Turbo Twenty-Three (Stephanie Plum #23)(22)

“Do you guys have any persons of interest?” I asked Morelli.

“No.” He looked across the table at me. “Do you?”

“No.”

Morelli served the lasagna, and we all dug in. Morelli’s mom was an amazing cook. My mom was good, but Morelli’s mom was a pro. Her lasagna noodles were always perfect. Her red sauce was a family secret. She used just the right amount of ricotta, mozzarella, and Italian sausage.

“This is fantastic,” I said to Morelli.

He smiled. “You always say that.”

“I wish I could cook like your mom.”

“You have other talents.”

I wasn’t going to pursue this. If I asked about my other talents we’d never finish dinner. We’d be in the bedroom. Don’t get me wrong. I like sex. I like it a lot. I just don’t like it as much as I like Morelli’s mom’s lasagna.

“Do you have any lab reports back?” I asked.

“It looks like the chocolate and nuts came from the Bogart plant. Time of death seems to be late Friday. DNA will take longer.”

“Prints?”

“Nothing on the body. The truck was covered with them, including yours. Lots of people come in contact with that truck during a normal business day.”

My phone buzzed with a text message from Ranger.

“I’m working the loading dock tomorrow,” I told Morelli. “I’m supposed to report to the foreman at eight o’clock. And I’m supposed to wear sensible shoes.”

“Walk me through the purpose for this job one more time,” Morelli said.

“Ranger’s been hired by Harry Bogart to improve his security. Bogart thinks someone is trying to sabotage his business. So Ranger hired me to go inside and look around.”

“And the Bogart Bar guy?”

“It’s not clear if the two problems are related.”

“Did you learn anything from your first day?”

I helped myself to another chunk of lasagna. “Nothing useful. It’s a pretty bland group. Not a lot of gossip. And I only came in contact with a few people. It sounds like Mo Morris runs a more employee-friendly plant, but no one seemed especially unhappy to be working for Bogart. This could be because Bogart doesn’t do drug testing. He’s got a bunch of mellow ladies working for him.”

“Do I need to send someone in there?”

“Probably not necessary. Ranger will straighten it out when he takes over security.”

“That’ll be popular.”

“Yeah, I imagine they’ll have some employee turnover.” I looked toward the kitchen. “Is there dessert?”

Morelli grinned.

“Not that!” I said. “I know there’s that. Jeez Louise, don’t you ever think of anything else?”

“It’s on my mind a lot,” Morelli said.

“Even when you’re working?”

“Not so much when I’m working. I’m a homicide cop. I almost never get a hard-on when I’m looking at a body filled with bullet holes.”

“So is there dessert?”

“Yeah. There’s ice cream.”

I collected the plates, took them into the kitchen, and went to the freezer. It was filled with Bogart Bars.

“Are you kidding me?” I said. “You got Bogart Bars?”

“They were on sale.”





ELEVEN


AT 7:45 A.M. I parked in the employee lot at the ice cream plant and found the employee entrance. It opened up onto a hall that led to the locker rooms. Because I was working on the loading dock I didn’t need to get suited up, so I left my messenger bag and lunch in a locker and went in search of my foreman.

I was directed to a wide hallway with polished concrete floors and harsh overhead lighting. Double doors to the freezer were at one end of the hall and double doors to the loading dock were at the other. I pushed through the loading dock doors and looked around, happy to be outside. It was a cloudless blue-sky day. Perfect for September. Warm in the sun and chilly in the shade. Hardly any stench from the chemical plant in the neighboring industrial park and only a slight haze of air pollution.

A young guy slouched against one wall, and an older man was talking on his phone. A refrigerator truck was backed up to the high concrete platform. It was a box truck about half the size of the eighteen-wheeler Lula and I commandeered. A much smaller ice cream truck decorated with pictures of Bogart Bars and Kidz Kups was parked by the ramp leading down from the platform. It was the beloved Jolly Bogart truck. It was one of the few ice cream trucks that still drove through neighborhoods, rain or shine, summer or winter, selling ice cream to kids and their moms.

The older man put his phone away and stood hands on hips, looking me over. He blew out a sigh and shook his head. Not happy.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with you?” he said.

I didn’t know the answer to that. “I assume you’re the foreman.”

“Yeah. Gus. And you’re what?”

“Stephanie.”

“Well, Stephanie, we gotta load this truck up with ice cream. The stupid-looking guy standing over there with his thumb up his ass is Butchy.”

“Haw,” Butchy said, and he lit a cigarette.

“Last time Butchy loaded up a truck it had a dead guy stuffed into the back of it,” Gus said.