High Five

14

AFTER FIFTEEN MINUTES, Lally's eyes were open and his fingers were twitching, but I could see that it might take awhile longer before he was up to walking any kind of distance.

"You should join a gym," Lula told Lally. "And you should lay off the beer. You're out of shape. I only buzzed you once, and look at you. I never saw anybody so pathetic from one measly jolt."

I gave Lula the car keys. "Bring the car over so he doesn't have to walk so far."

"You might never see me again," Lula said.

"Ranger would find you."

"Yeah," Lula said, "that'd be the best part."

Five minutes later, Lula was back.

"It's gone," she said.

"What's gone?"

"The car. The car's gone."

"What do you mean, it's gone?"

"What part of 'gone' don't you understand?" Lula asked.

"You don't mean it's been stolen?"

"Yep. That's just what I mean. The car's been stolen."

My heart did a nosedive. I didn't want to believe what I was hearing. "How could someone steal the car? We didn't hear the alarm go off."

"Must have gone off when we were inside here. It's a distance, and the wind's blowing away from us. Anyway, the brothers know how to take care of that kind of stuff. I'm real surprised, though. I figured you see a nice car in this kind of neighborhood and you think dealer. And messing with a dealer's car don't do a whole lot for your quality of life. Guess these guys were low on their daily quota. I got there just as the flatbed was turning the corner two blocks away. They must have been in the area."

"What am I going to tell Ranger?"

"Tell him the good news is they left him his plates." Lula handed me two license plates. "And guess they didn't want the registration number. They left that, too. Looks like they took it off with an acetylene torch." She dropped a small piece of scorched dashboard with the metal tag still attached into the palm of my hand.

"That's it?"

"Yep. That's what they left at the side of the road for you."

Lally was flopping around on the floor, trying to get to his feet, but his coordination was off and his hands were cuffed behind his back. He was drooling and cussing and slurring his words.

"Fruckin' bish," he said to me. "Fruckin' peesh a shit."

I searched in my bag for the cell phone, found it, and called Vinnie. I explained I had Kenyon Lally in custody, but there was a small problem with my car, and would he please come collect Lally and Lula and me.

"What's the problem?" Vinnie wanted to know.

"It's nothing. It's trivial. Don't worry about it."

"I'm not coming until you tell me. I bet this is something good."

I blew out a sigh. "The car's been stolen."

"That's it?"

"Yeah."

"Jeez, I expected something better . . . like it got hit by a train or sat on by an elephant."

"Are you going to come get us, or what?"

"I'm on my way. Hold your bladder."

We sat down to wait for Vinnie, and my cell phone rang. Lula and I exchanged glances.

"You expecting a call?" Lula asked.

Both of us thinking it might be Ranger.

"Well, answer it," Lally said. "Stoopid fruck."

"It could be Vinnie," Lula said. "He might have found a goat walking down the middle of the road and decided to do a nooner."

I searched through my bag, found the phone, crossed all my fingers and my eyes, and answered.

It was Joe. "We found Mark Stemper," he said.

"And?"

"He doesn't look good."

Damn. "How bad does he look?"

"He looks dead. Shot in the head. Someone tried to make it look like a suicide, but among other things they put the gun in the wrong hand. Stemper was left-handed."

"Oops."

"Yeah. Not very professional."

"Where'd it happen?"

"In an abandoned building a couple blocks from RGC. A watchman found him."

"You ever wonder why Harvey Tipp is still alive?"

"I guess he must pose no threat," Morelli said. "Or maybe he's related to Mr. Big. Or maybe he's not involved. We really have nothing on him, other than the fact that he's the logical person."

"I think it's time you talked to him."

"I think you're right." There was a moment of silence. "One more thing. Are you still driving the BMW?"

"Nope. Not me. Gave up on that puppy."

"What happened to it?"

"Stolen."

I could hear Morelli laughing over the phone.

"It's not funny!" I yelled. "Do you think I should file a police report?"

"I think you should talk to Ranger first. Do you need a ride?"

"No. Vinnie's on his way."

"Later, Hotstuff."

I disconnected and told Lula about Stemper.

"Somebody don't like leaving loose ends," Lula said.

I took a deep breath and dialed Ranger's home phone. No answer. Car phone. No answer. I could try his cell phone, but I didn't want to press my luck, so I left my number on his pager. The condemned woman gets a few extra minutes.

I'd been watching the window, and I saw Vinnie pull up in his Cadillac. I thought it might be satisfying to delay Vinnie for a half hour and see if his car disappeared, but dismissed it as being not practical. I'd only have to call yet another person to come collect us. And even worse, I'd have to spend time with Vinnie.

Lula and I dragged Lally out to the curb and waited while Vinnie popped his door locks.

"Scumbags sit in the backseat," Vinnie said.

"Hunh," Lula said, hand on hip, "who you callin' a scumbag?"

"If the shoe fits," Vinnie said.

"If the shoe fits, you'd have your pervert ass in the backseat," Lula said.

"Why me?" I asked. I realized I sounded like my mother and had a brief panic attack. I liked my mother, but I didn't want to be her. I didn't want to ever cook a pot roast. I didn't want to live in a house with three adults and only one bathroom. And I didn't want to marry my father. I wanted to marry Indiana Jones. I figured Indiana Jones was the middle ground between my father and Ranger. Morelli fit in there, too. In fact, Morelli wasn't too far off the Indiana Jones mark. Not that it mattered, since Morelli didn't want to get married.

Vinnie dropped Lula and me at the office and took Lally to the police station on North Clinton.

"Well, that was fun," Lula said. "Too bad about the car. I can't wait to see what you get next."

"I'm getting nothing next. I'm not taking any more cars. From now on, I'm driving the Buick. Nothing ever happens to the Buick."

"Yeah," Lula said, "but that isn't necessarily a good thing."

I dialed First Trenton, asked for Shempsky, and was told he'd gone home early with an upset stomach. I got his home number out of the directory and tried to reach him there. No answer. Just for the hell of it, I ran a fast credit check. Nothing unusual. Mortgage, credit cards all in good standing.

"Why are you checking on Shempsky?" Lula asked. "You think he's involved?"

"I keep thinking about the bomb in the Porsche. Shempsky knew I was driving a Porsche."

"Yeah, but he could have told people. He could have mentioned to someone you were going to the garbage company in your brand-new Porsche."

"True."

"Do you want a ride someplace?" Lula asked.

I shook my head no. "I could use some air and exercise," I said. "I'm going to walk home."

"That's a long walk."

"It's not so long."

I stepped outside and turned my jacket collar up against the wind. The temperature had dropped and the sky was gray. It was midafternoon, but houses had lights on to fight the gloom. Furnaces were running. Cars rolled by on Hamilton, drivers intent on getting somewhere. There were few people on the sidewalks. It was a good day to be indoors, cleaning out closets, making hot chocolate, organizing a fresh start for winter. And it was a good day to be outdoors, scuffing through the few remaining leaves, feeling flushed from the cold air. It was my favorite time of the year. And if it wasn't for the fact that people were dying left and right, and I couldn't find Uncle Fred, and someone wanted to kill me, and Ramirez wanted to send me to Jesus—it would be a very good day.

In an hour I was back at my building, in the lobby, and I was feeling fine. My head was clear and my circulation was in top form. The Buick was sitting in the parking lot, looking solid as a rock and just as serene. I had the keys in my pocket, and I was still wondering about Shempsky. Maybe I should ride by and see him, I thought. Surely he'll be home by now.

The elevator doors opened and Mrs. Bestler leaned out. "Going up?"

"No," I said. "I changed my mind. I have more errands to run."

"All ladies' accessories are twenty percent off on the second floor," she said. She pulled her head back and the doors closed.

I recrossed the lot and gingerly unlocked the Buick. Nothing went boom, so I slid behind the wheel. I started the car and jumped out. I stood a good distance away and timed ten minutes. Still no explosion. Whew. Big relief. I got back in the car, put it into gear, and drove out of the lot. Shempsky lived in HamiltonTownship, off Klockner, behind the high school. Typical suburban development of single-family houses. Two cars, two incomes, two kids per family. It was easy to find his street and his house. It was all clearly marked. His house was a split-entry frame. White with black shutters. Very tidy.

I parked at the curb, walked to the door, and rang the bell. I was about to ring again when a woman answered. She was nicely dressed in a brown sweater, matching slacks, and rubber-soled loafers. Her hair was cut in a short bob. Her makeup was Martha Stewart. And her smile was genuine. She was the perfect match for Allen. I suspected I would immediately forget anything she told me, and a half hour from now I wouldn't recall what she looked like.

"Maureen?" I asked.

"Yes?"

"It's Stephanie Plum . . . we went to school together."

She slapped herself on the forehead. "Of course! I should have remembered. Allen mentioned you the other night. He said you'd stopped by the bank." The smile faded. "I heard about Fred. I'm so sorry."

"You haven't seen him, have you?" Just in case she had him in her basement.

"No!"

"I always ask," I explained, since she looked taken aback.

"And it's a good idea. I might have seen him walking down the street."

"Exactly."

So far, I hadn't seen any sign of Allen. Of course, if he was really sick he might be upstairs in bed. "Is Allen here?" I asked Maureen. "I tried to catch him at the bank, but he'd gone out to lunch, and then I got busy with another matter. I thought maybe he'd be home by now."

"No. He always comes home at five." The smile popped back in place. "Would you like to come in and wait? I could make some herb tea."

The nosy part of me would have liked to snoop through the Shempsky's house. The part of me that wanted to live to see another day thought it wise not to leave the Buick unguarded.

"Thanks, maybe some other time," I said to Maureen. "I need to keep my eye on the Buick."

"Mom," a kid yelled from the kitchen, "Timmy's got an M&M's stuck up his nose."

Maureen shook her head and smiled. "Children," she said. "You know how it is."

"Actually, I have a hamster," I said. "Hard to get an M&M's up his nose."

"I'll be right back," Maureen said. "This will only take a minute."

I stepped into the foyer and looked around while Maureen hustled off to the kitchen. The living room opened off to the right. It was a large, pleasant room done in tones of tan. An upright piano stood against the near wall. Family photos covered the top of the piano. Allen and Maureen and the kids at the beach, at Disney World, at Christmas.

Lots of pictures. Probably one wouldn't be missed if it happened to jump into my purse.

I heard a kid yelp, and Maureen chirped that everything was hunky-dory and the bad M&M's was bye-bye. "I'll be right back," Maureen said. The kitchen television was clicked on, and in the blink of an eye, I snatched the nearest photo, dropped it into my bag, and stepped back into the foyer.

"Sorry about that," Maureen said, returning. "Never a dull moment."

I handed Maureen a business card. "Maybe you could have Allen give me a call when he gets in."

"Sure."

"By the way, what kind of car does Allen drive?"

"A tan Taurus. And then there's the Lotus."

"Allen has a Lotus?"

"It's his toy."

Expensive toy.

It was necessary to pass by the strip mall on my way home, so I did a short detour into the lot and checked out the bank. The lobby was closed, but the drive-through window was open. That didn't do me any good. Allen wasn't going to be doing drive-through duty. I rode around the lot looking for a tan Taurus, but had no luck.

"Allen," I said, "where are you?"

And then, since I was in the neighborhood, I thought it wouldn't hurt to stop by and say hello to Irene Tully. And, what the hell, I might as well show her the picture of Allen Shempsky. You never know what could jog a person's memory.

"For goodness' sake," Irene said when she opened the door. "Are you still looking for Fred?" She gave an apprehensive glance to the Buick. "Is your grandmother with you?"

"Grandma's at home. I was hoping you wouldn't mind looking at another picture."

"Is this that dead man again?"

"No. This guy's alive." I gave her the photo of the Shempsky family.

"Isn't this nice," Irene said. "What a lovely family."

"Do you recognize any of these people?"

"Not offhand. I might have seen the man somewhere, but I can't place him."

"Could he have been the man Uncle Fred talked to in the parking lot?"

"I guess it's possible. If it wasn't this man, it was someone very much like him. He was just an ordinary man. I suppose that's why I can't remember him so good. There wasn't anything special to remember. Of course, he wasn't wearing a Mickey Mouse hat and Bermuda shorts."

I retrieved the photo. "Thanks. You've been very helpful."

"Anytime," she said. "You always have such interesting pictures."

I bypassed the street that led to my apartment building and continued down Hamilton to the Burg. I'd been thinking about the bombing, and I had a plan. Since I wasn't going anywhere tonight, I'd lock the Buick up in my parents' garage and bum a ride home from my dad. Not only would it keep the car safe, but it had the added advantage of getting me dinner.

I didn't have to worry about the garage being in use, because my father never put his car in the garage. The garage was used to store jugs of motor oil and old tires. My father had a workbench in there along one wall. He had a vise attached to the workbench, and little jars filled with nails and things lined the back of the workbench. I never saw him work at the workbench, but when he got really fed up with my grandmother, my father would hide in the garage and smoke a cigar.

"Uh-oh," Grandma said when she saw me at the door. "This don't look good. Where's the black car?"

"It got stolen."

"Already? You didn't even have it a whole day."

I went into the kitchen and got the garage keys. "I'm going to put the Buick in the garage overnight," I said to my mother. "Is that okay?"

My mother put her hand to her heart. "My God, you're going to get our garage blown up."

"Nobody's going to blow up the garage." Not unless they were sure I was in it.

"I have a ham," my mother said. "Are you staying for supper?"

"Sure."

I put the Buick in the garage, locked everything up nice and tight, and went into the house to have ham.

"It's gonna be two weeks tomorrow since Fred's been missing," Grandma said at dinner. "I thought for sure he'd have turned up by now—one way or another. Even aliens don't keep people that long. Usually they just probe your insides and let you go."

My father hunkered down over his plate.

"Of course, maybe they started probing Fred and he croaked. What do you think they'd do then? You think they'd just pitch him out? Maybe their spaceship was over Afghanistan when they tossed Fred, and we'll never find him. Good thing he isn't a woman, what with landing in Afghanistan and all. I hear they don't treat women so good over there."

My mother paused with her fork halfway to her mouth, and her eyes darted to the side window. She listened like that for a moment and then resumed eating.

"Nobody's going to bomb the garage," I said to her. "I'm almost sure of it."

"Boy, wouldn't it be something if someone did bomb our garage," Grandma said. "That'd be a good story to tell at the beauty parlor."

I was starting to wonder why I hadn't received a call from Ranger. It wasn't like him not to get back to me right away. I set my shoulder bag on my lap and pawed through the clutter, looking for my cell phone.

"What are you looking for?" Grandma asked.

"My cell phone. I've got so much junk in my bag I can never find anything." I started pulling stuff out and setting it on the table. Can of hairspray, hairbrush, zippered makeup pouch, flashlight, minibinoculars, Ranger's license plates, bottle of nail polish, stun gun . . .

Grandma leaned over the table to take a better look. "What's that thing?"

"Stun gun," I said.

"What's it do?"

"It emits an electrical charge."

My father forked in more ham, focusing his concentration on his plate.

Grandma got out of her seat and came around to examine the stun gun. "What do you do with this?" she wanted to know, picking it up and studying it. "How does it work?"

I was still rooting through my bag. "You press the metal prongs against someone and push the button," I said.

"Stephanie," my mother said, "take that away from your grandmother before she electrocutes herself."

"Aha!" I said, finding my cell phone. I pulled it out and looked at it. Dead battery. No wonder Ranger hadn't called.

"Look, Frank," my grandmother said to my father, "did you ever see anything like this? Stephanie says you just stick it against someone and push the button . . ."

My mother and I both jumped out of our seats. "No!"

Too late. Grandma had the prongs pressed against my father's arm. Zzzzzt.

My father's eyes glazed over, a piece of ham fell out of his mouth, and he crashed to the floor.

"He must have had a heart attack," Grandma said, looking down at my father. "I told him and told him, he uses too much gravy."

"It's the stun gun!" I yelled at her. "That's what happens when you use a stun gun on someone!"

Grandma bent down for a closer look. "Did I kill him?"

My mother was on her knees alongside my grandmother. "Frank?" she shouted. "Can you hear me, Frank?"

I took his pulse. "He's okay," I said. "Grandma just scrambled some brain cells. It's not permanent. He'll be good as new in a couple minutes."

My father opened an eye and farted.

"Oops," Grandma said. "Someone must have stepped on a duck."

We all backed away and fanned the air.

"I have a nice chocolate cake for dessert," my mother said.

I used my parents' phone in the kitchen and left a new message on Ranger's machine. "Sorry about my cell phone. The battery conked out. I'll be home in about a half-hour. I need to talk to you." Then I called Mary Lou and asked her to give me a lift home. I didn't think it was such a good idea to ask my dad to drive so soon after getting zapped. And I didn't want my mom to take me and leave my grandmother and father alone in the house together. And first and foremost, I didn't want to be there when my father went nuts at Grandma Mazur.

"I've been dying to hear from you," Mary Lou said when she picked me up. "What happened with Morelli last night?"

"Not a lot. We talked about the case he's working on, and then he took me home."

"That's it?"

"Pretty much."

"No fooling around?"

"Nope."

"So let me get this straight. Last night you were with the two sexiest men in the entire world, and you didn't score with either one of them?"

"There are other things in this life besides scoring with men," I said.

"Like what?"

"I could score with myself."

"You could go blind doing that."

"No! I mean, I could feel good about myself. You know, like when you do a job and it turns out excellent. Or when you set a moral standard for yourself and stick to it."

Mary Lou gave me the open-mouth, wrinkled-nose, this-is-a-load-of-bullshit look. "What?"

"Well, okay, so I've never had any of those things happen, but they could!"

"And pigs could fly," Mary Lou said, "but personally, I'd rather have an orgasm."

Mary Lou swung into the lot and stopped short, jerking both of us against the shoulder harness. "Omigod," she said. "Do you see what I think I see?"

Ranger's Mercedes was parked in shadow just beyond the door.

"Damn," Mary Lou said, "if he was waiting for me, I'd need Depends."

Ranger was leaning against the car, arms folded across his chest, not moving. Very foreboding in the dark. Definitely Depends material.

"Thanks for the ride," I said to Mary Lou, my eyes on Ranger, wondering about his mood.

"You going to be okay? He looks so . . . dangerous."

"It's the hair."

"It's more than the hair."

It was the hair, the eyes, the mouth, the body, the gun on his hip . . .

"I'll call you tomorrow," I told Mary Lou. "Don't worry about Ranger. He's not as bad as he looks." Okay, so I fib now and then, but it's always for a good cause. No point Mary Lou spending the night in a state.

Mary Lou gave Ranger one last look and whipped out of the lot. I took a deep breath and ambled over.

"Where's the BMW?" Ranger asked.

I pulled the plates and the piece of dashboard out of my bag and gave them to him. "I sort of had a problem . . ."

His eyebrows raised, and a smile started to twitch at the corners of his mouth. "This is what's left of the car?"

I nodded my head and swallowed. "It got stolen."

The smile widened. "And they left you the plates and registration tag. Nice touch."

I didn't think it was a nice touch. I thought it was very crappy. In fact, I was thinking my life was crappy. The bomb, Ramirez, Uncle Fred—and just when I thought I'd succeeded at something and made a capture, someone stole my car. The whole crappy world was thumbing its nose at me. "Life sucks," I said to Ranger. A tear popped out of my eye and slid down my cheek. Damn.

Ranger studied me for a moment, turned, and dropped the plates in his backseat. "It was a car, Babe. It wasn't important."

"It's not just the car. It's everything." Another tear squeezed out. "I have all these problems."

He was very close. I could feel the heat from his body. And I could see that his eyes were dilated black in the dark parking lot.

"Here's something else to worry about," he said. And he kissed me—his hand at the nape of my neck and his mouth on mine, soft at first, then serious and demanding. He drew me closer and kissed me again and desire washed over me, hot and liquid and scary.

"Oh boy," I whispered.

"Yeah," he said. "Think about it."

"What I think . . . is that it's a bad idea."

"Of course it's a bad idea," Ranger said. "If it was a good idea I'd have been in your bed a long time ago." He took a notecard from his jacket pocket. "I have a job for you tomorrow. The young sheik is going home and needs a ride to the airport."

"No! No way am I driving that little jerk."

"Look at it this way, Steph. He deserves you."

He had a point. "Okay," I said. "I haven't got anything else to do."

"Instructions are on the card. Tank will bring the car around for you."

And he was gone.

"Omigod," I said. "What did I just do?"

I rushed into the lobby and pushed the elevator button, still talking to myself. "He kissed me and I kissed him," I said. "What was I thinking?" I rolled my eyes. "I was thinking . . . yes!"

The elevator door opened and Ramirez stepped out at me. "Hello, Stephanie," he said. "The champ's been waiting for you."

I shrieked and jumped away, but I'd had my mind on Ranger and not Ramirez, and I didn't move fast enough. Ramirez grabbed a handful of hair and yanked me toward the door. "It's time," he said. "Time to see what it's like to be with a real man. And then when the champ is done with you, you'll be ready for God."

I stumbled and went down to one knee, and he dragged me forward. I had my hand in my bag, but I couldn't find my gun or the stun gun. Too much junk. I swung the bag as hard as I could and caught him in the face. He paused, but he didn't go down.

"That wasn't nice, Stephanie," he said. "You're gonna have to pay for that. You're gonna have to get punished before you go to God."

I dug my heels in and screamed as loud as I could.

Two doors opened on the first floor.

"What's going on here?" Mr. Sanders said.

Mrs. Keene stuck her head out. "Yeah, what's the racket?"

"Call the police," I yelled. "Help! Call the police."

"Don't worry, dear," Mrs. Keene said, "I've got my gun." She fired two off and took out an overhead light. "Did I get him?" she asked. "Would you like me to shoot again?"

Mrs. Keene had cataracts and wore glasses as thick as the bottom of a beer glass.

Ramirez had bolted for the door at the first shot.

"You missed him, Mrs. Keene, but that's okay. You scared him off."

"Do you still want us to call the police?"

"I'll take care of it," I told them. "Thanks."

Everyone thought I was a big professional bounty hunter, and I didn't want to ruin that image, so I calmly walked to the stairs. I climbed one step at a time, and I told myself to stay focused. Get yourself into your apartment, I thought. Lock the door, call the police. I should have found my gun and gone into the lot after Ramirez. But the truth is, I was too scared. And if I was being really honest here, I wasn't such a good shot. Better to leave it to the police.

By the time I got to my door, I had my key in my hand. I took a deep breath and got the key in on the first try. The apartment was dark and quiet. Too early for Briggs to be asleep. He must have gone out. Rex was silently running on his wheel. The red light was lit on my answering machine. Two messages. I suspected one was from Ranger, left early afternoon. I flipped the light on, dropped my bag on the kitchen counter, and played the messages.

The first was from Ranger, just as I'd thought, telling me to page him again.

The second was from Morelli. "This is important," he said. "I have to talk to you."

I dialed Morelli at home. "Come on," I said. "Pick up the phone." No answer, so I started working my way down the speed dial. Next on the list was Morelli's car phone. No answer there either. Try his cell phone. I took the phone into my bedroom, but only got as far as the bedroom door.

Allen Shempsky was sitting on my bed. The window behind him was broken. No secret how he got into my bedroom. He was holding a gun. And he looked terrible.

"Hang up," he said. "Or I'll kill you."