Look Alive Twenty-Five

by Janet Evanovich

  Miriam looked over at Lula. “Did you know him?”

  “Nope. Never met the man, but I feel for him just the same. I hate dead with a vengeance. Far as I’m concerned nothing good ever comes from being dead. And then there’s the cooties.” Lula gave a shiver. “Horrible.”

  I was starting to get it together. The bagel was sitting lower in my chest, and my heart rate was normalizing. I didn’t know Skoogie, but seeing him crumpled and lifeless made me feel sad, and there was revulsion over the violence of his death.

  “You’re a good man in a crisis situation,” I said to Luis.

  “I’m from Chicago,” he said. “We have stabbings like this all the time in my neighborhood. Only difference is there’s usually lots of blood.”

  I forced myself to look at Skoogie. Luis was right. There was no blood. None on the floor of the office and very little on Skoogie. He had a knife sticking out of his neck, but there wasn’t the bleeding I would expect to see. I was pretty sure I knew what this meant.

  “He didn’t die from the knife wound,” I said.

  Luis nodded. “That would be my guess. He’d already been dead long enough for his heart to stop pumping blood.”

  “That’s creepy.”

  “Not something you see every day,” Luis said.

  Miriam was on her feet. “What should we do? Should we cover him, or something?”

  “It’s a crime scene,” I said. “We should move into the other room and leave this room untouched.”

  I got everyone into the outer office, and I checked my watch. The deli was open for lunch. I called Ranger and filled him in.

  “Is Ella at the deli?” I asked him.

  “Yes. I sent her over at eleven-thirty. I haven’t heard from her, so I assume everything is okay.”

  “I don’t feel comfortable leaving here until the police arrive,” I said. “I’m probably going to miss lunch, but I’ll be there for dinner.”

  “When you’re done with the police, you should come to Rangeman and look at the video to see if you recognize anyone passing through the lobby.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  MORELLI STOOD HANDS on hips, staring down at Skoogie. The medical examiner was on one knee, getting a closer look. The police photographer and two EMT guys were waiting behind Morelli. Someone said the CSI van and the local news satellite truck were on the street. Miriam was at her desk in a Valium stupor.

  “It’s getting crowded in here,” I said to Morelli. “I’m going to round up my posse and head out.”

  “Are you working again tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll wait up.”

  We dropped Lula off at the deli, and Luis and I went on to Rangeman. I left Luis in the control room, and I walked down the short hall to Ranger’s office.

  “I’ll run the video on a wall monitor,” Ranger said. “The Hamilton Building is a budget account. One surveillance camera in the lobby, and we do a drive-by four times a day. The surveillance camera isn’t monitored live. It’s set to record on a forty-eight-hour loop. The front desk is manned five days a week, from six in the morning until eight in the evening. The attendant unlocks the front door when he arrives and locks it when he leaves. The tenants have keys for all other access.”

  I sat in one of the chairs in front of Ranger’s desk and swiveled toward the bank of flat screens.

  “I have this programmed to run fast until the camera picks up motion in the lobby,” Ranger said. “Let me know if you want me to slow down or if you want to see something again. I’m going to run it forward from late Saturday morning. Not a lot of activity in the building over the weekend so this won’t take long.”

  People began arriving shortly after the attendant opened the doors on Monday. I didn’t recognize anyone. They all looked legitimate, carrying to-go coffee containers and dressed for business.

  Skoogie entered the lobby at ten minutes after seven. A messenger bag hung from his shoulder, and he had his hand wrapped around a Starbucks coffee container. He gave a nod to the attendant and went to the elevator.

  “He’s starting his day early,” I said. “His assistant doesn’t come in until nine o’clock.”

  There was a steady stream of people coming and going. When the clock on the video read twenty minutes past eight I told Ranger to stop the action. Victor Waggle was in the lobby. He was wearing a khaki knapsack and carrying a guitar case. The snake tattoo was clearly visible on his neck. He looked like he’d slept on the street. And he looked angry, striding to the elevator, talking to himself and gesturing.

  “That’s Victor Waggle,” I said. “He’s one of Skoogie’s clients. He’s lead guitar and vocal for Rockin’ Armpits. And he’s FTA. I’ve been looking for him. He stabbed two people on State Street a couple weeks ago.”

  Ranger ran the video to the end. Waggle left the building at eight forty-seven, still looking nuts. Miriam came in at nine o’clock. I didn’t recognize anyone else.

  “We know Waggle is handy with a knife,” I said. “The big question is . . . why would he stab a dead man in the neck and hide him in the closet?”

  “I’m more interested in a possible connection to the deli kidnappings,” Ranger said. “I don’t know if the stabbing is even relevant. I think the relationship between Skoogie and Sitz might be worth something. And I want to know if they find Waggle’s prints on the shoe that was left on the desk.”

  “Do you think Sitz is behind the kidnappings?”

  “Something to consider,” Ranger said.

  “Who’s babysitting me this afternoon?” I asked.

  “I am,” Ranger said. “Before we head out I’d like to read through your file on Victor Waggle.”

  I gave him my file and wandered off to the control room kitchen. Ella keeps the kitchen stocked with sandwiches, salads, and fruit. I grabbed a ham and cheese on multigrain and a water, and returned to Ranger’s office to eat my lunch.

  “I can’t believe Vinnie wrote a bond on this guy,” Ranger said. “He has no assets, no ties to the community, no real address, no relatives between here and Wisconsin. I pulled a report on him, and he has no credit history and no work history. How does he live?”

  “Groupie girls. He’s a local, cult-type rock star, and he sleeps around. It’s one of the reasons I can’t find him. If he was homeless he’d at least have a favorite doorstep or a tent under the bridge. This guy just keeps moving around from one girl to the next.”

  “And Leonard Skoogie was his agent and manager?”

  “Yes. My best source for information is the band’s drummer, but he doesn’t know much about Waggle. It’s not like the band hangs out together in their free time.”

  Ranger closed his computer and stood. “I want to see Skoogie’s office, and then I want to see the Snake Pit building. Let’s go for a ride.”

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  Ranger drove to the Hamilton Building and went directly to the underground garage entrance. He slid his keycard into the machine, and the gate rolled up.

  “Luis didn’t know about the garage,” I said.

  “He doesn’t have access. We don’t patrol the inside of the building or the garage.”

  “But you have access.”

  “I’m special,” Ranger said.

  Ranger parked, and we took the elevator to the second floor. Morelli was still in Skoogie’s office when Ranger and I walked in.

  “What have we got?” Ranger asked Morelli.

  “Speculation until the autopsy. Blunt trauma to the back of the head. Fresh needle injection site on left arm. Time of death estimated to be seven-thirty A.M.”

  “Could the head injury be the result of a fall?”

  “The positioning is inconsistent with a fall, but it’s not completely ruled out.”

  “So shortly after he arrived in his office he might
have been knocked out and injected with something that killed him.”

  “That’s the current thinking, but again, it’s conjecture. It could also be that he injected himself, had a catastrophic reaction, and fell.”

  “What about the knife sticking out of his neck?” Ranger asked.

  “He was actually stabbed several times. All postmortem.”

  “Ranger ran the security video for me, and I recognized Victor Waggle,” I said to Morelli. “Waggle entered the building at eight-twenty this morning and left a half hour later. He looked angry. He kind of stormed in, waving his hands around and talking to himself.”

  “I’ll send someone out to pick him up for questioning,” Morelli said.

  Ranger and I exchanged glances.

  “What?” Morelli said.

  “He could be hard to find,” I said. “He hasn’t got an address.”

  “This is the guy who stabbed those two people on State Street, right? He has a snake tattoo on his neck. It’s not like he’s unrecognizable.”

  “True,” I said.

  Ranger smiled.

  “Do you mind if I look around?” he asked Morelli.

  “Try not to trip over CSI.”

  Ranger studied the photographs on the wall. He looked out the window. He looked at the desktop. Multi-line phone, desk clock engraved to the happy couple from Aunt Tootsie, and a couple pens. Ranger pulled on gloves and went through drawers and file cabinets. He examined the locks on the doors. He went back to Morelli.

  “We’re heading out,” Ranger said. “I’ll send you a copy of the video.”

  “Appreciate it,” Morelli said. “And remember she has a ten o’clock curfew.”

  Another smile from Ranger.

  We walked the hall and took the stairs to the garage.

  “Is there a way to get into the garage without a keycard?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “So, we can assume the killer had a front door key or a keycard.”

  “Yes, but there are a lot of them floating around. This isn’t a secure building. Some of the tenants prefer it that way. They can bring clients up through the garage after hours and no one knows.”

  Ranger left the garage and drove the length of Stark Street. He idled in front of the Snake Pit building.

  “You’ve been here,” he said.

  “I was here with Lula and Hal.”

  “Waggle gives this as his address. Is that possible?”

  “It’s just a shell. And this is a scary part of Stark.”

  Ranger pulled to the curb and parked. “Let’s take a look.”

  I got out and stood away from the SUV. It was Ranger’s personal Porsche Cayenne. It looked and smelled new. It was black. It was immaculate. And with a tap on his remote it was electrified.

  “On Thursdays and Fridays when they have music here, the street is closed off and there are food trucks and big searchlights. I don’t know how they power the lights,” I said.

  “Let’s go inside.”

  The inside had been swept clean. No left-behind drug paraphernalia, no empty beer bottles, no wasted snowflakes.

  “That’s the stage at the far end?” Ranger asked.

  “Yes. The bands enter and exit through the door on the left.”

  We walked toward the stage, and there was a bloodcurdling shriek from the street.

  “Jeez Louise,” I said. “What was that?”

  “I imagine someone tried to steal the Porsche.”

  “Will they be okay?”

  “Probably. I didn’t have it set on lethal.”

  Ranger went out the side door and looked at the area behind the building. He walked down the alley to the street.

  The Porsche was still parked at the curb. No other car in sight. No Porsche stealers lurking. Ranger clicked the security system off, but I kept my distance.

  “You first,” I said.

  Ranger opened the door and got behind the wheel. I touched a finger to the SUV. I didn’t get shocked, so I got in next to him.

  “Babe,” he said, “you have trust issues.”

  “Better safe than sorry.”

  “Sometimes safe isn’t fun.”

  “I didn’t know you were that interested in fun.”

  “Spend the night with me and judge for yourself,” Ranger said.

  Here’s the thing. I’ve spent the night with him and fun isn’t the first word that comes to mind. The first word would be WOW or maybe YUM or AHHHHHHH, YES! Okay, that’s two words, but he’s worth two words and more. Truth is, he’s magic. And he’s also major trouble in the romance department since Morelli isn’t keen on sharing me. For that matter, I’m not keen on sharing either. Being in love and in a relationship with one man is complicated enough. Being in love and in a relationship with two men would be suicide. But it’s hard not to be in love after a night of magic.

  “You promised Morelli you’d have me home by my curfew.”

  “Wrong. Morelli told me to get you home by ten o’clock. I didn’t promise anything.”

  The magic thing got me to thinking about Wulf. “What do you suppose Wulf’s role is in all this?” I asked.

  “I think it’s tangential. Wulf is looking for someone who happens to be involved.”

  “Nothing more?”

  “Probably nothing more in the beginning, but that could have changed. If Wulf is intrigued by the game he might join in.”

  It was a beautiful day. Full-on sunshine and seventy degrees. I was in the SUV next to Ranger, and I was thinking about the beach. Forty-five minutes away. I wanted to push all thoughts about the deli aside, spread a blanket on the sand, and lay there listening to the surf, feeling the sun on my face.

  “We should go to Point Pleasant,” I said. “We could lay on the beach and hold hands.”

  “Babe,” Ranger said.

  His voice was soft and wistful. Okay, wistful might be a stretch for Ranger, but there was a quality there that wasn’t familiar. Or maybe I was just projecting my own feelings. God knows, I felt wistful.

  We were halfway down Stark, almost to State Street, and Ranger pulled to the curb.

  “We can’t go to the beach,” he said. “Is there something else? Would you like an ice cream cone? Flowers? A kitten?”

  “A kiss,” I said.

  He leaned across the console and kissed me. Gentle. Loving. Wistful.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I feel better now.”

  “Anytime,” he said.

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  Lula was on a rant when we got to the deli.

  “I can’t work under these conditions,” Lula said, arms waving in the air. “There’s no condiments. How am I supposed to create my art burgers and nuevoninis without no condiments?”

  “What’s a ‘nuevonini’?” I asked.

  “It’s when I use the panini machine to fabulitize an ordinary plain-ass sandwich,” Lula said. “My peeps have expectations.”

  “Why don’t we have any condiments?”

  “On account of nobody ordered any,” Lula said.

  “You’re using hot sauce and mayo like it was water,” Stretch said. “How am I supposed to know we’re out of everything? It’s not like I’m the manager here.”

  Everyone looked over at me.

  “What?” I said.

  “You are the manager,” Raymond said. “You are the place where the buck stops. You should be more diligent in your job. If you were doing your job we would not have to listen to this large woman going bat-shitty.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “I promise I’ll take inventory tonight. Give me a list and I’ll make a store run.”

  Lula glared at Raymond, her hands on her hips. “What do you mean by ‘large woman’? Are you making some politically incorrect comment on my
size? Are you engaging in body shaming?”

  “You are a big woman,” Raymond said. “It is a fact.”

  “I’m not tall, though,” Lula said.

  “No, you are not tall,” Raymond said. “You are robust.”

  “Okay,” Lula said. “I can live with that.”

  Customers were beginning to trickle in. Ella was serving water and distributing menus. Lula gave me her list.

  “Anyone else want to add to the list?” I asked.

  “I would like a nubile virgin,” Raymond said. “You can surprise me on the sexual orientation.”

  Ranger was smiling again.

  “I’ve never seen you smile this much,” I said.

  “Babe, your life is a train wreck.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  MY SHOPPING CART was filled with ketchup, mustard, mayo, hot sauce, horseradish, barbecue sauce, bags of chips, white bread, and cans of cranberry sauce. I pushed it to the checkout, and while I was standing in line I noticed a guy walking through the store, carrying a handbasket. He was wearing a hoodie and a ball cap, and he had a snake tattoo on his neck.

  I grabbed Ranger’s sleeve. “I think that’s Waggle! I saw his tattoo.”

  We stepped out of line and walked toward the guy with the tattoo. He was heading down the aisle with the cooking oil, vinegar, pasta, and marinara sauce. He was sauntering along, checking out the oils, pausing to read ingredients. Ranger and I moved behind him.

  “Victor Waggle?” I asked.

  The guy turned and looked around, wide-eyed. “Where? Where is he?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I saw the snake tattoo, and I thought you were Waggle.”

  “I wish,” he said. “The dude’s awesome. My snake is different from his. I got a cobra. He has a rattler.”

  “Did you get this at Eddie’s on Stark Street?” Ranger asked.

  “Yeah. Eddie does the best snakes. Victor got his snake there too.”

  “Do you know Victor?” I asked.

  “No. Do you?”

  “Not as well as I’d like to know him,” I said.

  The guy grinned. “That’s what all the girls say. They all want his seed.”