High Five (9 page)

“So, you didn't kill anybody last night?”

Bunchy blinked at me. “Not that I remember. Who bought the farm?”

“Martha Deeter. She worked at RGC Waste Haulers.”

“Why would I want to kill her?”

“I don't know. I saw it in the paper this morning and just thought I'd ask.”

“Never hurts to ask,” Bunchy said.

I
LET MYSELF
into my apartment and saw the light flashing on my phone machine.

“Hey, Babe,” Ranger said, “got a job for you.”

The second message was from Benito Ramirez. “Hello, Stephanie,” he said. Quiet-voiced. Articulate, as always. “I've been away for a little while . . . as you know.” There was a pause and in my mind I could see his eyes. Small for his face and terrifyingly insane. “I came by to see you, but you weren't at home. That's okay. I'll try some other time.” He gave a small, girlish giggle and disconnected.

I erased Ranger's message and saved Ramirez's. Probably I should have a restraining order issued. Ordinarily I didn't hold much stock in restraining orders, but in this case, if Ramirez continued to harass me I might be able to get his parole revoked.

I connected with Ranger on his car phone. “What's the job?” I asked.

“Chauffeur. I have a young sheik flying in to Newark at five.”

“He carrying drugs? Delivering guns?”

“Negative. He's visiting relatives in Bucks County. Long weekend. Probably he won't even blow himself up.”

“What's the catch?”

“No catch. You wear a black suit and white shirt. You meet him at the gate and escort him safely to his destination.”

“I guess that sounds okay.”

“You'll be driving a Town Car. You can pick it up at the garage on Third and Marshall. Be there at three o'clock and talk to Eddie.”

“Anything else?”

“Make sure you're dressed.”

“You mean the suit—”

“I mean the gun'

“Oh.”

I disconnected and went back to Fred's photos. I spread the color copies out on the table just as I did the first time. Two of the pictures were of the bag all tied up. I was guessing that was how Fred found it. He took a couple pictures, then he opened the bag. The big question was, did he know what was inside before he opened it, or was it a surprise?

I went upstairs to Mrs. Bestler, who had failing eyesight, and borrowed a magnifying glass. I returned to my apartment, took the pages closer to the window, and looked at them with the glass. The glass wasn't much help, but I was almost sure it was a woman. Short dark hair. No jewelry on her right hand. There seemed to be newspapers crumpled into the bag with her. A crime lab might be able to pick something out to help date the photo. The bag with the woman was sitting with other bags. I could count four. They were on asphalt. Garbage stacked outside a business, maybe. A business too small to need a Dumpster. Lots of those around. Or it could be a driveway belonging to a family who made tons of garbage.

Part of a building was visible in the background. Hard to tell what it was. It was out of focus and in shade. A stucco wall was my best guess.

That was all the pictures were going to offer up to me.

I took a shower, scrounged for lunch, and set off to talk to Mabel.

 

 

I
LEFT MY
building with more caution than usual, keeping my eyes open for Ramirez. I reached the Buick and was almost disappointed not to have been accosted. On the one hand, it'd be good to get the confrontation over with. On the other hand . . . I didn't want to think about the other hand.

Bunchy wasn't there, either. I had mixed feelings about this, too. Bunchy was a pain in the behind, and I had no idea who he was, but I thought he might be good to have around if Ramirez attacked me. Better Bunchy than Ramirez. I don't know why I felt like that. For all I knew, Bunchy was the butcher.

I chugged out of the lot and drove on autopilot to Mabel's house, trying to prioritize projects. I had to neutralize Ramirez, get to the bottom of the Fred thing, chauffeur some sheik . . . And I felt uncomfortable about the dead garbage lady. Not to mention, I needed shoes for Saturday night. I lined everything up in my mind. The shoes were, hands down, top priority. Okay, so sometimes I wasn't the world's greatest bounty hunter. I wasn't a fabulous cook. I didn't have a boyfriend, much less a husband. And I wasn't a big financial success. I could live with all those failings as long as I knew that once in a while I looked really hot. And Saturday night I was going to look hot. So I needed shoes and a new dress.

Mabel was standing at the door when I drove up. Still on the lookout for Fred, I guess.

“I'm so glad you're here,” she said, ushering me into the house. “I don't know what to think.”

As if I could help her in that department.

“Sometimes I expect Fred to walk in the door, just like always. And then other times I know he'll never be back. And the thing is . . . I really need a new washer and dryer. In fact, I've needed them for years, but Fred was so cautious about spending money. Maybe I'll just go down to Sears and take a look. It doesn't hurt to look, does it?”

“Looking sounds good to me.”

“I knew I could count on you,” Mabel said. “Would you like some tea?”

“No thanks on the tea, but I have some more questions. I want you to think about places Fred might go that would have four or five garbage bags sitting outside on garbage day. The bags would be sitting on asphalt. And there might be a light-colored stucco wall behind them.”

“This is about those photographs, isn't it? Let me think. Fred had a routine, you know. When he retired two years ago, he took over the errands. In the beginning we did the marketing together, but it was too stressful. So I started staying home and watching my television shows in the afternoon, and Fred took over the errands. He went to the Grand Union every day. And sometimes he'd go to Giovichinni's Meat Market. He didn't go there too often because he thought Giovichinni gypped him on the meat scale. He only went there if he wanted kielbasa. Once in a while he'd splurge on Giovichinni's olive loaf.”

“Did he go to Giovichinni's last week?”

“Not that I know of. The only thing different about last week was that he went out in the morning to the garbage company. He didn't usually go out in the morning, but he was really in a state over that missed day.”

“Did he ever go out at night?”

“We went to the seniors' club on Thursdays to play cards. And we went to special events sometimes. Like the Christmas party.”

We were standing in front of the living room window, talking, when the RGC garbage truck rumbled up the street, bypassed Mabel's house, and stopped next door.

Mabel blinked in disbelief. “They didn't take my garbage,” she said. “It's right out there on the curb, and they didn't take it.” She threw the door open and trotted out to the sidewalk, but the truck was gone. “How could they do this?” she wailed. “What am I going to do with my garbage?”

I went to the Yellow Pages, found the number for RGC, and dialed the number. Larry Lipinski answered the phone.

“Larry,” I said, “this is Stephanie Plum, remember me?”

“Sure,” Larry said, “but I'm a little busy right now.”

“I read about Martha—”

“Yeah, Martha. What's on your mind?”

“My aunt's garbage. The thing is, Larry, the truck went right by her house just now and didn't pick up her garbage.”

There was a big sigh. “That's because she didn't pay her bill. There's no record of payment.”

“We went through all that yesterday. You said you'd take care of it.”

“Look, lady, I tried, okay? But there's no record of payment, and frankly I'm thinking Martha was right, and you and your aunt are trying to gyp us.”

“Listen, Larry!”

Larry disconnected.

“You dumb fuck!”
I yelled at the phone.

Aunt Mabel looked shocked.

“Sorry,” I said. “I got carried away.”

I went down to the cellar, got the canceled RGC check off Fred's desk, and dropped it into my shoulder bag.

“I'll take care of this tomorrow,” I said. “I'd do it today, but I don't have time.”

Mabel was wringing her hands. “That garbage is going to smell if I leave it sitting out there in the sun,” she said. “What will the neighbors think?”

I did some mental head-banging. “No problem. Don't worry about it.”

She gave me a tremulous smile.

I said good-bye, marched to the curb, extracted Mabel's nicely tied up plastic garbage bag from her container, and stuffed it into the trunk of my car. Then I drove to RGC, pitched the bag onto the sidewalk in front of their office, and raced away.

Am I a take-charge woman or what?

I drove away thinking about Fred. Suppose Fred saw someone do that? Well, not
exactly
what I just did. Suppose he saw someone take a garbage bag out of the trunk of their car and put it on the curb, alongside someone else's garbage. And suppose for one reason or another he got to wondering what was in the garbage bag?

This made a reasonable picture to me. I could see this happening. What I didn't understand, if in fact any of this occurred the way I imagined, was why Fred didn't report it to the police. Maybe he knew the person dumping the bag. But then why would he take pictures?

Hold on, let's reverse it. Suppose someone saw Fred dump the bag. They went to investigate, found the body and took pictures for evidence, then tried to blackmail Fred. Who would do such a thing? Bunchy. And maybe Fred all of a sudden got spooked and left for points south.

What's wrong with
this
picture? I couldn't see Fred taking a chain saw to some woman. And you'd have to be pretty dumb to blackmail Fred, because Fred didn't have any money.

T
HE SKIRT TO
my black suit hit two inches above my knee. The jacket sat high on my hipbone. My stretchy white jersey tucked into the skirt. I was wearing sheer, barely black pantyhose and black heels. My .38 was in my black leather shoulder bag. And for this special occasion, I'd taken the time to put some bullets in the stupid thing . . . just in case Ranger showed up and gave me a pop quiz.

Bunchy was in the parking lot, parked behind my Buick. “Going to a funeral?”

“I have a job chauffeuring a sheik from Newark. It's going to take me out of town for the rest of the afternoon, and I'm worried about Mabel. Since you like to sit around and do nothing, I thought you might sit around and do nothing across from Mabel's house.” Give him something to do, I thought. Keep the guy busy.

“You want me to protect the people I'm squeezing?”

“Yeah.”

“It doesn't work that way. And what the hell are you doing going off on a chauffeuring job? You're supposed to be looking for your uncle.”

“I need money.”

“You need to find Fred.”

“Okay, this is the honest-to-God truth . . . I don't know how to find Fred. I run down leads and they don't go anywhere. Maybe it would help if you told me what you were really after.”

“I'm after Fred.”

“Why?”

“You better get going,” Bunchy said. “You're gonna be late.”

T
HE GARAGE AT
Third and Marshall didn't have a name. It was probably listed under something in the phone book, but on the outside of the building there was nothing. Just a redbrick building with a paved parking lot, enclosed by chain-link fencing. There were three bays in the side of the building, opening out to the lot. The bay doors were open and men worked on cars in each of the bays. A white stretch limo and two black Town Cars were parked in the lot. I pulled the Buick into a slot next to one of the Town Cars, locked the Buick, and dropped the keys into my shoulder bag.

A guy who looked like Antonio Banderas on an off day sauntered over to me.

“Nice car,” he said, eyeing the Buick. “Man, they don't make cars like this anymore.” He ran a hand over the back fender. “Cherry. Real cherry.”

“Uh-huh.” The cherry car got four miles to a gallon and cornered like a refrigerator. Not to mention it was all wrong for my self-image. My self-image called for fast and sleek and black, not bulbous and powder blue. Red would be okay, too. And I needed a sunroof. And a good sound system. And leather seats . . .

“Earth to Babe,” Banderas said.

I dragged myself back to the moment. “You know where I can find Eddie?”

“You're looking at him, Cookie. I'm Eddie.”

I extended my hand. “Stephanie Plum. Ranger sent me.”

“I got a car ready and waiting.” He rounded the nearest Town Car, opened the driver's side door, and took a large white envelope from behind the visor. “Here's everything you need. The keys are in the ignition. The car's gassed up.”

“I don't need a chauffeur's license to do this, do I?”

He stared at me blank-faced.

“Yeah, right,” I said. Probably nothing to worry about anyway. It wasn't easy to get a permit to carry concealed in Mercer County. And I wasn't one of the chosen. If I got stopped by a cop he'd be so overjoyed to be able to arrest me for illegally carrying concealed that he'd no doubt forget to charge me for the driving thing.

I took the envelope and slid behind the wheel. I adjusted the seat and leafed through the papers. Flight information, parking directions, some procedural instructions, name and brief description, and snapshot of Ahmed Fahed. No age was given, but he looked young in the photo.

I eased the Lincoln out of the lot and headed for Route 1. I picked up the turnpike in East Brunswick and glided along in my big, black, climate-controlled car, feeling very professional. Chauffeuring wasn't so bad, I thought. Today a sheik, tomorrow . . . who knows, maybe Tom Cruise. Definitely better than getting some computer nut out of his apartment. And if it wasn't for the fact that I couldn't stop thinking about that severed right hand and decapitated head, I'd really be enjoying myself.

I took the airport exit and found my way to Arrivals. My passenger was coming in from San Francisco, flying commercial. I parked in the area reserved for limos, crossed the road, entered the terminal, and checked the monitors for gate information.

A half hour later, Fahed strolled through the gate, wearing two-hundred-dollar sneakers and oversize jeans. His T-shirt advertised a microbrewery. His red plaid flannel shirt was wrinkled and unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbow. I'd expected sheik clothes with the head thing and robe. Fortunately for me, he was the only arrogant Arab departing first class, so it wasn't hard to pick him out.

“Ahmed Fahed?” I asked.

His eyebrows raised ever so slightly in acknowledgment.

“I'm your driver.”

He looked me over. “Where's your gun?”

“In my shoulder bag.”

“My father always orders a bodyguard for me. He's afraid someone will kidnap me.”

Now it was my turn to raise an eyebrow.

He shrugged. “We're rich. Rich people get kidnapped.”

“Hardly ever in Jersey,” I said. “Too much overhead. Hotel rooms and food bills. The payoff's better on extortion.”

His gaze dropped to my chest. “You ever do it with a sheik?”

“Excuse me?”

“You could get lucky today.”

“Yeah. And you could get shot. How old are you, anyway?”

He tipped his chin up an eighth of an inch. “Nineteen.”

My guess would be closer to fifteen, but hey, what do I know about Arabs? “You have luggage?”

“Two bags.”

I led the way to baggage, snagged his two pieces, and rolled them out of the building across the pick-up lanes to the parking garage. When I had my charge settled into the backseat, I cruised off into gridlocked traffic.

After a couple minutes of creeping along Fahed was antsy. “What's the problem?”

“Too many cars,” I said. “Not enough road.”

“Well, do something.”

I glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “What did you have in mind?”

“I don't know. Just
do
something. Just go.”

“This isn't a helicopter. I can't just go.”

“Okay,” he said. “I've got an idea. How about we do this?”

“What?”

“This.”

I turned in my seat and looked at him. “What is
this?”

He wagged his wonkie at me and smiled.

Great. A fifteen-year-old sex fiend, exhibitionist sheik.

“I can make it do tricks,” he said.

“Not in
my
car, you can't. Put it back in your pants, or I'll tell your father.”

“My father would be proud. Look at me . . . I'm hung like a horse.”

I pulled a knife out of my shoulder bag and flipped it open. “I can make you hung like a hamster.”

“American whore bitch.”

I rolled my eyes.

“This is intolerable,” he said. “I hate this traffic. And I hate this car. And I hate sitting here doing nothing.”

Fahed wasn't the only one experiencing road rage. Other drivers were coming unglued. Men were swearing to themselves and tugging at ties. Fingers drummed impatiently on steering wheels. Someone behind me leaned on his horn.