High Five (31 page)

"Then you had to kill Stemper."

"Stemper was
your
fault. Stemper'd still be alive if you hadn't been so compulsive about that check. Two dollars," Shempsky said, sniffling. "All these people are dead, and my life is unraveling because of two fucking dollars."

"Seems to me it started with Laura Lipinski."

"You figured that out?" He slumped a little. "She was giving Larry a hard time. He'd made the mistake of telling her about the money, and she wanted it. She was leaving him, and she wanted the money. Said if she didn't get it, she'd go to the police."

"So you killed her?"

"The mistake we made was in getting rid of the body. I'd never done anything like that before, so I figured chop it up, stuff it in a couple garbage bags, leave them spread out over town the night before garbage pickup. First off, let me tell you, it isn't easy to chop up a body. And second, cheapskate Fred was out, trying to save a buck on his leaves, and saw Larry and me with the bag. I mean, what are the chances?"

"I don't get Fred's part in this."

"He saw us dump the bag and didn't think anything of it. I mean he was out there doing the same thing. The next morning Fred goes to RGC, and Martha pisses him off and sends him packing. Fred gets a block away and thinks to himself that he knows Martha's office partner. He thinks about it for another block and realizes he's the guy who dumped the bag. So Fred goes to the real estate office alongside the deli with a camera and starts taking pictures. I guess he was going to wave them in Larry's face, trying to embarrass him enough to give him his money. Only after a couple pictures Fred thinks the bag looks too lumpy and smells pretty bad. And Fred opens the bag."

"Why didn't Fred report this to the police?"

"Why do you think? Money."

"He was going to blackmail you." That's why Fred left the canceled check on his desk. He didn't need it. He had the pictures.

"Fred said he didn't have any retirement account. Worked at the button factory for fifty years and had hardly any retirement account. Said he read where you needed ninety thousand to get into a decent nursing home. That's what he wanted. Ninety thousand."

"What about Mabel? Didn't he want nursing home money for her, too?"

Shempsky shrugged. "He didn't say anything about Mabel."

Cheap bastard.

"Why did you kill Larry?" Not that I actually cared at this point. What I cared about was time. I wanted more of it. I didn't want him to pull the trigger. If it meant I had to talk to him then that's what I was going to do.

"Lipinski got cold feet. He wanted out. Wanted to take his money and run. I tried to talk to him, but he was really freaked out. So I went over to see if I could calm him down."

"You succeeded. You can't get much calmer than dead."

"He wouldn't listen, so what could I do? I thought I did a good job of making it look like a suicide."

"You have a nice life—a nice house, a nice wife and kids, a good job. Why were you skimming?"

"In the beginning it was just fun money. Tipp and me used to play poker with a bunch of guys on Monday nights. And Tipp's wife would never give Tipp any money. So Tipp started skimming. Just a couple accounts for poker money. But then it was so easy. I mean, nobody knew the money was gone. So we enlarged until we had a nice chunk of Vito's accounts. Tipp knew Lipinski and Curly, and he brought them in." Shempsky wiped his nose again. "It wasn't like I was ever going to make money at the bank. I'm in a dead-end job. It's my face, you know. I'm not stupid. I could have been somebody, but nobody pays attention to me.

"God gives everybody a special talent. And you know what my talent is? Nobody remembers me. I have a forgettable face. It took me a bunch of years, but I finally figured out how to use my gift." He gave a crazy little laugh that sent all the hairs on my arm standing at attention. "My talent is that I can rob people blind, kill them on the street, and nobody remembers."

Allen Shempsky was drunk or crazy or both. And at the rate we were going he wouldn't even have to shoot me, because he was scaring me to death. My heart was pounding in my chest, echoing in my ears.

"What will you do now?" I asked him.

"You mean after I kill you? I guess I'll go home. Or maybe I'll just get in my car and drive somewhere. I have lots of money. I don't need to go back to the bank if I don't want to."

Shempsky was sweating, and under the flush on his cheeks his face was pale. "Christ," he said. "I really feel sick." He stood up and pointed the gun at me. "You got any cold medicine?"

"Just aspirin."

"I need more than aspirin. I'd like to sit and talk some more, but I gotta get some cold medicine. I bet I have a fever."

"You don't look good."

"I bet my face is all flushed."

"Yeah, and your eyes are glassy."

There was a scraping sound on the fire escape outside my window, and we both swiveled our heads to look. We saw only darkness beyond the broken pane.

Shempsky turned back to me and cocked the hammer on his revolver. "Now hold still so I kill you with the first bullet. It's better that way. There's a lot less mess. And if I shoot you in the heart, you can have an open casket. I know everybody likes that."

We both took a deep breath—me to die, and Shempsky to aim. And in that instant the air was pierced with a bloodcurdling roar of rage and lunacy. And Ramirez filled the window, his face contorted, his eyes small and evil.

Shempsky instinctively whirled and fired, emptying his gun in Ramirez.

I wasted no time running. I
flew
out of the room, through my living room, and out my front door. I sprinted down the hall, leaped down two flights of stairs, and almost bashed in Mrs. Keene's door.

"Goodness," Mrs. Keene said, "you certainly are having a full night. What now?"

"Your gun! Give me your gun!"

I called the police and went back upstairs with the gun in my hand. My apartment door was wide open. Shempsky was gone. And Briggs was still alive in my closet.

I ripped the tape off. "Are you okay?"

"Shit," he said. "I messed my pants."

THE UNIFORMS CAME first, then the paramedics and finally the homicide detectives and the medical examiner. They had an easy time finding my apartment. Most of them had been there before. Morelli had arrived with the uniforms.

It was now three hours later, and the party was winding down. I'd given my statement, and the only thing left was to get Ramirez into a body bag and haul him off my fire escape. Rex and I had set up camp in the kitchen while the professionals did their thing. Randy Briggs gave his statement and left, deciding his apartment without a door was safer than living with me.

Rex still looked perky, but I was exhausted. I was all out of adrenaline, and I felt like my blood level was a pint low.

Morelli wandered in, and for the first time all night we had a moment alone together. "You should be relieved," he said. "You don't have to worry about Ramirez anymore."

I nodded. "It's a terrible thing to say, but I'm glad he's dead. Any word on Shempsky?"

"Nobody's seen him or his car. He didn't go home."

"I think he's flipped out. And he has the flu. He looked really bad."

"You'd look bad too if you were wanted for multiple murders. We're leaving a uniform here tonight to make sure no one comes in through your window, but it's going to be cold in your bedroom. Probably you want to stay someplace else. My vote's for my house."

"I'd feel safe at your house," I said. "Thanks."

The gurney with the body clattered over the hall floor and rolled out my door. My stomach lurched, and I reached for Morelli. He pulled me to him and wrapped his arms around me. "You'll feel better tomorrow," he said. "You just need some sleep."

"Before I forget. You left a message on my machine that you needed to talk to me."

"We brought Harvey Tipp in for questioning, and he squealed like a pig. I wanted to warn you about Shempsky."

I WOKE UP to the sun streaming in through Morelli's bedroom window, but no Morelli next to me. I had a dim recollection of falling asleep on the ride to his house. And falling asleep again, next to Morelli. I had no recollection of any kind of sexual encounter. I was wearing a T-shirt and underpants. Since the underpants were on me and not on the floor that probably told me something.

I got out of bed and padded barefoot into the bathroom. There was a damp bath towel hanging on the hook on the door. A set of clean towels had been set out for me, neatly stacked on the tub. A note was taped to the mirror over the sink. "Had to leave for work early," the note said. "Make yourself at home." He also confirmed what I'd suspected—that I'd zonked out the minute my head hit the pillow. And since Morelli appreciated response to his lovemaking, he'd passed on last night's opportunity to collect on his debt.

I took a shower and got dressed and went to the kitchen in search of breakfast. Morelli didn't stock Pop-Tarts, so I settled on a peanut butter sandwich. I was halfway through the sandwich when I remembered the chauffeuring job. I'd never gotten around to reading the notecard, and I had no idea when I was supposed to get the sheik. I shuffled through the mess in my shoulder bag and found the card. It said Tank would drop the limo off at nine. I was to pick the sheik up at ten and drive him to Newark Airport. It was almost eight, so I finished my sandwich, stuffed yesterday's clothes into the tote, and called Mary Lou to bum a ride.

"Boy, you really get around," Mary Lou said. "When I dropped you off you were with Ranger. You must have had a busy night."

"You don't know the half of it." I explained to her about the kiss, and Ramirez, and Shempsky, and finally about Morelli.

"I can't imagine being too tired to do it with Morelli," Mary Lou said. "Of course, I've never been attacked by a homicidal rapist, held at gunpoint by a screwy banker, and had a guy killed outside my bedroom window."

Mrs. Bestler was waiting by the elevator when I walked into the lobby. "Going up?" she asked. "Second floor. . . belts, handbags, body bags."

"I'm taking the stairs," I told her. "I need the exercise."

I opened my apartment door and surprised a young cop who was feeding Rex Cheerios.

"He looked hungry," the cop said. "I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all. Feel free to join him for breakfast. Just poke around in the fridge until you find something you like."

The cop smiled. "Thanks. There's a guy here fixing your window. Morelli arranged it. I'm supposed to leave as soon as he's done."

"Sounds good."

I went into the bedroom and collected my chauffeur uniform of black suit and stockings and heels. I changed in the bathroom, added some lipstick and a swipe of mascara, and sprayed my hair. When I came out, the window man was gone, and my window looked sparkly clean. The cop was gone, too.

I grabbed my shoulder bag, said good-bye to Rex, and hustled down to the parking lot.

Tank was waiting for me when I swung through the back door at nine o'clock sharp. He had a map and directions.

"Should take you about a half hour from here," Tank said.

"Does he know I'm driving him?"

Tank's face creased in a wide grin. "We thought it would be a nice surprise."

I took the keys to the Town Car and slid in behind the wheel.

"You're carrying, right?" Tank asked.

"Right."

"And you're okay after last night?"

"How do you know about last night?"

"It's in the paper."

Terrific.

I gave Tank a little finger wave and drove away. I got to Hamilton and turned right. I drove several blocks and turned into the Burg. I had no intention of destroying another black car. I parked at my parents' house and went inside to get the garage keys.

"You made the paper again," Grandma said. "And the phone's been ringing off the hook. Your mother's in the kitchen, ironing."

My mother always irons during times of disaster. Some people drink, some take drugs. My mother irons.

"How's Dad?" I asked.

"He's out at the store."

"No problems left over from the stun gun?"

"Well, he isn't the happiest person I ever saw, but aside from that he's doing okay. Looks like you got another car."

"It's a loaner. I have a job as a chauffeur. I'm going to leave the black car here and take the Buick. I feel safer in the Buick."

My mother came out of the kitchen. "What's this about being a chauffeur?"

"It's nothing," I said. "I'm driving a man to the airport."

"Good," my mother said. "Take your grandmother."

"I can't do that!"

My mother pulled me into the kitchen and lowered her voice. "I don't care if you're driving the Pope, your grandmother is going with you. If she says the wrong thing to your father when he gets home, he'll go after her with a steak knife. So unless you want more bloodshed on your hands, you will fulfill your obligation as a granddaughter and get your grandmother out of this house for a few hours until things calm down. This is all your fault anyway." My mother snapped a shirt onto the ironing board and snatched at the iron. "And what kind of a daughter has shootouts on her fire escape? The phone's been ringing all morning. What am I supposed to say to people? How can I explain these things?"

"Just tell people I was looking for Uncle Fred, and things got complicated."

My mother shook the iron at me. "If that man isn't dead I'm going to kill him myself."

Hmm. Mom appeared to be a little stressed. "Okay," I said, "I guess I can take Grandma with me." Might not be a bad idea anyway. I didn't think the pervert sheik would be so fast to flash his johnson with Grandma on board.

"It's a shame we can't take that nice black car," Grandma said. "It looks more like a chauffeur car."

"I'm not taking any chances," I told her. "I don't want anything to happen to the black car. It's getting locked up nice and safe in the garage."

I loaded Grandma into the Buick, backed it out the driveway, and parked it on the street. Then I carefully eased the Lincoln into the garage and secured the doors.