“I’m up to my knees in blood and paperwork. I don’t know which is worse. What did you have in mind?”
“Have you heard the rumor about Joyce Barnhardt getting compacted?”
Nothing for a beat. “No.”
“Well, there’s a rumor. It originated with Andy Kulicki. He works at the junkyard. I was just there, and Andy said the crusher shook loose a woman’s high heel shoe, a lipstick, and Joyce’s driver’s license. You might want to go over there with a cadaver dog.”
“Boy, I’m really happy to hear that, because I was hoping for another murder.”
“I thought it was my civic duty to pass it on.”
“You give me heartburn,” Morelli said. And he disconnected.
“Well?” Lula’s eyebrow raised.
“He said I gave him heartburn.”
“That’s not real romantic.”
“He has a hard job.”
“Me, too,” Lula said. “I got heartburn, too.”
“You have heartburn because you ate at the Rat Cafe.”
“You could be right. It tasted okay, but it’s not sitting so good in my stomach. Maybe I just need more soda.” Lula drank more soda and burped. “Oh yeah,” she said, “that’s better.”
“I’m going to take another shot at Lewis Bugkowski,” I said. “This time, I’ll use my stun gun and Flexi- Cuffs.”
Actually, stun guns are illegal in New Jersey as well as Hawaii, but like carrying concealed, Trenton is pretty much unofficially exempt.
“WHAM!” Lula said. “Let’s do it. Where’s he live?”
“Pulling Street.”
Lula turned onto Broad, cut across town, and started to sweat.
“Are you okay?” I asked her. “You’re sweating, and your face isn’t its usual color.”
“What color is it?”
“Asparagus.”
“I might be coming down with the flu.”
“How about food poisoning?”
“I feel like my stomach’s getting all swelled up,” Lula said. “It’s not fitting in my pants no more. And it’s doing funny sounds. I might need a bathroom.”
“Can you make it to the coffee shop?”
“Yeah, I just have to drive faster. You probably want to close your eyes.”
Three minutes later, she slid to a stop in front of the coffee shop.
“I’m gonna make a run for it,” Lula said. “Just stay out of my way, because when I stand up all hell’s liable to break loose.”
She kicked her door open and took off.
“Outta my way! Comin’ through!” she yelled.
She disappeared into the restroom at the back of the coffee shop, and moments later two women ran out.
I bought a ham-and-cheese sandwich and joined Connie at the table in the window.
“Lula ate some green roast beef and half-price potato salad,” I said to Connie.
“You play, you pay,” Connie said. “How’d it go at the junkyard?”
“Andy found a shoe and Joyce’s driver’s license in the crusher area.”
“Were you able to trace it back to a car?”
“No. Turns out your cousin Manny has a loosey-goosey policy about stuff that gets dumped out of the crusher.”
“It’s junkyard etiquette to never look in the trunk,” Connie said.
The restroom door crashed open, and Lula staggered out. “I’m dying,” she said. “Do I look like I’m dying?”
“You’ve looked better,” I told her. “Do you want me to drive you around the block to the emergency room?”
“Thanks for offering, but I’m taking myself home. And I’m never eating potato salad again. There should be a law against potato salad.”
I finished my sandwich and stood. “Places to go. People to capture.”
“If I’m not here, I’ll be on my cell,” Connie said. “I have some short-term offices to look at.”
I left the coffee shop and drove to Buggy’s house. I was better prepared today. I had plastic Flexi-Cuffs in my back pocket and my hand wrapped around my stun gun when I knocked on his front door.
“Boy, am I glad to see you,” Buggy said, looking out at me. “I need to borrow your car. I need to go to the drugstore to get a box of Band-Aids.”
He had a gash on his forehead and a cotton roll stuck up each nostril. I suspected this was damage from his run-in with my RAV4 yesterday.
“I have a better idea,” I said. “I’ll drive you.”
“Nuh-ah. I like to drive.”
I pressed the stun-gun prongs against his chest and pushed the go button. Nothing happened. Low battery.
Buggy snatched my bag from my shoulder. “Your keys are in here, right?”
“No! Give it back.”
He rummaged around in the bag, found the keys, and dropped the bag on the ground.
“Thanks. I was wondering how I was gonna get a Band-Aid,” he said, knocking me aside, muscling his way to the car and wedging himself behind the wheel.
I watched Buggy drive away, and I called Ranger. “You’re not going to believe what just happened.”
“Babe, it’s getting so I’ll believe just about anything.”
“The big dopey guy took my car again.”
Silence for a beat. “Maybe it’d be easier if I gave him a car of his own,” Ranger finally said. “Does he have your bag?”
“No.”
“I’ll send Hal out to get your car. What about you? Is Lula rescuing you again?”
“No.”
Another moment of silence. “Am I?”
“Would you like to?” I asked him.
EIGHT
THE BLACK 911 PORSCHE TURBO eased to a stop in front of Buggy’s house, and I angled into the car. Ranger was wearing the Rangeman uniform of black T-shirt and black cargo pants. He was armed, as usual. And also as usual, there was the subtle, lingering, tantalizing hint of his Bulgari shower gel.
“As long as we’re together,” I said to him, “would you have time to get me into a locked house in Hamilton Township?”
“I have a four o’clock meeting. Until then, I’m all yours.”
I gave him the address and told him about Joyce. Twenty minutes later, Ranger parked next to an electrician’s panel van in front of the Mercado Mews model home, and we walked a block and a half to Joyce’s town house. Best not to have your car sitting in front of a house you’re breaking into. We rang the bell and knocked on the front door. When no one answered, we circled to the back of the house, and Ranger stood hands on hips, looking at the bullet holes in the door to the privacy fence.
“It was locked,” I said to Ranger.
