Fortune and Glory (Stephanie Plum #27)(57)

Ranger herded us through the crowded house and out the front door. A shiny black Mercedes sedan was idling in the middle of the street, guarded by a uniformed Rangeman.

“It’s good to be you,” I said to Ranger.

“Sometimes,” Ranger said.

He drove to my parents’ house and I walked Grandma to the front door and gave her a hug.

“I love you,” I said to Grandma.

“I love you, too,” Grandma said. “Maybe that’s why God gave us death. So, we remember to love what’s alive.”

I returned to Ranger and he handed me a worn-out black leather wallet and some keys.

“I took these off Salgusta before I handed him over to the police,” he said. “One of the keys is for a Ford Escape rental. I found it parked on a side road in the cemetery. The rental papers were in the glove compartment, listing the renter as Lou Balou. The address he gave is fake, but we ran a search and found a Lou Balou owning a row house on Sedge Street.”

“That’s by the button factory.”

“Yes. Eventually the police will discover it, and I want to get there first.”

“He could have stolen the identity,” I said.

“It doesn’t look like stolen identity. It looks like an alias for a safe house. There’s no history for Lou Balou. He’s owned the house for almost twenty years. No mortgage.”

“What about the wallet? Anything helpful in there?”

“Expired driver’s license and seven dollars.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


The button factory was on the other side of town, and Sedge Street was part of a rabbit warren of what used to be company housing. Ranger parked one house down from the small single-story house Lou Balou owned. We watched the area for five minutes and went to the door. No one answered Ranger’s knock, so he opened the door with one of the keys he took from Salgusta.

The living room was small with worn-out, dated furniture. An overstuffed couch and chair. An ancient television. A dark, threadbare Oriental rug. A couple of side tables. A pair of men’s sneakers with Velcro latches in place of laces had been kicked off and left by the couch. The dining room table was scarred with scratches and rings from glasses. Four side chairs. Clutter on the table. Used paper plates. Crumpled to-go bags from fast-food places. Newspapers. Benzene canisters. A laptop computer. A jumble of pliers, hammers, knives, and drills. Some were beginning to show signs of rust.

Ranger pulled on gloves and powered up the computer.

“Without taking the time to recover deleted files or comb through his browser history, I’m not seeing a whole lot on this computer,” Ranger said.

He shut the computer and we moved into the kitchen. Old appliances. Not especially clean. Mold in the refrigerator plus some deli ham, a loaf of bread, a bottle of vodka. Junk in the junk drawer. Silverware in the silverware drawer. Mismatched glasses and plates in the above-counter cupboards. Some inexpensive pots and pans that looked fifty years old. A bag of Chips Ahoy! on the counter. No slips of paper with cryptic messages that might be a clue.

“Did you ask him about the clue when you took him down?” I asked Ranger.

“Yes, but he was babbling nonsense.”

“What about his house in the Burg?”

“His sister is living in it. I had a team go through it when she was out, and it was clean. Nothing that could be a clue or indicate he had other properties. We went through Charlie Shine’s house too, when his wife was gone.”

We searched the bedroom and bathroom and didn’t find anything.

“Maybe he didn’t keep the paper,” Ranger said. “He could have committed it to memory.”

“Benny said it was a ritual to put the paper in the safe when someone died. I think Salgusta would have kept the paper.”

“We’ve already been through the Mole Hole, but we can take another look,” Ranger said.

We were on our way out of the house and I stopped short. “His La-Z-Boy chair! If he hid it anywhere in the Mole Hole it would be in his chair, and the chair is gone. Shine redecorated.”

We buckled ourselves into the Mercedes and Ranger called Tank.

“Find out what Shine did with the La-Z-Boy chairs when he redecorated,” Ranger told Tank. “Maybe the bartender knows.”

I leaned back in the cushy leather seat and closed my eyes. “I need to go home,” I said. “I’m tired of smelling like cooked Porsche Turbo. I want to take a shower and change my clothes.”

And I wanted to have four or five peanut butter sandwiches and a beer. Stick a fork in me.



* * *




Potts was slouched against the wall by my door.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” I said.

He stood straight and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, me, either.”

I opened the door and we went inside.

“You’re all smudgy,” he said.

“Long story short, there was a car fire, but I got out okay.”

“That had to be scary.”

“I’m getting used to scary.”

“Really?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Not even a little.”

I took my cross-body bag off and removed my phone, happy that I’d been wearing the bag when I jumped out of the flaming Porsche.