Takedown Twenty: A Stephanie Plum Novel

by Evanovich, Janet

“And the giraffe is still hanging out?”

  “Yep.”

  “And there’s been no mention in the media?”

  “Nope.”

  “Nothing on the police scanners?”

  “Nope.”

  “Have you told anyone about this?”

  “A couple people.”

  “You don’t seem to be very disturbed by it all.”

  “I have people trying to kill me. A giraffe is low on my list of disturbances.”

  “That’s where we differ,” Ranger said. “I’m used to people trying to kill me, but it’s not every day I’m almost run over by a giraffe.”

  “So I’m guessing you want to go big game hunting?”

  Ranger slowly drove his Porsche down Fifteenth Street as we looked for signs of Kevin. We’d been at it for about an hour, systematically following a grid that included alleys and cross streets. I’d done the drill with Lula and had turned up zip, but I didn’t mind doing it again with Ranger. I loved the intimacy and the power of the Porsche, and in the confined space, Ranger smelled great. He smelled like the Bulgari shower gel his housekeeper bought for him. When I use his shower gel the scent disappears almost immediately, but Ranger carries it all day.

  Plus there was the added benefit that we might run across Sunny. Instinct told me he was with Bella, but other parts of my brain knew he could just as easily be in one of the buildings on Fifteenth Street.

  Ranger stopped at the corner of Fifteenth and Freeman. “No giraffe,” he said.

  “Yeah, it’s a real bummer, isn’t it? Whenever you go looking for him you can’t find him, and then when you least expect it he gallops down the street.”

  “I can’t believe I’m this hung up on a giraffe.”

  “That’s just the way it is with some people.”

  Ranger looked at me. “Not you.”

  “Nope. Not me. But Lula is obsessed with him.”

  “That’s not a comforting thought.”

  I burst out laughing, because it’s not often I see the human side of Ranger. Most of the time Ranger is chill.

  “We’re done here, right?” I asked him.

  “Right.”

  Ranger drove me back to my car, but my car wasn’t there. A black Honda CR-V was parked at the curb.

  “I replaced the Buick with one of my fleet cars,” Ranger said. “You’re too easily recognized in the Buick.”

  “Where’s the Buick?”

  “In your parents’ driveway. Did you turn up anything interesting this morning on the murders?”

  “The women shopped where they got the senior discount even though some store locations were inconvenient. Melvina, Bitsy, and Rose shopped on Saturday. Lois didn’t completely fit that profile. I’m sure it’s because Lois had her own car and wasn’t relying on someone to chauffeur her around. I’m going to make some phone calls and try to find out who took the women shopping. Maybe you could have someone ask Ruppert for me.”

  The black Lincoln rolled past us and parked in front of the Morelli house. Moe got out of the front passenger seat and carried a duffel bag into the house. He left a little later without the bag, got into the Lincoln, and the car disappeared down the street.

  “He’s in there,” I said to Ranger. “What on earth is wrong with Joe’s mom that she’d allow Sunny to hide out in her house?”

  “He’s family,” Ranger said.

  “That’s no excuse.”

  “It is in the Sunucchi–Morelli family culture.”

  “How am I supposed to get him out of there? I can’t just break down the door. We’re talking about Joe’s mom and crazy Grandma Bella.”

  “Do you want me to go in?”

  “Would you do that for me?”

  “We could make a deal.”

  “Oh boy.”

  “Think about it,” Ranger said. “I’ll catch up with you after the viewing.”

  I left Ranger and drove my loaner CR-V home to my apartment building. I’d watched Ranger’s eyes go from brown to black when he suggested a deal. I knew what it meant when his pupils dilated like that. It meant Ranger was feeling friendly. And when Ranger was friendly it was hard not to want to be friendly back.

  I pulled the files on the dead women out of my bag and took them to the dining room table. Besides former addresses and work histories, the files also listed relatives. Bitsy Muddle was survived by a younger brother who was living in Ewing. I called his phone, and he picked up on the second ring.

  “I’m helping the police investigate your sister’s death,” I told him. “I have just a quick question.”

  “Sure, but I already told them all I knew.”

  “She usually ran her errands on Saturdays. Did you ever drive her around?”

  “No. We would meet at the diner for lunch sometimes, but I didn’t see a lot of her after she moved to that retirement place. She was always on the go. I figured she was being bused around by the retirement people.”

  I thanked him for his help and called the retirement community office.

  “Most of our residents are very independent,” the manager told me. “Some have cars, and others have friends and relatives who take them shopping. We have a wing for assisted living, but Miss Muddle wasn’t housed there. She was living in what is simply an apartment complex for senior citizens.”

  “Would it be possible to speak to some of her neighbors?”

  “Of course. We always try to cooperate with the police. Most of her neighbors have already been questioned. Some were questioned several times, so I can’t guarantee a happy interview.”

  “Understood.”

  I wasn’t in the mood to drive over to Golden Years Retirement Village and go door to door, grilling Bitsy’s neighbors. I’d wait to see what Ranger got for me, and I could talk to Rose Walchek’s relatives at the viewing.

  Saturday was usually my designated clean-the-apartment day, so I squirted some toxic goop into the toilet and swished it around with the toilet brush. Then I took a bunch of toxic liquid-saturated wipes from the pop-up container and wiped down all the bathroom surfaces. I changed out the towels and made my bed with fresh linens. I ran over the kitchen and bathroom floors with the Swiffer contraption that uses the wet pads, and I considered the wall-to-wall carpet in the rest of the apartment. Usually I borrowed my mother’s vacuum cleaner, but I’d forgotten to stop on my way home. Probably now that I had a slow cooker and was going to be Susie Homemaker I should get my own vacuum cleaner.

  I wrote “Buy vacuum cleaner” on the notepad in the kitchen. I made myself a peanut butter and olive sandwich for dinner and gave a small chunk to Rex. He scurried out of his soup can, stuffed the chunk of bread into his cheek pouch, blinked his eyes at me, and scurried back into his can. I took the eye blink as a thank-you. Hamsters have limited communication skills.

  I changed into skinny black slacks and a silky white blouse for the viewing. I still had my hair pulled up into a ponytail, and I slashed on some extra mascara since it was an evening affair.

  I arrived a little after seven, which was a big mistake for the viewing of a high-profile murder victim. The lot was filled, and parking on the street was nonexistent. There was a huge crush of people on the front porch, and the crush spilled over onto the steps. It had to be total insanity inside. I drove around the block and pulled into the driveway to the funeral home garages. Unless they had to pull a hearse out to make an emergency dead guy pickup, I figured I’d go unnoticed.

  I sneaked through the back door, walked past the small hostess kitchen and the funeral director’s office, and came out into the packed lobby. The noise was a smidgeon below rock concert, the temperature had to be in the nineties, and the entire place smelled like carnations and deodorant failure.

  I was standing by the table with the coffee and tea and cookies, and I had to somehow get to Rose. She was laid out in Slumber Room No. 1. This was the largest of the slumber rooms, the premier spot. It was reserved for murder victims and the grandmasters of various lodges an
d social clubs.

  I pushed my way through the crowd to the room entrance and worked my way forward. Two men and a woman were standing at the head of the casket. Obviously relatives. They were my target. Grandma and Gordon had seats in the second row. I picked out Mama Giovichinni, my parents’ neighbor Mrs. Ciak, a few women from Bingo, and a bunch of other people from the Burg. The line of mourners inching up to the casket ran the length of the room and out the door. If I tried to cut the line I’d be attacked and ejected. My only hope was to wait until the viewing was ending and everyone stampeded out to the lobby to get last-minute cookies.

  Grandma turned and saw me and waved.

  “Over here,” she shouted. “We saved you a seat.”

  The seat was between Grandma and Randy Berger. I hadn’t noticed it at first because Berger was occupying two seats. It wasn’t that he was excessively fat, it was more that he was just so big. I made a no thanks gesture, but Grandma was having none of it. Berger managed to pull most of himself off the seat and I squished myself into it.

  “I was hoping you’d be here,” Berger said. “Have you thought about the job offer?”

  “I’m sure it’s a great job,” I said, “but it’s not for me. And I like being a bond enforcement agent.”

  “You could try butchering part-time.”

  “No.”

  “Okay, then how about dinner?”

  “No.”

  “I’d bring a nice pork tenderloin.”

  “No.”

  “I heard that,” Grandma said to me. “I bet it would be a pip of a pork tenderloin. Remember that boyfriend you had who could cook those pork chops? I never tasted a pork chop like that since.”

  “He was a killer!”

  “Yeah, but he sure could cook pork chops.”

  “He probably brined them,” Berger said. “You’ve got to brine pork to get it tender. I always brine my pork.”

  So now I had a dilemma. I wanted to run screaming out of the funeral home, but I needed to stay and talk to Rose’s relatives.

  “I’m going back for cookies,” I said to Grandma and Randy.

  “I’ll go with you,” Randy said.

  “No! You have to stay here and save my seat.”

  “She’s right,” Grandma said. “I’ll never be able to hold two seats in this location. These people get vicious when it comes to a good seat.”

  I made my way out of the room and back to the lobby, talking to people as I worked my way through the crowd. I was looking for information on male friends, new friends, shopping friends. I was hanging out at the cookie table when I started a conversation with a woman who lived on Stanton Street and was Rose’s neighbor.

  “Were you and Rose good friends?” I asked her.

  “Truth is, I hardly knew her. I saw her all the time, because I lived right across the street, and my windows looked out at her house. We would say hello when we were both out, but other than that she kept to herself. She was quiet. She mostly went to the Senior Center. The little bus would come pick her up.”

  “That bus just picks up and drops off at the Senior Center,” I said. “It must have been hard for Rose to go grocery shopping.”

  “Her daughter used to take her shopping every Saturday, but then a couple weeks before she was murdered there was a different car. I imagine it was some other relative.”

  “Was it an SUV?”

  “No. It was a regular car. Gray. It looked like a man driving, so it might have been the son-in-law. I didn’t know him.”

  “Are there any other neighbors here?”

  The woman looked around. “I haven’t seen any. It’s hard to see anybody in this mob.”

  At eight-thirty I started maneuvering myself back into the viewing room. The tide was already turning and people were beginning to move out. I joined the line filing past the deceased, managing to get up to the casket just as the lights dimmed. I murmured the standard polite condolences and told Rose’s family I was part of the team investigating the murders.

  They introduced themselves as Rose’s daughter, son-in-law, and younger brother. I asked if Rose had mentioned any new friends or activities in the weeks before she died.

  Her daughter shook her head. “No. She had a set routine. She wasn’t very adventuresome in her later years.”

  “What about the Saturday shopping trip?” I asked.

  “We used to always shop together on Saturday,” the daughter said, “but I had foot surgery, and couldn’t drive.”

  I looked down at her foot, encased in a big black orthopedic walking boot.

  “Fortunately one of Mom’s friends from the Senior Center volunteered to take her shopping until I was driving again,” she said.

  “Did you know this friend?”

  “No. I never met him, but Mom had known this person for some time. Apparently he was one of those good souls who help out when rides are needed.”

  “I don’t suppose you know his name?”

  “I believe it was Gordon.”

  I saw my whole day go up in smoke. It was Gordon. The Jolly Hobbit. The guy with the car. Mr. Popularity. The guy who would have to strangle a woman with one hand so he could use his bronchial inhaler with the other. Even as I stood there I could hear him wheezing, trying to keep up with Grandma, who was hellbent for the cookie table. Problem was, Gordon could have an accomplice. Gordon could be luring old ladies off into the bushes with the promise of a ride to the butcher shop, and his evil twin, nutso cousin, or whackjob roommate could be strangling them and tossing them into the Dumpster.

  I followed Grandma, Gordon, and Randy Berger out of the viewing room into the lobby.

  “I’m going to head out,” I told Grandma. “And I told Mom I’d give you a ride home.”

  “Thanks,” she said, “but Gordon and I are going for a nightcap after we score some cookies.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I told Grandma. “I promised Mom I’d bring you home.”

  “Don’t worry,” Gordon said. “I’ll take good care of her. And I won’t keep her out too late.”

  “I’m holding you responsible for her welfare,” I said to him.

  “You can count on me,” he said.

  SEVENTEEN

  I WENT OUT the funeral home’s front door, walked through the parking lot, and bushwhacked my way through a hedge to get to the garages. I emerged from the hedge and experienced a moment of disorientation when I looked around and didn’t see Ranger’s CR-V. I walked to the middle of the drive court and did a 360-degree scan. No car.

  I called Ranger. “The strangest thing just happened,” I said. “I came out of the viewing, and your car is gone.”

  There was silence on his end, and I assumed he was checking with the control room. All his fleet cars had tracking devices.

  “It’s in the police impound lot,” Ranger said.

  “I guess I sort of parked illegally, but there weren’t any parking places. I don’t suppose you’d want to give me a ride home?”

  “Babe,” Ranger said. And the line went dead.

  Ten minutes later Ranger picked me up at the funeral home.

  “I thought I had a good lead on the murders, but it evaporated,” I told him. “Did you find out who was taking Melvina shopping?”

  “A man named Gordon Krutch. He seems to be the senior citizen go-to guy when someone needs a ride.”

  I blew out a sigh.

  “Not liking that information?” Ranger asked.

  “No. He seems entirely incapable. And he’s with my grandmother.”

  “Are you giving up on Bingo?”

  “Not entirely. I got a slow cooker out of it.”

  “Have you used it?”

  “I put Rex in it when I cleaned his cage.”

  He had one hand resting on the steering wheel and the other on the back of my seat. His finger traced a line down the nape of my neck. “What’s next? Am I taking you home?”

  Okay, I have to admit I was tempted to strip my shirt off and str
addle him. I’d actually done this once in his Porsche 911, and it was a complicated undertaking. He was driving his SUV tonight so it would be easier, but the consequences would be the same. Mind-blowing gratification followed by Catholic guilt and the munchies. I could probably handle the Catholic guilt, but I couldn’t handle the three extra pounds the munchies would produce.

  “Well?” Ranger said.

  “Let’s see if we can flush out Uncle Sunny.”

  Ranger put the Cayenne in gear and drove the short distance to Joe’s mother’s house. He parked across the street and one house down, and we sat silently watching the neighborhood. No activity. Lights on in all the houses. No Lincoln Town Car parked at the curb.

  We got out and stood for a moment in front of the house. Upstairs windows were dark. Lights were on downstairs in the kitchen and living room. Shades hadn’t been drawn. We moved closer, keeping in the shadows. Joe’s mom and Grandma Bella were on the couch. Joe’s mom was watching television. Bella was head down, snoozing. No sign of Sunny.

  “Maybe he’s asleep in an upstairs bedroom,” I said.

  Ranger stepped out of the shadows and went to the front door. “Let’s find out.”

  Joe’s mom answered on the second knock. She looked at Ranger and then at me standing by his side.

  “We’re looking for Sunny,” Ranger said.

  “He’s not here.”

  I looked into the living room and saw Bella’s head snap up with a snort. Her raptor eyes focused on me, and she sprang off the couch and rushed over to us.

  “You!” she said, pointing her finger at me. “You devil.”

  “I thought we discussed this,” Joe’s mom said to Bella. “Stephanie is not the devil.”

  “She come to get my nephew. She’s no good. And she’s stupid. She come too late. Sunny’s already gone. I spit on her.”

  “We don’t spit on people,” Joe’s mom said to Bella. “And we especially don’t spit on people when they’re in my house.”

  “How about the porch?” Bella asked her.

  Joe’s mom looked like she was getting a migraine. “Are we done here?” she asked Ranger.

  Ranger looked at me. “Would you like to search the house?”

  “Not necessary,” I told him. “If Joe’s mom says Sunny isn’t here, then he isn’t here.”