Look Alive Twenty-Five (Stephanie Plum #25)(48)

Skoogie entered the lobby at ten minutes after seven. A messenger bag hung from his shoulder, and he had his hand wrapped around a Starbucks coffee container. He gave a nod to the attendant and went to the elevator.

“He’s starting his day early,” I said. “His assistant doesn’t come in until nine o’clock.”

There was a steady stream of people coming and going. When the clock on the video read twenty minutes past eight I told Ranger to stop the action. Victor Waggle was in the lobby. He was wearing a khaki knapsack and carrying a guitar case. The snake tattoo was clearly visible on his neck. He looked like he’d slept on the street. And he looked angry, striding to the elevator, talking to himself and gesturing.

“That’s Victor Waggle,” I said. “He’s one of Skoogie’s clients. He’s lead guitar and vocal for Rockin’ Armpits. And he’s FTA. I’ve been looking for him. He stabbed two people on State Street a couple weeks ago.”

Ranger ran the video to the end. Waggle left the building at eight forty-seven, still looking nuts. Miriam came in at nine o’clock. I didn’t recognize anyone else.

“We know Waggle is handy with a knife,” I said. “The big question is . . . why would he stab a dead man in the neck and hide him in the closet?”

“I’m more interested in a possible connection to the deli kidnappings,” Ranger said. “I don’t know if the stabbing is even relevant. I think the relationship between Skoogie and Sitz might be worth something. And I want to know if they find Waggle’s prints on the shoe that was left on the desk.”

“Do you think Sitz is behind the kidnappings?”

“Something to consider,” Ranger said.

“Who’s babysitting me this afternoon?” I asked.

“I am,” Ranger said. “Before we head out I’d like to read through your file on Victor Waggle.”

I gave him my file and wandered off to the control room kitchen. Ella keeps the kitchen stocked with sandwiches, salads, and fruit. I grabbed a ham and cheese on multigrain and a water, and returned to Ranger’s office to eat my lunch.

“I can’t believe Vinnie wrote a bond on this guy,” Ranger said. “He has no assets, no ties to the community, no real address, no relatives between here and Wisconsin. I pulled a report on him, and he has no credit history and no work history. How does he live?”

“Groupie girls. He’s a local, cult-type rock star, and he sleeps around. It’s one of the reasons I can’t find him. If he was homeless he’d at least have a favorite doorstep or a tent under the bridge. This guy just keeps moving around from one girl to the next.”

“And Leonard Skoogie was his agent and manager?”

“Yes. My best source for information is the band’s drummer, but he doesn’t know much about Waggle. It’s not like the band hangs out together in their free time.”

Ranger closed his computer and stood. “I want to see Skoogie’s office, and then I want to see the Snake Pit building. Let’s go for a ride.”

Ranger drove to the Hamilton Building and went directly to the underground garage entrance. He slid his keycard into the machine, and the gate rolled up.

“Luis didn’t know about the garage,” I said.

“He doesn’t have access. We don’t patrol the inside of the building or the garage.”

“But you have access.”

“I’m special,” Ranger said.

Ranger parked, and we took the elevator to the second floor. Morelli was still in Skoogie’s office when Ranger and I walked in.

“What have we got?” Ranger asked Morelli.

“Speculation until the autopsy. Blunt trauma to the back of the head. Fresh needle injection site on left arm. Time of death estimated to be seven-thirty a.m.”

“Could the head injury be the result of a fall?”

“The positioning is inconsistent with a fall, but it’s not completely ruled out.”

“So shortly after he arrived in his office he might have been knocked out and injected with something that killed him.”

“That’s the current thinking, but again, it’s conjecture. It could also be that he injected himself, had a catastrophic reaction, and fell.”

“What about the knife sticking out of his neck?” Ranger asked.

“He was actually stabbed several times. All postmortem.”

“Ranger ran the security video for me, and I recognized Victor Waggle,” I said to Morelli. “Waggle entered the building at eight-twenty this morning and left a half hour later. He looked angry. He kind of stormed in, waving his hands around and talking to himself.”

“I’ll send someone out to pick him up for questioning,” Morelli said.

Ranger and I exchanged glances.

“What?” Morelli said.

“He could be hard to find,” I said. “He hasn’t got an address.”

“This is the guy who stabbed those two people on State Street, right? He has a snake tattoo on his neck. It’s not like he’s unrecognizable.”

“True,” I said.

Ranger smiled.

“Do you mind if I look around?” he asked Morelli.

“Try not to trip over CSI.”

Ranger studied the photographs on the wall. He looked out the window. He looked at the desktop. Multi-line phone, desk clock engraved to the happy couple from Aunt Tootsie, and a couple pens. Ranger pulled on gloves and went through drawers and file cabinets. He examined the locks on the doors. He went back to Morelli.