Lean Mean Thirteen (8 page)

"Fuck!" Joyce shrieked. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

"Holy crap," Lula said.

We sprang from the window and ran through the neighbor s yard to where we'd parked the car. We jumped in, and I laid rubber out of there.

"Guess it wasn't a singing beaver after all," I said.

"Yeah, darn," Lula said. "I was looking forward to hearing some singing." I was smiling so wide my cheeks ached. "It was worth my last eight dollars."

"That was awesome," Lula said. "That Coglin is a freakin' genius." Lula had her Firebird parked in the small lot behind the office. I dropped her off at her car and motored home to my apartment.

Morelli was watching television when I came in.

"You look happy," he said. "You must have had a productive day."

"It started off slow, but it ended okay."

"There's a casserole in the refrigerator. Its from my mom. It has vegetables in it and everything. And I could use another beer. The game's coming on." Hours later, we were still in front of the television when Morelli s cell phone rang.

"I'm not answering it," Morelli said. "The guy who invented the cell phone should rot in hell."

The ringing stopped and a minute later, it started again.

Morelli shut the phone off.

We had three minutes of silence, and my phone rang in the kitchen.

"Persistent bastard," Morelli said.

The ringing didn't stop, and finally Morelli went to the kitchen and answered the phone. He was smiling when he came back.

"Good news?" I asked.

"Yes, but I'm going to have to go to work."

"The Berringer case?"

"No. Something else."

He went to the bedroom, rousted Bob off the bed, and snapped the leash on him. "I might have to go under for a while, but I'll call," Morelli said. "And don't worry about Dickie. I'm sure it'll work out okay." He grabbed his jacket and kissed me. "Later." I closed and locked the door after him and stood for a moment taking the pulse of the apartment. It felt empty without Morelli. On the other hand, I could watch something sappy on television, wear my ratty, comfy flannel jammies, and hog the bed.

I GOT UP late because there was no real good reason to get up early. I made coffee and ate junky cereal out of the box and pushed it down with a banana. My files were spread across the dining room table. Coglin, Diggery, and a third file I hadn't yet opened. Today was the day for the third file. I had the file in my hand when my phone rang.

"Are you all right?" my mother asked.

"Couldn't be better."

"Have you seen the paper this morning?"

"No."

"Don't look," she said.

"Now what?"

"Its all over the news that you killed Dickie."

"Tell her I'll visit her in the big house," Grandma yelled at my mother. "Tell her I'll bring cigarettes so she can pay off the butch guards."

"I'll call you back," I said to my mother.

I disconnected and looked out my peephole. Good deal.

Mr. Molinowski's morning paper was still lying in front of his door. I tiptoed out, snatched it up, and scurried back into my apartment.

The headline read local bounty hunter prime suspect in ORR disappearance. Front page. And the article was accompanied by an unflattering picture of me taken while I was waiting for Gobel in the municipal building lobby. They'd interviewed Joyce, and Joyce was quoted as saying I'd always been jealous of her and had fits of violent behavior even as a child. There was a mention of the time Grandma and I accidentally burned down the funeral home. There was a second file photo of me with no eyebrows, the result of my car exploding into a fireball a while back. And then there were several statements by secretaries who'd witnessed me going postal on Dickie. One of the secretaries stated that I pointed a gun at Dickie and threatened to "put a big hole in his head."

"That was Lula," I said to the empty apartment.

I put the paper back on Mr. Molinowski's welcome mat, returned to my apartment, threw the bolt on the door, and called my mother.

"All a pack of lies," I said to my mother. "Ignore it. Everything's fine. I went downtown to have coffee with Marty Gobel and someone got the wrong idea."

There was a pause while my mother talked herself into halfway believing the story. "I'm having a roast chicken tonight. Are you and Joseph coming to dinner?" It was Friday. Morelli and I always had dinner at my parents' house on Friday night."Sure," I said. "I'll be there. I don't know about Joe. He's on a case." I drank coffee and read the third file. Stewart Hansen was charged with running a light and possession of a controlled substance. He was twenty-two years old, unemployed, and he lived in a house on Myrtle Street at the back end of the Burg. The house had been posted as collateral on the bond. It was owned by Stewarts cousin Trevor.

I heard a sharp rap on my door and went to look out the security peephole. It was Joyce.

"Open this door," she yelled. "I know you're in there." She tried to rattle the door, but it held tight.

"What do you want?" I called through the door.

"I want to talk to you."

"About what?"

"About Dickie, you moron. I want to know where he is. You found out about the money and you somehow managed to snatch him, didn't you?"

"Why do you want to know where he is?"

"None of your business. I just need to know," Joyce said.

"What's with the knit hat on your head?" I asked her. "I almost didn't recognize you. You never wear a hat."

Joyce fidgeted with the hat. "It's cold out. Everyone wears a hat in this weather." Especially everyone who has beaver fur stuck to their hair.

"So where the frig is he?" Joyce asked.

"I told you, I don't know. I didn't kill him. I didn't kidnap him. I have no clue where he is."

"Great," Joyce said. "That's how you want to play it? Okay by me." And she stomped away.

"What's wrong with this picture?" I asked Rex. "How did this happen?" Rex was asleep in his soup can. Hard to have a meaningful conversation with a hamster in a can.

I thought that with the way my morning was running, it wouldn't hurt to have Lula along when I went to see Stewart. Lula wasn't much good as an apprehension agent, but she understood the need for a doughnut when a takedown went into the toilet.

"So WHAT DID this guy do?"

Lula was in the passenger seat of Ranger's Cayenne, looking through Stewart Hansens file.

"It just says controlled substance here. Who wrote this? It don't tell you anything." I turned onto Myrtle and drove by the house. It looked benign. Small cottage. Small plot of land. Indistinguishable from every other house on the street. Christmas lights still up, outlining the front door. Not lit. I circled the block and parked one house down. Lula and I got out and walked up to Stewart Hansen s house.

"This house is closed up tight," Lula said. "It got blackout drapes on all the windows. Either they're trying to conserve energy, or else they're running around naked in there." I had new cuffs and a stun gun from Connie. "Easier to stun-gun someone when he's naked."

"Yeah, you got a lot to choose from. You ready to do this?" I gave her a thumbs-up, and she hauled out her gun and jogged around the house to secure the back door. I felt comfortable she wouldn't have to shoot anyone because Lula, holding her big Glock, dressed in her Sasquatch boots, poison-green tights, and matching spandex mini skirt, topped off with a shocking-pink rabbit fur jacket, was enough to make a strong man faint.

I had my cell phone on speaker, clipped to my jacket, the line open. "Are you in place?" I asked Lula.

"Yep," Lula said from the back of the house.

I rapped on the front door with my two-pound Maglite. No one answered, so I rapped again, and yelled, "Bond enforcement!"

"Shit," Lula said on speakerphone. "Turn your head when you do that. You just about busted my eardrum."

"I'm going in," I told her.

"Don't exert yourself breaking the door down. The back is open." I heard a gunshot and had a moment of panic.

"Oops," Lula said. "Ignore that."

The front was locked, so I waited for Lula to open the door for me. She was smiling wide when she let me in.

"You're not gonna believe this," she said. "We hit the jackpot on this one. We must have died and gone to heaven, and no one told us."

I stepped into a small foyer constructed of raw wall-board. A door opened off the foyer, and beyond the door was cannabis. The house was a pot farm. Grow lights, silver reflective walls, fans and vents, and racks and more racks of shelves filled with plants in various stages of growth.

'Wait until you see the dining room," Lula said. "They got primo shit growing in the dining room."

I gave her a raised eyebrow.

"Not that I would know," Lula said.

"There's weed sticking out of the pockets of your jacket."

"I gathered some evidence on my way through the house."

"I assume you didn't see any Hansens?"

"No, but there's a car back there. And the back door to the house was open. I wouldn't be surprised there's someone hiding in here."

"Do we have to worry about them getting away in the car?"

"No. Someone shot a hole in the right front tire."

I locked and bolted the front door, and Lula and I began working our way through the house.

"You go first and open the doors, and I'll be behind you with my gun," Lula said. "I'd go first, but it's hard to hold a gun and open a door. I want to be able to concentrate on the gun. It's not like I'm afraid or anything."

"Just don't shoot me in the back."

"Have I ever shot you? Honest to goodness, you'd think I didn't know what I was doing." We searched the living room, dining room, and kitchen.

"At least these boys are neat," Lula said. "They got their empty beer bottles all lined up. Guess that's so they have room in here for planting the little seedlings and weighing and bagging. And they got a nice digital scale here. You could see they put some thought to this." I poked around in the collection of pots and pans and bottles and jars by the stove. "Looks like they have a science experiment going on. Alcohol, coffee filters, ether."

"These guys are nuts," Lula said. "They're making hash oil. You could turn yourself into a barbecue making that stuff."

We moved down the hall to the bedrooms. No need to search under beds because there weren't any. Two sleeping bags were thrown against a wall in one of the bedrooms. A television sat on the floor. The closet was filled with clothes. The rest of the room was cannabis.

"This is kind of cozy," Lula said. "I bet it's like sleeping in the jungle." We checked out the bathroom and the second bedroom. Lots of weed drying out in the second bedroom, but no Hansens.

"We're missing something," I said to Lula, going back to the kitchen.

"We opened every door," Lula said. "We looked around all the racks. We looked behind the shower curtain, and we moved the clothes all around in the closet. There's no cellar and no garage and no attic."

"There's a cup of coffee sitting on the counter, and the coffee is still warm. Someone was in here, and I don't think they had time to leave. You were at the back door, and I was at the front door. We checked the windows. No one went out through a window." Lula cut her eyes to the cupboard over the counter.

"Maybe he left just before we got here. You know, lucky coincidence for him."

"Yeah," I said, cuffs in one hand, stun gun in the other, attention focused on the cupboard.

"That could be it."

Lula stepped back and two-handed the Glock, aiming it at the cupboard. I reached up and opened one of the doors. And Stewart Hansen tumbled out, crashing onto the counter, sending the science experiment flying. He flopped off the counter onto the floor and scrambled like a cat on black ice-legs moving but no intelligent forward motion.

In the excitement of the moment, Lula squeezed off a shot that went wide of Hansen but knocked out the ether bottle. The liquid splashed onto the gas stove, and we were all paralyzed for a moment.

"Pilot light," Hansen said.

We all dove for the back door, and I think I was in the air when the explosion occurred. Or maybe it was the explosion that threw me out of the house.

"Holy crap," Hansen said.

He was on the ground next to me, and Lula was on her back, skirt up to her neck, next to him.

"Who shot that bottle?" Lula said. "It wasn't me, was it?" I clapped the cuffs on Hansen, and we all took a bunch of steps backward.

"Anyone else in the house?" I asked Hansen.

"No. I was alone."

We watched the fire rush through the house. It was like a brush fire, and almost instantly the whole house was burning, and clouds of pot smoke were billowing out over the Burg. Sirens were screaming in the distance, and the three of us leaned against Hansen s car and sucked it all in while tiny pieces of cannabis ash sifted down around us.

"This is good shit," Hansen said, taking a deep breath.

"Smells like you had some Hawaii -O," Lula said. "Not that Fd know." I looked down to make sure my toes weren't smoking. "Maybe we should move back a little."

We all scurried to Hansen s rear boundary.

"This is pretty funny," Lula said. "We burned down a house." And Lula started laughing. Hansen was laughing too. "Probably a million dollars' worth of grass in that house," Hansen said. "Up in smoke."

I was laughing so hard I tipped over and found myself on the ground. "Look at me," I said.

"I can make snow angels."

"I'm getting wet," Lula said. "Is it raining?" Sounds carried from the front of the house. The rumble of the fire truck engines and the crackle and squawk of police band radios.

"I am so fucking hungry," Lula said. "I need chips. I'd fucking kill for chips." A black SUV slid to a stop behind Hansen's car. Tank left the car and walked toward us.

"I've got her," he said into his walkie. "She's in the back with Lula." Rangers Cayenne pulled in behind the SUV. Ranger got out, scooped me up off the ground, and held me close.

"I was afraid you were in the house," Ranger said. "Are you all right?"

"I got blown out of it," I told him. "And then it started raining."

"It s not rain. It's from the fire hoses on the other side of the house." He pulled back a little and looked at me. "Babe, you're high as a kite."

"Yes! And you are so cute"

Ranger put me in the Cayenne and handed Hansen and Lula over to Tank. We drove the length of the alley and turned onto Chambersburg Street.

"You're always so quiet" I said to Ranger. "What's with that?" Ranger didn't move, but I suspected he was rolling his eyes.

"Well?" I said.

"I like quiet."

"Quiet, quiet, quiet," I said. And I gave Ranger a shot to the arm.

"Don't do that," Ranger said.

I gave him another shot.

Ranger pulled to the curb and cuffed me to the sissy bar over the passenger side window.

"Are you going to have your way with me now that I'm handcuffed?" I asked.

'Would you like that?"

"Absolutely not."

Ranger smiled, put the Cayenne in gear, and pulled away from the curb.

"I saw that smile," I said.

On the one hand, I was feeling very flirty and clever. On the other hand, in a dark, back corner of my mind I suspected I was one of those people who gets obnoxious on wacky tobacky. No matter which was right, I couldn't seem to stop.

"So," I said, knowing I was pressing the issue. "Don't you want to have your way with me?"

"More than you could possibly imagine, but right now you're wet, and you smell like pot. You're lucky I let you in my car."

'Where are we going?"

"I'm taking you home, so you can take a hot shower and get dressed in dry clothes."

"And then?"

"We'll see."

Oh boy.

Ranger was in the kitchen making a sandwich when I straggled in. I'd steamed myself in the shower until the water ran cold, and then I'd slipped into jeans and a T-shirt, letting my hair dry on its own.

He looked over at me. "How are you feeling?"

"Hungry and tired."

"You had a full morning. You burned a house down to the ground." I took two slices of bread, slathered them with mustard, and added ham and cheese.