Turbo Twenty-Three (Stephanie Plum #23)(38)

“Pot roast for sandwiches, Italian bread from the bakery, half a chocolate cake, plus some stuff in the bottom of the bag. I think she threw in some apples.”

“You’re coming over, right?”

“Right. Give me a half hour.”

I waited ten more minutes, left my car, and walked to Butchy’s house. There were two windows on the driveway side, which was now in deep shadow, so I walked toward them. Probably bedroom windows. I stood on tiptoes and peeked in. The shades weren’t drawn, but the room was dark and I couldn’t see much. I went to the garage and tested the door. Locked. I circled around to the window on the side. It had security bars on it, and the glass had been painted black.

I had an instant image of a large freezer sitting inside surrounded by empty jugs of chocolate syrup and chopped nuts.

I moved on to the back of the house, crept quietly onto the back stoop, and looked in the back-door window at the kitchen. Part of the room was given over to an eating area with a table and four chairs. There was a large cardboard box on the table. I couldn’t see the contents. There were a couple dishes and some glasses in the dish drain by the sink. Dated electric stove and refrigerator freezer. Small toaster oven on the counter. A roll of paper towels. A loaf of supermarket bread, a jar of peanut butter, and an open package of Chips Ahoy! cookies were lined up next to the paper towels. I thought to myself that Butchy kept a Spartan kitchen, and then I realized it looked a lot like mine. This dragged another sigh out of me.

I left the back of the house and carefully avoided the side window in the front room. Butchy was watching television. I didn’t want him catching movement on the other side of the glass.

Ten minutes later I parked in front of Morelli’s house. Bob rushed at me when I walked in and knocked me against the wall. I held the food bag over my head. Morelli gave me a fast kiss and took the bag off my hands.

“You don’t usually stay this long at your parents’,” he said, taking the bag to the kitchen.

“A guy that I worked with on the Bogart loading dock rents a house in the Burg. I wanted to look around a little.”

Morelli set the cake on the counter and put the rest of the bag in the fridge. “And? Did you look around?”

“Yes. He doesn’t make a lot of money, but he has an expensive truck. He parks it in the driveway, not in the garage, and the garage is locked with the window barred and painted black.”

“You’re talking about half the Burg. None of that is criminally unusual.”

I got two forks, and we attacked the cake.

“I guess that’s true, but he feels off,” I said. “He’s too dumb. And he’s too much in the right place. And he has unexplained money.”

“He could be in debt up to his eyeballs.”

“I ran him through the system. He’s debt free.”

“So you think he’s doing wet work? Connie’s uncle won’t be happy to learn there’s a competitor.”

I carved out a piece with maximum frosting. “I think it would be more like industrial sabotage.”

“I’ll pass this along. In the meantime I want you to promise me you’ll keep your distance.”

“Sure,” I said.

Morelli looked at me. “That’s a fib, isn’t it?”

“Pretty much.” I watched him shoveling in cake. “Aren’t you supposed to be avoiding gluten?”

“I’m taking probiotics, and I’m better as long as I don’t get carried away.”

“What about your mom’s lasagna?”

“If my mother makes it, the gluten doesn’t count.”

“And what about this cake?”

“Your mom made it. Close enough.”

I didn’t want to burst his bubble, but I didn’t think he was close enough at all. It seemed to me that being engaged to be engaged wouldn’t count for much in the gluten protection plan.

“Okay, so if it wasn’t Butchy, who do you think killed the two Bogart men?” I asked him.

“I don’t know, but I think this killer is psycho. Killing someone and running away from the crime is normal. Killing someone and trying to hide the crime is normal. Killing someone and making him into a Bogart Bar isn’t normal.”

“He only did that once.”

“Yeah,” Morelli said. “He probably ran out of chocolate.”





SEVENTEEN


IT WAS SATURDAY, and I woke up next to Morelli. This was a luxury that didn’t often happen. Even when he didn’t have to be at an early briefing, he was still up before the sun. He made coffee. He showered. He walked Bob. He surfed the news. This morning he was in bed and the sun was outside, shining without him. That meant Morelli wanted something.

“This is nice,” I said. “You’re usually long gone by the time I wake up.”

“I’m trying something different.”

I looked over at the bedside clock. It was eight o’clock, and I didn’t have to be at the ice cream plant until ten-thirty. I had time for something different.

“I’m game,” I told him, snuggling closer. “What did you have in mind?”

“Originally I was going to treat you to brunch, but I’ve been waiting for three hours and I think we might be looking at a fast cup of coffee.”