Top Secret Twenty-One: A Stephanie Plum Novel(12)

“I can’t see the pizza. I can’t see anything.”

“I want extra cheese and pepperoni.”

“I’m on it.”

“Are we almost there?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

I like pizza, but I was finding it hard to believe the pizza here was that good. There were other options on Stark. There were a bunch of fast-food pizza places, plus you could dial a pizza and have it delivered. Either this pizza was super cheap or it came with a side of weed.

Five minutes later we had our pizza and were out the door. We crossed the street and leaned against the Buick while we ate.

“This is good,” Briggs said. “Greasy, with just the right amount of cheese. Real Jersey pizza.”

I finished my pizza, wiped my hands on my jeans, and looked across the street. The pizza place took up the entire first floor of Buster’s building, with the exception of a door at the end. I assumed this door led to the apartment on the second floor. There were five second-floor windows looking out at the street. None had shades drawn. So far, I hadn’t seen any shadows pass in front of the windows.

“What’s the plan?” Briggs asked.

“We go to the door and ring the bell.”

“Suppose no one answers?”

“I call his phone.”

“What if he doesn’t answer his phone?”

“I write him a letter.”

I had the car keys in one pocket, pepper spray in another, and cuffs tucked into my jeans at the small of my back. Just in case.

“Let’s go,” I said to Briggs. “Let’s see if Buster wants to talk to us.”

We crossed the street, went to the door, and I was about to ring the bell when I heard someone inside thundering down the stairs. The door was yanked open, and a guy rushed out and slammed into me. He looked at me, then he looked down at Briggs and his face flushed.

“You son of a bitch,” Briggs yelled at him. “You blew up my apartment. What the f*ck is the matter with you?”

“Jimmy Poletti?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah,” he said. “What are you doing here with the runt?”

“Runt?” Briggs said, his voice an octave higher than normal, a vein popping out in his forehead.

I grabbed my cuffs and clapped one onto Poletti’s wrist. “I represent your bail bondsman.”

“Of all the crap luck,” Poletti said. Then he gave me a hard shove into Briggs. Briggs went flat on his back, I tumbled on top of him, and Poletti turned and ran. I scrambled to my feet and chased Poletti down Stark. He had a good lead, but I was faster. We ran to the end of the block and around the corner. He cut down an alley, and I was almost at arm’s length when he slipped into a building, slammed the door shut, and threw the bolt. It was, I realized, the rear entrance to the pizza place.

Briggs pulled up behind me.

“Stay here in case he tries to sneak back out,” I told him. “I’m going around to the front.”

“What if he shoots at me?”

“Yell for help.”

“I could be dead.”

“Deal with it,” I said, and I raced back to Stark.

Just as I rounded the corner, Poletti jumped into a car and roared away. The car wasn’t the Mustang. It was a small silver sedan. It all happened too fast for me to get the plate or the make of the car.

I took a moment to catch my breath, then I texted Briggs and told him to come around to the front. I rang the bell while I waited. No answer. I called the phone number I had for Buster, but no one picked up, and I couldn’t hear the phone ringing upstairs.

“Where is he?” Briggs asked when he reached me. “What happened?”

“He got away.”

“Now what?”

I looked at the door that led to the second-floor apartment. It was still open. “We go upstairs and look around,” I said.

“Is that legal?”

“Yes. I have reason to believe there’s a felon up there.”

“Who?”

“Poletti.”

Briggs’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

“No. Not really. Not even maybe.”

We stepped inside and closed and locked the door behind us. I paused at the top of the stairs and announced myself. “Bond enforcement. Anyone home?”

Silence.

“This is a pretty nice apartment,” Briggs said, looking around. “He’s got a flat-screen television and a leather recliner. And he’s got a real kitchen.”

The refrigerator was stocked with food. Dirty dishes in the half-filled dishwasher. An iPhone charger on the kitchen counter. No iPhone. We moved into the bedroom and found a guy stretched out on the floor, staring up at the ceiling.

“Is this Buster?” I asked Briggs.

“No. It’s Bernie Scootch. He doesn’t look so good. Is he okay?”

Bernie was definitely not okay. He was lying in a pool of blood, and his chest had a bunch of bullet holes in it. For that matter, I wasn’t doing so great either. I was clammy with cold sweat and the horror of Bernie Scootch leaking his bodily fluids all over the carpet.

I bit into my lower lip. “I’m pretty sure he’s dead.”

“Oh jeez,” Briggs said. “That’s bad. That sucks.”