Lean Mean Thirteen (Stephanie Plum 13)

“Yes.”

“What else do we know about the partners?”

“All three partners are in their early fifties. Petiak moved into the area five years ago, and Gorvich and Smullen followed. Petiak owns a modest house in Mer-cerville. Gorvich and Smullen are renting in a large apartment complex off Klockner Boulevard. Before moving to Trenton, Smullen owned a car wash in Sheepshead, Gorvich had part ownership in a restaurant, and Petiak owned a limo service consisting of one car. Somehow, the three men found Dickie, and between them they managed to buy an office building downtown, an apartment building that sits on the edge of public housing, and a warehouse on Stark Street. No litigation against any of them. Smullen is married, with a wife and children in South America. Gor-vich is currently unmarried and has been divorced three times. And Petiak has never married.”

Ranger plugged the flash drive into his computer, opened a spreadsheet, and broke into a smile. “You downloaded the firms financial records. Clients. Fees for service. Services provided. There's a separate spreadsheet for each partner.”

I dragged my chair next to his so I could see the screen as he scrolled down.

“Dickie has normal clients and is pulling in around two hundred thousand,” Ranger said after a half hour of reading. “Smullen, Petiak, and Gorvich have client lists that read like Who's Who in Hell. South American drug lords, gunrunners, mercenaries, and some local thugs. And they're billing big money.”

I'd been taking notes and doing a tally in my head as we moved from one partner to the next, and I had a grip on how much money we were talking about.

“Forty million and change,” I said.

“Now we know who owned the Smith Barney money. We just don't know where it went.” Ranger gathered the reports together, slid them into a large envelope, and handed them over to me. “This is your copy. I'll have my financial guy go over the material on the flash drive and summarize it for us.” He looked at his watch. “I have to get to the airport. I'm flying to Miami to escort a high-bond FTA back to Jersey. I should be home tomorrow night. I'll call when I get in. Tank will be available if you have problems.”

NINE

“Okay, so run this by me again,” Lula said. “We're all dressed up like Handy Andy for why?”

“Dickie is part owner of an apartment building. On the odd chance that he isn't dead, I thought it might be a place he'd hole up. Or maybe a place someone would hold him hostage. Its on Jewel Street, right on the edge of public housing. I did a drive-by, and it looks like a candidate for urban renewal. There are ten units, and I'm sure they all have leaky faucets and broken toilets. I figure we go in looking like maintenance, and we won't have a problem poking around.”

“I hope you realize I could be shopping right now. There's a big shoe sale at Macy s.”

“Yes, but since you're with me, going on a crime-solving adventure, you get to wear this neat tool belt. It's got a hammer and a tape measure and a screwdriver.”

“Where'd you get this thing anyway? It don't hardly fit a full-figure woman like me.”

“Borrowed it from my building super, Dillon Rudick.”

I parked the Cayenne next to a Dumpster in the alley behind the building. Joyce was still following me, but I didn't care a whole lot as long as she stayed in her rental car and didn't interfere.

“We'll start at the bottom and work our way to the top,” I told Lula. “It shouldn't take long.”

“Just suppose we find this dickhead, then what? It's not like he committed a crime. It's not like he's FTA and we can haul his bony ass off to jail.”

“I guess we sit on him and call the Trenton Times to come over with a photographer.”

“I would have worn something different if I'd known that. I got a sweatshirt and baggy-ass jeans on so I look handy. This isn't gonna show me off in a photograph. And look at my hair. Do I have time to change my hair color? I photograph much better when I'm blond.”

I opened the back door to the building and peered into the dark interior. It was a three-story walk-up with a central stairway. Four apartments on the first floor, four on the second, and two on the third. It was late afternoon. Coming up to dinnertime. Most tenants would be at home.

I knocked on A and a Hispanic woman answered. I told her we were checking toilet seals.

“Toilet don't work,” the woman said. “No toilet.”

“What do you mean it don't work? You gotta have a toilet,” Lula said.

“Don't work.”

Lula elbowed her way in. “Maybe we could fix it. Let me have a look at this toilet. Sometimes you just gotta jiggle the handle.”

The apartment consisted of one large room opening off a galley kitchen, plus a single bedroom and bathroom. Seven kids and six adults were watching a small television in the living room. A big pot of something vaguely smelling like chili bubbled on the stove.

Lula wedged herself into the little bathroom and stood in front of the toilet. “This toilet looks okay to me,” Lula said. “What s wrong with it?”

“Don't work.”