Turbo Twenty-Three (Stephanie Plum 23)

Someone knocked on my side window. It was Evelyn.

“See you tomorrow,” she said.

I nodded and forced a smile. The people were nice. The job was deadly. All those cups. The hum of the machines. The overhead fluorescent lights. And the smell of vanilla beans was stuck in my nose. Did I accomplish anything? No. I wasn’t the world’s best spy.

There was still plenty of daylight, so I pointed my car toward Stark Street. The plan was to ride past Eugene Winkle’s address and hope I didn’t see him. If I did see him I’d call Ranger and ask for help. This plan had the additional advantage of being able to pop into the 7-Eleven on State Street at the end of Stark and get some nachos. Morelli was bringing dinner, but he wouldn’t be around until six o’clock and I was starving.

I connected with Stark Street on the fifth block and turned left. Traffic was minimal. A couple weary-looking hookers had staked out a corner. An old man was curled up like a cat asleep on a stoop. Fast food drink cups and burger wrappers littered the sidewalks and banked up against the curbs. No gargantuan snub-nosed guy in sight.

I continued on down Stark, looking for Winkle, trying to stay alert for trouble. I didn’t want to get caught in gang-related crossfire. I didn’t want to accidentally run over a drugged-up homeless person. I didn’t want to look like I was trolling for dope. I recognized a hooker on the corner of block three. Her name was Sharelle Jones. Vinnie had bonded her out several times, and she was friendly with Lula. I pulled over and rolled my window down.

“Hey, girl,” Sharelle said, leaning in. “You lookin’ for a good time?”

“No,” I said. “I’m looking for Eugene Winkle. Have you seen him?”

“Haven’t seen him. Don’t want to see him. Don’t need that kind of trouble. Dude’s ugly inside and out.”

I wrapped a twenty around my business card and handed it to Sharelle. “Let me know if you hear anything.”

“Will do,” Sharelle said. “Tell Lula I was askin’ on her.”

I drove the length of Stark and pulled into the 7-Eleven. I was on my way out when I ran into Larry Virgil.

“Oh crap!” Virgil said. And he took off running.

He tried to cross State Street and ran out of luck halfway when an orange Subaru plowed into him, knocked him into the oncoming lane, and three cars ran over him before all traffic came to a screeching stop. I called 911, but I didn’t think they needed to be in a big rush.

A lot of people ran to Virgil and huddled around. I stayed on the outskirts. I didn’t think I could help in any way, and I didn’t especially want to see the carnage.

A fire truck was the first to arrive. Two cop cars were close behind. Within five minutes the road was clogged with emergency vehicles, and police were diverting traffic.

Eddie Gazarra got out of a cop car and walked over to me.

“I see they gave you a new car,” I said to him.

“They tried to put me on a bicycle, but my ass didn’t fit on the seat.” He looked at the container of nachos still in my hand. “Are you going to eat that?”

I shook my head. “My stomach isn’t feeling great. I bought these before…you know.”

“Looks like they gave you extra cheese glop. Be a shame to waste it.”

I handed the nachos over to Eddie. “Enjoy.”

“If I had to take a guess I’d say you bumped into Virgil on your way out of the 7-Eleven, and he ran across the road trying to get away.”

“Your guess would be right.”

“It’s not your fault,” Eddie said.

“It feels like my fault.”

“He chose to run. You didn’t make him run into the street, did you?”

I blew out a sigh. I knew Eddie was right, but I still felt bad.

“No,” I said. “I didn’t make him run into the street, but I was a catalyst. It’s like I’m always there when disaster happens.”

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