Turbo Twenty-Three (Stephanie Plum 23)

Dottie Loosey lived in a row house by the button factory. There were several blocks of the small two-story houses. They were originally built as housing for button company workers, but over the years they all went to private ownership. At least half were now rental properties. They had started out all the same, and were now all fiercely different.

Dottie’s stood out for its neglect. In fact, it looked a lot like Dottie. There was nothing to pretty it up and soften the years. It was raw and weathered, with peeling paint and window trim down to bare wood.

Ranger parked one house down, and we sat and watched Dottie’s place for a while. It was early afternoon. No one was moving around. No car or pedestrian traffic. This wasn’t a part of town sought after by young parents. The houses had no front yards, and minuscule backyards.

Ranger read through the file again. “She has a history of drug and alcohol abuse, and violent behavior. She’s been in and out of jail for the past twenty years. Public drunkenness, possession, two armed robbery convictions. Her daughter posted her bond. The daughter has a Massachusetts address. It looks like Dottie lives alone.” He handed the paperwork back to me. “Let’s do it.”

We went to the door and rang the bell. No answer. No sounds from inside the house. No television or radio. Ranger knocked. Nothing. He tried the door. Locked. He picked the lock, opened the door, and yelled “Bond enforcement.” No one responded.

We cleared the house, working our way through, room by room, looking for Dottie. Her furniture would have been discarded by a sober person. Stained and to

rn couch in the living room, stained bare mattress on the floor in the bedroom, a faded quilt on the mattress, an empty whiskey bottle on the floor. No pillow. Cigarette butts overflowing a cracked dish.

The smell wasn’t great.

We ended in the kitchen. A couple food-encrusted dishes in the sink. Crumpled fast food bags everywhere. Empty refrigerator. A cracked and peeling Formica countertop littered with empty whiskey and beer bottles, a squeeze bottle of mustard, and a Bogart Kidz Kup.

“Look at this,” I said to Ranger. “She can’t be all bad. She likes ice cream.”

I picked the cup up and it rattled. I peeled the lid off and looked inside.

“Not ice cream,” I said to Ranger.

Ranger took the cup. “She’s got some pharmaceutical grade meth, a small amount of crack, and I’m not sure about the pink pills.”

“This is a new Kidz Kup container. It’s never held ice cream. There’s no chocolate stain on the bottom, and it doesn’t have any markings from the machine that puts the lids on. I have firsthand experience with Kidz Kups lids.”

Ranger put the lid back on and returned the Kidz Kup to the counter. “I haven’t heard anything on the street about Bogart Kidz Kups, but it’s hard to keep up with this stuff. It’s more likely that some unused containers were discarded and Dottie got hold of one. I’d like to think that’s the case, because the alternative is ugly.”

“Packaging drugs in something designed for children?”

“When you were working at the plant did you run across anyone who might have a business on the side?”

“Butchy has a garage filled with microwaves, toaster ovens, and Nikes.”

“Did you get into his house?”

“No.”

Forty minutes later Ranger and I walked around the outside of Butchy’s house, and Ranger let us in through the back door. The kitchen was as I remembered it, but the cardboard box was gone from the table. I couldn’t help wondering if it had been filled with Bogart Kidz Kups. Four six-packs of beer and six packages of hot dogs in his fridge. No rolls anywhere to be seen. No Kidz Kups in his freezer. I went to check out his over-the-counter cabinets and found they were filled with pint ice cream containers still stacked together and wrapped in plastic.

“What do you make of this?” I asked Ranger.

Ranger stood looking at them, hands on hips. “Let’s talk to Butchy.”

“Now?”

“As soon as I finish the walk-through. I want to see if he has a clown suit in his closet, and I want to check his shoe size.”

• • •

Ranger called his office from the road and asked to have someone keep an eye on Butchy until we got to the plant.

“What about Bogart?” I asked Ranger. “Any word on him?”

“I have Tank taking point on that one. So far there’s nothing. Bogart hasn’t been home. He hasn’t called in. His wife and daughter are supposedly at a family reunion at Disney World. They say they haven’t heard from him, but they only seem mildly worried.”

“?‘Supposedly’ at a family reunion?”