Джанет Иванович - Twisted Twenty-Six

“I’m leaving,” I said, hands in the air. “I give up. I’m done. Fuck it. Fuck it all.”

I sloshed down the alley, back to Lula and Grandma.

“What the heck?” Lula said.

“Don’t ask,” I told her. “I don’t want to talk about it. I want to go home. Take me home.”

“Hold on, you can’t get into my car like that,” Lula said. “You’re all wet. You’ll ruin my upholstery. You’re gonna have to take your clothes off or else ride in the trunk.”

I gave Lula the finger and blew raspberries at her.

“That’s not nice,” Lula said.

The Rangeman SUV rolled down the street and stopped.

“I need a ride,” I told them.

“What about Edna?” Slick asked. “We’re supposed to stay with Edna.”

“Edna is coming with me.”

I narrowed my eyes at Grandma and jerked my thumb at the SUV. “Get in.”

“What about the stakeout?” Grandma asked.

“The stakeout is done,” I said. “Finished. Over. Kaput.”

“What about me?” Lula asked. “You want me to stay here awhile?”

“I don’t care what you do. Do whatever you want. I’ve had it. I’m fed up! F-E-D up. I’m wet and I’m cold and my arm is killing me, and you wouldn’t even give me a ride.”

“That’s not true,” Lula said. “I gave you two good options. You’re just feeling picky.”

“They weren’t good options. You wouldn’t have taken either of those options.”

“I wouldn’t have to,” Lula said. “I don’t go around getting myself soaked. And if I had to choose an option, I would have removed my clothes. I don’t have a problem with nudity. Especially my own.”

Grandma was already seated in the SUV. “Are you coming, or what?” she said to me. “You’re going to catch your death, standing out there dripping wet. And there’s some blood soaking through your bandage.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I MADE CERTAIN that Grandma was safe inside the house, and then I drove myself home.

Rex was asleep in his soup can when I walked into the kitchen, but I talked to him anyway.

“Honestly,” I said to Rex, “this is ridiculous. Who has a job like this? Grocery checkers don’t get wet. People working the line at the Personal Products plant don’t get wet. The lady working the counter at the Häagen-Dazs store doesn’t get wet. Even hamsters don’t get wet. Crappy bounty hunters get wet. Good ones, no. Ranger never got wet. Just crappy ones . . . like me.”

Rex popped his head out of his soup can, blinked at me, and retreated. I couldn’t blame him for retreating. Even I didn’t want to listen to me. I was ranting.

My mood improved after a hot shower. I put a new giant Band-Aid over my stitches, got dressed, and called Morelli.

“What’s new?” I asked.

“Pino’s has a new sandwich at lunch. It’s got fried chicken and melted cheese and they pour gravy over it.”

“I was thinking more in terms of my crap-ass life and the stupid keys.”

“Nothing’s new on that front.”

I blew out a sigh, disconnected, and went back to the office. Connie was surfing her social media sites, and Lula was reading Star magazine.

“Let’s go,” I said to Lula. “Let’s see if we can catch someone.”

Lula got to her feet. “Who’d you have in mind?”

“Anyone.”

“That’s entirely doable,” Lula said.

We got outside and looked at the cars parked at the curb. Lula’s Firebird and my ’53 Buick.

“Let’s take the Buick,” I said.

Lula nodded. “Good idea.”

I drove to Carol Joyce’s house first. The black Escalade was parked in the driveway.

“He’s got a lot of nerve,” Lula said. “He’s got that big-ass car parked right out front, advertising that he’s home.”

“The Superman syndrome,” I said. “Thinks he’s invincible.”

“Just because he made fools out of us the first time, he thinks he can always make fools out of us.”

“Let’s hope he’s wrong.”

I parked in the driveway, behind the Escalade, so he couldn’t drive off. Lula and I went to the front door. I rang the bell. No one answered.

“Maybe he’s out with his mama,” Lula said. “They could be in her car.”

I rang the bell again. “I don’t think so. I think he’s in the house.”

I tried the doorknob. Locked.

“What are we thinking here?” Lula asked. “You want me to shoot the lock off?”

“Do you know how to do that?”

“Sure. You shoot at the lock and it falls off.”

“Let’s save that as a last resort. I’ll go around back. Stay here. And don’t shoot anything .”

I jogged to the back of the house and tried the back door. Locked. I looked in the kitchen window. Everything was tidy. Lula walked into the kitchen and opened the door for me.

“How did you get in?” I asked.

“The window was open. The one next to the door.”

“I don’t remember seeing an open window.”

“It wasn’t actually open.”

“It was unlocked?”

“More like it had a crack in it,” Lula said.

“A crack? How big was the crack?”

“Big enough that I could get my hand in and open the window.”

“You broke a window.”

“It was an accident. I sort of turned around too fast and my purse swung out and CRASH! Anyways, now that we’re in we might as well snoop around, although I didn’t see any sign of him on my way through the house.”

A mug of tea was sitting on the kitchen counter. The tea bag was still in it. I put my hand to it, and the mug was warm.

“He’s here,” I said. “He’s hiding.”

“I’m good at this. I can find people like you wouldn’t believe. I used to play hide-and-seek all the time when I was a kid. I was the hide-and-seek champion.”

We started in the kitchen, opening every door, looking in cupboards. We moved on to the dining room and the living room. Downstairs powder room. We went upstairs and looked under beds, in closets, bathroom cupboards. Nothing. No Carol Joyce.

“I gotta give him credit,” Lula said. “He’s a good hider.”

I looked down at the street from an upstairs bedroom window. The Buick was blocking one lane. The Escalade was gone.

Lula came over and looked out with me.

“Damn,” Lula said. “No wonder I couldn’t find him.”

“He pushed my car into the road.”

“Yeah, you gotta love that Escalade. It’s got power. Your Buick is no lightweight, but that big ol’ Escalade is a beast.”

We trooped downstairs and left the house. I made sure the doors were locked, but there wasn’t anything I could do about the broken window. Mrs. Joyce was still out somewhere. Carol was most likely lurking in the neighborhood, watching, waiting for us to leave.

Lula and I walked around the Buick, checking it out.

“Not a scratch or a dent,” Lula said. “This car is a tank. They don’t make cars like this anymore.”

Thank heaven, I thought. The thing drove like a refrigerator on wheels, and it got four miles to the gallon.

“I haven’t had my fill of humiliation yet,” I said to Lula. “Let’s see if Barry Strunk is home.”

—

I drove past the front of Strunk’s house and thought I saw the flicker of a television screen through a living room window. I drove down the alley and found his Taurus angle-parked in his backyard.

“Here’s the plan,” I said to Lula. “I’m going to drop you off, and you’re going to keep watch that he doesn’t come out the back door and drive away. Just make sure you don’t get near the neighbor’s truck.”

“What’s wrong with the truck?”

“The crazy lady who lives there doesn’t like anyone getting near her truck. Also, don’t break anything or shoot anything. Just don’t let Strunk get into his car and drive away.”