We did our own search, using our cellphone flashlights, looking under the seats and in the trunk.
“This is depressing,” Grandma said. “I don’t like looking for the keys. It’s not what it was about with Jimmy and me. I don’t even know if I want his money anymore.”
“I get what you’re saying,” I said to Grandma, “but we’re looking for the keys to keep you alive. The money is a different deal. You have to figure that one out yourself.”
“We should have a change of pace and go looking for the shoplifter,” Lula said. “That would perk Grandma up.”
Grandma joining us on an apprehension? Disaster! “No, no, no,” I said. “I’m sure Grandma has things she needs to do at home.”
“Nothing that can’t wait,” Grandma said, “but a shoplifter doesn’t sound exciting. Don’t you have something better? Like a bank robber or a terrorist?”
“I haven’t got any of those,” I said. “I have a hijacker and attempted murder.”
“Tell me about the attempted murder,” Grandma said.
“Barry Strunk. He got screwed at the Cluck-in-a-Bucket drive-thru and pulled the minimum-wage worker through the drive-thru window. He had the kid on the ground, and he was shoving a Double Clucky Burger down his throat and yelling This is all wrong. It’s all wrong!”
“That’s questionable attempted murder,” Lula said.
“Strunk was also yelling to the Clucky kid that he was going to kill him. They have it on Clucky tape. He said it a lot. And according to this report, the kid almost choked to death.”
“The problem here is that this man had unrealistic expectations. It’s a known fact that you get fucked at the drive-thru.”
“Let’s go after this one,” Grandma said. “I want to see the man who got fucked at the drive-thru.”
“He didn’t really get fucked,” Lula said to Grandma. “You know that, right? He just got figuratively fucked.”
“Good enough for me,” Grandma said.
I read the file out loud. “Barry Strunk. Forty-two years old. Divorced. Works at the button factory. No priors. Looks crazy in his mug shot.”
Lula and Grandma leaned in and looked at the mug shot.
“I could tell right off that this boy needs anger management,” Lula said. “He’s got big frowny marks in his forehead and his mouth is all snarly.”
“He should be getting off his shift at the button factory soon,” I said.
“We could catch him in the parking lot,” Lula said.
“The parking lot is a mess when there’s a shift change,” I said. “I’d rather wait for him at his house. He lives in one of the little row houses on E Street.”
“I didn’t bring my cuffs,” Grandma said.
“That’s okay,” I told her. “I have cuffs. And I don’t expect him to be difficult. He’s not a career criminal. He just had a bad day.”
I didn’t entirely believe this, but I didn’t want Grandma going all Dirty Harry on me.
We’d been driving around in Lula’s car with the Rangeman guys on our bumper.
Grandma was in the back seat, and from time to time she’d turn and wave at the SUV.
“Ernie and Slick are with us today,” Grandma said. “Slick’s real name is Eugene, but he likes to be called Slick. He doesn’t usually ride on patrol, but Ranger was short.”
“How do you know all this?” Lula asked.
“I go out to talk to them sometimes. They gotta sit in the car all day doing nothing but stare at our house, so I bring them cookies and sodas. Slick is Ranger’s electronics guy. He sets up the security systems. He was a safecracker before he got a job with Ranger.”
Parking was tight on E Street. Lula squeezed into a space two houses down from Strunk’s, but the Rangeman SUV was out of luck. I got a text message that they would be circling the block until something opened up.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a stakeout,” Grandma said. “How’s this gonna go down?”
“When we see Strunk walk up to his door—”
“Hold on,” Lula said. “Where’s he going to park? We just took the last parking spot.”
“These streets all have alleys in the back,” Grandma said. “There’s usually parking there.”
I checked my watch. “The shift is getting out now. You two stay here, and I’ll run around to the back. Call me if you see him. He’s driving a white Taurus.”
I jogged around the block and walked the alley until I came to Strunk’s house. There were no garages back here, but there were small yards where people parked. I didn’t see a white Taurus. I took a position behind a pickup truck next door to Strunk’s place.
A woman stuck her head out of a second-floor window and yelled at me. “This is private property. What are you doing by my truck?”
I took a couple steps away from the truck. “I’m waiting for a friend.”
“That’s a load of bull crap. You think I’m stupid? The only friend you’re waiting for is the one who’s gonna help you steal my truck. I’m calling the police.”
There wasn’t a lot of cover in the alley. There were a couple cars way at the end, but that was too far from Strunk’s back door. There was a weathered privacy fence that ran for about fifteen feet between Strunk’s house and the crazy truck lady’s house. An overgrown, undernourished azalea bush clung to life at the end of the fence. I moved to the azalea bush and watched for the white Taurus. If I saw the car, I’d duck down into the bush and hope for the best.
After five minutes there was no Taurus and no messages from Grandma or Lula. I heard a door close behind me in the crazy truck lady’s yard. I turned to see what was going on and was hit with a blast of water from her garden hose.
“You think I couldn’t see you sneaking around in the azalea bush?” she said. “I see everything. Nothing gets past me. I got a gun too. I’m counting to three, and then I’m going to start shooting.”
This is when it all came back to me. The dissatisfaction with my life. The desire to be somewhere else doing something else. Anything else.
“I’m waiting for Barry Strunk,” I said, turning my back against the water, trying to shield myself with the bush and the broken-down fence.
“Strunk is a loser. Barry the Loser, that’s what I call him. I should have known you were with Strunk when I saw the blue hair. You’re all nutcases and losers.”
This is just great. The crazy lady thinks I’m a loser. My worst fear is confirmed by a woman wearing fluffy pink slippers, soaking me with her garden hose.
“I’m leaving,” I said, hands in the air. “I give up. I’m done. Fuck it. Fuck it all.”
I sloshed down the alley, back to Lula and Grandma.
“What the heck?” Lula said.
“Don’t ask,” I told her. “I don’t want to talk about it. I want to go home. Take me home.”
“Hold on, you can’t get into my car like that,” Lula said. “You’re all wet. You’ll ruin my upholstery. You’re gonna have to take your clothes off or else ride in the trunk.”
I gave Lula the finger and blew raspberries at her.
“That’s not nice,” Lula said.
The Rangeman SUV rolled down the street and stopped.
“I need a ride,” I told them.
“What about Edna?” Slick asked. “We’re supposed to stay with Edna.”
“Edna is coming with me.”
I narrowed my eyes at Grandma and jerked my thumb at the SUV. “Get in.”
“What about the stakeout?” Grandma asked.
“The stakeout is done,” I said. “Finished. Over. Kaput.”
“What about me?” Lula asked. “You want me to stay here awhile?”
“I don’t care what you do. Do whatever you want. I’ve had it. I’m fed up! F-E-D up. I’m wet and I’m cold and my arm is killing me, and you wouldn’t even give me a ride.”
“That’s not true,” Lula said. “I gave you two good options. You’re just feeling picky.”
“T
hey weren’t good options. You wouldn’t have taken either of those options.”
“I wouldn’t have to,” Lula said. “I don’t go around getting myself soaked. And if I had to choose an option, I would have removed my clothes. I don’t have a problem with nudity. Especially my own.”
Grandma was already seated in the SUV. “Are you coming, or what?” she said to me. “You’re going to catch your death, standing out there dripping wet. And there’s some blood soaking through your bandage.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I MADE CERTAIN that Grandma was safe inside the house, and then I drove myself home.
Rex was asleep in his soup can when I walked into the kitchen, but I talked to him anyway.
“Honestly,” I said to Rex, “this is ridiculous. Who has a job like this? Grocery checkers don’t get wet. People working the line at the Personal Products plant don’t get wet. The lady working the counter at the Häagen-Dazs store doesn’t get wet. Even hamsters don’t get wet. Crappy bounty hunters get wet. Good ones, no. Ranger never got wet. Just crappy ones . . . like me.”
Rex popped his head out of his soup can, blinked at me, and retreated. I couldn’t blame him for retreating. Even I didn’t want to listen to me. I was ranting.
My mood improved after a hot shower. I put a new giant Band-Aid over my stitches, got dressed, and called Morelli.
“What’s new?” I asked.
“Pino’s has a new sandwich at lunch. It’s got fried chicken and melted cheese and they pour gravy over it.”
“I was thinking more in terms of my crap-ass life and the stupid keys.”
“Nothing’s new on that front.”
I blew out a sigh, disconnected, and went back to the office. Connie was surfing her social media sites, and Lula was reading Star magazine.
“Let’s go,” I said to Lula. “Let’s see if we can catch someone.”
Lula got to her feet. “Who’d you have in mind?”
“Anyone.”
“That’s entirely doable,” Lula said.
We got outside and looked at the cars parked at the curb. Lula’s Firebird and my ’53 Buick.
“Let’s take the Buick,” I said.
Lula nodded. “Good idea.”
I drove to Carol Joyce’s house first. The black Escalade was parked in the driveway.
“He’s got a lot of nerve,” Lula said. “He’s got that big-ass car parked right out front, advertising that he’s home.”
“The Superman syndrome,” I said. “Thinks he’s invincible.”
“Just because he made fools out of us the first time, he thinks he can always make fools out of us.”
“Let’s hope he’s wrong.”
I parked in the driveway, behind the Escalade, so he couldn’t drive off. Lula and I went to the front door. I rang the bell. No one answered.
“Maybe he’s out with his mama,” Lula said. “They could be in her car.”
I rang the bell again. “I don’t think so. I think he’s in the house.”
I tried the doorknob. Locked.
“What are we thinking here?” Lula asked. “You want me to shoot the lock off?”
“Do you know how to do that?”
“Sure. You shoot at the lock and it falls off.”
“Let’s save that as a last resort. I’ll go around back. Stay here. And don’t shoot anything.”
I jogged to the back of the house and tried the back door. Locked. I looked in the kitchen window. Everything was tidy. Lula walked into the kitchen and opened the door for me.
“How did you get in?” I asked.
“The window was open. The one next to the door.”
“I don’t remember seeing an open window.”
“It wasn’t actually open.”
“It was unlocked?”
“More like it had a crack in it,” Lula said.
“A crack? How big was the crack?”
“Big enough that I could get my hand in and open the window.”
“You broke a window.”
“It was an accident. I sort of turned around too fast and my purse swung out and CRASH! Anyways, now that we’re in we might as well snoop around, although I didn’t see any sign of him on my way through the house.”
A mug of tea was sitting on the kitchen counter. The tea bag was still in it. I put my hand to it, and the mug was warm.
“He’s here,” I said. “He’s hiding.”
“I’m good at this. I can find people like you wouldn’t believe. I used to play hide-and-seek all the time when I was a kid. I was the hide-and-seek champion.”
We started in the kitchen, opening every door, looking in cupboards. We moved on to the dining room and the living room. Downstairs powder room. We went upstairs and looked under beds, in closets, bathroom cupboards. Nothing. No Carol Joyce.
“I gotta give him credit,” Lula said. “He’s a good hider.”
I looked down at the street from an upstairs bedroom window. The Buick was blocking one lane. The Escalade was gone.
Lula came over and looked out with me.
“Damn,” Lula said. “No wonder I couldn’t find him.”
“He pushed my car into the road.”
“Yeah, you gotta love that Escalade. It’s got power. Your Buick is no lightweight, but that big ol’ Escalade is a beast.”
We trooped downstairs and left the house. I made sure the doors were locked, but there wasn’t anything I could do about the broken window. Mrs. Joyce was still out somewhere. Carol was most likely lurking in the neighborhood, watching, waiting for us to leave.
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 hous
e. 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.”
Twisted Twenty-Six (Stephanie Plum 26) Page 12
