Janet Evanovich - Last Peep

by Last Peep (lit)

  "It could have happened to anybody," Grandma said. "It was an accident."

  "Like your granny," Lula said when we were back in the car. "Bet she kicks ass at the funeral parlor. What's the 'big boy'?"

  "It's a forty-five long-barrel she picked up at a yard sale."

  "That the gun she shot the roast chicken with?"

  "No," I said. "She shot the chicken with my thirty-eight."

  Lula was looking through the bag of food my mother had sent home with me. "You got two cans of peaches, half a pound of sliced ham, some provolone and a tomato. And it looks like there's some walnuts in the bottom of the bag."

  "They're for my hamster, Rex."

  "Just like going to the supermarket only you don't have to pay."

  "Actually, there's a price."

  I turned the corner at Roosevelt and rolled to a stop in front of Myra Smulinski's home. There were six houses on the block, all duplex, all two-story. Each half of a house had its own personality, its own small front yard and rectangular strip of backyard. The backyards bordered a single-lane service road which everyone called an alley. Myra's house was fourth in from Green Street. It was July, and Myra had window boxes filled with begonias sitting on her front porch.

  Lula looked at the house. "You think Myra whacked Squirrel?"

  Myra was in her late seventies. She had seven grandchildren and a hundred-year-old schnauzer who was mean as a snake. She drove a ten-year-old Buick at a consistent twenty mph, and she was burg renowned for her sour cream pound cake. I didn't think Myra was the one who whacked Squirrel.

  "Just thought it'd be useful to talk to her," I said.

  Myra answered at the first knock. I wasn't sure word had gotten out about Squirrel being shot, so I simply said I was looking for him.

  Myra shook her head. "That Squirrel is a pip. I called the police on him two weeks ago, and he's still coming around trampling my flowers. If you're looking for Squirrel, you've come to the right place."

  "Have you actually seen him? Or is it just that the flowers are trampled?"

  "I saw him the night I made the phone call. Naked as the day he was born. I heard this noise, so I put the light on the back porch, and there he was... shaking hands with the devil. It's a wonder the man isn't blind as a bat the way he was working at that thing."

  "Have you seen him recently?"

  "I haven't, but Helen Molnar said she saw his bicycle laying in the alley when she carne home from bingo the day before yesterday."

  "Any of your other neighbors see him?"

  "Just Helen. She lives at the end of the block next to Green, and she said his bike was laying at the back of my yard. Don't know why he's singled me out. It isn't like I've got something to see."

  "Is his bike still on your property?"

  "Nope. The bike disappeared."

  "You mind if we look around?"

  "Go right ahead. Just try not to make too much noise. Lucille's husband, Walter, next door, worked a double shift last night, and he'll be sleeping. I'm getting ready to go out to the beauty parlor. Need to get a fast set to my hair for tonight. Did you hear about Joe Lojak being laid out at Stiva's? He was an Elk, you know. Gonna have to get there early if I want a good seat."

  "Gonna have to muscle Granny for it," Lula whispered behind me.

  Lula and I walked the length of the street, turned the corner and started down the alley. Helen and Lou Molnar lived in the end house. The other half of the duplex was occupied by Biggy and Kathy Zaremba and their two little kids. Biggy worked for his father. Zaremba and Sons Moving and Storage. There were four sons and mostly what they stored were hijacked cigarettes and CDs. And mostly what Biggy did was play cards with his brothers in the warehouse on Mitchell Street.

  Kathy Zaremba's sister, Lucille, lived three houses down, in the other half of the house occupied by Myra. Lucille worked at the hospital, and her husband, Walter, was a security guard.

  When we'd walked the alley in its entirety I made my way back, cutting across yards, snooping into windows. All the houses had a back door with a small stoop. The door opened into the kitchen, and there was a room to the other side of the door which was intended to be a formal dining room, but several people, including Myra, had turned it into a TV room.

  Several houses had chain link fencing which delineated the yard. Myra and Lucille had foregone the fencing in favor of a low hedgerow bordered with flowers. It was this hedgerow that Sam had mutilated, probably not able to see it in the dark. Neither Myra's house nor Lucille's house had central air. Both had air conditioners hanging butt-out from upstairs bedroom windows. Both had the downstairs windows open. Myra's stoop was nice and tidy, but Lucille's stoop was cluttered with a bag of kitty litter, a rented carpet shampooer, a sponge mop that had seen better days and a broken lamp which was probably on its way out to garage.

  "A bag of kitty litter and a rug shampooer," Lula said. "I bet Lucille's cat peed on the rug."

  As if on cue, a gray cat poked its head out the broken screen door. The cat was immediately pulled back and scooped up by Lucille.

  "Hi," she said, seeing us standing there.

  "I'm looking for Sam Franco," I said. "I know he hung out here sometimes. Have you seen him lately?" Lucille stepped outside, leaving the cat in the kitchen. She had a roll of red duct tape and a scissors in her hand. She stood still for a moment... thinking, lower lip caught between her teeth. "I saw him the night the police came. Don't think I've seen him since then. Sometimes I'd see him on the street, on his bike. Not since that night though."

  "You're not gonna be able to patch that door with tape," Lula said. "You need a new length of screen."

  "It's the cat," Lucille says. "Every time I put in a new screen the cat pushes it out."

  Lucille had a raised welt in the middle of her forehead that was surrounded by a brand-new bruise. I'd been studiously trying not to stare. Lula, on the other hand, was never lost to the dictates of etiquette.

  "Boy, that's a beauty of a bruise you're growing," Lula said. "How'd you get that big goose egg on your head?"

  Lucille lightly touched the bump. "Wasn't paying attention and ran into a cabinet. Caught the corner."

  Lula and I left Lucille to worry about her door and cut across two more duplexes, bringing us up to Biggy's house. Usually there was a Zaremba Moving and Storage Econoline van parked in the alley. It was missing today, along with Biggy's Ford Explorer.

  Kathy was in the kitchen, feeding the toddler cereal. I rapped on the kitchen window, and Kathy jumped in her seat and the spoon flew out of her hand.

  "Jeez!" Kathy said, coming to the back door. "You almost scared me half to death."

  I'd gone to school with Kathy, but we didn't see each other much anymore. She'd been the prom queen in high school. Lots of auburn hair and a fast smile. The hair was the same, but the smile was forced now and didn't reach her eyes. She was too thin, and her face was too pale, the only color being a smudge of a fading bruise high on her cheekbone. No point to blaming that bruise on a kitchen cabinet. Everyone knew Biggy smacked Kathy around.

  "I'm trying to find Sam Franco," I said to Kathy. "I don't suppose you've seen him?"

  She shook her head vigorously. "No!" she said. "I haven't seen anyone, and I can't talk now. I'm feeding Timmy here."

  "That Kathy person is on the edge," Lula said when we were back at the car. "I guess babies'll do that to you."

  Not to mention Biggy.

  "Maybe we should talk to Biggy," I said. "Maybe we should mosey over to the warehouse and see if he's seen Sam."

  The Zaremba warehouse was on the other side of Broad, down by the river. I drove to Mitchell, found a space at the curb at the end of the block and sat staring at the open bay doors. Open doors meant there was no business being conducted today. That was good. Most likely no one would want to talk to me if the warehouse was filled with stolen toasters.

  Lula and I got out of the car and walked to the first bay. I flagged down a man wearing Zaremba coveralls a
nd told him I wanted to talk to Biggy. A moment later, Biggy appeared. Biggy looked like a Polish knockoff of King Kong in clothes.

  "I'm looking for Sam Franco," I told Biggy. "I know he spent time on Roosevelt Street. I was wondering if you've seen him recently."

  Biggy grinned and jingled change deep in the pocket of his pleated polyester slacks. "I saw your picture in the paper when you and your granny blew up the funeral home. You're that twinkie bounty hunter."

  "Twinkie?" Lula said, hand on hip. "Excuse us?"

  Biggy swiveled his eyes to Lula. "Who's the fatso?"

  "That does it," Lula said to me. I'm gonna shoot him."

  Biggy gave Lula a punch to the shoulder that knocked her a couple feet backward. "You aren't gonna shoot anyone, chubs. We don't allow shooting in this neighborhood. It lowers the property values." Lula got her footing and leaned into Biggy, nose to nose, lower lip stuck out. "Don't you touch me," Lula said. "I don't like people to touch me. You touch me again, and I'll bust a cap up your ass. See what that does to property values, you bag of monkey slime."

  Biggy pushed his shirt aside so we could see the 9mm Glock stuck in the waistband of his pants. "Draw," Biggy said to Lula. "Let's see what you got."

  "Hold it!" I shouted. "This isn't the gunfight at OK Corral!"

  "He's just being a smart-ass," Lula said. "It's obvious I don't have no gun. Anybody could see I left my gun at home."

  Biggy draped his shirt back over his Glock. "I don't like people snooping around this warehouse. I find either of you here again, and I'm going to get mad. And bad things happen when I get mad."

  I grabbed Lula by the hand and pulled her away from Biggy, back toward the end of the street where the car was parked.

  "I don't like him one bit," Lula said, shoe-horning herself into the passenger seat of the CRX. "And if you ask me, I think he did it. I think he shot the Squirrel. He wouldn't think nothing of it. He'd just go bang... squirrel season."

  I did some mental eye rolling and stuck the key in the ignition. I returned to the burg and cruised Roosevelt for several blocks, looking for Squirrel's red bike. I took the corner at Liberty and made my way down Hunt, running parallel to Roosevelt, and kept enlarging the area until there was no more burg left.

  "Maybe he wasn't in the burg when he was shot," Lula said. "Squirrel went all over Trenton on that bike."

  "Okay," I said, "plan number two. You check the Stark Street neighborhood. I'll go home and make some phone calls."

  I was halfway through my list of reliable gossipmongers when Eddy Gazarra called. Gazarra was another cop friend, and he was married to my cousin Shirley the Whiner.

  "I heard you're looking for Squirrel," Gazarra said. "Dead or alive."

  "You know where he is?"

  "The boys just opened up a van on the corner of Wall and Perry. Someone called in a nuisance report. Apparently the van's been sitting there in the sun all afternoon, giving off a bad odor, drawing a thick fog of flies."

  "Sam Franco?"

  "Yeah. Strapped to a hand truck for easy transport. If you hurry you might still qualify for the recovery money."

  I was on my feet and out the door before Eddie had a chance to say good-bye. Recovery of a felon wasn't sufficient grounds for a bondsman to get his bond returned. The bondsman's agent had to be present at the recovery. Considering the bizarre history of this case, I might still get the money back if I hustled.

  I screeched to a stop behind a pack of cruisers on Perry Street and hit the ground running. I sorted through a gaggle of cops, looking for a friendly face and felt a wave of relief when I picked out Carl Costanza.

  "Long time no see," Carl said. "At least four hours."

  "Do you think I'm too late to get credit for the recovery?"

  "What, weren't you always here? I was first on the scene, and I could have sworn you were already in place."

  "I owe you a beer."

  "You owe me a six-pack," Carl said. "And a pizza. Large. Pepperoni."

  I glanced at the black lettering on the yellow Econoline. "Zaremba Moving and Storage."

  "A clue," Carl said.

  "Sort of an obvious clue."

  Carl shrugged. "Maybe Biggy didn't think the smell would get bad this fast. Maybe he was waiting for it to get dark to dump the body."

  "So you think it was Biggy?"

  "It's his personal truck. The one he keeps in the alley behind his house. And he's the sort of hotheaded jerk who'd do something like this. I've been to his house twice this month on domestic violence. Never his wife who calls. She's too scared. Always the neighbor or Lucille, the sister."

  I agreed with Carl. Biggy was a hotheaded jerk. Trouble was none of the events made sense. "This is all pretty strange," I said to Carl. "I saw this body in the abandoned house this morning. Why would Biggy take it back and put it in his truck?"

  "Second thoughts," Carl said. "Happens all the time. You're in a rush to get rid of the body, so you drop it at the first place comes to mind. Then you get to worrying maybe your fingerprints are on his joystick, so you think the river might be better."

  There were two suits from violent crimes in the van with Sam. The medical examiner's pickup arrived and backed in close to the truck. The ME drove a dark blue Ford Ranger with a white cap divided into compartments that reminded me of kennels. The ME got out, stepped onto the van's bumper and hauled himself up.

  I sat on the curb and waited while everyone did their thing. By the time I got my body receipt signed, the sun was low in the sky. The medical examiner had placed the time of death around two a.m. Even better, he'd been able to ascertain that Sammy'd been killed with a.45... as the slug had miraculously dropped from Sammy's head when one of the attendants lost his grip on the hand truck holding Sam, and the hand truck crashed to the floor, jarring the bullet loose. At least that's the story they told me.

  I didn't feel like being alone with my thoughts, so I ambled over to my parents' house to mooch leftovers.

  "Other women have daughters who work in banks and business offices. I have a daughter who looks for people," my mother said, watching me eat. "How did this happen? What am I supposed to say to Marion Weinstein when she asks what my daughter does?"

  "Tell her I'm in law enforcement."

  "You could get a good job if you just put your mind to it. I hear the personal products plant has openings."

  "Just what I wanted to do... spend my days over-seeing the boxing machine at the tampon factory."

  A car door slammed shut out on the street, and Grandma hustled into the house. "You should have been there! That Stiva knows how to do a viewing, I'm telling you. The place was packed. Joe Lojak looked real good. Nice color to his cheeks. Real natural. He had on a red tie with little brown horse heads on it. And the best part was I beat Myra out for the best seat. She even had her hair done, but I got the seat in the first row next to the window! I'm telling you, I'm good.

  "And everybody was talking about Sam Franco! They found him in Biggy's van. And that isn't all. Mildred Sklar was there, and you know Mildred's boy is a police dispatcher, and Mildred said it just came in that they went out to Biggy's house and found the murder weapon in Biggy's closet. Can you imagine!"

  "I'm not surprised," my mother said. "Biggy Zaremba is a hoodlum."

  "What about Biggy?" I asked. "Did they arrest Biggy?"

  "Nope," Grandma said. "He clean got away."

  I called Lula and left a message on her machine. "Found Sam Franco," the message said. "So that's the end of that. Give you the details tomorrow."

  After two hours of television at my parents' house I still didn't feel comfortable with the Zaremba thing. Not that it was any of my business. My business was simple. Find the missing person. Deliver him to the court. Solving murders was a whole other ball game, and bounty hunters weren't on that team.

  "Well," Grandma said, "guess I'm going to bed. Gotta get my beauty rest."

  My father opened his mouth to say something, received a sharp look from my mo
ther, and closed his mouth with a snap. My father, on occasion, had likened my grandmother to a soup chicken, and no one was able to deny the resemblance.

  "It's late for me too," I said, pulling myself to my feet.

  Late enough for me to act like an idiot and snoop along Roosevelt Street under cover of darkness. Don't ask why I felt compelled to do this. Sometimes it's best not to examine these things too closely.

  I waved good-bye to my mother and drove down High Street as if I were going home. After three blocks I turned and doubled back and parked at the corner of Roosevelt and Green. The neighborhood was quiet and very dark. No moon in the sky. Downstairs lights were on in all the houses. The burg was a peeper's paradise at night. No one drew their curtains or pulled their shades. Drawn shades might mean your house wasn't immaculate, and no burg housewife would admit to having a dirty house. With the exception of Biggy's house. Biggy's curtains were always closed. Even now when Biggy wasn't in the house, the shades were drawn from force of habit. Biggy had enemies. There were people who might want to snipe at Biggy while he crushed beer cans on his forehead and watched Tuesday Night Fights. I traveled this street all the time, and I knew Biggy never left himself open for target practice.