Sizzling Sixteen

by Janet Evanovich

  I stood on tiptoes and felt over the doorjamb and found a key.

  “If I was in this neighborhood, and I had a bunch of drug money and drugs stashed here, I’d be more careful about my key,” Lula said.

  “Maybe he has an alarm system.”

  I plugged the key into the door, held my breath, and pushed the door open. No alarm sounded. I looked around for an alarm keypad. None visible.

  “Guess he’s just one of those trusting people,” Lula said. “Sort of refreshing in this day and age. Especially in the criminal element.”

  We were standing in a large room that had a bare-bones galley kitchen at one end, a kitchen table and four chairs, and beyond that a couch and two easy chairs in front of a large flat screen TV. There was a door to the right, which I assumed led to the bedroom.

  “It’s just amazin’ how normal a criminal could be,” Lula said. “This looks just like any other person’s apartment. ’Course you gotta sell drugs to afford something this big, but aside from that, you gotta admit it’s real normal.” She looked around. “I don’t see Mr. Jingles. And I don’t think it’s a cat, because I’m not sneezing. I bet it’s a cute puppy or something.”

  “I don’t see any dog bowls or dog toys.”

  “Here, Mr. Jingles,” Lula called. “Here, boy! Here, Mr. Jingles. Come to Lula.”

  There was a rustling sound behind the couch, and a six-foot alligator padded out, focused on Lula, and lunged.

  “Yow!” Lula said, stumbling back, knocking into me. “Help! Watch out. Get outta my way!”

  I was across the room like a shot with Lula on my heels, pushing me through the door, slamming the door behind us.

  “I think I wet myself,” Lula said. “Do I look like I wet myself?”

  I was beyond noticing if she wet herself. I had my hand over my heart, and my mouth open sucking air, and my heart was knocking around so hard in my chest my vision was blurred.

  “I think we’re done here,” I said to Lula.

  “Fuckin’ A,” Lula said. “Don’t forget to put the key back, or Chopper won’t be able to get in to feed Mr. Jingles if he locks himself out.”

  I returned the key to its hiding place, and the gator slammed against the door on the inside of Chopper’s apartment and Lula and I flew down the stairs, missing a couple, both of us sliding halfway on our asses. We got to our feet, the gator banged against the door again, and Lula and I ran screaming for the Jeep.

  Ten minutes later, I parked behind Lula’s Firebird in front of the bonds office.

  “I guess that’s why Chopper doesn’t need an alarm system,” I said, finally finding my voice.

  “What kind of man keeps a alligator in his house? That’s just wrong. Where does he poop? You ever think of that? And he got a lot of nerve naming him something cute like Mr. Jingles. That’s a deceptive name. And it was all your fault anyway, because you left your bottle home.”

  My phone rang, and I picked it up to Morelli.

  “I need to talk to you,” Morelli said. “I caught the McCuddle fiasco. I’m sure the autopsy will show natural causes, but I need you to fill out some paperwork. If you meet me at Pino’s in ten minutes, I’ll buy you lunch.”

  “Deal.”

  “What was that about?” Lula asked.

  “Lunch with Morelli. He got assigned to McCuddle, and he’s got my paperwork.”

  PINO’S SERVES ITALIAN food Burg-style. Greasy pizza you have to fold to eat, meatball subs, sausage sandwiches, spaghetti with red sauce, worthless uninteresting salad with iceberg lettuce and pale tomatoes, Bud on tap, and red table wine. It has a dark, carved, mahogany bar and a side room with tables for families and couples who don’t want to watch hockey on the television hanging over the liquor collection.

  Morelli was waiting for me at a table, choosing not to be distracted by ESPN recaps on the bar television. He had a Coke in front of him and a breadbasket.

  I ordered a chicken Parmesan sandwich and a Coke, and Morelli ordered a sausage sandwich. When the waitress left, Morelli handed me a stack of papers.

  “I don’t need these in a rush,” he said, “but I know you have to hand them in to get your capture fee.”

  I shoved the papers into my messenger bag. “It was a shock to find McCurdle dead like that.”

  “Yeah, but he actually looked kind of happy.”

  “He liked being married.”

  Morelli smiled. “He liked being married too much.”

  “I have a hypothetical question for you. If Bobby Sunflower was mixed up with someone more scary than him, who would it be?”

  “A couple people come to mind. Can you be more specific?”

  “Suppose Vinnie was also mixed up in it.”

  “That doesn’t narrow it down a lot. Vinnie was into a lot of illegal stuff. Prostitution, gambling, recreational drugs. In his defense, I have to say to my knowledge he always only bought and never sold.”

  “Let’s narrow it down to gambling.”

  “That’s tough. I’d think Sunflower kept that to himself.” Morelli picked a breadstick out of the basket. “I’m guessing this isn’t all that hypothetical. Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “You’d have police issues.”

  Morelli leaned back in his chair and locked eyes with me. Serious. “If you were in danger, I’d expect you to tell me.”

  “I’m okay. Aside from an alligator encounter this morning, everything’s under control.”

  “Were you at the zoo?”

  “Cotter Street.”

  “I imagine you’re talking about Chopper’s alligator. How big is he now?”

  “Has to be six foot.”

  “I’ve never seen him, but I’ve heard stories.”

  I buttered a piece of bread. “He’s prehistoric. Scared the bejeezus out of me. He came out from behind Chopper’s couch and snapped at Lula. Lula and I took off and fell halfway down the stairs, and then screamed all the way to the car. Now that I think about it, it was sort of embarrassing.”

  “Did you apprehend Chopper?”

  “No. He wasn’t home.”

  “But he left his door open and unlocked?”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  Morelli looked around for the waitress. “Maybe I should have ordered a drink.”

  “Feeling the need for alcohol?”

  “Yeah, you have that effect on me. My biggest fear is that someday I’m going to show up to arrest someone and it’s going to be you.”

  “Would you do that?”

  Morelli gave up on the waitress and slouched down a little. “I’d put the cuffs on you.”

  “And then what?” I asked.

  His mouth curved into a small smile, and his eyes darkened. “Do you want to know the details?”

  My turn to smile. “Not here.”

  “You’re teasing me,” Morelli said. “I like it.”

  That led to a long silence while we both considered the next move. It would be easy to fall back into an intimate relationship with Morelli. He was fun, and sexy, and easy to live with. And I liked his dog. He could also be difficult to live with. He hated my job. And he insisted on controlling the television remote. We had a history of breaking up and eventually getting back together. I suppose it suited our current lifestyle, but it was probably establishing bad habits.

  “Do you remember why we broke up?” Morelli asked. “You needed space.”

  “I needed toast. You ate the last piece of bread, and you didn’t get more.”

  “I was busy. I forgot.”

  “You’re supposed to remember those things. You’re a woman.”

  “I’m supposed to remember toast?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about you? What are you supposed to remember?”

  “Condoms.”

  Here’s the scary part. It sort of made sense.

  “So what’s new with you, other than McCurdle?” I asked. “Any interesting murders?”

  “McCurdle’s about as good a
s it gets. After him, it’s same ol’, same ol’. Gang executions, vehicular homicide, accidental death with a blunt instrument.”

  The waitress brought our sandwiches, and we dug in.

  “What can you tell me about Chopper?” I said to Morelli.

  “He’s middle-management drugs. He used to do enforcement for Ari Santini. If you fell behind on your protection payments, Chopper would shorten your finger. That’s how he got his name. One day, he shortened the wrong finger and got his hand smashed with a baseball bat. Had a hard time getting a good grip on fingerchopping tools after that, so he got bumped over to sales.”

  Oh great. Lula was right.

  “Any ideas on how I can catch Chopper?” I asked Morelli.

  “I’d avoid his apartment.”

  A glob of red sauce slipped out of my sandwich and landed on my T-shirt. “Crap,” I said, looking down at the sauce.

  Morelli’s eyes darkened a little, and for a moment I thought he was going to lick the sauce off. And then I wasn’t sure if it was because he wanted the sauce or because it was on my breast.

  “I already figured out the apartment avoidance,” I said, dabbing at my shirt with my napkin. “What else?”

  “I don’t know. He’s not in my circle of friends.” Morelli tapped a number into his phone and asked about Chopper. He got off the phone, wrote a bunch of addresses on a napkin, and gave me the napkin.

  “Midmorning, he’ll be downtown,” Morelli said. “He moves around, but he’s usually on lower Stark. Drives a black Lexus. He has a lunch trade going at a couple fast-food places around the arena. Then he goes home to stash money and package up more stuff. He’s somewhere around the food court at Quakerbridge Mall early in the evening, and then he moves to a multiplex parking lot. Usually in Hamilton Township.”

  “He covers a lot of ground.”

  “Yeah,” Morelli said. “He hustles.”

  “And the alligator protects the drugs and the money?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Two questions. If you guys know where he sells drugs, why don’t you arrest him?”

  “We did. He’s out on bail. And it’s not that easy. He’s sneaky.”

  “Okay, second question. Why doesn’t someone walk into his apartment and shoot the alligator and take the drugs and the money?”

  Morelli stopped eating and looked at me. “You aren’t thinking of doing that, are you?”

  “Of course not. It was a hypothetical question. Honestly, do you really think I’d shoot an alligator?”

  “No,” Morelli said. “But Lula might.”

  “Lula couldn’t hit an alligator if it was three feet from her and already dead. I shoot with my eyes closed, and I’m a better shot than Lula.”

  Morelli’s phone buzzed and he looked at the readout. “I have to go,” he said.

  “Something bad happen?”

  “I’m a homicide detective. If they’re paging me, it’s never good.” He stood and dropped a couple twenties on the table. “That should cover it,” he said. “Call me if you get lonely.”

  “What kind of an invitation is that?” I asked.

  “I was going for friendly without being pushy.”

  I shoved back from the table and stood with him. “You succeeded.”

  EIGHT

  I STOPPED HOME to change my shirt, and at the last moment, I decided to take my bottle. I mean, it couldn’t hurt to carry it around, right? I left my apartment, and I drove past the bonds office toward the arena. I cruised the area around the arena, looking for Chopper’s Lexus, checking out the fast-food places Morelli’s source had listed. I hung there until two o’clock without seeing a single black Lexus SUV. I took Broad to Cotter and drove the alley behind Chopper’s loft. The black SUV was parked in Chopper’s small backyard. Chopper was at home with Mr. Jingles.

  I returned to Broad, and I was almost at Hamilton when Chet called.

  “Gritch left the 7-Eleven and drove across the river. I have him at an isolated house a half mile off Lower Buck’s Road. He’s been there for ten minutes now. I’m programming it into your nav system.”

  “Thanks. I’ll check it out.”

  “Do you need back up?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  There was a long pause. “No,” Chet finally said.

  It used to bother me that Ranger monitored my every move, but I’ve gotten used to it, and for the most part, I’m able to ignore it. Truth is, I’m not all that good at being a bounty hunter, and Ranger’s over protectiveness has saved my life more than once.

  I stopped at the bonds office to get Lula, and I ran into Walter Moon Man Dunphy coming out of the used-book store next to the bonds office. Mooner is my age, but he lives on an entirely different planet. He’s slim, with light brown shoulder-length hair, parted in the middle. He was wearing a vintage Metallica T-shirt, jeans with holes in the knees, and black-and-white Chucks.

  “Dudette,” Mooner said to me. “Long time no see. How’s life?”

  “It’s good,” I told him. “What’s new with you?”

  “I got a new casa. It’s el loco mobile casa.”

  It took me a moment to realize he was talking about the rusted-out motor home at curbside.

  “You’re living in this RV?”

  “Affirmative. Totally cool, right? And the feng shui is excellent. Like, if I’m getting bad vibes, I just park this sweetheart in a different direction. And I have a dish, so I didn’t have to give up my position on the Cosmic Alliance.”

  I had no clue what he meant by the Cosmic Alliance, and I didn’t want to take the time to ask.

  “That’s great,” I said. “I have to go to work now.”

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  “You’re working?”

  “Gotta feed the Love Bus. Doesn’t run on air, dude.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m walking dogs. I pick ’em up, and take ’em to the park, they crap their brains out, and I take ’em home.”

  He gave me his card. GOLDEN AURA DOG SERVICE. Happy Is As Happy Does.

  “Nice,” I said.

  “I’m hella entrepreneurial,” Mooner said. “It’s a gift.”

  I pocketed the card and went into the bonds office. “Gritch is at a house in Bucks County,” I said to Lula. “I’m going to take a look. Want to come with me?”

  “Sure,” Lula said. “Haven’t got anything better to do.”

  “How about filing,” Connie said.

  “Filing isn’t better,” Lula said. “Filing gives me a cramp in my head. Personally, I think you should just throw all those files away. We never look at them. What good are they? When was the last time you looked at one of them files?”

  “I’d look at them if I could find them,” Connie said. She turned to me. “Speaking of files, I got a new one for you. Lenny Pickeral. It should be an easy capture.”

  “Wait until you hear this,” Lula said. “This is a beauty. This guy stole toilet paper outta all the rest stops on the Turnpike. He said he was protesting the inferior quality of rest stop toilet paper.”

  It didn’t seem like such a horrible crime. “They arrested him for that?”

  “Actually, they arrested him for making an illegal U-turn across the grass median,” Connie said. “When they checked out his trunk, they found it was full of toilet paper. And then they went to his house, and it was full of toilet paper. The guy has been stealing toilet paper from the Turnpike for almost a year.”

  “And now he’s FTA?” I asked.

  “Probably stealing more toilet paper even as we speak,” Lula said. “Sounds to me like a addiction.”

  I rammed the file into my bag. “Addios. I’m off to find Vinnie.”

  “Me, too,” Lula said. “I’m gonna find the heck out of him.”

  I crossed the Delaware River into Pennsylvania and went north on Lower Buck’s Road, watching my nav screen. Lower Buck’s Road is a two-lane, fairly well-traveled road that runs along the river. It’s a mix o
f expensive homes, moderate homes, and woods. Not a lot of commercial property.

  Ten minutes down Lower Buck’s Road, I was told to turn left, onto a dirt road. It was a wooded area, and the dirt road was single-lane. I knew the house was a half mile in. I crept along, not wanting to raise dust, and after a half mile, I came to the house. It was a brown-shingle, two-story, cottage-type house. Big. Maybe seven thousand square feet. A Bucks County manor house. Professional landscaping. Circular drive court. Not shabby. Probably, Vinnie didn’t want to be rescued. He probably had a Jacuzzi and a four-poster bed. On the other hand, they were going to kill him on Friday.

  I continued on down the road, past two more houses, before the road abruptly ended. I turned and slowly cruised past the brown-shingle house for a second time. Gritch’s Mercedes was parked in the drive court, plus two other cars. One was an SUV and the other a Ferrari.

  “Hard to believe you’d want to stash a perv like Vinnie in a nice house like this,” Lula said. “Maybe this here’s Bobby Sunflower’s house. In which case, we be sitting in Bobby’s driveway, and that might not be healthy.”

  “Good point.”

  I drove back to the road, pulled to the side, and parked. A half hour later, Mickey Gritch turned out of the dirt road and headed south, toward Trenton. The Ferrari followed.

  I called Chet, gave him the Ferrari’s plate number, and asked him to find owners for the car and the house. He called me back in five minutes.

  “The car belongs to Bobby Sunflower,” Chet said. “The house is owned by a holding company. And Sunflower owns the holding company.”

  “Can you find out if the holding company owns other properties?”

  “Sure. I’ll get back to you.”

  “This is like having your own private detective agency,” Lula said. “Does Ranger keep a tally of services? Do you gotta pay up one way or another at the end of the month? I tell you, I wouldn’t mind doing that. He is heartstoppin’ hot. I had my way, I’d spread sauce on him and work him like a rib.”

  The thought of working Ranger like a rib gave me a hot flash that prickled from my scalp clear down to my doodah.

  “You just turned red,” Lula said. “I never seen you turn red like that before.”