Turbo Twenty-Three (Stephanie Plum #23)(54)

The door had a numerical keypad like the keypad to the freezer. I punched in 0000 and opened the door.

“Either Bogart is very trusting or very stupid,” I said.

“So far in my dealings with him I haven’t seen evidence that he’s either of those.”

We stepped into the storeroom and followed the clown’s path through the rows of shelves. We left the storeroom and walked the hall to Bogart’s office. We turned and retraced our steps to the storeroom’s back door.

“Do you have any words of wisdom for me?” Ranger asked.

“No, but I have some questions. Why did Bogart come to check on his office in his pajamas?”

“He didn’t say. His phone message to the control room was terse. And after that initial message we couldn’t reach him. I assume whoever trashed his office called him. It was late at night, and the call rattled him enough that he rushed over half dressed.”

“Question number two. Actually it’s an observation. The storeroom is a maze of shelves, but the clown had no trouble finding the chocolate and nuts in the dark. He walked right to them. And then there’s number three. It’s a retraction of what I said a couple minutes earlier. I don’t think Ducker would dress up in his clown suit to do this . . . especially if he killed Arnold Zigler.”

It was six o’clock when I fell into bed fully clothed and pulled the pillow over my head. I woke up a little after ten and shuffled into the kitchen. I opened the fridge door and let the cold air wash over me, hoping it would jump-start my brain. I didn’t feel a surge of intelligence so I gave up on the fridge and pulled a box of Froot Loops out of the cupboard. I made coffee and ate a couple handfuls of cereal. The fog started to lift after the coffee.

I wasn’t sure what to do following my bizarre night. Ranger hadn’t said anything about returning to the ice cream factory. No more phone calls about my honey bunny grandmother. The one bright spot of the day so far was remembering Briggs hurling past me on the bungee cord and bouncing back up. More entertaining the morning after than it had been at the time.

I had just one open file to clear for Vinnie, and it was a low-bond shoplifter. Hardly worth the effort. Probably I should go to the office and see if anything else came in. I brushed my teeth and put concealer on my nose. I thought about taking a shower, but it seemed like it would take energy I didn’t have.

I grabbed my messenger bag and opened my door to leave my apartment. DIE was written on the outside of the door in chocolate. At least I hoped it was chocolate, because it was brown and the alternative wasn’t nice. A note card was taped to the door below the chocolate.

The note card message was written in block letters. STICK TO YOUR DAY JOB OR ELSE.

Terrific. I dropped the note into my bag, scrubbed the message off the door, and sprayed the door with Lysol, just in case.

I called Morelli on my way to the office. I told him about Bogart’s vandalized office, the Bogart disappearance, and the note card.

“Don’t you have CSI people who analyze things like the note card?” I asked Morelli. “Can’t they look for fingerprints? DNA? Personalized cooties?”

“It’s expensive,” Morelli said. “It takes time.”

“Sherlock would have figured it out right away.”

“Yeah, but I hear he was a dud in the sack. Get the card to me, and I’ll see what I can do. We can at least fingerprint it.”

“Are you playing poker tonight?”

“Yeah. The game’s at my house. You can come if you want.”

“Not even for a moment.”

I parked in front of the bail bonds office and called Ranger. “Anything new?” I asked. “Did Bogart turn up?”

“He’s still missing. No one has heard from him.”

“Is this normal behavior?”

“No. He’s a man of routine. Never misses work. And he wouldn’t just walk away from his car.”

“Where was it found?”

“About a mile from the plant, in a convenience store lot.”

“Was the store open?”

“No. Shut its doors at midnight. No one in the area saw anything.”

“Did you check the trunk?”

“No body in the trunk.”

I told him about the message on my door and the note card.

“Have you talked to any of your neighbors? Are there security cameras in place?”

“No and maybe.”

“I’ll have someone ask around.”

I said adios to Ranger and went into the office. Lula was asleep on the couch, and Connie was on the phone. She waved a file at me.

I took the file and flipped through it. Benjamin Kwan. Arrested for human trafficking. High bond. No-show for court date.

Connie had a second FTA file. Dottie Loosey, fifty-eight years old. Arrested for armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon. The only photo in the file was her mug shot. Gray hair cut short. Uncombed. Fierce black eyebrows. Mean, squinty eyes. Lips pressed tight together. The woman looked like she ate nails for breakfast.

“She looks scary,” I said to Connie.

“I hate giving these to you, but I haven’t got anyone else,” Connie said. “I’ve never been able to find a replacement for Ranger. When he stopped doing fugitive apprehension no one else with his skill level came forward for the job.”