Finger Lickin' Fifteen (Stephanie Plum 15)

I closed the door and sat in a chair opposite him. He was at his desk, and I was struck by the same thought I had every time I came into his office. Ranger always looked at ease, but he never actually looked like he belonged behind a desk. He looked like he should be scaling a wall, or jumping out of a helicopter, or kicking the crap out of some bad guy.

“Do you like doing this?” I asked him. “Do you like running this security firm?”

“I don’t love it,” he said. “But I don’t hate it, either. It’s a phase in my life. It’s not so different from being a company commander in the military. Better work conditions. Less sand.”

I wondered if my job was also just a phase in my life. Truth is, I felt a little stalled.

“Do you have any new thoughts on my problem?” he asked.

“Nothing big. Sybo Diaz gets the prize for most suspicious guy so far, but he doesn’t fit into the puzzle right. He’s like trying to ram a square peg into a round hole. Diaz was on duty when two of the break-ins occurred, so he’d have to be working with someone else. Problem is, I don’t see Diaz having a partner in this kind of operation. He’s totally closed. He’d have to do it all himself.

“The computer with the security codes is actually available to a lot of people. Four men have primary responsibility, but a bunch of other guys fill in for them when they take a break. And all the other men who are watching other monitors have the ability to see the screen on the code computer. You already knew this.

“The thing is, the longer I’m here, the less likely I’m inclined to believe this is an inside job. Everyone is watching everyone now. And the code computer is under constant scrutiny. And yet there was a new break-in. I think you have to look at outside possibilities. Maybe a rival security firm. Or a techno freak you fired or didn’t hire. Or maybe someone not associated with you at all who’s doing it for the rush.”

“This isn’t a large firm,” Ranger said. “We offer quality personal service to a select group of clients. If I remove all clients with video surveillance, I cut the list in half. If I only look at residential accounts, the list gets much smaller. I was able to increase the number of cars I have patrolling video-free, residential accounts during hours when the break-ins occurred. If I have to enlarge that list to include commercial accounts spread over a two-shift period, I’m short manpower.”

“Maybe you can get more accounts to use video.”

“That’s like announcing my system is corrupted. I’m trying to keep this quiet.” He handed me a list of names. “These are non-video clients, both residential and commercial. The clients that have been hit by this guy are printed in red. I’d like you to ride around and see if anything jumps out at you.”

EIGHT

I TOOK THE list back to my apartment, made myself a peanut butter sandwich, and marked Ranger’s at-risk accounts on a map of Trenton. Commercial accounts in green Magic Marker. Residential accounts in pink Magic Marker. Accounts already hit in red.

Grandma called on my cell phone. “Guess who’s standing in the backyard waving his winkie at me?”

“I’ll be right there.”

I called Ranger and told him I needed help with an FTA who was currently in my mom’s backyard. I shoved the map and the client list into my purse and ran out of my apartment, down the stairs, and across the lot to my car. If I had luck with traffic, I could make my parents’ house in five minutes. It would take Ranger ten to twenty minutes.

I called my grandmother when I was two minutes away. “Is he still there?”

“He’s making his way through backyards. I can see him from the upstairs window. I think he’s going to Betty Garvey’s house. She gives him cookies.”

I went straight to Betty Garvey. I parked at the curb in front of her house and walked around back. I didn’t see Junior Turley, but Betty was at her kitchen door.

“Have you seen Junior?” I asked her.

“Yes. He just left. I gave him an oatmeal raisin cookie, and he thanked me and went on with his walk. He’s such a nice, polite man.”

“Which way did he go?”

“He was walking toward Broome Street.”

I jogged through the next two yards, crossed the street, and saw Junior at the end of the block. He was eating his cookie with one hand and shaking his wanger at Mrs. Barbera with the other. He looked my way and shrieked and took off running.

I chased Junior for half a block and lost him when he cut through Andy Kowalski’s driveway. I stopped a moment to catch my breath and answer my phone.

“Babe,” Ranger said.

“I lost him at the corner of Green and Broome. I think he’s doubling back toward my parents’ house. You can’t miss him. He’s eating a cookie, and he’s got his barn door open.”

I looked between houses and saw Ranger’s black Porsche Turbo glide down the street. I stood perfectly still and listened for footsteps. A dog barked on the next block, and I ran in that direction. I crossed the street, hopped a fence, bushwhacked through a jungle of out-of-control forsythia, and spotted Junior Turley displaying his wares to old Mrs. Gritch.

I bolted out of the bushes and tackled Turley. We both went down to the ground, where we wrestled around, Turley trying to get away and me holding on.

“Stop that this instant,” Mrs. Gritch said. “You’re going to roll over my mums.” And she turned the hose on us.