Fortune and Glory (Stephanie Plum, #27)(68)

Lula was behind me. “What do you think?” she asked.

“I think they have Grandma.”

“That’s what I’m thinking, too,” Lula said.

I pocketed the ring, and we went downstairs. Grandma was standing in the foyer, holding a grocery bag.

“This is a nice surprise,” Grandma said. “We already had breakfast but there’s some Entenmann’s crumb cake left.”

“Where were you?” I asked.

“It’s such a beautiful morning, I thought I’d walk to the deli and pick up some fresh rolls and potato salad for lunch.”

“Where’s Mom?” I asked.

“Isn’t she in the house? Maybe she stepped next door.”

I called her cell phone, and I could hear it ringing in the kitchen. We went to the kitchen and Grandma set the bag on the counter.

“Did you knock the chair over?” she asked.

“No. It was like that when we got here.” I picked the fry pan up and set it on the stove. “I just went upstairs, and the rooms have been searched and the keys are missing.”

“We figured the bad guys snatched you,” Lula said, “but now I’m thinking they took Mrs. P.”

“Why would they do that?” Grandma asked.

“You weren’t home,” I said. “Maybe they didn’t want to leave empty-handed.”

“Maybe they aren’t smart, and they took the wrong woman,” Potts said. “Maybe they thought they were taking Grandma.”

“That could be it,” Grandma said. “I’m real young looking for my age. It’s an easy mistake to make.”

There was a slim possibility that my mom was at church or somewhere in the neighborhood. And there was a slim possibility that she’d forgotten to take her phone. And if I went with this scenario, the house got searched while she was away. I couldn’t explain the overturned chair and the fry pan. I also couldn’t get rid of the hollow feeling in my stomach.

“Where’s Dad?” I asked Grandma.

“He’s fishing with Johnny Lucca. They went to Belmar early this morning. I’m worried about this,” Grandma said. “I don’t like thinking your mother got kidnapped.”

I was breathless. This was my mother. The woman who endured twenty-two hours of hideous labor to bring me into the world. She welcomed me home when my marriage failed. She welcomed Grandma into her home when Grandpa passed. When my sister Valerie and I turned out not to be perfect, my mother made it clear that her love wasn’t dependent on perfection. She was the voice of reason. She accepted the role of Practical Pig because someone had to be Practical Pig. I know that someday there will be life without my mother, but right now I couldn’t imagine such a thing.

I called Morelli and explained the situation.

“I’ll put out an alert,” Morelli said. “Have you contacted Ranger?”

“He’s next on my list.”

“Tell him to keep me in the loop.”

I hung up and called Ranger. “I’m following a couple of leads,” I said. “I’ll be back in touch.”

Grandma put the potato salad in the fridge. “There’s no Entenmann’s in here,” she said. “And it’s not on the counter or on the table. I think it got taken along with the keys.”

“That’s sick,” Lula said. “What kind of person steals a crumb cake?”

“We have two leads,” I said. “To save time I think we should split up. I’ll take Potts with me. We’ll go to the shore house in Pleasantville. Lula and Grandma, you can go to the condo in Atlantic City. Don’t put yourself in jeopardy. If it looks like Shine has been using the condo, call me and I’ll bring Ranger in.”

I dropped Lula and Grandma at Lula’s car at the office, and I drove off with Potts riding shotgun.

“I have the route all mapped out on my phone,” Potts said. “You take 206 to the New Jersey Turnpike.”

I knew the way to Atlantic City, but I was happy to let Potts navigate if it occupied him enough to keep him from humming.

“In the movies it only takes a few seconds for Indiana Jones to fly from the States to Istanbul,” Potts said. “This road to Atlantic City feels like forever.”

Tell me about it. I was trying hard to push away horrible thoughts of my mother at the hands of Shine’s thugs, but my stomach was sick, and my palms were sweating on the steering wheel.

“Okay,” he said. “We’re coming up to the Jersey Turnpike. You want to go south.”

Good deal, I thought. I could make time on the turnpike. Going north on the turnpike from Trenton was a nightmare. Going south was usually open road.

I connected with the turnpike and pushed the Buick up to 85 mph. It was like driving a nuclear-powered tank with bad brakes. It was terrifying. Potts had his hands braced against the dash, and he was humming loud enough to be heard over the roar of the engine.

“Exit eleven!” Potts yelled. “Exit 11!”

I slowed the tank and peeled off onto the Garden State Parkway. I got up to speed and Potts was watching the exit signs fly by.

“This next one is it,” he said. “The A-C-E is coming up at exit 38.”

“The what?”

“The A-C-E. Atlantic City Expressway.”