Turbo Twenty-Three (Stephanie Plum #23)(42)

“Goes without saying,” Gaylord said. “You got a color in mind?”

“I’m partial to red,” Lula said, “but I guess we could be flexible on that one.”

“And how much you got to spend?”

“She don’t want to go over five thousand.”

“Okay, I might have to work a little, but I might find something.”

“Gaylord is a specialist middleman,” Lula said to me. “You tell him what you want and then he finds it for you.”

“Anything else?” Gaylord asked.

“She wants it legal,” Lula said. “You know, with a VIN and papers and all that shit.”

“All my cars come with papers,” Gaylord said. “And we’ll make sure it has everything looking legal.”

“What did I tell you?” Lula said to me. “He’s a sweetie, right?”

I noticed he’d said everything would look legal, and it occurred to me that looking legal might be different from being legal. I glanced back at my SUV and gave an involuntary shiver. It would never make it back across the river. It was a miracle I’d been able to drive it this far. Okay, so he looked like a nice man. And if I harp on the legal issue he might get insulted, right? I wouldn’t want to insult one of Lula’s friends. And, honestly, did I even care? I gave up a sigh. Of course I cared. I didn’t want to be involved in a crime, and I didn’t want to encourage crime. On the other hand, I needed a car. And who was I to prejudge this businessman?

“What about my current car?” I asked. “What’s it worth?”

Gaylord cut his eyes to the Explorer. “Fifty.”

“Fifty dollars?” I said. “That’s all you’ll give me for a trade-in?”

“No,” he said. “That’s what I’ll charge you to haul it to the junkyard.”

“So when can we expect her new car?” Lula asked.

“I’ll get Wayne working on it right away,” Gaylord said. “Where do you want it delivered?”

“You could call my cellphone, and I’ll let you know where we’re at,” Lula said.

“We need full payment when we deliver,” Gaylord said to me. “And I only take cash. Eliminates overhead, if you know what I mean.”

Oh boy.

I emptied out the Explorer, and Lula drove us back to Trenton.

“Now what are we going to do?” Lula wanted to know.

“I need to get cash for my capture check and my bank is closed.”

“No problem. I know someone who can fix that too if you don’t mind a twenty-five-dollar transaction fee.”

It was a little after five when I walked into my apartment. I dropped the envelope with $5,000 in cash onto the counter, grabbed a cold beer from the fridge, and made myself a peanut butter sandwich for dinner. Rex came out of his soup can and looked at me, whiskers twitching, eyes bright. I gave him a corner of my sandwich. He stuffed it into his cheek and scurried back into his can.

I called Ranger and gave him the details on the ice cream truck explosion. I told him about Kenny Morris. I told him the Jolly Bogart clown was a lunatic.

“Babe,” Ranger said.

“Dude,” I said back at him.

I thought I sensed him smile, but I could be wrong.

We disconnected, and Morelli called me. “Were you the second clown in the ice cream truck?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you okay?”

“I can’t get the red greasepaint off my nose, but aside from that I’m good.”

“Do we have a plan for tonight? Are you babysitting Gazarra’s kids?”

“Babysitting was canceled, but I have some errands to run.”

“ ‘Errands’?”

“Work related. I should be home around eleven o’clock. Also, if anyone finds a semiautomatic in whatever is left of the ice cream truck they should run a ballistics test against the bullet taken out of Arnold Zigler.”

“Are you kidding? You think the Jolly Bogart clown killed Zigler?”

“All I’m saying is that he had a gun, and why not test it if it turns up?”

“Fair enough.”

I pulled the two reports out of my messenger bag and took them to my dining room table to read. There wasn’t much on Ducker. He lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment in a large apartment complex in Hamilton Township. He drove a leased Kia. He had a bunch of credit cards. He had no arrest history. He was a high school graduate. After high school he’d enlisted in the Army and served for three years. Never saw combat. Was unemployed for almost a year after the Army. Eventually was hired by Bogart. Never married. His parents lived in Newark. His father was a butcher.

Kenny Morris graduated from Lafayette College and went to work in his father’s ice cream business. He worked on the floor for a year and then moved to a corner office, where he presided over the test kitchen. He’d been in the corner office for two years. He was twenty-five years old. His two older brothers weren’t interested in ice cream. One was a lawyer in Philadelphia with a wife and two kids. The other was a graphic designer, working in Silicon Valley. Kenny also had no arrest history. His credit rating was top-notch. He drove a black Jeep Wrangler Rubicon Hard Rock, which I thought was a badass car. He lived at home with his parents. And he was in love with Bogart’s daughter. Connie had included Kenny’s college yearbook picture. Blond hair, blond eyebrows, shy smile. A little bland looking.