Lean Mean Thirteen (Stephanie Plum 13)

"Sex. And you can open your eyes. The Vic's gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Car heaven.”

Twenty minutes later, Ranger stopped at a light on Broad, and his cell buzzed. He answered on a Bluetooth earpiece and listened for a couple minutes, his mood somber, his expression not showing anything. He thanked the caller and disconnected.

“They found the accountant, Ziggy Zabar,” Ranger said. “He washed ashore about a quarter mile south of the Ferry Street Bridge. He was identified by a credit card and a medic alert bracelet for a heart condition.”

Ranger parked behind the medical examiners truck, and we walked the distance to the crime scene. It was turning into a miserable day and the weather was holding the crowd down. Only a few hardy photographers and reporters. No gawkers. A handful of uniforms, a couple plainclothes guys. An EMS team that looked like they wanted to be somewhere else. No one I recognized. We ducked under the yellow tape and found Tank.

Tank is Rangers next in command and his shadow. No need to describe him. His name says it all. He was dressed in RangeMan black, and he looked impervious to the weather.

Tank was with Ziggy Zabar s brother, Zip, also in Range-Man black, his face stoic, his posture rigid.

“We picked the call up from police dispatch,” Tank said, stepping away from Zip. “He's been in the water awhile, and he's not in great shape, but I've looked at him, and even in his condition it's obvious it was an execution. Single bullet nice and clean in the forehead. He's wearing an ankle shackle, so I'm guessing he was attached to something heavy, and the tide broke him loose.”

I sucked in some air. I didn't know Ziggy Zabar, but it was horrible all the same.

We stayed for a while, keeping Zip company while he watched over his dead brother. The police photographer left and the EMS guys came in with a body bag. I could hear the motor running on the ME truck at the top of the hill. The uniforms had their collars turned up and were shuffling their feet. The mist had turned into a drizzle.

Ranger was wearing his SEAL ball cap. He tucked my hair behind my ears and put his hat on my head to keep me dry. “You look like you need that birthday cake.”

“I'd settle for a peanut butter sandwich and some dry socks.”

“I want to talk to the ME, and then I have some things to do.” He handed me the keys to the Cayenne. “Use my car. I can ride with Tank and Zip. I don't care if you destroy the car, but take care of the hat. I want it back.”

I scrambled up the hill, hoisted myself into the Porsche, and turned the heat on full blast. As I pulled off the service road onto Broad, my cell phone buzzed. It was Marty Gobel.

“I need you to come in and make a statement,” Marty said. “I know this isn't anything you want to do, but I can't put it off any longer.”

“That's okay,” I told him. “I understand. I'll be there in ten minutes.”

The cop shop is on Perry Street. Half the building is the courthouse and half the police station. It's redbrick, and the architecture could best be categorized as utilitarian municipal. Money wasn't wasted on fancy columns or art. This is strictly a -watt building. Still, it serves its purpose, and it's in a neighborhood where it's convenient for the police to find crime.

I parked in the public lot across the street and stowed the pepper spray, handcuffs, and stun gun in the console. I applied fresh lip gloss and went to talk to Marty.

I crossed the lobby to the cop-in-a-cage and gave him my name. Court was in session across the hall and people were milling around, waiting to pass through security.

Marty met me in the lobby. We got coffee and found an empty room where he could take my statement.

“So,” Marty said when we were seated, “why did you kill Dickie Orr?”

I felt my mouth drop open and my eyes go wide.

Marty gave a bark of laughter. “I'm just fucking with you,” he said. “The guys made me do it.”

“Should I have an attorney present?” I asked him.

“Do you have one?”

“My brother-in-law.”

“Oh jeez, are you talking about Albert Kloughn? He chases ambulances. He paid for his law degree with chickens. Got it somewhere in the islands, right?”

I did some mental knuckle cracking. “What do you want to know?”

“Do you have an alibi?”