Джанет Иванович - Twisted Twenty-Six

I checked on Grandma at six o’clock. It was all good. Maybe it would stay good. It could happen, right? The keys could turn up. They could be in the pocket of a jacket that was taken to the cleaners, or they could be in the freezer behind the cookie dough ice cream. Jimmy was old. He probably misplaced things all the time.

Morelli called at seven o’clock. “I got stuck doing paperwork and then I got talked into football with some guys from work. Is everything okay with you?”

“Jimmy’s sister Rose tried to run over Grandma and me when we were walking home from the bakery, but we jumped out of the way. Grandma shot off a side mirror, and Rose took off down the road.”

“I don’t know who’s crazier . . . Rose or Grandma.”

“Yeah, that’s a tough one. Where are you? It sounds like you’re in a sports bar.”

“I’m home. Some of the guys came with me to watch the game. There’s still pizza left if you want to come over.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass. I’ve got stuff to think about.”

I called Grandma at eight o’clock and at ten o’clock. Nothing new going on. No firebombs. No break-ins. No attempted kidnappings. Yay!

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I DROVE PAST my parents’ house on my way to work. There were no strange cars parked on the street, and the house felt benign, so I continued on to the bail bonds office. Connie had just arrived and unlocked the front door. Lula wasn’t there yet.

“This doesn’t happen often,” Connie said, setting the box of donuts on her desk. “You get first pick.”

“I woke up at four-thirty and couldn’t get back to sleep. I’m worried about Grandma. Everyone’s out to get her. Jimmy’s sisters. The La-Z-Boys. Who knows who else.”

“I thought the keys would have turned up by now,” Connie said. “Hard to believe no one knows where Jimmy kept them.”

“Maybe someone did know. Maybe someone got to the keys and is sitting on them.”

“One of the other La-Z-Boys?”

I shrugged. “Could be anyone. There were six chairs in the back room at the Mole Hole. They belonged to Jimmy, Benny, Charlie Shine, Lou Salgusta, and Julius Roman. Do you know who owns the sixth chair?”

“I don’t think it was ever occupied after Big Artie.”

“So, when someone dies the chair stays empty?”

“That’s my understanding, but I’m not sure,” Connie said. “I’ll ask my mom. She might know.”

I took the lone Boston Kreme. “Rose tried to run Grandma and me over yesterday. She jumped the curb and almost took out Gary Luckett’s maple tree.”

“The sisters were counting on getting some money,” Connie said. “Jimmy’s ex-wife Barbara isn’t happy, either. Word on the street is that Grandma’s going to get everything. Being that they were only married for forty-five minutes, it’s not sitting well.”

The front door crashed open and Lula stomped in. She was in full-on biker chick mode with chunky black motorcycle boots, a black leather miniskirt, and a black leather vest with an eagle stitched onto the back.

“I can’t believe you got here before me,” she said. “And I see you got the Boston Kreme. I was counting on that donut. I needed it. I had a bad night. Just look at my hair.”

Connie and I moved our eyes off the black leather up to Lula’s hair. The first two inches off her scalp were still pink, but beyond that it was significantly reduced in volume and singed black.

“I was on a date with Mr. Amazing Saturday night and some yodel set my hair on fire,” Lula said. “Me and my date were getting it on at a bar, and the idiot next to me had his electronic cigarette explode. Took out half his face and fried my hair. Do you believe it? You know how long it takes me to grow quality hair? It’s not like overnight. And I couldn’t get an appointment with Lateesha until this afternoon.”

“Jeez,” I said, “was the guy okay?”

Lula poked around in the donut box and settled on a chocolate glazed. “I don’t know. It didn’t look like he was gonna die, but his nose is never gonna be the same. My opinion is it was better when people smoked and died of lung cancer. At least they didn’t set innocent bystanders’ hair on fire.”

“What happened to Mr. Amazing?” Connie asked.

“He turned out to be not so amazing,” Lula said. “He was all freaked out by the guy on the floor. And he said my hair smelled like I’d been incinerated. I don’t know how he knew about incinerated hair, but anyway, he left, and I had to take an Uber home.”

There was a lot of silence after that since Connie and I didn’t know where to go with it. Finally, Connie’s computer dinged, and she pulled off three new FTAs.

“Bad Friday,” she said. “There were three no-shows in court. Vinnie’s not going to be happy.”

She printed them out and handed them over to me.

“Where is the little turd?” Lula asked.

“Vegas,” Connie said. “Some kind of conference.”

I looked at the three FTAs.

“What have we got?” Lula asked.

“A shoplifter. A hijacker. Attempted murder.”

“That’s a group with good variety to it,” Lula said. “It could almost make up for me having to start my day off with a lame-ass chocolate glazed donut.”

“And we need to find the keys,” I said.

Lula finished her donut and picked out a second. “You got a plan?”

“I thought Connie could run the remaining Boys through the system for me. Then I can try to find a weak link to talk to me. It would help if I at least knew what the keys looked like and the number of keys involved.”

“I’ll get right on it,” Connie said. “Give me an hour or two.”

I thumbed through the three new files. “The shoplifter should be easy,” I said. “Let’s round her up while Connie does my search.”

“You didn’t read carefully,” Connie said. “It’s a guy. Carol Joyce. And he’s a pro. Goes into a store with a shopping bag and walks out with stacks of T-shirts, lingerie, whatever is out of sight and easy to pick up. Knows how to avoid security cameras. He’s been at it for years. Started shoplifting when he was seventeen, but this is the first time he’s been busted. I know about him because my Uncle Sal fences for him sometimes.”

I read his bio background. “He lives with his mother. Cherry Street. That’s North Trenton. He’s twenty-one years old. Looks younger.”

Lula looked over my shoulder at the file photo. “Boyish. Clean cut. White. Someone you could trust to go into a store with a shopping bag. Boom.”

I shoved the files into my outside pocket. “We’ll be back,” I said to Connie. “Call me if anything key worthy pops up.”

—

Cherry Street is in a pleasant middle-income neighborhood. Houses and yards are small but neatly maintained. Interiors are filled with overstuffed furniture, flat-screen televisions, and technology only a fourteen-year-old could master. The Joyce house was no exception. It was a two-story white house with a red front door and a small front porch.

The woman who answered the door was perfect for the house. Medium height. Medium weight. Medium short brown hair. Dressed in tan slacks and a pink striped shirt. She smiled a hello to me and took a step back when she saw Lula in her biker dominatrix outfit.

“I’m looking for Carol,” I said.

“I’m afraid he isn’t home right now,” the woman said. “I’m his mother. Is there anything I can relay to Carol?”

“I represent his bail bonds agent,” I said. “Carol missed his court date, and I wanted to help him reschedule.”

“That’s very nice of you. I’m sure he would welcome the help.”

“Do you expect him home soon?”

“He’s at work right now. He’s a personal shopper. He doesn’t really have a set schedule.”