Turbo Twenty-Three (Stephanie Plum #23)(56)

“A very good observation,” Kwan said. “I’ll have them moved immediately.”

The three-hundred-pound gorilla behind Kwan stepped forward and motioned me to the stairs.

“Chewy?” I asked him.

“Short for ‘Chewbacca.’ ”

That made sense. I could see the hair curling out of the top of his shirt collar. We made our way to the first floor and walked past the travel associate, all of us smiling pleasantly. I reached the sidewalk and saw that Lula was out of the car and standing guard.

She looked Chewbacca up and down. “Who’s this?”

“Chewy,” I told her.

Chewy swept his hand under his suit jacket to his pocket and Lula went bug-eyed.

“Gun! Gun!” she said. “He’s got a gun!”

She jumped forward and head butted him in the midsection. They went off-balance and down to the ground. Chewy gave a grunt and flipped Lula off him. He got to his feet and brushed at his suit.

“I wasn’t going for my gun,” he said. “I was going for my banana.” He pulled a banana out of his pocket. “It’s all smushed,” he said to Lula. “You ruined my banana.”

Lula was on her feet. “Banana? Are you shitting me? Who packs a banana?”

“I like bananas,” Chewy said. “They’re high in potassium.”

I shoved Lula into the car.

“Sorry about the banana,” I said to Chewy.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I like your friend. She gives a good head butt.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I smiled and nodded, got behind the wheel, and drove off.

“I swear I thought he had a gun,” Lula said.

“He did. It just wasn’t in the same place as his banana.”

“I guess Kwan didn’t feel like going to jail today.”

“He’ll get back to me.”

I dropped Lula off in front of the deli on the first block of Stark. No parking places, so I gave her my order and circled the block. I was stopped at a light when Ranger called.

“You have a single surveillance camera in the lobby of your apartment building,” Ranger said. “At six thirty-five this morning the Jolly Bogart clown walked through the back door and got into the elevator. Three minutes later he got out of the elevator, crossed the lobby, and left the building.”

“That’s really creepy.”

“We need to have a conversation with Mr. Ducker,” Ranger said.

“When do you want to do this?”

“Now.”

I looked in my rearview mirror. Ranger was behind me.

“Let Lula take your car back to the office,” Ranger said.

I double-parked in front of the deli and waited for Lula. She hustled out with two bags of food and two sodas.

I got out of my car and held the door for her. “I need to go with Ranger. I’d appreciate it if you could get the car back to the office for me.”

Lula looked back at Ranger and gave him a finger wave. “Are you gonna have a nooner with him?”

“No. This is work related.”

Lula gave me my bag of food and my soda. “Hard to believe anything you could do with that man would be work.”

Ranger was in his black Porsche Cayenne, and he was wearing perfectly pressed Rangeman black fatigues. He smelled great, and he didn’t look tired. I suspected I looked like roadkill.

He glanced at me and grinned. “Did you sleep in those clothes?”

I buckled my seatbelt and narrowed my eyes at him. “Someone woke me up at four in the morning.”

He looked at the bag. “Lunch?”

“Ham and Swiss. Would you like half?”





TWENTY-THREE


RANGER PARKED IN front of Ducker’s apartment building, and we looked for the Kia. No Kia. We went to the door and rang the bell. No answer. Ranger knocked. Nothing. He took a slim pick from his pocket and opened the door.

It was a completely unmemorable apartment. Beige carpet, beige couch, beige drapes on the windows. Television in the living room. A maple table and six chairs in the dining room. Probably the dining room table had never been used. Not ever. Shoes under the coffee table, and an open bag of chips and an empty soda can on top of it. Dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. Not a lot in the refrigerator. Bogart Kidz Kups in the freezer.

I went room by room with Ranger. We looked in the medicine chest and the closet.

“No man-sized freezer,” I said. “No Bogart locked in the bathroom.”

Ranger went through Ducker’s dresser drawers. “And no gun.”

We returned to the living room, and Ranger looked at the shoes under the coffee table.

“No chocolate on the shoe,” Ranger said. “And it’s a size eleven. We measured the print on the floor in Bogart’s office. It was a size ten.”

There was the sound of a key being inserted in the lock on the front door, and I looked at Ranger.

“Our lucky day,” Ranger said. “We don’t have to go searching for Ducker.”

Ducker opened the door, spotted Ranger and me, and went for the gun tucked into his jeans.

“Don’t even think about it,” Ranger said.

“You’re the security guy, right?” Ducker said. “What’s going on? And what’s with the minimum wager with you?”