Turbo Twenty-Three (Stephanie Plum #23)(35)

“Did Carolyn have any information on how it happened?”

“Just that the door lock had been jammed somehow. One of the people on the line tried to get into the freezer this morning, and the code wouldn’t work. I guess eventually they forced the door open somehow, and that’s when they found this poor guy frozen solid. Mickey was one of the first responders. He said there was nothing anyone could do.”

I couldn’t help grimacing when I asked the question. “Did Mickey say if the man was covered in chocolate and nuts?”

“That was the first question I asked too,” Connie said. “No. No chocolate or nuts. Just frozen.”

Okay, I felt a little better about it all. It was sad that Gus got frozen, but at least he wasn’t turned into a Bogart Bar.

“If I was working at that ice cream factory, I’d quit,” Connie said. “There’s a homicidal lunatic running around loose. And I for sure wouldn’t go near the freezer.”

I was going to do exactly the opposite. I was showing up for work at the ice creamery tomorrow, and I’d probably be in and out of the freezer. And I was doing it because that’s the way it is . . . . Ranger and I wade in and try to make things a little more safe. Morelli did that too. Not to mention that I was pissed off at the whole Bogart Bar issue.

“Lula went home with a headache and a chipped nail,” I said to Connie. “I’m taking off too. I have some homework to do.”

I got my check from Connie, and I drove my dented piece of junk back to my apartment building. I said hello to Rex, got a beer from the fridge, powered up my MacBook Air, and downloaded Ranger’s report on Butchy.

William Boone, better known as Butchy, was twenty-two years old. He was born and raised in Barre, Vermont. His mother was a cashier in a supermarket. His father was an unemployed auto mechanic. Butchy graduated from high school and disappeared for three years. Interviews with relatives suggested he was in Nashville, trying to break into the music industry. He resurfaced in Trenton and got a job at Bogart Ice Cream. He had no arrest record. His credit score was nonexistent. He bought his F-450 six months ago and he’d paid cash. It was estimated that with the custom additions the truck was worth in the vicinity of $60,000. He was making $20 an hour at the ice cream plant. Clearly Butchy had supplemental income. He was high on my list of suspected homicidal lunatics. He had all the right access. He had unexplained money. And it was hard to believe he was as stupid as he seemed . . . because he seemed unbelievably stupid.

According to Butchy’s employment file and Ranger’s research, Butchy lived on the edge of the Burg. He was renting a house on King Street. I couldn’t place its exact location, but I knew the area. It was typical Burg. Mostly blue-collar. Small cottage-type houses on tiny lots.

It was Friday night, and I traditionally had dinner with my parents. Morelli had a standing invitation to join us, but he usually begged off. I couldn’t blame him. At some point during the dinner the inevitable question of marriage would arise. I had no good answer.

My mother called at four-thirty. “Is Joseph coming to dinner?” she asked.

“I’m pretty sure he has to work,” I said. “I think it’s only going to be me.”

“It’s just as well. Your grandmother invited some stranger. She said she met him at Bertha Webster’s viewing, and he might be the man of her dreams.”

Okay, I know this sort of thing drives my mother nuts. She worries about my grandmother. I don’t worry about Grandma so much as I do about the rest of the world. It seems to me Grandma is livin’ la vida loca. Truth is, I’m a little jealous. It looks to me like she’s having more fun than I am.





SIXTEEN


I LEFT MY apartment at five o’clock and drove to the Burg. I wound around the jumble of streets and finally found King. Butchy’s place was a little box of a house in the middle of a block. One floor. Probably two bedrooms and one bath. Detached single-car garage. It wasn’t a total shambles, but it wasn’t in immaculate condition either. The paint was peeling around the windows. The postage stamp front yard was clean but barren. No shrubs, flowers, gnomes, or plaster statues of the Virgin Mary. Butchy’s truck was in the driveway.

I stared at the truck for a bunch of beats. It was chilling to think that it might belong to a killer. Even more creepy that the killer might be Butchy. Butchy wasn’t on my radar when I was working the loading dock, but he was a big blip on the screen now.

I slowly cruised down the street and made my way to my parents’ house. I parked in their driveway because the front of my car was less visible there than it would be at the curb. My mother was at the door with my grandmother when I stepped onto the porch.

“What happened to your car?” my mother wanted to know.

“It got a little smushed,” I said. “It doesn’t matter. I’m getting a new one.”

“What kind are you going to get?” Grandma asked. “Are you going to get a Corvette? I think you should get one like Ranger. His cars are hot.”

“I haven’t thought about it,” I said. “I’ll have to see what I can afford.”

A chopper slowly rumbled down the street and parked in front of my parents’ house. The rider was in full black leather with a long gray ponytail sticking out from under a black Darth Vader helmet.