To the Nines (Stephanie Plum 9)

“The future mother-?in-?law would do it for me.”

“Anything else?”

“No. Have you got something?”

“I have a guy who says he doesn't know Singh, but I don't believe him.” And I have horrific photos of a dead woman. Best to wait until I'm alone with Ranger to tell him about the horrific photos. Lula isn't always great at keeping a secret and Morelli asked me not to share the details.

“Later,” Ranger said.

I called Connie next. “I need an address for a guy named Howie P. He works at the McDonald's on Lincoln Avenue. See if you can get his address out of the manager.”

Five minutes later Connie got back to me with the address.

“This is the deal,” I said to Lula. “We're going to check out Howie's apartment. We are not going to break in. You accidentally smash a window or bust down a door, and I swear I'll never take you on a case with me again.”

“Hunh,” Lula said. “When did I ever bust down a door?” “Two days ago. And it was the wrong door.” “I didn't bust that door. I just tapped it open.”

Howie lived in a hard times neighborhood a short distance from his job. He rented two rooms in a house that was originally designed to contain one family and now was home to seven. Paint peeled off the clapboard siding, and window ledges rotted in the sun. The small yard was hard-?packed dirt, the perimeter marked by chain-?link fencing. A fringe of weed clung to life at the base of the fence.

Lula and I stood in the dark, musty foyer and ran through the names on the

mailboxes. Howie was 3B. Sonji Kluchari was 3A.

“Hey, I know her,” Lula said. “Back when I was a ho. She worked the corner across from me. If she's living in three A you can bet there's eight other people in there with her. She's a scabby ol' crackhead, doing whatever she has to so she can get her next fix.”

“How old is she?”

“She's my age,” Lula said. “And I'm not saying how old I am, but it's twenty-?something.”

We climbed the stairs to the second-?floor landing, which was illuminated by a bare twenty-?watt bulb hanging from a ceiling cord, and then we went to the third floor, which clearly had been the attic. The third-?floor landing was small and dark and smelled like rot. There were two doors. Someone had scrawled 3A and 3B on the doors with black magic marker.

We knocked on 3B. No answer. I tried the door. Locked.

“Hunh,” Lula said. “Looks flimsy. Too bad you got all these rules about breaking things. I bet I could lean on this door and it'd fall down.”

That was a good possibility. Lula wasn't a small woman.

I turned and knocked on 3A. I knocked louder the second time and the door opened and Sonji peered out at us. She was bloodless white with red-?rimmed eyes and yellow straw hair. She was rail thin and I would have put her age closer to fifty than twenty. Not easy being a crackhead ho.

Sonji stared at Lula, recognition struggling through the dope haze.

“Girl,” Lula said. “You look like shit.”

“Oh yeah,” Sonji said, flat-?voiced, dull-?eyed. “Now I remember. Lula. How you doin', you big ugly ho.”

“I'm not a ho anymore,” Lula said. “I'm working for a bail bondsman and we're looking for a scrawny little Indian guy. His name's Samuel Singh and he might know Howie.”

“Howie?”

“The guy across the hall from you.”

I showed Sonji a photo of Singh.

“I don't know,” she said. “These guys all look the same to me.”

“Anybody living over there besides Howie?” I asked her.

“Not that I know. From what I can tell, Howie's not exactly Mr. Social. Maybe Singh came over once ... or somebody who looked like him. Don't think anybody but Howie s living there. But hell, what do I know?”