Three to Get Deadly

by Janet Evanovich

  I sidled over next to Morelli. “Is this it?”

  “This is it,” Morelli said. “Four bodies.”

  “And?”

  “And I can't tell you more than that.”

  “Any forty-five-caliber bullets embedded in bone?”

  Morelli stared at me. Answer enough.

  “Anything to implicate Mo?” I asked.

  Another stare.

  Morelli's eyes moved to a spot behind my left shoulder. I followed his eyes and found Ranger standing inches away.

  “Yo,” Ranger said. “What's the deal here?”

  Morelli looked to the store. “Somebody buried four guys in Mo's cellar. The last one was buried shallow.”

  And he probably hadn't been buried so long ago, I thought. Like maybe the night Mo stole Ranger's car and smelled like sweat and dirt and something worse.

  “I've got to move,” Morelli said. “I've got paperwork.”

  I had to go, too. I felt like someone stuck a pin in me and let out the air. I fished car keys and a tissue out of my pocket. I blew my nose one last time and pumped myself back up for the walk to the car.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked Ranger.

  “Feeling fine.”

  “Want to run tomorrow morning?”

  He raised an eyebrow, but he didn't ask the question. “See you at six.”

  “Six is good,” I said.

  I was halfway home before I picked up the headlights in my rearview mirror. I looked again when I turned off Hamilton. The lights belonged to a black Toyota 4x4. Three antennae. Morelli's car. He was following me home to make sure I was safe.

  I gave Morelli a wave, and he beeped the horn. Sometimes Morelli could be okay.

  I drove two blocks on St. James and hit Dunworth. I turned into my lot and found a place in the middle. Morelli parked next to me.

  “Thanks,” I said, locking the car, juggling the food bag.

  Morelli got out of his car and looked at the bag. “Wish I could come in.”

  “I know your type,” I said. “You're only interested in one thing, Morelli.”

  “Got my number, do you?”

  “Yes. And you can forget it. You're not getting my leftovers.”

  Morelli curled his fingers around my jacket collar and pulled me close. “Sweetheart, if I wanted your leftovers you wouldn't have a chance in hell of keeping them.”

  “That's disgusting.”

  Morelli grinned, his teeth white against swarthy skin and day-old beard. “I'll walk you to the door.”

  I turned on my heel. “I can take care of myself, thank you.” All huffy. In a snit because Morelli was probably right about the leftovers.

  He was still watching when I entered the building and the glass door swung closed behind me. I gave him another wave. He waved back and left.

  Mrs. Bestler was in the elevator when I got on. “Going up,” she said. “Third floor, lingerie and ladies' handbags.”

  Sometimes Mrs. Bestler played elevator operator to break up the boredom.

  “I'm going to the second floor,” I told her.

  “Ah,” she said. “Good choice. Better dresses and designer shoes.”

  I stepped out of the elevator, shuffled down the hall, unlocked my door and almost fell into my apartment. I was dead-dog tired. I did a cursory walk through my apartment, checking windows and doors to make sure they were secure, checking closets and shadows.

  I dropped my clothes in a heap on the floor, plastered a BandAid on my burn and stepped into the shower. Out, damn spot. When I was pink and clean I crawled into bed and pretended I was at Disney World. Stephanie Plum, master of denial. Why deal with the trauma of almost being tortured when I could put it off indefinitely? Someday when the memory was fuzzy at the edges I'd dredge it up and give it attention. Stephanie Plum's rule of thumb for mental health—always procrastinate the unpleasant. After all, I could get run over by a truck tomorrow and never have to come to terms with the attack at all.

  I was awakened by the phone at five-thirty.

  “Yo,” Ranger said. “You still want to run?”

  “Yes. I'll meet you downstairs at six.” Damned if I was going to let a couple loser men get the better of me. Muscle tone wouldn't help a lot when it came to pepper spray, but it'd give me an edge on attitude. Mentally alert, physically fit would be my new motto.

  I pulled on long johns and sweats and laced up my running shoes. I gave Rex fresh water and filled his little ceramic food dish with hamster nuggets and raisins. I did fifteen minutes of stretching and went downstairs.

  Ranger was jogging in place when I got to the parking lot. I saw his eyes flick to my hair.

  “Don't say it,” I warned him. “Don't say a single word.”

  Ranger held his hands up in a backing-off gesture. “None of my business.”

  The corners of his mouth twitched.

  I stuffed my hands on my hips. “You're laughing at me!”

  “You look like Ronald McDonald.”

  “It's not that bad!”

  “You want me to take care of your hairdresser?”

  “No! It wasn't his fault.”

  We ran the usual course in silence. We added an extra block on the way home, keeping the pace steady. Easy for Ranger. Hard for me. I bent at the waist to catch my breath when we pulled up at my building's back door. I was happy with the run. Even happier to have it behind me.

  A car roared down the street and wheeled into the parking lot. Ranger stepped in front of me, gun drawn. The car slid to a stop, and Lula stuck her head out.

  “I saw him!” she yelled. “I saw him! I saw him!”

  “Who?”

  “Old Penis Nose! I saw Old Penis Nose! I could of got him, but you're always telling me how I'm not supposed to do nothing, how I'm not authorized. So I tried to call you, but you weren't home. So I drove over here. Where the hell you been at six in the morning?”

  “Who's Old Penis Nose?” Ranger wanted to know.

  “Mo,” I said. “Lula thinks his nose looks like a penis.”

  Ranger smiled. “Where'd you see him?”

  “I saw him on Sixth Street right across from my house. I don't usually get up so early, but I had some intestinal problems. Think it was the burrito I had for supper. So anyway I'm in the bathroom, and I look out the window and I see Mo walking into the building across the street.”

  “You sure it was Mo?” I asked.

  “I got a pretty good look,” Lula said. “They got a front light they leave on over there. Must own stock in the electric company.”

  Ranger beeped the security system off on his Bronco. “Let's move.”

  “Me too!” Lula yelled, backing into a parking space, cutting her engine. “Hold on for me.”

  We all piled into Ranger's Bronco, and Ranger took off for Sixth Street.

  “I bet Old Penis Nose is gonna pop someone,” Lula said. “I bet he's got someone all lined up.”

  I told Lula about the four bodies in Mo's basement.

  “When a man's got a nose looks like a penis he's likely to do anything,” Lula said. “It's the sort of thing makes serial killers out of otherwise normal people.”

  I thought chances were pretty good that Mo was involved in the killing of the men in his cellar. I didn't think his nose had anything to do with it. I thought about Cameron Brown and Leroy Watkins and Ronald Anders. All dead drug dealers. And then I wondered if the men buried in Mo's basement would turn out to be dealers, too. “Maybe Mo's a vigilante,” I said. More to hear it said out loud than anything else. And I was thinking that maybe he wasn't alone in his vigilantism. Maybe there was a whole pack of them, running around in ski masks and coveralls, threatening and killing whoever they deemed to be a danger to society.

  Lula repeated the word. “Vigilante.”

  “Someone who takes the law into his own hands,” I said.

  “Hunh. I guess I know what it means. You're telling me Mo is like Zorro and Robin Hood. Only Old Penis Nose don't just slash a
big Z in a man's shirt. Old Penis Nose scatters brains halfway across a room in his pursuit of justice.” She paused for a moment, thinking it through. “Probably Zorro blew a few heads apart, too. They don't tell you everything in a movie, you know. Probably after Zorro ruined your shirt he cut off your balls. Or maybe he made a Z on your stomach and all your guts fell out. I heard you could cut open a person's stomach, and his guts could all be hanging out onto the floor and he could live for hours like that.”

  I was riding shotgun beside Ranger. I slid my eyes in his direction, but he was in his zone, doing eighty between cross streets. Foot to the brake, jerk to a stop, giving the ABS a good test, look both ways. Foot to the floor on the accelerator.

  “So what do you think?” Lula asked. “You think Zorro got off on shit like that? Making people look at their guts hanging out?”

  My lips parted, but no words came out.

  Ranger turned onto Main and then onto Sixth. This was a neighborhood of board and shingle row houses with stoops for porches and sidewalk for front yard. The houses were narrow and dark-sullen patchworks of brown and black and maroon. Originally built for immigrant factory workers, the houses were now predominantly occupied by struggling minorities. Most houses had been converted to rooming houses and apartments.

  “Who lives in the house across from you?” Ranger asked Lula.

  “A bunch of people,” Lula said. “Mostly they come and go. Vanessa Long lives on the first floor, and you never know which of her kids is needing to stay there. Almost always her daughter, Tootie, and Tootie's three kids. Harold sometimes lives there. Old Mrs. Clayton lives on the other side of the hall. There are three rooms on the second floor. Not sure who's in those rooms. They let out weekly. Used to be Earl Bean lived in one, but I haven seen him lately.”

  Ranger parked two houses down. “The third floor?”

  “Nothing but an attic up there. Crazy Jim Katts lives in it. My guess is Mo was going to see someone on the second floor. It isn't like it's a crack house or anything over there, but when you rent weekly you never know what you get. You probably want to talk to Vanessa. She collects the rent. She knows everything goes on. Her apartment's on the left side when you walk in the door.”

  Ranger scanned the street. “Mo come in a car?”

  “You mean the car he stole from you? Nope. I looked, but I didn't see it. I didn't see any strange cars. Only cars I see were ones that belong.”

  “You stay here,” Ranger said to Lula. He gave an almost imperceptible nod in my direction. “You come with me.”

  He was wearing black sweatpants and a black hooded sweatshirt. So far as I could tell he'd never broken a sweat during the run. I, on the other hand, started sweating at the quarter-mile mark. My clothes were soaked through, my hair was stuck to my face in ringlets and my legs felt rubbery. I angled out of the car and did a little jig on the sidewalk, trying to keep warm.

  “We'll talk to Vanessa,” Ranger said. “And we'll look around. You have anything on you?”

  I shook my head, no.

  “No gun?”

  “No gun. Everything's in my pocketbook, and I left my pocketbook at my parents' house.”

  Ranger looked grim. “Is the gun loaded?”

  “I'm not sure.”

  “Your granny'll be doing target practice, shooting the eyes out of the potatoes.”

  I tagged after him and made a mental note to get my gun as soon as possible.

  The front door to the building was unlocked. The overhead light still on. Inside, the small foyer was dark. Two doors led to the first-floor apartments. Ranger knocked on the left-hand door.

  I looked at my watch. Seven forty-five. “It's early,” I said.

  “It's Sunday,” Ranger said. “She'll be getting ready for church. Women need time for their hair.”

  The door opened the width of the security chain and two inches of face peered out at us.

  “Yes?”

  “Vanessa?” Ranger asked.

  “That's me,” she said. “What do you want? If you're looking to rent we're full up.”

  Ranger badged her. “Bond enforcement,” he said. His voice was soft and polite. Respectful. “I'm looking for a man named Moses Bedemier. He was seen entering this house earlier this morning.”

  “I don't know anybody named Moses Bedemier.”

  “White man,” Ranger said. “In his sixties. Balding. Wearing a gray overcoat. Probably came here looking to buy drugs.”

  The door closed and the chain snapped off. “I didn't see no jive junkie coming in here, and if I did I'd kick him out on his bony white ass. I've got kids in this house. I don't put up with that kind coming around. I don't put up with drugs in this house.”

  “Would you mind if we check the upstairs apartments?” Ranger asked.

  “Mind? Hell, I'd insist on it,” Vanessa said, disappearing into her living room, returning with a set of keys.

  She was as wide as Lula, dressed in a red and yellow flowered cotton housecoat with her hair up in rollers. She had a grown daughter and grandchildren, but she didn't look much over thirty. Maybe thirty-five. She knocked on the first door with a vengeance.

  KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!

  The door opened and a slim young man squinted out at us. “Yuh?”

  “You got anybody in here?” Vanessa asked, poking her head around the doorjamb, seeing for herself. “You doing business in here that you shouldn't be doing?”

  “No, ma'am. Not me.” He shook his head vigorously.

  “Hmmm,” Vanessa said and moved on to door number two.

  Again KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

  The door was jerked open by a fat man wearing briefs and an undershirt. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he yelled. “What's a man got to do to get some sleep around here?” He saw Vanessa and took a step back. “Oh, sorry” he said. “Didn't know it was you.”

  “I'm looking for some nasty white guy,” Vanessa said, arms crossed, chin tucked in outraged authority. “You got one in here?”

  “Nobody here but me.”

  We all stood staring at door number three.

  Stephanie Plum 3 - Three To Get Deadly

  11

  Ranger motioned Vanessa to stand to one side, rapped on the door and waited for a response. After a moment he knocked again.

  “Got a lady in here,” Vanessa said. “Moved in just last week. Name's Gail.” She leaned past Ranger. “Gail? It's Vanessa from downstairs, honey. You open the door.”

  The bolt slid back and a young woman peeked out at us. She was painfully thin, with sleepy eyes and an open sore at the corner of her mouth.

  “You have visitors this morning?” Vanessa asked.

  The woman hesitated for a couple beats. Probably wondering what she should say. What new trouble was at her doorstep?

  Vanessa looked beyond Gail. “There isn't anybody else in there now, is there?”

  Gail gave her head a vehement shake. “Unh-uh. And I didn't invite nobody up here either. He just come of his own accord. Honest. It was some crazy white guy looking for my old man.”

  Vanessa raised a disapproving eyebrow. “I was led to understand you were living alone.”

  “My old man split on me. I got out of rehab, and he took off. He said he was worrying about things that been happening.” She made a gun with her thumb and forefinger. “Now he's gone. Vanished. Poof.”

  Ranger was hanging loose behind Vanessa. “Name?” he asked Gail.

  Gail looked from Vanessa to Ranger to me. More indecision.

  “WELL?” Vanessa demanded, loud enough to make Gail jump six inches.

  “Elliot Harp,” Gail said, the words tumbling out of her mouth. “Everybody call him Harpoon. But I'm not his woman no more. I swear to it.” She licked at the sore on her lip. “Is there more?” she asked.

  “No,” Ranger told her. “Sorry we had to bother you so early in the morning.”

  Gail nodded once and closed the door very quietly. Click. She was gone.

  Ranger thanked Va
nessa. Told her how he appreciated her help. Anytime, Vanessa said. And if he ever needed a room, or for that matter, if he ever needed anything at all . . . anything, he should remember about her. Ranger assured Vanessa she was unforgettable, and we left on that note.

  “Boy,” I said when we were out on the street. “Mr. Charm.”