Fortune and Glory (Stephanie Plum, #27)(8)

I took a donut and shoved the files into my messenger bag. “I’m all about happiness.”

“Me too,” Lula said. “We should probably take the box with us in case our happiness runs out. We’re going out after the bad guys, right?”

“Right.”





CHAPTER FOUR


Lula followed me out of the office with the donut box under her arm. “Who’s up first?”

“Rodney Trotter.”

“Going after the big money,” Lula said. “I like your style.”

“No guts, no glory,” I said. “Your car or mine?”

“I’m thinking you should drive on account of I just had my baby detailed. In case we get around to the streaker, and he still has gluten issues, I wouldn’t want him in my backseat, if you see what I’m saying.”

Lula drove a red Firebird that she kept in pristine condition. When she had her sound system cranked up it was enough to make birds fall out of the sky and your molars explode.

I got behind the wheel of the CR-V and handed the Trotter file over to Lula.

“It says here that he lives on Stiller Street,” Lula said. “That’s across town by the public housing projects.”

I was having a hard time focusing on Trotter. My brain was stuck on Benny and the treasure. I drove over the railroad tracks and turned right, toward the train station.

“We’re going the wrong way,” Lula said. “You must be taking the scenic route.”

“I want to ride past the Mole Hole. It’s not that much out of the way.”

“What do you expect to see there?”

“I don’t know. Probably nothing.”

“Are we going in?” Lula asked.

“Do you think we should?”

“I wouldn’t mind. We could get some of those curly cheese fries. We left in a hurry this morning. You were all worried about what’s-his-name.”

“Lou Salgusta.”

I was half a block from the Mole Hole and Lula leaned forward in her seat. “Look who’s coming out of the titty bar,” she said. “It’s the crazy woman that went down into the tunnel.”

I pulled to the side of the street and idled.

“She doesn’t look singed or anything,” Lula said. “Her hair isn’t smoking. Hard to tell from this distance but her shoes don’t even look muddy.”

The woman walked through the parking lot and got into a black Mercedes sports car. She pulled out of the lot and I followed her.

“You think she’s got something to do with the treasure?” Lula asked.

“I don’t know. I think it’s weird that she mysteriously showed up and went down into the tunnel.”

“Yeah, who does that with their Fendi backpack and Louboutins? Those Louboutins didn’t even look like knockoffs. They looked like they were made out of real quality leather.”

The Mercedes took a right turn, drove two blocks, and took another right. It sailed through a yellow light, and I got the red.

“I think she made you,” Lula said.

“Yep.”

“Not her first rodeo,” Lula said.

“Yep, again.”

Twenty minutes later I was on Stiller Street. Narrow, two-story, redbrick row houses lined both sides of the street for three blocks. The brick was grimy with age. Paint was blistered and peeling on window trim. Front yards were postage stamp size, and most were neglected. It was easy to find Trotter’s house. His van was parked at the curb.

“This isn’t much of a neighborhood for a doctor,” Lula said. “You’d think he’d have a nicer house. I’m guessing he does a lot of pro bono butt jobs.”

“He isn’t a doctor,” I said, parking behind the van. “He’s a con man.”

“Even more reason why he should have a certain lifestyle. He doesn’t have any overhead. He just has a lame-ass van to service. And he doesn’t have to buy malpractice insurance. He probably don’t have to fill out any Medicare forms, either, since it’s a questionable cosmetic procedure.”

Lula and I crossed the small yard, I rapped on Trotter’s front door, and a woman answered. Hard to tell her age. Somewhere between fifty and infinity. Her face was deeply lined and artificially tanned. Her lips looked like they might explode at any minute. A self-rolled joint was stuck between the lips. She was wearing flip-flops and a magenta tent dress that came to mid-calf.

“Mrs. Trotter?” I asked.

“Yep.”

“I’m looking for Rodney. I’d like to speak to him.”

“He’s in the kitchen having a late lunch.”

The living room was dark and cluttered. Too much furniture. Stacks of newspapers. Giant box-store-size jars of snacks. Pretzel nuggets, dill pickles, Hershey miniatures, popcorn, Twizzlers, Cheetos, beef jerky. A gruesome collection of taxidermied animals. Squirrels, cats, foxes, skunks, a small pig, a weasel.

“The snack jars I get,” Lula said, “but what’s with the creepy dead animals?”

“Rodney says taxidermy relaxes him after a hard day of surgery,” the woman said. “It’s his hobby.”

The kitchen was just as cluttered as the living room. Boxes of cereal were stacked on the counters beside jugs of vinegar, family-size jars of peanut butter, badly stuffed rodents with their teeth bared, loaves of bread, and bags of cookies.