Top Secret Twenty-One: A Stephanie Plum Novel(36)

Poletti turned to go up the hill, saw a cop running down the hill toward him, and changed direction, running straight for the grave. A shot was fired and everyone hit the deck, except Lula, Grandma, and Briggs, who were holding their ground.

Lula had a two-handed grip on her Glock and was trying to get a sight on Poletti. Briggs was enraged, his face bright red, his eyes crazy.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Briggs yelled at Poletti. “You blew up my apartment, you moron!”

“You f*cked my wife!” Poletti yelled back, running full-tilt at Briggs. “I hate you.”

“Everybody f*cks your wife,” Briggs shouted. “I don’t see you blowing up everybody’s apartment. It’s because I’m short, isn’t it?”

Lula fired off a shot that went wide, and Poletti charged Briggs. Grandma swung her purse just as Poletti swept past her. The big black patent leather bag caught Poletti on the side of the head, and Poletti staggered and crashed to the ground. Ranger cuffed him, and the three cops took over.

Lula and Grandma did a complicated high five.

“I did it,” Grandma said. “I just ticked off one of the things on my bucket list. I just took down a bad guy. I got to put on some fresh lipstick. I’m going to be the talk of the wake.”

“I could have taken him,” Briggs said. “I would have ripped him to shreds.”

“Yeah, you could have bitten him in the knee,” Lula said.

“Don’t underestimate a bite in the knee,” Briggs said. “It could cripple someone.”





SIXTEEN


RANGER AND I followed Poletti and the police down the hill to the cars and on to the police station. I waited while Poletti was booked in, I got my body receipt, and I returned to the parking lot, where Ranger was waiting. He was dressed in black slacks, a form-fitting black T-shirt, and a black blazer.

“You’re not in Rangeman fatigues,” I said. “Are you a businessman today, or is this just funeral attire?”

“I need to go to New York, and I thought the security guard look would be limiting. It would be helpful if you could come with me.”

“I assume you’re looking for Vlatko.”

“Right now the hotel is my only lead.”

I drove to the office and handed the body receipt to Connie.

“I’m going on a field trip with Ranger,” I told her. “Poletti is off the streets. So Briggs can manage on his own now.”

I don’t get to New York as often as I’d like. Mostly because I have no time and no money. So even though this was business, I was excited about the trip. And let’s be honest, I was excited about going to New York with Ranger. Plus I know this is shallow, but I was in his megabucks Porsche, feeling like I was in a James Bond movie.

Ranger took the Turnpike to the Lincoln Tunnel and parked in a lot on the Upper West Side of Manhattan not far from the Gatewell Hotel. It was midday, and the streets were crammed and the sidewalks weren’t much better. The Gatewell was in the middle of the block, two blocks off Broadway. The doorman was dressed to look like Chairman Mao. The lobby was small but elegant. Lots of shiny black and white and silver with touches of red.

Ranger showed the manager his identification and his right-to-recover papers for Emilio Gardi.

“We have reason to believe he stayed in this hotel,” Ranger said.

“The FBI have already asked about him,” the manager said. “They were here yesterday.”

“This is a different issue,” Ranger said. “I represent his family and his bondsman.”

“I don’t have much information on him. He stayed here for one night last week. His room was prepaid in cash. There were no additional charges. No credit card on file.”

“Do you have the name or phone number of the person who made the reservation?” Ranger asked.

“There’s nothing on record, but one of the young men on the front desk remembered the transaction. The man making the reservation did it in person two days in advance and prepaid in full. He stood out because he had a slight British accent and an odd tattoo on his neck. A skull and a flower.”

The hotel had a lounge off the lobby. We sat at a high-top table and ordered sandwiches from the bar menu.

“Is Vlatko British?” I asked Ranger.

“He’s Russian, but he speaks fluent English that’s more British than American.”

“Do you speak Russian?”

“I understand some Russian, but I speak very little.”

“There has to be a reason why he chose this hotel.”

“There’s a large Russian community here on the West Side,” Ranger said. “I’m guessing he has ties to something nearby. A relative. A friend. A job. A woman.”

We finished our lunch, and Ranger returned to the manager.

“Do you have many Russians staying here?” he asked.

“A fair amount,” the manager said. “There’s a satellite arm of the consulate one block south on Seventy-fifth Street. They host trade shows and small VIP parties, and they sometimes recommend us to visitors.”

I followed Ranger out of the hotel and we walked one block to Seventy-fifth. We looked up and down the street but saw no Russian flags displayed. We walked east and studied the buildings we passed. We found the consulate on the second block. It was identified by a gold plaque fixed to the building. Writing was in Russian and English. The door was locked. There was a call box beside the gold plaque.