Top Secret Twenty-One: A Stephanie Plum Novel(6)

“This is good meatloaf,” my grandmother said, taking a bite of her sandwich. “I like that you put barbecue sauce on top of it.”

“I saw it on the Food Network,” my mother said.

“And it’s real moist.”

My mother chewed and swallowed. “I soaked it in bourbon.”





THREE


I LEFT MY parents’ house and returned to my apartment. I have some search programs on my computer, and I thought I’d do some snooping around on Poletti. I live in a perfectly okay but not fantastic apartment building on the north edge of Trenton. The building has a fancy door that fronts the street but is never used. Everyone parks in the large lot at the rear. Eighty percent of the residents are senior citizens who wear their handicapped status as a badge of honor and judge the quality of their day by how close they’re able to park to the building’s back door.

My apartment has one bedroom, one bathroom, a small kitchen, and a combined living-and-dining room. My furniture is sparse and mostly secondhand from relatives who made their initial purchases in 1950.

I’d just plugged Jimmy Poletti into a background search program when someone pounded on my door. I went to the door, looked out the security peephole, and saw nothing. I turned to go back to my computer and there was more pounding. I did another look out the peephole.

“Down here,” someone yelled. “Look down, you moron.”

I knew the voice. Randy Briggs. Not one of my favorite people. He was my age, with sandy blond hair. He was about three feet tall. And he was cranky.

I opened the door. “What?”

“How is that for a greeting?” he said, pushing past me into my apartment. “It’s because I’m short, right? You hate me because I’m short.”

“I don’t care that you’re short. I like lots of things that are short. Little dogs and daffodils. I hate you because you’re mean as a snake. Would it kill you to be nice?”

He looked up at me. “Why do you say that? Did you hear something?”

“About what?”

“About killing. Like that someone wants to kill me.”

“So far as I know, everyone who meets you wants to kill you.”

“I’m serious. Did you hear about a contract?”

“On you?”

“Yeah. I’m in trouble.” He went into my kitchen and looked around. “You got anything to drink? I could use a drink. Vodka rocks would be good.”

“I haven’t got any vodka.”

“How about wine? You got a nice pinot noir?”

“I think I have a beer.”

“I’ll take it.”

I opened the beer and handed it to him. He chugged it down, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and gave me the empty bottle.

“I suppose you want to know about the contract,” he said.

“No.”

“How could you not want to know?”

“Easy. Not my business.”

“Yeah, but we’re friends.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Boy, that’s harsh. After all we’ve been through together.” He went back out into the hall and returned with a duffel bag.

“What’s that?” I asked, staring down at the bag.

“My stuff. I need a place to stay.”

“Not here.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like you.”

“Yeah, but my apartment got blown up. I need to stay with someone who’s got a gun.”

“Oh no. No, no, no, no.”

“I won’t be any trouble. Look at me. I’m little. You won’t even know I’m here.”

“I know you’re here because I have a sharp burning pain behind my left eyeball.”

I grabbed his duffel bag and ran for the door with it. He grabbed my leg, and I went down to one knee a couple feet short of the door.

I tried to shake him loose. “Let go!”

“Not until you say I can stay.”

“Never.”

“Please, please, please. I’ll be nice. You gotta help me. I don’t want to die. Jimmy Poletti is trying to kill me.”

“Jimmy Poletti?”

“Yeah, he looks nice on television but he’s a nasty bugger.”

“Why does he want to kill you?”

“I did his bookkeeping. I know all his secrets. The money laundering, the payoffs, the offshore accounts.”

“He obviously hired you because he knew you were a slime bucket, so why does he suddenly think you’re a threat?”

“When he got arrested, the cops were climbing all over everything. We managed to get rid of the paperwork, but I’m left swinging in the wind.”

“He’s worried you’d rat him out?”

“Yeah.”

“Would you?”

“Hell, yes.”

“Have you gone to the police?”

“No. I’m sort of implicated in the cooked books. At first, my choice was to die or try a plea deal, but then I thought of you. If you can bring Poletti in, he’ll get locked up for a hundred years and he won’t kill me. And I won’t have to talk to the police.”