09 To the Nines (2 page)

“We're going to take him with us.”

“The hell you are,” Punky said. “I'm not getting up. I'm not going anywhere.”

“I don't have time to mess with this,” I said to Lula. “You stay here and baby-sit and I'll send Vinnie over to do the pickup.”

“You're in trouble now,” Lula said to Punky. “I bet Vinnie likes greased-up fat men. People tell me Vinnie used to be romantically involved with a duck. I bet he's gonna think you're just fine.”

I hustled down the stairs and out the front door to the Escape. I called Vinnie on the way to my parents' house and gave him the word on Punky.

“What are you, nuts?” Vinnie yelled at me. “I'm not gonna go out to pick up some greased-up naked guy. I write bonds. I don't do pickups. Read my lips . . . you're the pickup person.”

“Fine. Then you go to my parents' house and get my mother out of the bathroom.”

“All right, all right, I'll do your pickup, but it's come to a sad state of affairs when I'm the normal member of this family.”

I couldn't argue with that one.

Grandma Mazur was waiting for me when I pulled to the curb. “She's still in there,” Grandma said. “She won't talk to me or nothing.”

I ran up the stairs and tried the door. Locked. I knocked. No answer. I yelled to my mother. Still no response. Damn. I ran down the stairs out to the garage and got a step ladder. I put the ladder up to the back stoop and climbed onto the small shingled roof that attached to the back of the house and gave me access to the bathroom window. I looked inside.

My mom was in the tub with earphones on, eyes closed, knees sticking out of the water like two smooth pink islands. I rapped on the window, and my mom opened her eyes and gave a shriek. She grabbed for the towel and continued to scream for a good sixty seconds. Finally she blinked, snapped her mouth shut, pointed straight-armed to the bathroom door, and mouthed the word go.

I scuttled off the roof, down the ladder, and slunk back to the house and up the stairs, followed by Grandma Mazur.

My mother was at the bathroom door, wrapped in a towel, waiting. “What the hell were you doing?” she yelled. “You scared the crap out of me. Dammit. Can't I even relax in the tub?”

Grandma Mazur and I were speechless, standing rooted to the spot, our mouths open, our eyes wide. My mom never cursed. My mom was the practical, calming influence on the family. My mom went to church. My mom never said crap.

“It's the change,” Grandma said.

“It is not the change,” my mother shouted. “I am not menopausal. I just want a half hour alone. Is that too much to ask? A crappy half hour!”

“You were in there for an hour and a half,” Grandma said. “I thought you might have had a heart attack. You wouldn't answer me.”

“I was listening to music. I didn't hear you. I had the headset on.”

“I can see that now,” Grandma said. “Maybe I should try that sometime.”

My mother leaned forward and took a closer look at my shirt. “What on earth do you have all over you? It's in your hair and on your shirt and you have big grease stains on your jeans. It looks like . . . Vaseline.”

“I was in the middle of a capture when Grandma called.”

My mother did an eye roll. “I don't want to know the details. Not ever. And you should be sure to pre-treat when you get home or you're never going to get that stuff out.”

Ten minutes later I was pushing through the front door to Vinnie's office. Connie Rosolli, Vinnie's office manager and guard dog, was behind her desk, newspaper in hand. Connie was a couple years older than me, an inch or two shorter, and had me by three cup sizes. She was wearing a blood red V-neck sweater that showed a lot of cleavage. Her nails and her lips matched the sweater.

There were two women occupying the chairs in front of Connie's desk. Both women were dark-skinned and wearing traditional Indian dress. The older woman was a size up from Lula. Lula is packed solid, like a giant bratwurst. The woman sitting across from Connie was loose flab with rolls of fat cascading between the halter top and the long skirt of her sari. Her black hair was tied in a knot low on her neck and shot through with gray. The younger woman was slim and I guessed slightly younger than me. Late twenties, maybe. They both were perched on the edges of their seats, hands tightly clasped in their laps.

“We've got trouble,” Connie said to me. “There's an article in the paper today about Vinnie.”

“It's not another duck incident, is it?” I asked.

“It's about the visa bond Vinnie wrote for Samuel Singh. Singh is here on a three-month work visa and Vinnie wrote a bond insuring Singh would leave when his visa was up. A visa bond is a new thing, so the papers making a big deal about it.”

Connie handed me the paper and I looked at the photo accompanying the feature. Two slim, shifty-looking men with slicked-back black hair, smiling. Singh was from India, his complexion darker, his frame smaller than Vinnie's. Both men looked like they regularly conned old ladies out of their life savings. Two Indian women stood in the background, behind Vinnie and Singh. The women in the photo were the women sitting in front of Connie.

“This is Mrs. Apusenja and her daughter Nonnie,” Connie said. “Mrs. Apusenja rented a room to Samuel Singh.”

Mrs. Apusenja and her daughter were staring at me, not sure what to do or say about the globs of goo in my hair and gunked into my clothes.

“And this is Stephanie Plum,” Connie told the Apusenjas. “She's one of our bond enforcement agents. She's not usually this . . . greasy.” Connie squinted at me. “What the hell have you got all over you?”

“Vaseline. Balog was covered with it. I had to wrestle him down.”

“This looks sexual to me,” Mrs. Apusenja said. “I am a moral women. I do not want to become involved with this.” She clapped her hands to her head. “Look at me. I have my ears covered. I am not hearing this filth.”

“There's no filth,” I shouted at her. “There was this guy I had to bring in and he was covered in Vaseline ...”

“Lalalalalalala,” Mrs. Apusenja sang.

Connie and I rolled our eyes.

Nonnie pulled her mother's hand away from her head. “Listen to these people,” she said to her mother. “We need them to help us.”

Mrs. Apusenja stopped singing and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Mrs. Apusenja is here because Singh's disappeared,” Connie said.

“This is true,” Mrs. Apusenja said. “We are very worried. He was an exemplary young man.”

I skimmed the article. Samuel Singh's bond was up in a week. If Vinnie couldn't produce Singh in a week's time, he was going to look like an idiot.

“We think something terrible happened to him,” Nonnie said. “He just disappeared. Poof.”

The mother nodded in agreement. “Samuel has been staying with us while working in this country. My family is very close to Samuel Singh's family in India. It's a very good family. Nonnie and Samuel were to be married, in fact. She was to travel to India with Samuel to meet his mother and father. We have a ticket for the plane.”

“How long has Samuel been gone?” Connie asked.

“Five days,” Nonnie said. “He left for work and he never returned. We asked his employer and they said Samuel didn't show up that day. We came here because we hoped Mr. Plum would be able to help us find Samuel.”

“Have you checked Samuel's room to see if anything is missing?” I asked. “Clothes? Passport?”

“Everything seems to be there.”

“Have you reported his disappearance to the police?”

“We have not. Do you think we should do that?”

“No,” Connie said, voice just a tad too shrill, hitting Vinnie s cell phone number on her speed dial.

“We've got a situation here,” Connie said to Vinnie. “Mrs. Apusenja is in the office. Samuel Singh has gone missing.”

At two in the morning when the weather is ideal and the lights are all perfectly timed, it takes twenty minutes to drive from the police station to the bail bonds office. Today, at two in the afternoon, under an overcast sky, Vinnie made the run in twelve minutes.

Ranger, Vinnie's top gun, had ambled in a couple minutes earlier at Vinnie's request. He was dressed in his usual black. His dark brown hair was pulled back from his face and tied into a short ponytail at the nape of his neck. His jacket looked suspiciously like Kevlar and I knew from experience it hid a gun. Ranger was always armed. And Ranger was always dangerous. His age was somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five and his skin was the color of a mocha latte. The story goes that Ranger had been Special Forces before signing on with Vinnie to do bond enforcement. He had a lot of muscle and a skill level somewhere between Batman and Rambo.

A while ago Ranger and I spent the night together. We were in an uneasy alliance now, working as a team when necessary, avoiding contact or conversation that would lead to a repeat sexual encounter. At least I was avoiding a repeat encounter. Ranger was his usual silent mysterious self, his thoughts unknown, his attitude provocative.

He'd looked me over before taking a chair. “Vaseline?” he asked.

“I am thinking it must be something sexual,” Mrs. Apusenja said. “No one has told me otherwise. I am thinking this one must be a slut.”

“I am not a slut,” I said. “I had to capture a guy who was all greased up and some of the gunk rubbed off on me.”

The back door burst open and Vinnie came in like gang-busters, followed by Lula.

“Talk to me,” Vinnie said to Connie.

“Not much to tell. You remember Mrs. Apusenja and her daughter Nonnie. Samuel Singh rented a room in the Apusenja house and they were at the photo session last week. They haven't seen him in five days.”

“Christ,” Vinnie said. “National print coverage on this. A week to go. And this sonovabitch goes missing. Why didn't he just come over to my house and feed me rat poison? It would have been an easier death.”

“We think there might be foul play involved,” Nonnie said.

Vinnie made a halfhearted effort to squash a grimace. "Yeah, right. Give me a refresher course on Samuel Singh.

What was his normal routine?“ Vinnie had the file in his hand, flipping pages, mumbling as he read. ”It says here he worked at TriBro Tech. He was in the quality control department."

“During the week Samuel would be at work from seven-thirty to five. Every night he would stay home and watch television or spend time on his computer. Even on weekends he would spend most of his time on the computer,” Nonnie said.

“There is a word to call him,” Mrs. Apusenja said. “I can never remember.”

“Geek,” Nonnie said, not looking all that happy about it.

“Yes! That's it. He was a computer geek.”

“Did he have friends? Relatives in the area?” Vinnie asked.

“There were people at his workplace that he spoke of but he didn't spend time with them socially.”

“Did he have enemies? Debts?”

Nonnie shook her head no. “He never spoke of debts or enemies.”

“Drugs?” Vinnie asked.

“No. And he would drink alcohol only on special occasions.”

“How about criminal activity? Was he involved with anyone shady?”

“Certainly not.”

Ranger was impassive in his corner, watching the women. Nonnie was leaning forward in her chair, uncomfortable with the situation. Mama Apusenja had her lips pressed tight together, her head tipped slightly, not favorably impressed with what she was seeing.

“Anything else?” Vinnie asked.

Nonnie fidgeted in her seat. Her eyes dropped to the purse in her lap. “My little dog,” Nonnie finally said. “My little dog is missing.” She opened her purse and extracted a photo. “His name is Boo because he is so white. Like a ghost. He disappeared when Samuel vanished. He was in the backyard, which is fenced, and he disappeared.”

We all looked at the photo of Nonnie and Boo. Boo was a small cocker spaniel and poodle mix with black button eyes in a fluffy white face. Boo was a cockapoo.

I felt something tug inside me for the dog. The black button eyes reminded me of my hamster, Rex. I remembered the times when I'd been worried about Rex, and I felt the same sharp stab of concern for the little dog.

“Do you get along okay with your neighbors?” Vinnie asked. “Have you asked any of them if they've seen the dog?”

“No one has seen Boo.”

“We must leave now,” Mrs. Apusenja said, glancing at her watch. “Nonnie needs to get back to work.”

Vinnie saw them to the door and watched them cross the street to their car. “There they go,” Vinnie said. “Hell's message bearers.” He shook his head. “I was having such a good day. Everyone was saying how good I looked in the picture. Everyone was congratulating me because I was doing something about visa enforcement. Okay, so I took a few comments when I dragged a naked, greased-up fat guy into the station, but I could handle that.” He gave his head another shake. “This I can't handle. This has to get fixed. I can't afford to lose this guy. Either we find this guy, dead or alive, or we're all unemployed. If I can't enforce this visa bond after all the publicity, I'm going to have to change my name, move to Scottsdale, Arizona, and sell used cars.” Vinnie focused on Ranger. “You can find him, right?”

The corners of Ranger's mouth tipped up a fraction of an inch. This was the Ranger equivalent of a smile.

“I'm gonna take that as a yes,” Vinnie said.

“I'll need help,” Ranger told him. “And we'll need to work out the fee.”

“Fine. Whatever. You can have Stephanie.”

Ranger cut his eyes to me and the smile widened ever so slightly—the sort of smile you see on a man when he's presented with an unexpected piece of pie.

Connie handed A stack of papers over to Ranger. “Here's everything we have,” she said. “A copy of the bond agreement, photo, background information. I'll check the hospitals and the morgue, and I'll run a full investigative report. I should have some of it tomorrow.”

This was the information age. Sign up with a service, tap a few keys on the computer, and within seconds facts start pouring in ... all the names on the family tree, employment records, credit history, a chronology of home addresses. If you pay enough and search hard enough it's possible to access medical secrets and marital infidelities.