Top Secret Twenty-One (Stephanie Plum 21)

I took a moment to catch my breath, then I texted Briggs and told him to come around to the front. I rang the bell while I waited. No answer. I called the phone number I had for Buster, but no one picked up, and I couldn’t hear the phone ringing upstairs.

“Where is he?” Briggs asked when he reached me. “What happened?”

“He got away.”

“Now what?”

I looked at the door that led to the second-floor apartment. It was still open. “We go upstairs and look around,” I said.

“Is that legal?”

“Yes. I have reason to believe there’s a felon up there.”

“Who?”

“Poletti.”

Briggs’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

“No. Not really. Not even maybe.”

We stepped inside and closed and locked the door behind us. I paused at the top of the stairs and announced myself. “Bond enforcement. Anyone home?”

Silence.

“This is a pretty nice apartment,” Briggs said, looking around. “He’s got a flat-screen television and a leather recliner. And he’s got a real kitchen.”

The refrigerator was stocked with food. Dirty dishes in the half-filled dishwasher. An iPhone charger on the kitchen counter. No iPhone. We moved into the bedroom and found a guy stretched out on the floor, staring up at the ceiling.

“Is this Buster?” I asked Briggs.

“No. It’s Bernie Scootch. He doesn’t look so good. Is he okay?”

Bernie was definitely not okay. He was lying in a pool of blood, and his chest had a bunch of bullet holes in it. For that matter, I wasn’t doing so great either. I was clammy with cold sweat and the horror of Bernie Scootch leaking his bodily fluids all over the carpet.

I bit into my lower lip. “I’m pretty sure he’s dead.”

“Oh jeez,” Briggs said. “That’s bad. That sucks.”

I dialed 911 and gave the dispatcher the address and the big picture. Five minutes later a uniform arrived, with Morelli following. I was on the sidewalk when they angle-parked at the curb.

“I was on my way home from my mom’s house when I heard the call come in,” Morelli said. “What’s the deal here?”

“There’s a dead guy upstairs. Randy identified him as Bernie Scootch. He’s been shot … a lot.”

Morelli went upstairs to take a look and returned after a couple minutes. “You’re right,” he said. “He’s been shot a lot. What were you doing in the apartment?”

“I was looking for Jimmy Poletti.”

“You had reason to believe he was there?”

“It’s sort of a gray area.”

Morelli looked like he needed a Rolaid. “You didn’t shoot Scootch, did you?”

“No!”

I gave Morelli the long version while more people showed up—the coroner, a crime photographer, a couple more uniforms, the crime lab techs, and Bryan Kreider.