Explosive Eighteen

TEN

BERGER, THE FBI ARTIST, and Chuck Gooley were waiting for me in a conference room on the sixth floor. We started with face shapes, and from there we went to specifics like eyes and mouth and nose. By the time we were done, I was thoroughly confused and had no idea if the drawing even remotely resembled the guy in the photo.

“So is this the guy?” Berger asked me, pointing to the composite sketch.

“Sure,” I said. “Maybe. So about the maniac in my kitchen who wanted to kill me…”

“What did he look like?”

“Middle Eastern complexion. Lots of unruly curly black hair. Crazy eyes. Six foot. Slim. Early forties. An accent I couldn’t place. Tattoo of a rose on his knife hand.”

“I’ll feed it into the system and let you know if we get a match.”

I left the sixth floor, exited the building, and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk because Lancer and Slasher were standing by the Buick, half a block away. Okay, here were my options. I could call Berger, but I wasn’t sure what that would accomplish. Berger’d made it clear my safety wasn’t his priority. I didn’t want to drag Morelli away from his murders. If I asked Ranger for help, he’d have me under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Ranger tended to be overprotective.

I decided none of those options were going to work for me, so I transferred my stun gun from my bag to the pocket on my sweatshirt and approached Lancer and Slasher.

“Hey,” I said. “What’s new?”

Lancer was leaning against the Buick’s passenger-side door. “Looks like you’re cozy with the FBI.”

“They’re interested in the photograph.”

“No shit,” Lancer said. “Did you give it to them?”

“I told them the same thing I told you. I don’t have it.”

“Yeah, but you saw it, right?”

“Wrong.”

“You’re lying,” Lancer said. “I can tell.”

“There’s another guy after the photograph,” I said. “Tall, curly black hair, looks Middle Eastern, rose tattoo on his hand.”

Lancer and Slasher looked at each other and grimaced.

“Raz,” Lancer said.

“Who’s Raz?” I asked.

“No one knows his real name,” Lancer said. “Raz is short for Razzle Dazzle. That’s what he goes by. You don’t want to deal with him. He has no scruples.”

“I don’t get it,” I said to Lancer. “Why is everyone so interested in this photograph?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” Lancer said. “We were hired to get it.”

“Who hired you?”

“That’s none of your business. If you don’t have the photograph, I bet you know where it is. And I bet we could get you to tell us. We got ways of making girls talk.”

Slasher smiled. “Yeah, we got good ways.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, “but there’s still nothing I can tell you about the photograph. And as much as I’d love to stay and chat, I’m afraid I have to go now.”

“And I’m afraid we can’t let you,” Slasher said.

He reached out to grab me, I gave him a shot with my stun gun, and he crumpled to his knees.

“Hey,” Lancer said to me. “Those things are illegal. You’re not allowed to do that.”

Zzzzt. I zapped Lancer, and he went down, too.

I looked around to see if anyone had noticed. No cars screeched to a stop. No concerned pedestrian rushed at me. Good deal. I relieved Lancer and Slasher of their wallets, scrambled into the Buick, and took off.

By the time I got to the coffee shop, my breathing had returned to normal and my heart had stopped skipping around in my chest. Lula was alone at the table in the window with four untouched cups of coffee in front of her, working at a crossword puzzle.

“What’s with the coffee?” I asked her.

“I feel like I gotta buy something once in a while since I’m sitting here, but the only thing I’m drinking is Pepto-Bismol. Connie and Vinnie went to sign the rental agreement for the temporary office. And then after that, they were going across the street to bond out a guy who set all the birds loose in the pet store at the mall. He was singing that Born Free song and waving a double-barrel shotgun around, scaring the living daylights out of everyone.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“No, but a couple canaries lost some feathers in the overhead fan.”

I put the two wallets on the table and went through the first. The guy’s name was actually Mortimer Lancelot. Go figure that. It was almost as bad as Lance Lancer. I moved on to the second wallet. Sylvester Larder. Both guys had Long Branch, New Jersey, addresses. I took down the information on the two driver’s licenses and called Berger.

“I have names for you,” I said. “The two fake FBI guys are Mortimer Lancelot and Sylvester Larder. They have Long Branch addresses. The guy in my kitchen apparently is known as Razzle Dazzle. Any of these names mean anything to you?”

“Razzle Dazzle is a complete whack job. If you find him in your kitchen again, you might want to shoot him. Don’t tell anyone I said that.”

And Berger hung up.

I slouched in my chair, and sipped one of Lula’s coffees.

“Looks to me like you caught some bad juju in Hawaii,” Lula said. “I mean, you gotta look at the facts. You got naked skin where a ring used to be, and you don’t want to talk about it, so I’m reaching the conclusion that your love life is in the crapper. And if that isn’t bad enough, you’re in the middle of some crazy whodunit shit that you didn’t even go looking for. Not to mention we haven’t caught any bad guys since you been back. You might want to do something about your juju.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“I didn’t have anything in mind. I’m just sayin’.”

I wasn’t exactly sure what constituted juju, but I had the general picture, and Lula had a point. Lately, my luck sucked. It had been excellent when I arrived in Hawaii, and somewhere mid-vacation it turned bad.

A flash of black caught my eye, and I looked out the big plate-glass window in time to see the Lincoln stop and double-park in front of the coffee shop. Lancer and Slasher lunged out of the car, stormed into the coffee shop, and stood over me, glaring.

“You stole our wallets,” Lancer said.

I took the wallets off the table and handed them to Lancer. “Identity check.”

“You better not have put anything on my credit card,” Slasher said.

“That’s insulting,” Lula said. “What does she look like, anyway? She’s a successful businesswoman. She don’t need your dumb-ass credit card. She got her own credit card. You need to learn some manners. Who the heck are you?”

“Sylvester Larder, also known as Sly Slasher,” I said.

He took his wallet from Lancer. “Everyone calls me Slasher.”

“Is that a work-related nickname?” Lula asked. “On account of you don’t look like a slasher. You look more like a insurance salesman. Or one of those guys who sets out the grapefruits in the supermarket.”

Lancer gave a bark of laughter.

“Real funny,” Slasher said. “Why don’t you ask her if you look like a Lancelot?”

I stood up from my seat. “Gotta go,” I said. “Sorry about your wallets and rearranging your neurons.”

“You better play ball with us before we have to get rough,” Lancer said. “We need results. Our boss doesn’t like being disappointed.”

Lula and I left the coffee shop, piled into the Buick, and headed for Buggy’s house.

“They could be in big trouble if their boss doesn’t like being disappointed,” Lula said. “And I don’t think they believe you about not having that photograph. You really don’t have it, right?”

“Right.”

“How come everyone thinks you have it, if you don’t have it?”

“Because I used to have it.”

“Like you used to have a ring on your finger,” Lula said.

I felt my blood pressure edge up a notch. “Give it a rest, okay?”

“Hunh,” Lula said.

I turned onto Pulling Street and saw my RAV4 at the curb in front of Buggy’s house.

“I guess he borrowed your car,” Lula said.

“Something like that.”

“We gonna do our bounty hunter thing on him?”

“Yeah. I’ll use my stun gun, we’ll cuff him when he goes down, and we’ll drag him into the Buick. It has a bigger backseat.”

“Let’s do it. I’m there,” Lula said. “If you notice, I’m wearing black again today. I’m in the Ranger zone. WHAM!”

I was glad Lula had such a positive attitude, because I was experiencing some self-doubt. And I appreciated that Lula was in the zone, although I suspected her outfit was from her S &M ’ho collection, since she was wearing over-the-knee black leather boots with four-inch heels, a black leather miniskirt, and a skintight black leather bustier.

I parked, and Lula and I went to the door. I had the Flexi-Cuffs ready, and I was holding the stun gun.

“You distract him,” I said to Lula. “When he looks over at you, I’ll stun him.”

“Sure,” Lula said. “I’ll distract the hell out of him.”

I rang the bell and Buggy answered.

“Howdy,” he said, opening the door, looking out at me. “What’s up?”

“I came to get my car.”

“I’m thinking about keeping it. I like it a lot.”

“You can’t just go around keeping cars,” Lula said to him.

“Yu-huh, I can,” he said, glancing at her but turning back to me.

“Tell him why he can’t do that,” I said to Lula.

“Because,” she said.

“That’s it?” I said to her. “That’s all you got?”

“Because it’s not right,” she said to Buggy. “You gotta buy a car. You can’t take other people’s.”

Buggy wasn’t paying attention to Lula. Buggy was looking at me, his brow drawn together, his mouth tight. “I want it,” he said.

“He’s not paying attention to you,” I said to Lula.

“Don’t I know it,” she said. “What’s this boy’s problem?” She leaned forward and yelled at him. “Hey! You!”

“Yuh,” Buggy said.

Lula popped one of her giant boobs out of her black leather bustier. “What do you think of this?”

“It’s big,” Buggy said.

“You bet your ass,” Lula told him.

I whipped the stun gun out, pressed it against Buggy’s arm, and hit the go button.

“Ow,” Buggy said.

His eyes didn’t roll back into his head. He didn’t crash to the ground. He didn’t go down to his knees.

I blasted him again.

“That stings,” Buggy said. “Stop it.”

“Must be about body weight,” Lula said. “You need the shit they make for elephants.”

Buggy grabbed the stun gun out of my hand and threw it into the bushes bordering the house. “Go away,” Buggy said. “And you better not take my car, or that would make me mad.”

No point getting goofy over this, I told myself. Just very calmly take the RAV, go home, and make a reassessment. Surely there’s a way to capture this man. A big net, maybe. A rhinoceros tranquilizer dart. Get him to follow a trail of cheeseburgers leading to the police station.

I scrounged through the bushes, found my stun gun, handed Lula the key to the Buick, and smiled pleasantly at Buggy. I turned, walked to the RAV, plugged my key in, and opened the driver’s side door. Buggy grabbed me from behind, and tossed me into the street.

“Hey, idiot,” Lula said to Buggy. “You can’t do that to her. That’s friggin’ rude.”

“I’ll do whatever I want,” Buggy said. “It’s my car now.”

Lula hauled her Glock out of her purse and aimed it at Buggy. “At the risk of gettin’ too personal, I got a delicate intestinal condition today, and you’re not making it any better. And I already explained to you about how car ownership works. Now, you need to get your lard butt outta here, or I’ll put another hole in it.”

“You don’t scare me,” Buggy said. “You can’t shoot an unarmed man.”

“Says who?” Lula said. “I shoot unarmed men all the time.”

I scrambled to my feet, came up behind Buggy, pressed the stun gun prongs to his neck, and held the button down. Buggy went dead still, sank to his knees, and wet his pants.

“Third time’s a charm,” Lula said.

I slipped the plastic Flexi-Cuffs around his wrists and secured them behind his back. Buggy was still on his knees, his eyes were glazed, and he was drooling.

“How are we gonna get him in the car?” Lula stared at him. “He must weigh three hundred pounds, and he got wet pants. We need a forklift to move him. Maybe one of them skyhooks.”

“Maybe now that he’s cuffed, he’ll be reasonable,” I said.

Buggy’s eyes snapped into focus. “Grrrrr,” he said.

Lula looked down at him. “He don’t look reasonable.”

Buggy struggled to free his hands. “GRRRRR!” He came off one knee and then the other. He shook his head as if to clear it, stood, and swayed a little getting his balance.

“You know that movie where they bring the Frankenstein monster back to life?” Lula said. “This is like that movie. You know what happened when Frankenstein first woke up? He wasn’t happy.”

“We need to go downtown and get you rebonded,” I said to Buggy. “It won’t take long.”

Buggy lunged at me. His hands were bound behind his back, and his gait was awkward. He lunged at me a second time, but I jumped away. He stumbled, went down to the ground, and rolled onto his back. That’s where he stayed, kicking his feet, unable to right himself.

“He’s like a big giant turtle,” Lula said. “What are we gonna do with him?”

I didn’t know. We couldn’t lift him. I wasn’t even sure we could drag him. When we got near, he kicked out at us. His face was red and sweating, and veins were popped out in his forehead and corded on his neck.

“You need to calm yourself,” Lula said to Buggy. “You’re gonna give yourself a stroke. And you’re not a real attractive man to begin with, so you don’t want to make it worse with the whole bulging vein thing. It’s not a good look for you.”

He was rocking side to side and grunting. “Unh, unh, UNH!” And on the last UNH, he broke out of the Flexi-Cuffs, rolled to hands and knees, then stood beady-eyed, arms out, mouth open. Killer grizzly.

“YOW!” Lula said. “Every man for himself.”

She ran for the Buick, and I ran for the RAV4. I jumped in, pulled the door closed, and took off with Lula following.

I drove to my parents’ house, parked at the curb, and sat for a couple beats, getting it together. Lula rapped on the driver’s side window, and I got out.

“You see, that’s what I’m talking about,” Lula said. “You got a juju issue. That wasn’t a wonderful experience. You ever see anyone break out of those plastic handcuffs before? I don’t think so.”