Turbo Twenty-Three (Stephanie Plum #23)(62)

“The cameras should have been working when Bogart left the factory on Monday. Did he have his laptop?”

Ranger called his control room and told them to have Tank run the Monday video and get back to him. He went through the desk drawers and file cabinet, briefly looking through one file before returning it.

“I was hoping to find some financial information,” Ranger said. “Everything is digital now, but most people still keep paper copies of loan agreements and tax forms. Bogart didn’t have any in his office at the plant, and he doesn’t have any here.”

“Safety-deposit box? Home safe?”

“His home safe is small. Just enough for some cash and a little jewelry. I’d proposed a larger safe installation. If he has a safety-deposit box it’s not available to me.”

“Can’t do your magical lock-opening thing on a safety-deposit box?”

“I could, but I’d have to have a better reason than this.”

“Are you able to talk to his wife or daughter?”

“We had some initial contact, but they’re no longer picking up calls. They’ll sometimes answer a text message.”

“Are they really at Disney?”

“Yes. We can trace the location.”

“And Harry Bogart?”

“He used his cellphone to call the office to report the breakin, and an hour later the phone didn’t exist.”

Tank called and told Ranger they had Bogart on video, leaving his office. He had a computer case hung from his shoulder and he was carrying a paper grocery bag. No way to tell what was in the bag.

“We’ve been around the outside of this house,” Ranger said to me. “There’s no sign of forced entry. So Bogart either had his computer case in his car when he went to the office in the middle of the night, or else someone drove him back here to get it.”

“He was wearing his pajama top when he got to the plant. Hard to believe he would have taken the time or had the presence of mind to take his computer,” I said.

Ranger flipped the light off and opened the drapes, and we left the office and the house. He stopped briefly to talk to his man in the Rangeman SUV before getting behind the wheel of the Porsche.

“Let’s see if Dottie is home,” he said. “Are you feeling lucky?”

I thought about it for a moment and decided the answer was no.

The neighborhood surrounding the button factory was asleep. No lights on in any of the houses. No car traffic. Dottie’s house was dark. We parked on the street, went to the front door, and listened. All was quiet. Ranger was still wearing his Glock strapped to his leg. He had cuffs stuck into his gun belt, and he had a big-boy Maglite in his hand. I’d helped him clear a house before, and I knew the drill. He opened the door, stepped in, and I followed. Something went spronnng over my head, an alarm gave three blasts of noise, and I was instantly covered in gunk.

Ranger and I froze for a nanosecond.

“Booby trap,” Ranger said.

Dottie thundered down the stairs. Ranger caught her in a beam of light, and she fired off a shot. The shot went wide, Ranger shoved me to the ground, and Dottie ran for the back door. Ranger threw the Maglite at her. It hit her square in the back. She said “Unh!” and went down to the floor. Ranger had her cuffed in seconds, and he came back to me.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’ve been slimed.”

He flipped the light switch and looked me over. He swiped at the slime with his finger. “It looks like cooking oil, and it smells like bacon and fried chicken. Hang on until I come back with something to clean your face.”

My face and hair were soaked with oil. My T-shirt was soaked and my jeans were splattered with the stuff. I stood perfectly still until Ranger returned and wiped me down.

“Why me?” I asked. “You went through the door first, but you haven’t got a drop of oil on you.”

“I’m special,” Ranger said.

No doubt about that.

He looked up at the top of the door. “She had a bucket rigged from a pulley attached to the ceiling. Pretty ingenious. When the bucket fell it set off the alarm. It might have done her some good if she’d been sober.”

“It obviously wasn’t rigged up when we were here last time.”

“I remember seeing the hook in the ceiling, but it didn’t compute to be a booby trap.”

Dottie was lying flat on her back, looking like a beached whale in a faded multicolored floral muumuu.

“How drunk is she?” I asked.

“Totally wasted. If I hadn’t hit her with the flashlight she probably would have fallen over anyway.”

Ranger hoisted her up, dragged her to the Cayenne, and strapped her in. I was standing by the side of the SUV, and I didn’t know what to do.

“I’m going to ruin your car,” I said to Ranger.

“No problem. It’ll clean up.”

Ranger carted Dottie into the police station and returned with my body receipt. He drove me home and walked me to my door. We knew Morelli was in my apartment because his car was in the lot.

Ranger opened the door for me and helped me in. I was trying to be careful not to get slime everywhere.

Morelli got up from the couch and walked over. He didn’t look all that surprised. He leaned forward and sniffed. “Bacon? Fried chicken?”