Look Alive Twenty-Five (Stephanie Plum #25)(15)

I double-parked in front of the salon. Lula ran in and came out five minutes later.

“I got your stuff,” Lula said. “And I got a kick-ass nail varnish. It’s midnight blue with silver sparkles. I’m going to look like the night sky. I’m going to be like the Beatles song. Lula in the sky with diamonds.”

Stark Street starts out okay with a couple blocks of legitimate businesses. The third block begins to get dicey, and it goes downhill fast from there. By the time you get to the burned-out, gutted buildings at the end of Stark the only residents are rats and loonies. A very prosperous junkyard sits about a mile beyond the last building.

We were one block from the end, idling in front of a two-story brick building that looked like it used to be a warehouse. It was the only structure still standing. Everything else on the block was rubble.

“This has to be the block,” Lula said. “Hard to believe he’s living here. And if he is living here, I’m not going in to root him out. The police won’t even come to this block. There’s gonna be rats and snakes and unfortunate people’s body parts in this building we’re looking at.”

“Body parts?” I asked.

“I’m just supposing.”

I made a U-turn and slowly drove back down Stark, hoping for a Waggle sighting. “What else do we have? Workplace? Relatives? Girlfriend?”

“He’s self-employed,” Lula said, reading through the file. “He gives that building back there as his home and place of business. Looks like his family is all in Wisconsin.”

“Who posted Waggle’s bond?”

“A guy named Leonard Skoogie. It was a high bond, and it looks like it was secured with cash.”

“Do we have an address for Skoogie?”

“Suite twelve in the Hamilton Building on State Street.”

I was familiar with the Hamilton Building. It was one block from Stark Street. Seven floors. Built in the fifties. It had a mix of legitimate, semi-legitimate, and not nearly legitimate tenants.

“Now what?” Lula asked. “Do we need to talk to Mr. Skoogie?”

“Yes. Skoogie laid out serious money for Waggle. He should be anxious to have him returned to the court.”

I found on-street parking not far from Skoogie’s office. I parallel-parked behind a Rollswagon that had seen better days, and Lula and I strolled into the lobby. Suite twelve was on the second floor at the end of the hall.

I opened the door to the suite and looked inside at a woman seated at a desk.

“Knock, knock,” I said. “I’m looking for Leonard Skoogie.”

“He isn’t here,” she said. “He’s in L.A. for the rest of the week.”

Photographs and posters covered almost every inch of wall space in the small room. There was a door off to one side which I assumed led to Skoogie’s private office. The woman’s desk was heaped with clutter, including an open box of Dunkin’ Donuts.

“No,” I said to Lula. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Hunh,” Lula said.

“I’m actually looking for Victor Waggle,” I said to the woman. “Perhaps you know him.”

“Of course,” she said. “Are you a fan? Would you like a signed photograph? We have them available for ten dollars.”

“We already got a photograph,” Lula said. “It got taken at the police station.”

“Ours would be much nicer,” the woman said. She pointed to the wall. “We have pictures of the band too.”

Lula and I went to the wall and looked at the photographs.

“This sucker is in a band,” Lula said. “I could recognize him by the snake tattoo. The other idiots in the band got spiders on their foreheads.”

“Lead singer in Rockin’ Armpits,” the woman said. “Mr. Skoogie has high hopes for Victor.”

“Yeah, us too,” Lula said. “You know where we can find him?”

“They perform at the Snake Pit every Thursday and Friday.”

“I guess that makes sense for someone that’s got a snake tattooed on his neck,” Lula said. “Where’s it at?”

“Stark Street,” the woman said. “It’s easy to find. They always light the building with searchlights when the band is performing.”

“I bet,” Lula said.

“During the day, the building looks a little run-down,” the woman said, “but I’m told it’s very festive at night.”

“It’s only Tuesday,” Lula said. “Suppose we want to find Victor before Thursday?”

“I’m afraid we’re not allowed to release personal information on our clients,” the woman said.

I gave her my business card. “Victor is in violation of his bond agreement,” I said. “He missed his court appearance. We need to find him and get him rescheduled.”

“Oh dear,” she said. “It must have slipped his mind. Have you tried his cellphone?”

“He’s not picking up.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about Victor. Often when our clients are in the early stages of their careers they tend not to have a permanent address.”

“Why is that?” Lula asked.

“They haven’t any money,” the woman said. “I can give you a printout of our press release. It has the names of the four other band members. I imagine they would know where to find Victor.”