Twisted Twenty-Six

by Janet Evanovich

Lula and I walked around the Buick, checking it out.

  “Not a scratch or a dent,” Lula said. “This car is a tank. They don’t make cars like this anymore.”

  Thank heaven, I thought. The thing drove like a refrigerator on wheels, and it got four miles to the gallon.

  “I haven’t had my fill of humiliation yet,” I said to Lula. “Let’s see if Barry Strunk is home.”

  * * *

  —

  I drove past the front of Strunk’s house and thought I saw the flicker of a television screen through a living room window. I drove down the alley and found his Taurus angle-parked in his backyard.

  “Here’s the plan,” I said to Lula. “I’m going to drop you off, and you’re going to keep watch that he doesn’t come out the back door and drive away. Just make sure you don’t get near the neighbor’s truck.”

  “What’s wrong with the truck?”

  “The crazy lady who lives there doesn’t like anyone getting near her truck. Also, don’t break anything or shoot anything. Just don’t let Strunk get into his car and drive away.”

  “Yeah, but what if I have to shoot him to stop him? What if he shoots at me?”

  “He tried to kill a kid with a double cheeseburger. There was no gun involved.”

  “I could handle a double cheeseburger,” Lula said.

  I dropped her off, drove around to the front, and found a parking place. I hung my cuffs from my back pocket, shoved a pepper spray canister into my sweatshirt pocket, and walked up to the house. I heard the bolt slide locked just as I was about to knock.

  I rapped on the door and called out that I was looking for Barry Strunk.

  The answer came back muffled.

  “He’s not home. No one’s home.”

  “Open the door. I want to talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  “I represent your bail bondsman. You missed a court date and I want to help you reschedule.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Crap,” he said. “What do I have to do? Do I have to sign something?”

  “You have to go downtown with me and get a new date from the clerk.”

  Silence.

  “Barry? Hello?” I banged on the door and tried the handle. “Open the door, and I’ll let you see my blue hair.”

  Okay, that was stupid, but I thought it was worth a shot. I had my ear to the door, and I couldn’t hear any sounds inside the house. Strunk was either crouched down, playing possum, or on his way to the back door and his car. I was betting on the latter. I called Lula to tell her to watch for him.

  “Don’t worry,” Lula said. “I’m on the job. Nobody gets past Lula when she’s on the . . . what the hell?”

  There was a lot of screaming and the phone went dead. I jumped into the Buick, raced around the corner, and turned into the alley. Lula was standing in the middle of the road. She was soaking wet, and the white Taurus was gone.

  “I hate this job,” she said. “This job sucks. Who else has to put up with this kind of abuse? Almost nobody.”

  “You’re wet,” I said.

  “No shit! Some crazy lady turned her garden hose on me. I was getting ready to take down Strunk, and next thing I’m freaking soaking wet.”

  “I told you not to get near the truck.”

  “Yeah, but I needed a place to conceal myself.”

  “Looks like he got away.”

  “He almost ran me over. I could be dead now with truck tire tracks on me. What’s with people these days? There’s no consideration. They’d just as soon run over a person.” She shook herself like a wet dog. “I’m done. I’m wet, and I’m cold, and this hand-bedazzled top I’m wearing is dry-clean only. That Strunk is going to be in big trouble if his neighbor ruined my top.”

  “No problem,” I said. “I’ll pop the trunk.”

  “Say what?”

  “You’re going to get in the trunk, right? I mean, you’re all wet.”

  “I’m not riding in no trunk.”

  “Then you’re going to have to take your wet clothes off. I have vintage upholstery in this car.”

  Lula stripped her bedazzled top off, and her massive breasts flopped out.

  Eeeek!

  “I was just yanking your chain,” I said. “Put the top back on!”

  Lula got into the Buick naked from the waist up, and buckled herself in. The retrofitted seatbelt disappeared into her cleavage, and her nipples stuck out like giant Keurig K-Cups.

  “It’s better this way,” she said. “I can dry out my top, so it won’t get wrecked.”

  “Jeez Louise. It’s not better. It’s . . . distracting. And it might be illegal to flash nipples that big when you’re in a Buick.”

  “All the ladies in my family have big nipples,” Lula said. “It’s one of our best features. We got nipples a person could be proud of.” She glanced over at me. “Not that there’s anything wrong with little nipples. I know you got little nipples on account of when we had to chase that guy on the nudie beach, and I got to see your nipples.”

  I looked down at myself. I couldn’t see my nipples, but I knew they were there. One more thing to add to the list. Not only did I have a depressing job. Now I had to worry about my little nipples.

  “Your nipples are dainty,” Lula said. “You got dainty pink nipples.”

  This sounded a lot better than plain old little nipples, but I still wouldn’t mind getting off the whole nipple topic.

  “I’m done for the day,” I said. “What about you? Do you have plans for tonight?”

  “I’ve gotta work on my blog.”

  “You have a blog?”

  “Everybody’s got a blog,” Lula said. “Don’t you have a blog?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I have a blog and I’m thinking about being an influencer. I could influence the shit out of stuff.”

  “No doubt.”

  I turned onto State Street, drove two blocks, and spotted the white Taurus parked at a 7-Eleven. Strunk was walking out the door with a monster drink and a hot dog.

  “It’s him!” Lula yelled. “That’s our guy.”

  I pulled into the lot and before I came to a complete stop, Lula was out of the car, charging Strunk.

  “You almost ran me over, you sonnovabitch!” Lula yelled.

  Strunk froze with his mouth open and his eyes bugged out at the sight of the giant nipples and bouncing breasts coming at him.

  Lula got to arm’s length, and he snapped out of his catatonic state and threw his soda at her and hit her in the face with the hot dog. He turned to run, and I tackled him, taking him down to the ground. Lula jumped in and snagged his shirt and wrenched him off me. We got him facedown, and Lula sat on him while I cuffed him.

  We hoisted him to his feet and stuffed him into the Buick’s back seat. Cars were driving by and honking at Lula, and Lula would give them a V-for-victory gesture and thumbs-up.

  “You should put your shirt back on,” I said to Lula. “You’ll get arrested if you show up at the police station like that.”

  “No way can I put it on now,” Lula said. “I’ve got sticky titties from him throwing soda on me. You have to take me home first so I can get another shirt.”

  “I’ll drop you at the office,” I said. “Your car is there. I can get Strunk to the police station on my own.”

  * * *

  —

  Strunk was sullen and silent in the back seat all the way to the office. Lula got out, and after I drove for two blocks, Strunk started growling and thrashing around.

  “Hey,” I said, “get a grip back there.”

  “I hate you,” he said. “And you’re ugly.”

  “I’m not ugly,” I told him. “I have blue highlights in my hair, and I have dainty pink nipples.”

&nbs
p; “Let me see them.”

  “You can look at my highlights all you want.”

  “I don’t want to see the highlights. Show me your nipples.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “I’ll hold my breath and make myself throw up in your car.”

  “People don’t throw up from holding their breath. You have to stick your finger down your throat to throw up, and your hands are cuffed.”

  “I could stick my tongue down my throat. It’s already halfway there.”

  He made gagging sounds like he was trying to get his tongue down his throat.

  “How’s it going?” I asked.

  “I hate you.”

  “You already said that,” I told him.

  “Yeah, but I mean it. If my hands weren’t cuffed, I’d punch you. You’re ruining my day.”

  “Like the Clucky kid.”

  “Yes! Do you know what I do all day? I work the line at the button factory. Little tiny buttons roll past me, and I sort out the ones that are cracked or discolored. All day. Five days a week. Can you imagine? That’s my life. So all day long I’m thinking about a Double Clucky Burger. It’s my reward for getting through my hideous, boring, mind-rotting day. I would prefer drugs over the Clucky Burger, but I can’t afford drugs. I can only afford a shitty Clucky Burger. I get myself through the day, and I go to the drive-thru and order my food, and it comes out all wrong. How could anyone get a Double Clucky Burger wrong? It’s probably made by robots like me.”

  “You tried to kill the kid working the window.”

  “He deserved to die.”

  “What was wrong with the burger?”

  “No pickles. It’s supposed to have a layer of thinly sliced pickles between the special sauce and the minced onion.”

  “That doesn’t seem like a good reason to kill someone.”

  “It seems like a good reason to me. If you don’t do your job right, you die. You know what happens to me if I miss a cracked button?”

  “No. What?”

  “They take me to a back room and strip me naked and whip me.”

  “Really?”

  “No. But it feels like that.”

  “Maybe you should see a doctor.”

  “Maybe you should show me your nipples.”

  Ten minutes later, I parked in the courthouse parking lot. I tried to help Strunk get out of the back seat, and he kicked at me.

  “I’m not going,” Strunk said. “You can’t make me.”

  I got back behind the wheel and drove to the cop shop back door. I requested assistance, and three cops dragged Strunk out of my car and into the building. I followed so I could get my body receipt.

  I was waiting on the docket lieutenant, and Morelli joined me.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “You’re white and sweating.”

  “My arm is throbbing, and I have a horrible headache.”

  “Did it occur to you that you should take a day off after getting shot?”

  “Not until now.”

  Morelli took the receipt from the lieutenant, put an arm around me, and steered me out of the building.

  “Since the Buick is parked at the back door, I’m guessing your FTA wasn’t cooperative.”

  “He has anger issues.”

  Morelli opened the passenger’s side door for me. “I’ll drive,” he said. “I was leaving for the day, and you look like you need help.”

  I closed my eyes and leaned back. He was right. I needed help.

  * * *

  —

  Morelli had me tucked in on his couch. I had a new dressing on my arm, and I’d popped a couple Tylenol. I’d had leftover lasagna for dinner. Ice cream for dessert. Bob and Morelli were snuggled next to me. Life was good again.

  “We got an ID on Red Air Jordans,” Morelli said. “Sylvester Lucca. He was a trainer at the fancy gym on State Street.”

  “The one with the statues of naked Roman gods out front?”

  “Yep. He has no priors. A couple traffic violations. Originally from Newark. Twenty-nine years old. I couldn’t find any ties to the La-Z-Boys or Jimmy’s relatives, but it’s early. We’re still digging.”

  “I expected the La-Z-Boys to make a move on Grandma by now.”

  “Hard to say what’s going on with them. Maybe they’re being careful, waiting for the right time. Ranger’s men are watching the front of the house, and Ranger probably has some cameras operating in the back. Grandma hasn’t been going out alone, and when she does the Rangeman guys follow her.”

  “The Boys are patient.”

  “They have lots of years of experience,” Morelli said. “They know when to wait and when to move.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  IT WAS A little after seven A.M. by the time I rolled out of Morelli’s bed, showered, and got dressed. I’d assumed Morelli was already at work, but I got to the stairs and heard men’s voices coming from the kitchen. The voices belonged to Morelli and Ranger.

  I considered turning around and hiding in the bedroom, but the two men were standing between me and my breakfast waffle.

  “Good morning,” I said, edging my way into the kitchen. “What’s going on?”

  “Ranger brought you a car,” Morelli said. “It’ll be easier for you to drive with your arm.”

  “And I can track it,” Ranger said. “There’s so much heavy metal in the Buick it interferes with my electronics.”

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  Ranger held out a necklace with a silver medallion engraved with a cross. “Panic button. Press it and we can find you above or belowground.”

  “I suspect you could find me even if I don’t press it,” I said.

  Ranger almost smiled. “I have an identical necklace for Grandma Mazur.”

  “We decided that he should pull his men back and replace them with surveillance equipment,” Morelli said. “After you and I talked last night it occurred to me that we were just prolonging the inevitable. Better to have them make their move so we can react.”

  I put the medallion on, got a waffle out of the freezer, and dropped it into the toaster. “I guess that sounds reasonable, but I’m terrified that something awful is going to happen to Grandma. I’m trying to fix things, but I’m failing. I talk to people and I look under beds and nothing comes of it. But at least she’s relatively safe while I’m bumbling around. You want to change that. You essentially want to set Grandma up to get kidnapped. I know I’m not alone in this. I know you’re going to be there. I know you’re smarter and bigger and braver than I am. But this is my grandma.”

  I heard my voice crack when I said “grandma,” and I tried to swallow back the emotion that sat hard and painful in my throat. Both men were watching me. Their eyes were dark and serious. They understood my problem. It was their problem too.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

  Ranger gave me the keys to a black Porsche Macan. “This car has front and rear cameras that send to my control room. It has a lockbox containing a loaded nine-millimeter under the driver’s seat. The box isn’t locked. If you want to lock it, the key is on your key ring.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “It’s been difficult driving the Buick with my sore arm. It steers like a tank.”

  “The medallion will go a long way toward keeping Grandma safe,” Morelli said to me. “But it’s only effective if she’s wearing it. You have to make sure she never takes it off.”

  “It’s waterproof,” Ranger said. “She can wear it in the shower.”

  I poured myself a cup of coffee. “I’ll take it over to her as soon as I’m done with my waffle.”

  “Babe,” Ranger said.

  Ranger doesn’t pollute his body with sugar and additives. He has salmon from Scotland and half an organic multigrain bagel for breakfast.

  “It’s a whole-
wheat waffle,” I said. “And I didn’t add syrup.”

  Ranger smiled. I amused him. “Keep in touch,” he said. And he left.

  Morelli watched me drink my coffee. “He calls you ‘Babe’?”

  “I think he calls everyone ‘Babe.’”

  “He doesn’t call me ‘Babe.’”

  “Because you would punch him.”

  “I wouldn’t mind punching him anyway.”

  Morelli and Ranger tolerate each other. Their professional paths frequently cross, and there are times when it’s advantageous to share information and skills. Like now. In an odd way I was the link between the two men, and I was also the wedge that drove them apart. Morelli thought Ranger was a loose cannon and not to be entirely trusted. I have no idea what Ranger thought of Morelli.

  Morelli gave me a kiss on the top of my head and told me to be careful. He said he’d call me later in the day, and he left.

  “Just you and me,” I said to Bob.

  It was too early to go to the office, so I hooked Bob up to his leash and took him for a walk. It was almost eight o’clock when we got home. I gave him a doggie treat and told him he was a good boy. I pocketed Grandma’s necklace, hung my messenger bag on my shoulder, and drove to my parents’ house.

  My father was in his chair, watching the news with the baseball bat at his feet.

  “What’s up?” I said.

  “I’m not watching the news anymore. It’s damn depressing. What’s with these nutcases who go around shooting strangers? It used to be people shot each other one at a time. It was personal. You could figure out why they did it.” He shook his head. “I don’t get this other stuff.”

  Grandma was standing to one side. “They have cracked souls,” she said. “You know how some people are born with physical defects? Like those sweet Down syndrome babies. I think some people are born with souls that aren’t all there. Or maybe their souls got a crack somewhere along the line. Like a broken leg, only it’s a soul.” She looked over at me. “Did you have breakfast yet? We got oatmeal in the kitchen. I was just going to have some.”

  I followed Grandma into the kitchen. “I don’t want oatmeal,” I said, “but I’ll have coffee.”