* * * * *
KUNTZ DANCED behind me when I opened my car door. Up on the balls of his feet. Lots of energy. Tony Testosterone. “How about we go somewhere for a drink?”
“Can't. I've got work to do. I need to finish up a lead.”
“Is this about Maxine? I could go with you.”
I slid behind the wheel and cranked the engine over. “Not a good idea. But I'll give you a call if anything turns up.”
Look out world. Bounty hunter in action.
The diner was less than half filled when I arrived. Most of the people were lingering over coffee. In another hour a younger crowd would straggle in for desert or fries after the movies let out.
The shift had changed, and I didn't recognize the woman working the register. I introduced myself and asked for Margie.
“Sorry,” the woman said. “Margie didn't come in today. Called in sick. Said she might not be here tomorrow, either.”
I retreated to my car and rummaged through my bag, searching for the list of family and friends I'd gotten from Kuntz. I ran down the list in the fading light. There was one Margie. No last name, no phone, and for address Kuntz had written “yellow house on Barnet Street.” He'd also added that Margie drove a red Isuzu.
The sun was a thin scarlet smudge on the horizon when I got to Barnet, but I was able to spot the yellow bungalow and red car. A woman with a heavily bandaged hand stepped out of the yellow house to fetch her cat just as I crept to a stop at the curb. She grabbed the gray cat when she saw me and disappeared behind her door. Even from the curb I could hear the bolt being thrown.
At least she was home. My secret fear had been that she'd disappeared and was sharing rent with Maxine in Cancun.
I hitched my bag onto my shoulder, plastered a friendly smile on my face, marched up the short cement walk and knocked on her door.
The door opened with the security chain in place. “Yes?”
I passed my card through to her. “Stephanie Plum. I'd like to talk to you about Maxine Nowicki.”
“Sorry,” she said. “I have nothing to say about Maxine. And I'm not feeling good.”
I peeked through the crack in the door and saw she held her bandaged hand to her chest. “What happened?”
She looked at me slack faced and dead eyed, obviously medicated. “It was an accident. A kitchen accident.”
“It looks pretty bad.”
She blinked. “I lost a finger. Well, I didn't actually lose it. It was on the kitchen counter. I took it to the hospital and got it sewed back on.”
I had an instant vision of her finger lying on the kitchen counter. Little black dots danced in front of my eyes, and I felt sweat pop out on my upper lip. “I'm sorry!”
“It was an accident,” she said. “An accident.”
“Which finger was it?”
“The middle finger.”
“Oh man, that's my favorite finger.”
“Listen,” she said. “I gotta go.”
“Wait! Just one minute more. I really need to know about Maxine.”
“There's nothing to know. She's gone. There's nothing more I can tell you.”
* * * * *
I SAT in my car and took a deep breath. From now on, I was going to be more careful in the kitchen. No more fishing around the garbage disposal looking for bottle caps. No more flamboyant whacking away at salad greens.
It was too late to hit any more people on the list, so I headed home. The temperature had dropped a few degrees, and the air getting sucked through the sunroof was pleasant. I cruised across town, parked behind my apartment building and swung through the rear entrance.
Rex stopped running on his wheel when I walked into the living room. He looked at me, whiskers twitching.
“Don't ask,” I said. “You don't want to know.” Rex was squeamish about things like chopped-off fingers.
My mother had given me some chicken and some pie to take home. I broke off a chunk of the pie and gave it to Rex. He shoved the crust into his cheek pouch, and his shiny black eyes almost popped out of his head.
Probably I'd looked like that earlier today when Morelli had asked for a doughnut.
* * * * *
I ALWAYS KNOW it's Sunday because I wake up feeling apologetic. That's one of the cool things about being a Catholic . . . it's a multifaceted experience. If you lose the faith, chances are you'll keep the guilt, so it isn't as if you've been skunked altogether. I rolled my head and looked at the digital readout on my clock. Eight. Still time to make late mass. I really should go. My eyes grew heavy at the thought.
Next time I opened my eyes it was eleven. Gosh. Too late to go to church. I heaved myself out of bed and padded to the bathroom, telling myself it was okay because God was willing to forgive little things like skimpy church attendance. Over the years I'd evolved my religion and constructed the Benevolent God. The Benevolent God also didn't care about such trifles as cussing and fibbing. The Benevolent God looked into a person's heart and knew if she'd been naughty or nice in the grand scheme of things. In my world, God and Santa Claus did not micromanage lives. Of course, that meant you couldn't count on them to help you lose weight, either.
I stepped out of the shower and shook my head by way of styling my hair. I dressed in my usual uniform of spandex shorts and halter-style sports bra and topped it off with a Rangers hockey jersey. I took another look at my hair and decided it needed some help, so I did the gel, blow-dry, hair spray routine. When I was done I was several inches taller. I stood in front of the mirror and did the Wonder Woman thing, feet spread, fists on hips. “Eat dirt, scumbag,” I said to the mirror. Then I did the Scarlett thing, hand to my heart, coy smile. “Rhett, you handsome devil, how you do go on.”
Neither of those felt exactly right for the day, so I took myself into the kitchen to see if I could find my identity in the refrigerator. I was plowing through a Sara Lee frozen cheesecake when the phone rang.
“Hey,” Eddie Kuntz said.
“Hey,” I answered.
“I got the letter from Maxine. I thought you might want to take a look.”
* * * * *
I CRUISED over to Muffet Street and found Eddie Kuntz standing on his minuscule front lawn, hands dangling loose at his sides, staring at his front window. The window was smash city. Big hole square in the middle. Lots of fracture lines.
I slammed the door when I got out of the car, but Kuntz didn't turn at the sound, nor at my approach. We stood there for a moment, side by side, studying the window disaster.
“Nice job,” I said.
He nodded. “Square in the middle. Maxine was on the softball team in high school.”
“She do this last night?”
Another nod. “I was going to bed. I turned the light off and CRASH . . . a brick came sailing through my front window.”
“Airmail,” I said.
“Yeah, goddamn airmail. My aunt is apeshit. She's my landlady. Her and Uncle Leo live in the other half of this piece of crap. The only reason she isn't out here wringing her hands is on account of she's at church.”
“I didn't realize you were renting.”
“What, you think I'd pick out these paint colors? Do I look like one of those poofie guys?”
Hell no. Poofie guys don't think a rip in an undershirt represents a fashion statement.
He handed me a piece of white paper. “This was tied around the brick.”
The letter was handwritten and addressed to Kuntz. The message was simple. It told him he'd been a jerk, and if he wanted his property back, he was going to have to go on a treasure hunt. It said his first clue was “in the big one.” And then a bunch of mixed-up letters followed.
“What does this mean?” I asked him.
“If I knew I wouldn't be calling you, would I? I'd be out on a goddamn treasure hunt.” He threw his hands into the air. “She's wacko. I should have known she was wacko from the beginning. She had a thing about spies. Was always watching those stupid Bond movies. I'd be b
anging her from behind, and she'd be watching James Bond on the television. Can you believe it?”
Oh yeah.
“You snoop around, right?” he said. “You know all about being a spy? You know about cracking codes?”
“I don't know anything about being a spy,” I told him. “And I don't know what this says.”
In fact, not only didn't I know anything about being a spy, I didn't even know much about being a bounty hunter. I was just bumbling along, trying to pay my rent, praying I'd win the lottery.
“So now what?” Kuntz asked.
I reread the note. “What is this property she's talking about?”
He gave me a minute-long, blank look. “Love letters,” he finally said. “I wrote her some love letters, and I want them back. I don't want them floating around now that we're broken up. There's some embarrassing things in them.”
Eddie Kuntz didn't seem like the type to write love letters, but what do I know? He did seem like the type to trash an apartment. “Did you go to her apartment looking for the letters?”
“Yeah, but the apartment was all locked up.”
“You didn't break in? You didn't have a key?”
“Break in? You mean like bash down the door?”
“I walked through Maxine's apartment yesterday. Someone has torn it apart.”
Again, the blank look. “I don't know anything about it.”
“I think someone was looking for something. Could Maxine have been keeping drugs?”
He shrugged. “Who knows with Maxine. Like I said, she's screwy. ”
It was nice to know Maxine was in the area, but aside from that I couldn't get too excited about a note I couldn't read. And I definitely didn't want to hear more about Kuntz's sex life.
He draped an arm around my shoulders and leaned close. “I'm gonna level with you, sweetie-pie. I want to get those letters back. It might even be worth something to me. You know what I mean? Just because you're working for this bail bonds guy doesn't mean you can't work for me, too, right? I'd pay good money. All you have to do is let me talk to Maxie before you turn her over to the cops.”
“Some people might consider that to be double-dipping.”
“A thousand dollars,” Kuntz said. “That's my final offer. Take it or leave it.”
I stuck out my hand. “Deal.”
Okay, so I can be bought. At least I don't come cheap. And besides, it was for a good cause. I didn't especially like Eddie Kuntz, but I could understand about embarrassing love letters since I'd written a few myself. They'd gone to my slimy ex-husband, and I'd consider a thousand dollars well spent if I could get them back.
“I'll need the letter,” I said to him.
He handed it over and gave me a punch in the shoulder. “Go for it.”
* * * * *
THE NOTE said the first clue was “in the big one.” I looked at the jumble of letters that followed, and I saw no pattern. Not such a surprise, since I was missing the puzzle chromosome and couldn't do puzzles designed for nine-year-olds. Fortunately, I lived in a building filled with seniors who sat around all day doing crosswords. And this was sort of like a crossword, right?
My first choice was Mr. Kleinschmidt in 315.
“Ho,” Mr. Kleinschmidt said when he answered the door. “It's the fearless bounty hunter. Catch any criminals today?”
“Not yet, but I'm working on it.” I handed him the airmail message. “Can you unscramble this?”
Mr. Kleinschmidt shook his head. “I do crosswords. This is a jumble. You have to go ask Lorraine Klausner on the first floor. Lorraine does jumbles.”
“Everyone's a specialist today.”
“If Mickey Mouse could fly he'd be Donald Duck.”
I wasn't sure what that meant, but I thanked Mr. Kleinschmidt and I tramped two flights down and had my finger poised to ring Lorraine's bell when her door opened.
“Sol Kleinschmidt just called and told me all about the jumbled-up message,” Lorraine said. “Come in. I have cookies set out.”
I took a chair across from Lorraine at her kitchen table and watched her work her way through the puzzle.
“This isn't exactly a jumble,” she said, concentrating on the note. “I don't know how to do this. I only do jumbles.” She tapped her finger on the table. “I do know someone who might be able to help you, but . . .”
“But?”
“My nephew, Salvatore, has a knack for this sort of thing. Ever since he was little he's been able to solve all kinds of puzzles. One of those freak gifts.”
I looked at her expectantly.
“It's just that he can be odd sometimes. I think he's going through one of those conformity things.”
I hoped he didn't have a tongue stud. I had to struggle not to make guttural animal sounds when I talked to people wearing tongue studs. “Where does he live?”
She wrote an address on the back of the note. “He's a musician, and he mostly works nights, so he should be home now, but maybe it would be best if I call first.”
* * * * *
SALVATORE SWEET lived in a high-rise condo overlooking the river. The building was sandblasted cement and black glass. The landscaping was minimal but well maintained. The lobby was newly painted and carpeted in tones of mauve and gray. Hardly a nonconformist's paradise. And not low-rent, either.
I took the elevator to the ninth floor and rang Sweet's doorbell. A moment later the door opened and I found myself face-to-face with either a very ugly woman or a very gay guy.
“You must be Stephanie.”
I nodded my head.
“I'm Sally Sweet. Aunt Lorraine called and said you had a problem.”
He was dressed in tight black leather pants held together at the sides with leather lacing that left a strip of pale white flesh from ankle to waist, and a black leather vest that molded around coneshaped, eat-your-heart-out-Madonna breasts. He was close to seven feet tall in his black platform pumps. He had a large hook nose, red roses tattooed on his biceps and—thank you, Lord—he didn't have a tongue stud. He was wearing a blond Farrah Fawcett wig, fake eyelashes and glossy maroon lipstick. His nails had been painted to match his lips.
“Maybe this isn't a good time . . .” I said.
“As good as any.”
I had no idea what to say or where to look. The truth is, he was fascinating. Sort of like staring at a car crash.
He looked down at himself. “You're probably wondering about the outfit.”
“It's very nice.”
“Yeah, I had the vest made special. I'm lead guitar for the Lovelies. And let me tell you, it's fucking impossible to keep a good manicure through the weekend as a lead guitarist. If I'd known how things would turn out for me, I'd have taken up the fucking drums.”
“Looks like you're doing okay.”
“Success is my middle name. Two years ago I was straight as an arrow, playing for Howling Dogs. You ever hear of Howling Dogs?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Nobody fucking heard of Howling Dogs. I was fucking living in a fucking packing crate in the alley behind Romanos Pizza. I've been punk, funk, grunge and R&B. I've been with the Funky Butts, the Pitts, Beggar Boys, and Howling Dogs. I was with Howling Dogs the longest. It was a fucking depressing experience. I couldn't stand fucking singing all those fucking songs about fucking hearts fucking breaking and fucking goldfish fucking going to heaven. And then I had to fucking look like some western dude. I mean, how can you have any self-respect when you have to go on stage in a cowboy hat?”
I was pretty good at cussing, but I didn't think I could keep up with Sally. On my best day, I couldn't squeeze all those “f” words into a sentence. “Boy, you can really curse,” I said.
“You can't be a fucking musician without fucking cursing.”
I knew that was true, because sometimes I watched rockumentaries on MTV. My eyes strayed to his hair. “But now you're wearing a Farrah Fawcett wig. Isn't that kind of
like a cowboy hat?”
“Yeah, only this is a fucking statement. This is fucking politically correct. See, this is the ultimate sensitive man. This is taking my female shit out of the closet. And like I'm saying, here it is, you know?”
“Un huh.”
“And besides, I'm making a shitload of money. I caught the wave on this one. This is the year of the drag queen. We're like a freaking fucking invasion.” He took the note from my hand and studied it. “Not only am I booked solid for every weekend for two years . . . I get money stuffed in my goddamn pants. I got money I don't know what to do with.”