Turbo Twenty-Three (Stephanie Plum #23)(57)

“Stephanie works with me,” Ranger said. “Where were you at one o’clock last night?”

“I wasn’t anywhere,” Ducker said. “I was here. Like always.”

“Someone broke into Bogart’s office last night and left threatening messages. He was wearing the Jolly Bogart clown suit.”

“Big deal,” Ducker said. “Anyone can get that suit. They sell them at the party store at the mall. You can get the wig and everything. It’s real cheap too.”

“Do you have any idea who broke in last night?” I asked him.

“No, but I’d kiss him on the lips if I found out,” Ducker said. “Bogart is a real asshole.”

“So what do you think?” I asked Ranger when we were back in the Cayenne.

“This is why I’m in the security business and not investigation. I’m good at protecting people. I don’t enjoy this. Unfortunately I’ve failed to protect a new client and I feel compelled to find him.”

“And I’m along why?”

“I need some fun in my life.”

“Jeez.”

He grinned at me. “It’s more than that. I was the point person in my unit when I was in the military. I can sense danger the way a dog can sniff out a rabbit, but I’m not a detail man. You notice things that don’t show up on my radar.”

“Do you think Ducker is a killer?”

“If he is a killer it’s not because he’s gone postal from the Jolly jingle. I think there’s something more going on here.”

“For instance?”

“I don’t know. The crimes are all over the place. They start with industrial sabotage and progress to a bizarre murder, then a murder that’s premeditated but not especially creative, an explosion, and vandalism. It’s almost like they were all done by different people.”

“Don’t forget my door. Someone doesn’t like me snooping around.”

“Another threat like that and you might have to come live with me so I can protect you until the danger has passed.”

“I expect there’s an ulterior motive involved.”

“Yeah,” Ranger said. “There’s that.”

I pulled Dottie Loosey’s file out of my bag.

“I have a favor to ask. I could use some help bringing this woman in.”

Ranger flipped through the file. “Has Connie placed her at this address?”

“Yes.”

Dottie Loosey lived in a row house by the button factory. There were several blocks of the small two-story houses. They were originally built as housing for button company workers, but over the years they all went to private ownership. At least half were now rental properties. They had started out all the same, and were now all fiercely different.

Dottie’s stood out for its neglect. In fact, it looked a lot like Dottie. There was nothing to pretty it up and soften the years. It was raw and weathered, with peeling paint and window trim down to bare wood.

Ranger parked one house down, and we sat and watched Dottie’s place for a while. It was early afternoon. No one was moving around. No car or pedestrian traffic. This wasn’t a part of town sought after by young parents. The houses had no front yards, and minuscule backyards.

Ranger read through the file again. “She has a history of drug and alcohol abuse, and violent behavior. She’s been in and out of jail for the past twenty years. Public drunkenness, possession, two armed robbery convictions. Her daughter posted her bond. The daughter has a Massachusetts address. It looks like Dottie lives alone.” He handed the paperwork back to me. “Let’s do it.”

We went to the door and rang the bell. No answer. No sounds from inside the house. No television or radio. Ranger knocked. Nothing. He tried the door. Locked. He picked the lock, opened the door, and yelled “Bond enforcement.” No one responded.

We cleared the house, working our way through, room by room, looking for Dottie. Her furniture would have been discarded by a sober person. Stained and torn couch in the living room, stained bare mattress on the floor in the bedroom, a faded quilt on the mattress, an empty whiskey bottle on the floor. No pillow. Cigarette butts overflowing a cracked dish.

The smell wasn’t great.

We ended in the kitchen. A couple food-encrusted dishes in the sink. Crumpled fast food bags everywhere. Empty refrigerator. A cracked and peeling Formica countertop littered with empty whiskey and beer bottles, a squeeze bottle of mustard, and a Bogart Kidz Kup.

“Look at this,” I said to Ranger. “She can’t be all bad. She likes ice cream.”

I picked the cup up and it rattled. I peeled the lid off and looked inside.

“Not ice cream,” I said to Ranger.

Ranger took the cup. “She’s got some pharmaceutical grade meth, a small amount of crack, and I’m not sure about the pink pills.”

“This is a new Kidz Kup container. It’s never held ice cream. There’s no chocolate stain on the bottom, and it doesn’t have any markings from the machine that puts the lids on. I have firsthand experience with Kidz Kups lids.”

Ranger put the lid back on and returned the Kidz Kup to the counter. “I haven’t heard anything on the street about Bogart Kidz Kups, but it’s hard to keep up with this stuff. It’s more likely that some unused containers were discarded and Dottie got hold of one. I’d like to think that’s the case, because the alternative is ugly.”