from my parents’ house reconsidering my feelings toward Morelli. After two hours of Milton, I was thinking Morelli might be worth a second look.

I drove two blocks down, hooked a left, and turned into his neighborhood. This was blue-collar Trenton at its best. Houses were small, cars were large, green referred to dollars in the bank. At eight o’clock, kids were doing homework and parents were in front of the television. At ten o’clock, the houses were dark. This neighborhood got up early five mornings out of seven and went to work.

Morelli lived in a row house he inherited from his Aunt Rose. He was gradually making it his own, but Rose’s curtains still hung in most of the windows. Hard to explain, but I liked the combination of Morelli and his aunt. There was something about the mix of generations and genders that felt right for the house. And I thought it said something good about Morelli that he didn’t have to entirely erase the house’s history.

I cruised down Morelli’s street and had a moment of breathless panic at finding Barnhardt’s Mercedes parked in front of Morelli’s green SUV. The moment passed, and I continued on to the corner. I made a U-turn and parked on the opposite side three houses down, taking some time to collect myself. In the past, this sort of dilemma would have sent me straight to the nearest 7-Eleven, where I’d clean them out of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and Snickers bars. Since I’d just had three pieces of my mother’s cake, a bag of candy wasn’t where I wanted to go.

I did some deep breathing and told myself slashing tires never really solved anything. And besides, here I was sitting in Ranger’s car, sleeping in his bed, wearing his stupid uniform, and I was all bent out of shape because Barnhardt was in Morelli’s house. I rolled my eyes and thunked my forehead against the steering wheel. Jeez Louise, I was a mess.

Morelli’s front door opened, and Barnhardt made a theatrical exit, blowing kisses and smiling. She got into her Mercedes and drove off, rolling past me, never noticing that I was watching.

There were two other vehicles parked by Morelli’s house. A red F150 truck and a clunker Subaru. Now that my breathing was returning to normal and my brain was more or less functioning, I realized I recognized the car and truck. The truck belonged to Morelli’s brother, Anthony. And the Subaru belonged to Morelli’s cousin Mooch.

I got out of the Cayenne, crossed the street, crept up to Morelli’s house, and carefully inserted myself into the azalea bushes planted under his front window. I stood on tiptoe and saw that Morelli, Morelli’s dog, Bob, and Mooch, and Anthony were on the couch, watching the game on television. The coffee table in front of them was littered with empty beer cans, opened bags of chips, a cardboard pizza box from Pino’s, some plates with forks, and the casserole dish Joyce had taken from me. The casserole dish was empty. Holy crap. Joyce had fed the toxic barbecue to Morelli.

I extricated myself from the bushes and danced around, pumping my fist and thinking,
YEAH! Woohoo! Whoopie!
After about thirty seconds of this, I realized I looked stupid, and it would be beyond embarrassing for Morelli to come out and find me on his lawn. And beyond that, I probably shouldn’t have been so happy about three men and a dog getting diarrhea, but the truth is, the only one I felt bad about was Bob. Bob was a big, shaggy-haired, entirely lovable beast. And he didn’t deserve diarrhea. I stopped dancing and skulked back to the Cayenne.

I put the Cayenne in gear and drove to my apartment building. I pulled into the lot and found Lula’s Firebird parked next to Mr. Macko’s Cadillac, and light shining from my apartment windows. I’d been hoping to find my apartment dark and deserted. I loved Ranger’s apartment, but it wasn’t home. Looking up at my windows, I wasn’t sure
that
was home, either. I’m in limbo, I thought. My whole friggin’ life is in limbo.

I thought I should go in to see the kitchen progress and verify that Lula was staying the night. Unfortunately, that might involve more of Larry in the blue cocktail dress. Or even worse, Larry in his shorts. I felt like I’d had enough weird for one day, so I maneuvered the Cayenne out of the lot and headed for Rangeman.

I WAS SOUND asleep when the bedside phone rang.

“He just hit two accounts,” Ranger said. “They phoned in minutes apart. Both of the houses were on your high-risk list. Tank is waiting for you in the garage. I want you to take a look at these houses from the inside.”

I looked at the clock. It wasn’t quite midnight. I took a moment to come awake, and ten minutes later, the phone woke me up a second time.

“Tank has a key,” Ranger said. “And he’ll come in and get you if you’re not in the garage in five minutes.”

I managed to get myself out of bed and vertical, but I wasn’t firing on all cylinders. I was wearing Ranger’s T-shirt as a nightshirt, and I left the shirt on, tugged on cargo pants, socks, sneakers, and a sweatshirt and grumbled my way to the elevator and down to the garage.

“Whoa!” Tank said when he saw me.

I narrowed my eyes. “What?”

“Nothin’,” Tank said. “Guess you were asleep. You just took me by surprise, with the hair and all.”

I rolled my eyes up to the top of my head, but I couldn’t see my hair.

“I’m feeling grouchy,” I said to Tank.

“Do you want to see a picture of my cat?” Tank asked. “That always makes me happy.”

I climbed into Tank’s Rangeman SUV, buckled my seat belt, and looked at the picture of his cat.

“Cute,” I said.

“Do you feel happy?”

“No.” Crawling back into bed would make me feel happy.

Both houses were north of town in a high-rent neighborhood by the river. The first house Tank took me to looked like Mount Vernon if Mount Vernon was built in 2008. It was Faux Vernon. Tank drove into a circular driveway and parked behind Ranger’s Porsche. A police car and another Rangeman SUV were in front of Ranger. The front door was open and every light was on in the house. We walked in and met Ranger in the foyer.

“Why was this house on your
at risk
list?” he asked me.

“It had some things in common with the houses that were already hit. All houses are single family on large lots. All houses have attached garages that open off a side drive court. All houses have trees and bushes that throw shadows and partially screen the house. None of the houses are on streets with on-street parking.”

“Our guy likes to have cover,” Ranger said.

“Exactly.”

“Look through the house and see if you come up with anything. I’m sending Tank with you so you’re not mistaken for a vagrant and arrested.”

I flipped Ranger the bird.

Ranger smiled at me. “Cute.”

“That’s what I said about Tank’s cat.”

“He made you look at his cat picture?”

“I thought it would make her happy,” Tank said.

Ranger’s smile widened. “Did it make you happy?” he asked me.

“A little.”

I suspected I was to Ranger what Tank’s cat was to Tank.

“Take good care of her,” Ranger said to Tank.

Ranger left for the second break-in, and Tank and I set off on our exploration. The exploration didn’t take long. I was getting to know what to expect. Start with the door leading from the garage and take the shortest route to the master bedroom. Check out the home office, the den, the kids’ rooms. Proceed to the front door or possibly back door. Locate the keypads.

I felt like the keypads held the answer to the mystery. There were three keypads in this house. One in the master bedroom, one on a wall by the front door, and one by the door to the garage. None of the keypads were visible from a window.

Tank and I had gone through the house and returned to the door leading to the garage. We were standing in a small hallway behind the kitchen. The laundry room and a half bath opened off the hallway.

“I think this guy is getting the code from the keypad,” I said to Tank.

“I’ve been thinking that, too. It’s like when people watch you at the ATM and they get your bank code. It’s like someone’s looking through walls.”

We left Faux Vernon and went to house number two. The second house was only three blocks away in the same neighborhood. It was a huge redbrick box with white columns and a porte cochere.

Ranger met us at the door. “The drill is the same. Cash and jewelry taken from the upstairs master.”

“Are the police making any progress on these robberies?”

“Not that I can tell. Not a lot of talent assigned to this desk.”

“It’s odd that these two houses were hit together.”

“Both clients were at the same dinner party,” Ranger said. “Somehow, our bandit knew the houses would be empty. Originally, I thought he randomly hit houses that were dark. Now I think he plans ahead. We need to go over the original report taken after each break-in to see if there’s a common service provider. Someone who might have talked to the homeowner. And we probably want to go back and reinterview all of the clients who were robbed.”

“That still doesn’t tell us how he got the codes.”

“Trust me, if I catch this guy, he’ll tell me how he got the codes.”

THE FIRST THING I noticed when I woke up was that I wasn’t alone. Ranger was in bed with me. And he was asleep. I reviewed the night, and I couldn’t remember anything amazing happening. Tank had driven me back to Rangeman around two in the morning. Ranger hadn’t come back with us. It was now nine o’clock. I checked around and determined I was wearing all the clothes I was supposed to be wearing. Panties and T-shirt. I slipped out of bed, and Ranger woke up.

“When did you get home?” I asked him.

“A little after five.”

“I’m surprised I’m not naked.”

“You weren’t in the mood,” Ranger said. “You told me you’d shoot me with my own gun if I touched you.”

“What did you do?”

“I got up and locked my gun in the safe. You were asleep when I came back to bed.”

“I was tired.”

“Are you tired now?”

“No, but I’m going to work. I have three skips to catch. I need to check in on Lula. And I want to go over the reports from your break-ins.”

“The reports are on my desk,” Ranger said.

A half hour later, I rolled out of the garage in Ranger’s Cayenne and dialed Lula.

“What’s going on today?” I asked her. “And where are you?”

“I’m getting ready to leave your apartment. Your kitchen is all clean, and they’re putting my new door up this morning. I’m having brunch with Mister Clucky, and then I’m going to your mama’s house to cook with your granny. You could have brunch at Cluck-in-a-Bucket with me if you want.”

“Cluck-in-a-Bucket has brunch?”

“Only on Sunday. You get orange juice and biscuits and a bucket of nuggets.”

“How is that different from every other day?”

“It’s the orange juice. Usually, you get a soda.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll meet you at Cluck-in-a-Bucket.”

I’d grabbed a to-go cup of coffee from the fifth-floor kitchen before I left Rangeman, but I hadn’t bothered with breakfast, so biscuits and orange juice sounded good.

I drove through the center of the city and reached Cluck-in-a-Bucket just as Lula was pulling into the lot. Mister Clucky was dancing around in front of the building, and the hideous impaled chicken was spinning overhead.

“Yoohoo, Mister Clucky, honey,” Lula called, getting out of her Firebird and waving.

“Boy, you must really like him,” I said.

“He’s an excellent scrubber, and besides, it’s not everybody gets to know Mister Clucky personally. He’s one of them minor celebrities.”

Mister Clucky was surrounded by kids, so we bypassed him and put our order in.

“I’m going to try my luck with Ernie Dell again,” I said to Lula. “Are you in?”

“As long as it don’t take too long. Larry gave me his barbecue recipe, and Granny and me are trying it out this afternoon.”

I got an orange juice and two biscuits. Lula got an orange juice, a bucket of biscuits, and a bucket of nuggets.

“Crickey,” I said, looking at her tray. “I thought you were cutting back on the food.”

“You said only have one pork chop and one burger and one steak. So I only got
one
bucket of biscuits and
one
bucket of nuggets. You got a problem with that?”

“You could feed a family of six on that food.”

“Not in my neighborhood. I live in a three-pork-chop neighborhood.”

Mister Clucky came inside dancing and singing his Mister Clucky song, going table by table.

“I know him personally,” Lula said to the woman at the table next to her.

Lula was still wearing the flak vest. She ate half the bucket of nuggets, and she released the Velcro straps to give herself more room.

“Is that a bulletproof vest?” the woman next to Lula asked.

“Yep,” Lula said. “And it’s hard to make a fashion statement in this on account of it don’t come in a lot of colors. I gotta wear it because there’s a couple guys tryin’ to kill me.”

The woman gave a gasp and hustled her two kids out the door.

“Hunh,” Lula said. “She just up and left. She didn’t even finish her Clucky Burger.”

“Next time, say you’re wearing a back brace.”

We finished eating, Lula said good-bye to Mister Clucky, and we saddled up. We left Lula’s Firebird in the lot, and I drove.

“I love this car,” Lula said. “My personality don’t fit a SUV, but this car is still excellent. It got buttons all over the place. What’s this button do?”

“I don’t know.”

Lula pushed the button and my GPS screen went blank. “Oops,” Lula said.

The car phone rang, and I opened the connection.

“This is Hal in the control room,” a voice said on the hands-free phone. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“You just dropped off my screen. Did you disable your GPS?”

“It was an accident. How do I fix it?”

“Push the button again.”

“Where’s that voice comin’ from?” Lula wanted to know. “It sounds like the voice of God, floatin’ around in space.”