Turbo Twenty-Three (Stephanie Plum #23)(71)

“I’m going to lay here until my back feels better,” Connie said.

Lula looked down at her. “What if that takes years?”

“It’s not going to take years,” Connie said. “Get me a donut or something.”

“You can’t eat a donut like that,” Lula said. “You’ll choke to death.”

“Has this happened before?” I asked Connie.

“Years ago. I was in a step class at the gym.”

“I don’t get the whole exercise thing,” Lula said. “Look at me. I don’t get any exercise and I’m never hurt. That’s because I pace myself when it comes to activity. It’s my observation that there’s nothing worse for a person’s health than a gym. It’s all designed to get you to strain something.”

“Can you move?” I asked Connie. “You aren’t paralyzed, are you?”

“No. I’m just in pain.”

“Do you want an aspirin? Should I put a pillow under your head? Would you like a blanket?”

“Ignore me. I’ll be fine. Pretend I’m not here.”

“You better not be down on the floor like that when Vinnie comes in,” Lula said, “or he’ll hump you like a dog.”

“Get me my gun,” Connie said. “It’s in the bottom right-hand drawer.”

“I’m calling EMS,” I said. “You need help.”

“Hold on,” Lula said. “I got some meds from a trusted source. One of these might help you.” She pulled a small plastic Baggie from her purse. “I had a killer headache from the head-butt so I went to my pharmaceutical connection and picked up a couple things. These are all top of the line but they come from Canada and they might be a little expired. I got Vicodin and Oxy, and I don’t know what the pink one is but it makes you think you don’t got any thumbs, so I don’t recommend that one.”

“I’ll take the Vicodin,” Connie said. “How many do you have?”

I looked over at Connie’s desk. “Do you have anything new for me?”

“No FTAs,” Connie said, “but I ran a more complete real estate report on Kwan. He owns a lot of property in Trenton. If you can’t find him at his travel office he could be in one of his other buildings.”

I took the folder from Connie’s desk. “This is helpful. Thanks. I’m going back to Stark Street. I’m keeping an eye on Kwan, but I haven’t much hope. He’s never alone.”

“I’ll go with you,” Lula said.

“No. Stay with Connie. Don’t let her take too many Vicodin.”

“How many’s that?” Lula asked.

“Give her one.”

I shoved the report into my messenger bag, took a donut from the box on Connie’s desk, and drove to Stark Street. I parked across from Kwan’s building and settled in. I had my gun, my pepper spray, my stun gun, my cuffs, my doors locked. If I saw an opportunity to capture Kwan I’d call for backup.

Connie’s report itemized Kwan’s properties. He owned an office building on State Street, a parking lot on Mulberry, two blocks of warehouses on upper Stark and Eighteenth Street, the building with the travel agency, almost an entire block of semi-slum housing by the train station, and a mortuary on the fourth block of Stark. It occurred to me that the mortuary was a nice convenience for a guy who routinely made witnesses to his crimes disappear.

I read through the Kwan report four times. I checked my email on my cellphone. I called the office to see if Connie was still on the floor.

“I gave her one Vicodin like you said, but it didn’t do nothing,” Lula said. “So I gave her two more and a Ativan and she’s back at her desk. She’s kind of dopey, but I’m keeping my eye on her. If she falls out of her chair one more time I’m taking her home.”

I looked up at the second-floor windows and saw Kwan come to the window and look down at the street.

“I think I’ve just been spotted,” I said to Lula. “Kwan is looking down at me.”

“You could try showing him some booby to get him to come say hello, but after last night I don’t know how he hangs.”

There was a knock on my side window. I turned and looked into the eyes of a man with a red nose.

“Mr. Kwan would like to talk to you,” he said through the window. “Please come with me.”

“Oh shit!” I said to Lula. “It’s the killer.”

I dropped my phone and grabbed my gun. I opened the door, pointed the gun at the red-nosed guy, and he took off running. He ran across the street, and I ran after him. A car came out of nowhere and pitched me over the hood and onto the side of the road. I wasn’t knocked out, but I wasn’t smart either. I was stunned. The world was a blur. Words made no sense. I could feel my heart beating, and I wanted to get up and find safe ground, but my arms and legs weren’t taking me anywhere.

I was being lifted and there was some pain, but the pain was far away. I was in a car or a truck. I was going somewhere. People were talking. I was being moved again. A chunk of time suddenly went missing. My next memory was of lying on something hard and cool. My mind was clear, and I realized I was strapped down, and I was under the glare of bright lights. I looked around. The room was small and sterile. The smell was specific. Bleach, formaldehyde, stale cold air. I was in a meat locker. A holding room for the dead. And I was on a tray that could slide into a drawer for storage.