Notorious Nineteen Read online

  I could sense Ranger’s smile over the phone. “Looking forward to seeing it.”

  And he hung up.

  After a couple minutes Morelli rolled into the lot, and I ran out to his SUV.

  “Do you want to eat first or talk to Zigler first?” Morelli asked me.

  “Let’s get Zigler out of the way.”

  Morelli pulled out of the lot and drove toward Hamilton Avenue. “That would be my choice too.”

  “How did it go with the nurses?” I asked him.

  “Julie Marconni is a zombie. She’s a single mother who works the night shift and then goes home to take care of her three kids.”

  “Who’s with the kids at night?”

  “She has a roommate who teaches eighth grade. On the surface it sounds like a good arrangement, but Julie Marconni is a burnout. She was cleaning the house when I got there and she was dead on her feet. I suspect she sleeps a lot on the job. She’s responsible for half the patients on the fourth floor, and none of her patients have gone missing.”

  “All the missing patients were Kruger’s?”

  “Yeah. Three years’ worth of missing patients.” Morelli stopped for a light. “I asked Kruger if she worked other jobs, and she said once in a while she took on a private client. I asked her if she worked at The Clinic and she said she spent a couple hours there five days a week but she really didn’t do anything. She said if The Clinic ever got up and running she would be guaranteed a supervisory position.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “Yes, but I also think there’s something bad going on, and Kruger’s up to her armpits in it. She has a defensive posture when she’s questioned, and things aren’t adding up in her favor.”

  “Did she offer to give you a back rub?”

  “No. She wasn’t friendly. It was a short conversation.”

  “I would have given you a back rub,” I said to Morelli. “I like the way your jeans fit. And I like your shirt when it’s open at the neck a little like this.”

  I leaned in and kissed him just below his ear and above the shirt collar.

  Morelli dragged me across the console and kissed me. Lots of tongue. His hand under my shirt. The driver behind us leaned on his horn, and Morelli broke from the kiss and moved forward.

  “We could turn around and go back to your apartment,” he said.

  I retreated to my seat and stuffed myself back into my bra. “Is Zigler expecting you?”

  “Yeah,” he said on a sigh. “And Briggs is waiting for us.”

  “Then let’s get the job done.”

  “My jeans aren’t fitting all that great right now,” Morelli said.

  I noticed.

  Briggs was in his office waiting for us with Mickey Zigler. Zigler was in his fifties. Gray hair in a buzz cut, barrel-chested, bloodshot eyes.

  “Sit,” Morelli said.

  We all sat.

  “What’s your routine on the night shift?” Morelli asked Zigler.

  “I make the rounds every hour. Between the rounds I watch the monitors. We got them all over the building and in the parking areas.”

  “That’s a lot of monitors to watch,” Morelli said.

  “Not so much at night,” Zigler told him. “Nothing happens. Once in a while we get something coming into the emergency room but usually they go to St. Francis. Especially if it’s a shooting. St. Francis specializes in gunshot wounds. Mostly what I see is pigeons walking around in the lot. And sometimes kids making out in the parking garage.”

  “Who watches the monitors when you’re making the rounds?” Morelli asked him.

  Briggs answered. “No one. It’s like that during the day too. There’s no money in the security budget for two guys on a shift.”

  “So if someone knows when security is on the second floor and the nurses are sleeping on the surgical floor, it wouldn’t be impossible to sneak a patient out,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Zigler said, “except we reviewed all the video for the night when Pitch went missing, and it was all the usual stuff. Two to seven is the dead time. There aren’t even pigeons walking around between two and seven.”

  “How long does it take you to make the rounds?” Morelli asked.

  “A half hour. Unless something unusual happens, it’s a half hour on my feet going through the hospital and then a half hour watching the monitors.”

  “When you get to the fourth floor what are the nurses doing?” I asked him.

  “They’re usually at the desk, working on the charts or talking.”

  “Are they ever asleep?”

  “I never saw anyone sleeping. Sometimes Julie looks a little zoned out. She has a tough life. But I never saw her sleeping.”

  “How about Kruger?”

  “I never saw Kruger sleeping.” He looked at Briggs. “Sometimes she disappears for a while.”

  “Where does she go?” I asked Zigler.

  Zigler grinned. “Sometimes she gets the orderlies to diddle her in the dayroom. I figure it’s none of my business, but since you asked.”

  “Do you have any idea how these patients disappeared while you were working security?” Morelli asked Zigler.

  “No, sir,” Zigler said. “I think it must have been aliens. You know how they can beam you up?”

  “That’s on television,” Morelli said.

  “Maybe,” Zigler said.

  I followed Morelli out of the hospital and we buckled ourselves into the SUV.

  “Aliens,” Morelli said. “I think he was serious.”

  “It is hard to explain.” And hell, I was carrying a chunk of wood around with me that I almost believed was putting ideas into my head. I was ready to believe just about anything.

  We called ahead to Pino’s and ordered meatball subs. Morelli stopped at his house and got Bob and a six-pack of Bud. We picked the subs up and took everything up to my apartment. We were in front of the television, eating the subs, drinking beer, and watching a pregame show for the Mets. I heard something go phoonf from the parking lot and my living room window shattered.

  Morelli vaulted over the couch, picked something off the floor, threw it out the shattered window, and a moment later there was a loud explosion from the parking lot.

  I went to the window and stood next to Morelli. Three cars were furiously burning. One was Morelli’s. The Buick was fine.

  “I’m thinking about marrying a woman who gets rockets launched into her living room,” Morelli said. “What’s wrong with this picture?”

  “You’re thinking about marrying me?”

  “I’ve been thinking about marrying you for ten years,” Morelli said. “Do you want to explain this latest terrorist attack to me?”

  “It’s all a misunderstanding. Some nutcase guy thinks I’m in a relationship with Ranger.”

  “Are you?”

  “In a relationship with Ranger? No! I’m working for him.”

  “And this is why the nutcase guy just fired off a rocket into your living room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know him by name?”

  “Not exactly. Ranger’s working on it.”

  Emergency vehicles were pouring into my parking lot. Fire trucks, EMTs, police cars.

  “I suppose I should go downstairs and explain this to them,” Morelli said.

  “What will you say?”

  “I’ll say I haven’t a clue. And I’m absolutely not going to tell anyone I picked it up and chucked it out your window.” He turned when he got to the door. “I want you to call Ranger and tell him I’m not happy.”

  Bob and I watched the circus in the parking lot for a while and I called Ranger.

  “Morelli wants me to tell you he’s not happy,” I said to Ranger.

  “I already talked to Morelli.”

  “Was he happy?”

  “No.”

  “Your guy shot a missile into my living room.”

  “Yeah, he hit Amanda Olesen’s townhouse too. He shot it into her front window.”

&
nbsp; “Was anyone hurt?”

  “No, but the townhouse was destroyed. Amanda and Kinsey were in the back of the house when the explosion occurred.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “I have them in a safe house.”

  “Are they going through with the wedding?” I asked.

  “They’re trying to decide.”

  “They should cancel. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Babe, you just want to get out of wearing the pink dress.”

  “True.”

  Bob and I were watching the game when Morelli finally came back to the apartment. I heard the door open and slam shut, locks were flipped, and Morelli went into the kitchen. A minute later he came to the couch with a beer in his hand.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “It was a direct hit on my car. There’s nothing left of it.”

  I bit into my lower lip to keep from smiling. I didn’t want to make matters worse by laughing at Morelli, but there was some humor to the fact that Morelli tossed the thing onto his own car. Of course, there was also the possibility that in my state of mild hysteria the line between horrible and hilarious was blurred, and it wasn’t all that funny that Morelli blew his car up.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  Morelli chugged down a bottle of beer. “It’s you. You’re a disaster magnet. I’m surprised this building hasn’t been wiped out by a tornado. How could it possibly have escaped a tornado?”

  “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “I’m serious,” Morelli said. “You’re like one of those people who keep getting hit by lightning.”

  “Hey, it’s no picnic for me either. Do you think I like having rockets shot into my living room? Do you think I like getting poisoned, threatened with cremation, and forced into a pink taffeta dress?”

  “Don’t forget the stun gun,” Morelli said. “You got stunned. And this all happened in one week.”

  I sucked in some air and burst into tears. “You’re right,” I said, sobbing. “And it’s even worse. I got two more cars totally toasted and my arm slashed. I’m a walking time bomb.”

  “Oh jeez,” Morelli said, putting his beer bottle down and wrapping his arms around me. “I didn’t mean to make you cry. I hate when you cry. I got carried away with the disaster magnet thing.”

  “I’m a big, humongous mess! I need an exorcist.”

  He wiped away a tear that had streaked down my face. “You’re not that much of a mess, Cupcake. And to tell you the truth I don’t think an exorcist would help a lot. It’s not like you’re a biblical mess. You just have a knack for rolling in dog doo.”

  I wiped my nose on the back of my hand. “That’s awful.”

  “It’s not so bad. Bob rolls in dog doo, and we love Bob, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, there you have it.” Morelli kissed me on the top of my head. “You know what you need? A beer. I could use another one too. Don’t go away.”

  I watched Morelli trot off to the kitchen, and I was half worried he wasn’t coming back. If I was in his shoes, I might be tempted to grab Bob and head for the hills. Of course Morelli didn’t have a car so I guess that would slow him down.

  At any rate, he was right. I needed a beer. And he was right about the dog doodie too. Even when I was a kid I had a knack for pushing the boundaries of common sense and normal behavior. I walked into the boys’ bathroom in grade school because I was convinced I was invisible. I jumped off the roof of my parents’ garage because I thought I could fly. And that was the tip of the iceberg.

  And I’m still pushing boundaries, flopping around in water that’s over my head. And here’s the scary part that I wouldn’t say out loud to anyone . . . I’m a little addicted to it. I like my crazy job and my disaster-prone life. Not that I want a bomb in my living room, but I’ve come to like the adventure. I was hooked into the challenge of the manhunt. And the occasional rush of adrenaline was sort of invigorating.

  TWENTY

  MORELLI AND BOB left just as the sun was coming up. I gave Morelli the keys to the Buick, and told him I’d try to stay out of trouble. I went back to bed and woke up to blinding day-light and Ranger standing at my bedside with coffee. He was wearing Rangeman black cargo pants and T-shirt, and he was, as always, armed. He wore custom-tailored suits when he was talking to clients, but at all other times he dressed like the rest of his men.

  “What the heck?” I said.

  “I have a full day, and I need to talk to you.”

  “Is that coffee for me?”

  “Yes.”

  I sat up and took the coffee. “What’s going on?”

  “I left keys to an SUV on your kitchen counter. I have someone coming over to fix your window. I got a call from the bridal salon that they were worried about your shoes. They wondered if you had pink shoes and they reminded you that you were wearing sneakers and not heels when you tried the dress.”

  I burst out laughing at the thought of Ranger taking the message.

  “It’s not funny,” Ranger said. “One more message like that and I’ll get my nuts repossessed.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. I’ve ruled out all but one man in my unit, and he’s supposed to be dead. His name is Orin Carr, and he was the unit demo expert. He was reported killed in Afghanistan, but there are pieces of information in some of the notes that only Orin would know. Orin was the unit whackjob. He would walk through minefields with his eyes closed because he thought he had divine protection.”

  “How did he feel about fire?”

  “He loved fire. He said it was the great purifier.”

  I sipped my coffee. “Are you close to catching him?”

  “No. I’m chasing down a dead man. He isn’t leaving any markers.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Yes. Get the shoe thing straightened out so I don’t have to talk to that woman again.”

  And he left.

  I rolled out of bed, carried my coffee into the bathroom, and took a shower. A half hour later I was dressed in a black T-shirt and a short denim skirt that I hadn’t worn since high school, and my phone rang.

  It was Lula. “Where the heck are you?” she asked. “We got Grandma here, and she’s got big news. She’s been snooping.”

  “What’s the news?”

  “You gotta hear it from Grandma. I thought for sure you’d be here by now.”

  Grandma got on the phone. “I went undercover to Cranberry Manor with Florence Mikolowski last night,” Grandma said. “She was going to visit her friend Marion, and I told her I wanted to go along to see the place. So we were sitting there having a cup of tea and who do you think comes in? Susan Cubbin. Flo’s friend knew her right off. And Mrs. Cubbin goes straight to the office her husband used to have and starts pulling open all the drawers and looking under the desk and in all the books in his bookshelf. And the whole time that young girl who took us around, what’s-her-name, is trying to stop Mrs. Cubbin, and Mrs. Cubbin’s having none of it. I tell you, she was on a mission. And we’re standing there watching it all. And then Mrs. Cubbin is rummaging around in a file drawer, and she goes Aha! And she runs out of the office and out of the building.”

  “She found something!” I said.

  “Yeah, she had a big folded-up paper in her hand. Like a poster or something.”

  Lula got back on the phone. “We gotta go see Susan Cubbin. I bet she knows where the money is. And it might be with her jerk husband.”

  “I’m on my way. Give me fifteen minutes.”

  I left Tiki with Rex, and I ran to the car with my messenger bag in one hand and a gun in the other.

  “Look at you in a skirt today,” Lula said when I walked in.

  I took a cruller out of the box on Connie’s desk. “I need to do laundry. This was the only thing left in my closet.”

  Lula looked out the window. “You have another new car.”

  “It’s Ranger’s. Morelli had to borrow the Buick.”

  “What’s wrong with More
lli’s SUV?”

  “It sort of got blown up.”

  Everyone looked at me with their eyebrows raised.

  “It’s a long story,” I said. “Not worth telling.”

  Grandma, Lula, and I trooped out of the office and got into the shiny, immaculate black Jeep Liberty.

  “I’d like to know where he gets all these new cars,” Lula said. “It’s like they drop out of the sky. And the other question is, how does he get insurance when you keep blowing them up?”

  “I don’t blow them all up,” I said.

  I drove to the Cubbin house in Hamilton Township and parked in the driveway, behind the van. We went to the door and Susan opened it before I had a chance to ring the bell.

  “I saw you drive up,” she said. “Now what?”

  “Just checking in,” I said.

  “I recognize the old lady,” Susan said. “She was at Cranberry Manor last night. You want to know what I was doing, right?”

  “I’m not so old,” Grandma said. “I got a bunch of good years left in me.”

  “What were you doing there?” I asked Susan.

  “I was looking for the money. What else would I be doing?”

  “Did you find it?”

  “When I find it, all you’ll see is an empty house.”

  “What about the big albino? Has he been around?”

  “The realtor?”

  “I don’t think he’s a realtor.”

  “Whatever. Haven’t seen him.”

  Grandma craned her neck to look around Susan into the living room. “This is a real nice house. I like your decorating.”

  “I did it myself. I was going for the Americana look.”

  “You got it,” Grandma said. “What’s with the suitcase in your living room? Are you planning a vacation?”

  “No. I’m cleaning out my closet.”

  We left Susan and returned to the Jeep.

  “I think she was fibbing about cleaning out her closet,” Grandma said.

  “Suppose you embezzled five million dollars?” I asked Grandma and Lula. “Where would you put it?”

  “I guess it would be in a bank account somewhere,” Lula said. “It’s not like he robbed a liquor store. He probably took some here and there. That’s a lot of money to take out of that dinky Cranberry Manor.”

  “I’d put it in a lot of different banks,” Grandma said. “You gotta move it around and laundry it. And then I’d put some in Grenada and Jakarta and places like that.”