Look Alive Twenty-Five (Stephanie Plum 25)

“I’ll run the video on a wall monitor,” Ranger said. “The Hamilton Building is a budget account. One surveillance camera in the lobby, and we do a drive-by four times a day. The surveillance camera isn’t monitored live. It’s set to record on a forty-eight-hour loop. The front desk is manned five days a week, from six in the morning until eight in the evening. The attendant unlocks the front door when he arrives and locks it when he leaves. The tenants have keys for all other access.”

I sat in one of the chairs in front of Ranger’s desk and swiveled toward the bank of flat screens.

“I have this programmed to run fast until the camera picks up motion in the lobby,” Ranger said. “Let me know if you want me to slow down or if you want to see something again. I’m going to run it forward from late Saturday morning. Not a lot of activity in the building over the weekend so this won’t take long.”

People began arriving shortly after the attendant opened the doors on Monday. I didn’t recognize anyone. They all looked legitimate, carrying to-go coffee containers and dressed for business.

Skoogie entered the lobby at ten minutes after seven. A messenger bag hung from his shoulder, and he had his hand wrapped around a Starbucks coffee container. He gave a nod to the attendant and went to the elevator.

“He’s starting his day early,” I said. “His assistant doesn’t come in until nine o’clock.”

There was a steady stream of people coming and going. When the clock on the video read twenty minutes past eight I told Ranger to stop the action. Victor Waggle was in the lobby. He was wearing a khaki knapsack and carrying a guitar case. The snake tattoo was clearly visible on his neck. He looked like he’d slept on the street. And he looked angry, striding to the elevator, talking to himself and gesturing.

“That’s Victor Waggle,” I said. “He’s one of Skoogie’s clients. He’s lead guitar and vocal for Rockin’ Armpits. And he’s FTA. I’ve been looking for him. He stabbed two people on State Street a couple weeks ago.”

Ranger ran the video to the end. Waggle left the building at eight forty-seven, still looking nuts. Miriam came in at nine o’clock. I didn’t recognize anyone else.

“We know Waggle is handy with a knife,” I said. “The big question is . . . why would he stab a dead man in the neck and hide him in the closet?”

“I’m more interested in a possible connection to the deli kidnappings,” Ranger said. “I don’t know if the stabbing is even relevant. I think the relationship between Skoogie and Sitz might be worth something. And I want to know if they find Waggle’s prints on the shoe that was left on the desk.”

“Do you think Sitz is behind the kidnappings?”

“Something to consider,” Ranger said.

“Who’s babysitting me this afternoon?” I asked.

“I am,” Ranger said. “Before we head out I’d like to read through your file on Victor Waggle.”

I gave him my file and wandered off to the control room kitchen. Ella keeps the kitchen stocked with sandwiches, salads, and fruit. I grabbed a ham and cheese on multigrain and a water, and returned to Ranger’s office to eat my lunch.

“I can’t believe Vinnie wrote a bond on this guy,” Ranger said. “He has no assets, no ties to the community, no real address, no relatives between here and Wisconsin. I pulled a report on him, and he has no credit history and no work history. How does he live?”

“Groupie girls. He’s a local, cult-type rock star, and he sleeps around. It’s one of the reasons I can’t find him. If he was homeless he’d at least have a favorite doorstep or a tent under the bridge. This guy just keeps moving around from one girl to the next.”

“And Leonard Skoogie was his agent and manager?”

“Yes. My best source for information is the band’s drummer, but he doesn’t know much about Waggle. It’s not like the band hangs out together in their free time.”

Ranger closed his computer and stood. “I want to see Skoogie’s office, and then I want to see the Snake Pit building. Let’s go for a ride.”

* * *

¦ ¦ ¦

Ranger drove to the Hamilton Building and went directly to the underground garage entrance. He slid his keycard into the machine, and the gate rolled up.

“Luis didn’t know about the garage,” I said.

“He doesn’t have access. We don’t patrol the inside of the building or the garage.”

“But you have access.”

“I’m special,” Ranger said.

Ranger parked, and we took the elevator to the second floor. Morelli was still in Skoogie’s office when Ranger and I walked in.

“What have we got?” Ranger asked Morelli.