Janet Evanovich - Full Scoop

"I'm sorry," he said, "but this isn't just about you and your daughter. Other people are in danger as well."

"I'm going to be sick, Carl Lee," Cook said.

Carl Lee glared at him through the lenses of the fake glasses. "Sick, hell," he said. "You throw up in this car you're going to be dead."

Cook removed his cowboy hat and fanned himself. "I sometimes have a problem with motion sickness, and—" He paused and swallowed. "I think Loopy is beginning to smell."

"Go back to sleep," Carl Lee said.

"It's after midnight, man, and you promised to dump Loopy as soon as it got dark."

"Well, there was a change of plan on account of half the eighteen-wheelers in the country decided to drive the back roads tonight."

"They aren't supposed to do that," Cook said.

"You're absolutely right, Cook, but not everybody is a stickler for following rules like we are."

There was a noise from the backseat. Cook jumped so high he hit his head on the roof of the car. "Holy shit, what was that?" He reached for the door handle.

"Take your damn hands off of that door right now," Carl Lee all but shouted, reaching for his gun.

"Is it Loopy?" Cook managed to ask, as he tried to gulp in air. "What's he doing?"

Carl Lee sighed. "He's not doing a damn thing. He's dead. Dead bodies sometimes make sounds."

"I can't take it!" Cook cried. He wiped his hand down his face. He had already begun to sweat. "I can't breathe! I'm hyperventilating. Stop the car, I'm really getting sick!"

Carl Lee muttered a string of four-letter words as he braked and pulled off the road. Not a moment too soon either. Cook barely made it out of the car before he lost the stale sandwich he'd eaten earlier.

Carl Lee watched the rearview mirror for oncoming headlights. "I ought to leave your cowardly ass right here in the middle of nowhere," he told Cook as the man continued to heave. "What I want to know is how you had the guts to shoot those prison guards today."

"I didn't shoot anybody." Cook choked the words out. "That was all Loopy's doing. I fired over their heads. I'm a thief, Carl Lee, not a killer."

Carl Lee just looked at him. "You're pathetic. Get in the car and close the door."

"You're on your own," Cook shouted. "I'm out of here."

Carl Lee slammed the gear into park, opened his door and climbed out. He walked around the car and yanked open the back door. "Get over here and help me pull him out," he ordered.

"I can't touch a dead person," Cook said, sweat pouring from his brow. "Honest to God, man."

Carl Lee pointed the gun at Cook's head. "You've got two seconds."

Cook took a deep breath and stepped up to the door. Carl Lee tucked the gun in the waistband of his slacks and together they pulled Loopy from the backseat and lowered him to the ground. Cook began heaving again as Carl Lee flung four-letter words at him and wrestled to get the clown suit off Loopy.

"What are you doing?" Cook asked, barely able to lift his head.

"I thought it would be nice if the police didn't recognize him immediately." He cussed and tugged until he pulled the suit free. Finally, he grabbed Loopy's wallet, looked inside, and pulled out what cash was in it. He checked his other pockets.

"You just robbed a dead man," Cook said.

Carl Lee ignored him and tossed the wallet into the backseat. "We have to drag him across that ditch to those pine trees," he said. He straightened and wiped his brow; saw the headlights in the distance. "Hold it."

They waited. The car, an old sedan, slowed and pulled off in front of them. "Shit!" Carl Lee's eyes darted to the body as the sedan backed toward them.

He grabbed a worn baseball cap from the back floor, slapped it on his head, and reached into his shirt pocket for his glasses and fake teeth.

The driver's door opened, and a teenage boy climbed out. He walked toward them, trying to shield his eyes from the glare of their headlights. "Ya'll having car trouble?" the kid said.

"Let me do all the talking," Carl Lee told Cook.

Cook was doubled over, trying to gulp air. "Don't kill him, Carl Lee," he said with difficulty.

Carl Lee quickly walked toward the kid. He chuckled. "My friend is carsick," he said.

The boy nodded. "That's too bad. My sister has problems with that. I think my old man keeps motion-sickness pills in the glove compartment. You think your friend could hold one down?" He tried to see past Carl Lee.

Carl Lee stepped in front of him. "He'll be okay."

"Well, if you're sure. Sorry I couldn't be of help." He turned.

Suddenly, Cook gave a loud heave and fell against the car, making a loud thud.

The teenager whipped around. "Oh, man, he sounds bad. I should probably help you get him into the car."

"No." Carl Lee's tone was cold as he tugged the bill of his cap low on his eyes. "You need to move on, kid."

The young man looked up quickly. "Hey, I didn't mean to make you mad, mister."

Carl Lee sounded more relaxed when he spoke again. "My friend is embarrassed," he said. "You understand."

"Yeah, sure." The teenager turned and walked away but glanced over his shoulder a couple of times as he went.

Carl Lee waited until the car pulled away before he joined Cook. He yanked him up straight. "Get in the car before I shoot you in the kneecaps and leave you on the side of the road."

"I'm sorry, man." Cook did as he was told.

Carl Lee dragged the body across the ditch, glancing up from time to time to check for headlights, pausing once to catch his breath before pulling Loopy up the incline leading to a stand of pines. His glasses fell off, and he had to stop and look for them. Once he pulled the dead man into the copse, he let go of his feet and they hit the ground with a thud. "Sar-ro-nar-o, asshole," he said.

* * * * *

"Ladies, thank you for all your hard work," Zack told the hens shortly after six a.m. the next morning. They didn't seem interested in what he had to say as they plucked the feed he'd tossed on the ground inside the henhouse. He held out the basket of eggs he had just collected and bowed. "You can take the rest of the day off." He carried the eggs inside the house, left them on the kitchen counter, and went back out to feed the goat and rabbits.

Zack led Butterbean from the garage and staked her beneath the big oak tree in the backyard. She watched him curiously as he filled her bowls with food and water. His cell phone rang, and he pulled it from the pocket of his jeans. Max spoke from the other end.

"The fingerprints lifted from the Jeep Cherokee were put through AFIS and hit pay dirt on Carl Lee Stanton's buddies."

"How'd you get into AFIS?" Zack asked.

Max chuckled. "I could tell you, but then you'd have to arrest me."

"Forget I asked."

"Both men spent time in Texas Federal Prison. Raymond Boyd, aka Sam Griffin, Peter Hardy, nickname Cook, was skimming money from an S and L."

"I recognize the name Sam Griffin from Carl Lee's visitor's log," Zack said. "Griffin was there several times over the past six months. Or should I say Raymond Boyd."

"We have photos of Boyd, using the name Sam Griffin, from prison security cameras. Obviously in disguise," Max added. "The other guy, Luis Perez— his friends call him Loopy — was a postal worker with a bad habit of stealing checks that came through the mail. He had quite a racket going until he got busted and became Boyd's roommate."

"How about the blood in the backseat?" Zack asked.

"Type O. Both Stanton and Perez have O. But the hair on the backseat was black like Perez's. Stanton's hair is dark red; several strands were lifted from both headrests in the front. There was quite a bit of blood, by the way, and its location on the seat suggests an abdominal injury. For all we know he could be dead."