Top Secret Twenty-One Page 4

  FIVE

  BIG BLUE IS a 1953 powder blue and white Buick Roadmaster that’s been retrofitted with seat belts and power brakes. It gets three miles to the gallon, and it does nothing for my self-esteem, as I aspire to be a slick Porsche person. My budget sees me more as a broken-down-junker-car person. My Great Uncle Sandor bequeathed the Buick to my Grandma Mazur, and it now lives in my parents’ garage in anticipation of automotive emergencies. Unfortunately, I have these on a regular basis.

  Ranger’s guy met us on Stark, removed my plates from the Explorer carcass, and drove us to the Burg. I got the car keys from Grandma and backed the Buick out of the garage. Lula and Briggs got in, and we drove to North Trenton to scope out Poletti’s rental properties.

  “It’s the white house coming up on the right,” Briggs said. “Personally, I can’t see him in any of these rentals. They’re leased through a management company. Strictly investment deals. I’m not sure he even knows he has them.”

  “No stone unturned,” I said. “We’ll just do a drive-by unless we see the Mustang or some other sign of Poletti.”

  An hour later I dropped Lula off at the office and returned to my apartment.

  Briggs followed me in and pulled the wig off his head. “I’m hungry. What’s for dinner?”

  “I was going to have a peanut butter sandwich.”

  “That’s not dinner. That’s lunch if you’re seven years old.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Steak.”

  “Are you buying?”

  “My money and my credit cards got blown up.”

  “Then I guess you’re not having steak.”

  Briggs looked in my fridge. “There’s nothing in here.”

  “Not true. I have olives. I put them on my peanut butter sandwich.”

  “That’s sick.”

  I pulled a box of Froot Loops out of the overhead cabinet. “How about cereal?”

  “You don’t have any milk.”

  “And?”

  “You’re supposed to have cereal with milk.”

  “These are Froot Loops. They’re perfect right out of the box. They’re pretty, they don’t stick to your fingers, and the box says they’re filled with vitamins and minerals.”

  “Maybe I should rethink this. I’d get better food in prison.”

  I made myself a peanut butter and olive sandwich and ate it while I leaned against the kitchen counter.

  “Where do we go from here?” I asked Briggs.

  “We could check out the poker players. Of course, one’s dead and two are missing, but last I heard, Buster was still around.”

  “The cousin.”

  “Yeah. He was tight with Jimmy. He was the guy Jimmy trusted to go to Mexico to solve labor issues.”

  “You mean with the cars?”

  Briggs ate a handful of Froot Loops. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask questions. I just tapped in Buster’s travel expenses. Hotels and planes and stuff. I came to the dealership on Broad twice a week and cooked the books. It didn’t seem like such a big deal. Everyone hates the IRS, right?”

  “Do you know where Buster lives?”

  “Downtown Trenton. I don’t know exactly where. His wife kicked him out of the house and took out a restraining order, so now he lives in an apartment over a pizza place. I think he owns the building.”

  I went to my computer and ran Buster through a search program.

  “He’s on the third block of Stark,” I said. “So far as I can see, he hasn’t got a job.”

  “He had some kind of deal with Jimmy. He got money under the table. And there’s a holding company called Bust Inc. that I think is his.”

  I gave the last chunk of my sandwich to Rex and grabbed my messenger bag. “Let’s take a look at Buster.”

  “Great, but I’m not wearing the wig. It itches. And it’s a stupid disguise. I’m four feet tall if I wear lifts and lie. People figure it out.”

  “If those people who figure it out start shooting at you, I’d appreciate it if you’d step away from me.”

  I rolled down the third block on Stark and slowed as we approached the pizza place. A bunch of guys were hanging in front of it, smoking whatever, trying hard to look bad. Heck, what do I know … probably they were bad. Probably they were the ones who’d taken my wheels.

  “This pizza place is a dump,” Briggs said, “but it’s full of people.”

  “Dinnertime,” I told him. “It’s easy food.”

  Briggs was sitting on his knees, his nose pressed to the window. “I swear I can smell it! Oh man, would I love a piece of pizza! We should check it out. You want to talk to Buster anyway, right?”

  “Right.”

  I found a parking place across the street from Buster’s building.

  “I’m going to sit here and watch the second-floor windows,” I said to Briggs. “You can run across and get a slice of pizza.”

  “I’ll get trampled. You have to come with me.”

  “You won’t get trampled. I’ve seen you in action. You’ve destroyed more knees than pro football.”

  “Yeah, but then there’s usually a riot.”

  This was true.

  “Okay, I’ll come with you, but you have to promise not to bite anyone or whack anyone with your iPhone.”

  The pizza place was just counter service. Strictly takeout. No tables. The room was packed. A single fan spun overhead. No air. We squeezed in and inched along with the rest of the people who were making their way to the counter.

  “Do you see the pizza?” Briggs asked. “What have they got?”

  “I can’t see the pizza. I can’t see anything.”

  “I want extra cheese and pepperoni.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “Are we almost there?”

  “Yeah. I think so.”

  I like pizza, but I was finding it hard to believe the pizza here was that good. There were other options on Stark. There were a bunch of fast-food pizza places, plus you could dial a pizza and have it delivered. Either this pizza was super cheap or it came with a side of weed.

  Five minutes later we had our pizza and were out the door. We crossed the street and leaned against the Buick while we ate.

  “This is good,” Briggs said. “Greasy, with just the right amount of cheese. Real Jersey pizza.”

  I finished my pizza, wiped my hands on my jeans, and looked across the street. The pizza place took up the entire first floor of Buster’s building, with the exception of a door at the end. I assumed this door led to the apartment on the second floor. There were five second-floor windows looking out at the street. None had shades drawn. So far, I hadn’t seen any shadows pass in front of the windows.

  “What’s the plan?” Briggs asked.

  “We go to the door and ring the bell.”

  “Suppose no one answers?”

  “I call his phone.”

  “What if he doesn’t answer his phone?”

  “I write him a letter.”

  I had the car keys in one pocket, pepper spray in another, and cuffs tucked into my jeans at the small of my back. Just in case.

  “Let’s go,” I said to Briggs. “Let’s see if Buster wants to talk to us.”

  We crossed the street, went to the door, and I was about to ring the bell when I heard someone inside thundering down the stairs. The door was yanked open, and a guy rushed out and slammed into me. He looked at me, then he looked down at Briggs and his face flushed.

  “You son of a bitch,” Briggs yelled at him. “You blew up my apartment. What the fuck is the matter with you?”

  “Jimmy Poletti?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Yeah,” he said. “What are you doing here with the runt?”

  “Runt?” Briggs said, his voice an octave higher than normal, a vein popping out in his forehead.

  I grabbed my cuffs and clapped one onto Poletti’s wrist. “I represent your bail bondsman.”

  “Of all the crap luck,” Poletti said. Then he
gave me a hard shove into Briggs. Briggs went flat on his back, I tumbled on top of him, and Poletti turned and ran. I scrambled to my feet and chased Poletti down Stark. He had a good lead, but I was faster. We ran to the end of the block and around the corner. He cut down an alley, and I was almost at arm’s length when he slipped into a building, slammed the door shut, and threw the bolt. It was, I realized, the rear entrance to the pizza place.

  Briggs pulled up behind me.

  “Stay here in case he tries to sneak back out,” I told him. “I’m going around to the front.”

  “What if he shoots at me?”

  “Yell for help.”

  “I could be dead.”

  “Deal with it,” I said, and I raced back to Stark.

  Just as I rounded the corner, Poletti jumped into a car and roared away. The car wasn’t the Mustang. It was a small silver sedan. It all happened too fast for me to get the plate or the make of the car.

  I took a moment to catch my breath, then I texted Briggs and told him to come around to the front. I rang the bell while I waited. No answer. I called the phone number I had for Buster, but no one picked up, and I couldn’t hear the phone ringing upstairs.

  “Where is he?” Briggs asked when he reached me. “What happened?”

  “He got away.”

  “Now what?”

  I looked at the door that led to the second-floor apartment. It was still open. “We go upstairs and look around,” I said.

  “Is that legal?”

  “Yes. I have reason to believe there’s a felon up there.”

  “Who?”

  “Poletti.”

  Briggs’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

  “No. Not really. Not even maybe.”

  We stepped inside and closed and locked the door behind us. I paused at the top of the stairs and announced myself. “Bond enforcement. Anyone home?”

  Silence.

  “This is a pretty nice apartment,” Briggs said, looking around. “He’s got a flat-screen television and a leather recliner. And he’s got a real kitchen.”

  The refrigerator was stocked with food. Dirty dishes in the half-filled dishwasher. An iPhone charger on the kitchen counter. No iPhone. We moved into the bedroom and found a guy stretched out on the floor, staring up at the ceiling.

  “Is this Buster?” I asked Briggs.

  “No. It’s Bernie Scootch. He doesn’t look so good. Is he okay?”

  Bernie was definitely not okay. He was lying in a pool of blood, and his chest had a bunch of bullet holes in it. For that matter, I wasn’t doing so great either. I was clammy with cold sweat and the horror of Bernie Scootch leaking his bodily fluids all over the carpet.

  I bit into my lower lip. “I’m pretty sure he’s dead.”

  “Oh jeez,” Briggs said. “That’s bad. That sucks.”

  I dialed 911 and gave the dispatcher the address and the big picture. Five minutes later a uniform arrived, with Morelli following. I was on the sidewalk when they angle-parked at the curb.

  “I was on my way home from my mom’s house when I heard the call come in,” Morelli said. “What’s the deal here?”

  “There’s a dead guy upstairs. Randy identified him as Bernie Scootch. He’s been shot … a lot.”

  Morelli went upstairs to take a look and returned after a couple minutes. “You’re right,” he said. “He’s been shot a lot. What were you doing in the apartment?”

  “I was looking for Jimmy Poletti.”

  “You had reason to believe he was there?”

  “It’s sort of a gray area.”

  Morelli looked like he needed a Rolaid. “You didn’t shoot Scootch, did you?”

  “No!”

  I gave Morelli the long version while more people showed up—the coroner, a crime photographer, a couple more uniforms, the crime lab techs, and Bryan Kreider.

  Kreider is another plainclothes cop in the Crimes Against Persons unit. He nodded and smiled at me. “Hey, Steph, how’s it going?”

  “It’s going good except for the dead guy upstairs.”

  Kreider looked at Morelli. “Have you seen him?”

  “Yeah. Multiple bullet wounds. Looks recent.”

  Kreider trudged upstairs, and Morelli turned back to me.

  “So this is Buster’s apartment,” he said, “but there’s no Buster.”

  “Haven’t seen him,” I said. “I also haven’t seen the murder weapon. It wasn’t near the body, and Poletti didn’t have it on him.”

  “You’re sure he wasn’t carrying?”

  “He was wearing a shirt tucked into slacks and there was no gun. Plus he didn’t try to shoot Briggs.”

  The line of Morelli’s mouth tightened a little. “Opportunities missed.”

  The sun was low on the horizon, hidden by the urban landscape. Stark Street was in deep shade. Lights blinked on in Buster’s apartment. The customers were beginning to thin out at the pizza place. A few people were standing around, gawking at the police activity, but a murder on Stark doesn’t draw much of a crowd.

  “I’ll pass the information on to Kreider,” Morelli said, “and then I’m heading home. I’ve got Bob in the car.”

  “I’m heading home too,” I said, looking across the street at the Buick. “I’ve got Briggs in the car.”

  Briggs was on the edge of his seat when I slid behind the wheel.

  “Did you hear them?” he asked, eyes wide, hands braced on the dash.

  “Who?”

  “The dogs. The Chihuahua pack. I heard them yipping. Like tiny coyotes. And at the end of the block I saw a tiny shadow with glowing red eyes. It was eerie. It gave me goosebumps.”

  “I didn’t hear them. Are you sure you didn’t imagine it?”

  “I got it on my phone.”

  Briggs passed me his phone, and I looked at a dark screen with two little red dots.

  “This could be anything,” I said. “It’s just dots.”

  “Those are the eyes of a wild demon Chihuahua,” Briggs said.

  SIX

  IT WAS A little after nine A.M. when I got to the office with Briggs in tow.

  “You look like crap,” Lula said to me. “You either had a really good night or a really bad night.”

  “I had a horrible night. Randy and I checked out Buster Poletti’s apartment and found Bernie Scootch stretched out on the floor with a bunch of holes drilled into him. That’s two dead men in one day! I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing the bodies. And then when I finally fell asleep I had nightmares.”

  “Sounds like the only one having a worse night was Ranger,” Connie said.

  I helped myself to coffee. “What’s with Ranger?”

  Connie’s eyebrows went up. “You didn’t hear? His building is sealed off. I don’t know all the details, but they had to evacuate. Gardi and one of the Rangeman guys are in the hospital. It’s all a big secret. No one’s saying anything.”

  “I bet it’s anthrax,” Briggs said. “It’s always anthrax when they seal off a building.”

  I tapped Ranger’s number into my phone.

  “What happened at Rangeman last night?” I asked him.

  “There was an incident with Gardi.”

  “Was it anthrax?”

  “No. It wasn’t anthrax. I’ll catch you later.” And he disconnected.

  “It wasn’t anthrax,” I told everyone.

  “He’s supposed to be a real hotshot in bed,” Lula said, “but he sure don’t waste any time explaining things.”

  I made an effort not to smile too wide. “He has his moments.”

  Lula fanned herself with her copy of Star magazine, and Connie did an eye roll.

  “Jeez,” Briggs said. “Does anybody know I’m standing here? This is an embarrassing conversation. And just to set the record straight, there are some ladies who think I’m hot.”

  “That’s a disturbing announcement,” Lula said. “I don’t want to meet those ladies.”

  I stepped outside and called Morelli.


  “What happened at Rangeman last night?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t been briefed on it, but it must be serious because the building is sealed and the feds are in charge. And Gardi is in St. Francis in isolation with a security guard in front of his door.”

  “Ranger said it wasn’t anthrax.”

  “Ranger should know.”

  “Anything new on the two murders? Did Buster ever turn up?”

  “Buster came home at ten o’clock. He said he’d been in Atlantic City all day. One of those package deals with a bus trip included. He went with his girlfriend. It checked out.”

  “How did Jimmy get into his apartment?”

  “Jimmy had a key. Buster gave it to him years ago when he first bought the building. He said they were using the apartment like a storeroom, but I’m guessing it was used to house the girls they imported.”

  “Did you find the murder weapon?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  I’ve seen enough violent death to know that Bernie hadn’t been dead long and that he’d been killed in the bedroom. So it bothered me that the police couldn’t find the gun and that Poletti didn’t have it on him when he rushed out of the apartment. Of course he might have killed Bernie earlier, left the apartment, and then returned without the gun for some reason. Still, it felt off.

  “Have you talked to the remaining poker players?”

  “Kreider questioned Silvio Pepper. He said Pepper was nervous. We can’t find Ron Siglowski. Kreider interviewed his neighbors and got nothing. Ditto his relatives.”

  “I get that Pepper is nervous. I’d be nervous too. Poletti is cleaning house. Most likely Siglowski is already dead, and just hasn’t turned up yet. That leaves Pepper and Briggs.”

  “Is Briggs still hiding out in your apartment?”

  “Yes. And it’s not fun.”

  “Maybe we should tie him to a parking meter downtown and see if Poletti takes the bait.”

  “Tempting, but I can’t see Poletti being that stupid.”

  “I have to run,” Morelli said. “Let me know if you come up with something better than the parking meter.”

  I went back inside and asked Connie to run checks on Silvio Pepper and Ron Siglowski. Five minutes later I had more information than I needed on both men. I had photos, ages, street addresses, second-grade spelling scores, sock sizes, cheese preferences, and colonoscopy reports.