Turbo Twenty-Three (Stephanie Plum #23)(61)

My mother gave a gasp. “You are not!”

“Not what?” my father said. “Where’s the dessert?”

Grandma hurried off to the kitchen and returned with cookies.

“These are store-bought cookies,” my father said. “What’s this world coming to?”

“You always eat store-bought cookies,” my mother said.

“Not for dinner. I eat store-bought cookies for television.”

Grandma went upstairs to change clothes, and I helped my mom clear the table.

“She’s going to a funeral on a motorcycle,” my mother said. “She’s going to wear a motorcycle helmet to the church, and when she takes it off she’s going to have red hair.”

“She’s enjoying herself. I think it’s okay. It’s not like she’s robbing banks.”

“Your Aunt Marge and Uncle Tub moved to Scottsdale. They make it sound nice. I might like it there.”

“I don’t think it’s that easy. Grandma would go with you.”

“I could put her into Senior Living,” my mother said. “They have bingo every night. Her friend Alice Besty is there. They could have dinner together.”

“Really?”

“No, but I like to think about it sometimes.”

Grandma came into the kitchen to tell us she was leaving with Marion. She was dressed in skinny black slacks, a black-and-white-checked jacket, a white shirt, and black flats. And she was topped off by her red hair.

My mother stared at her for a moment.

“You look nice,” my mother said.

“Thank you,” Grandma said. “Don’t wait up.”





TWENTY-FIVE


I TOOK THE elevator because I didn’t have the energy to walk up the stairs to my apartment. I let myself in, locked my door with three locks, and gave Rex a green bean. Ranger was going to call to do who-knows-what, and I was exhausted. It had been a long day. I stripped and stood in the shower until I felt a little revived. I might not be totally energetic, but at least I was clean. I dressed in a navy short-sleeved T-shirt and jeans and I crawled into bed.

The text message came in a little after nine. He would pick me up in ten minutes. I dragged myself out of bed, laced up my running shoes, and went downstairs to wait for Ranger.

I’m in and out of the building at all hours and don’t usually feel vulnerable, but I had a hollow feeling in my chest tonight. The building seemed unusually quiet. The parking lot looked unusually dark. I had my messenger bag with a small canister of pepper spray, some plasti-cuffs, and a stun gun that probably needed charging. Beyond that I was unarmed.

I was relieved when I saw Ranger’s headlights swing in. He was still driving the Porsche Cayenne and wearing the black Rangeman fatigues. I relaxed when I got in beside him.

“What’s the plan?” I asked.

“I have unauthorized permission to go into Bogart’s house.”

“What exactly does ‘unauthorized permission’ mean?”

“It means the Trenton PD primary on the case, Gary Marble, will look the other way while I’m in the house but will charge me with breaking and entering if I get caught.”

“And me?”

“You too.”

Yeesh.

Ranger drove across town and into an affluent neighborhood. Large yards. Large houses. Lots of neatly trimmed shrubs and flower beds. Landscape lighting.

“Have you been here before?” I asked him.

“Yes. I talked to Bogart about a security system for his house. It wasn’t a complicated job, but he was distracted by his problems at the plant and never moved forward on the house system. I think he felt he was capable of protecting his family. He has an extensive gun collection. I got the impression he’d be happy to find justification to use it.”

“Did he carry?”

“Yes. Always.”

“Isn’t that odd for a guy who makes ice cream and dresses his minions in yellow so everything looks happy?”

“Looking isn’t being. Bogart was a businessman. And he wasn’t happy. His business was going south.”

A Rangeman SUV was parked in front of Bogart’s house. Ranger pulled into the driveway.

“Lookout?” I asked him.

“Yes. And if someone stops to ask he can say we’re running routine checks on the house for Bogart.”

We got out of the Porsche, and Ranger strapped on a sidearm. He unlocked the front door, we stepped inside, and he switched a penlight on.

“I want to do a quick walk through the entire house,” he said, “but I’m really only interested in his home office.”

“What are you looking for on the walk-through?”

“Bodies. And evidence that someone has been in the house in the last couple days.”

We covered the downstairs first and didn’t find any bodies. The milk in the fridge was expired. The loaf of bread on the kitchen counter had some mold. The upstairs bedrooms were also body free. Closets and dressers were full of clothes. Medicine cabinets were filled with the usual. The Bogarts obviously expected to return to their house.

Bogart’s home office was on the first floor. Ranger drew the drapes, turned the light on, and looked around.

“No computer,” he said. “He worked on a laptop, and it wasn’t in his office.”