Work appears when cubby is left unattended. I looked at the name requesting the search requests. Frederick Rodriguez. Didn't know him. Didn't see him out and about in the control room. There was another floor of offices. I guessed Frederick Rodriguez was in one of those offices.
I called my mom on my new cell phone and gave her the number. I could hear my grandmother yelling in the background.
“Is that Stephanie?” Grandma Mazur hollered. “Tell her the Macaroni funeral is tomorrow morning, and I need a ride.”
“You're not going to the funeral,” my mother said to Grandma Mazur.
“It's gonna be the big event of the year,” Grandma said. “I have to go.”
“Joseph let you see the mole before he gave it over to the police,” my mother said. “You're going to have to be satisfied with that.” My mother's attention swung back to me. “If you take her to that funeral there's no more pineapple upside-down cake for the rest of your life.”
I disconnected from my mother, ate my sandwich, and ran the first name. It was close to three by the time I was done running the second name. I set the third request aside and paged through the Gorman file. Then I did as Ranger suggested and ran Gorman through all the searches again. I called Morelli to make sure he was okay and to tell him I might be late. There was a stretch of silence while he wrestled with trust, and then he put in a request for a six-pack of Bud and two chili dogs.
“And by the way,” Morelli said. “The lab guy called and told me the mole was made out of mortician's putty.”
“Don't tell Grandma,” I said. “It'll ruin everything for her.”
Stephanie Plum 11 - Eleven On Top
TEN
I printed the Gorman search, and then I searched Louis Lazar. Both men yielded volumes of information. Date of birth, medical history, history of employment, military history, credit history, history of residence, class standings through high school. Neither man attended college. Personal history included photos, wives, kids, assorted relatives.
I printed Lazar and moved to Michael Barroni. Most of this information I already knew. Some was new and felt embarrassingly intrusive. His wife had miscarried two children. He'd gotten psychiatric counseling a year ago for anxiety. He'd had a hernia operation when he was thirty-six. He'd been asked to repeat the third grade.
I'd just started a credit check on Barroni when my cell rang.
“I'm hungry,” Morelli said. “It's seven o'clock. When are you coming home?”
“Sorry. I lost track of the time.”
“Bob is standing by the door.”
“Okay! I'll be right there.”
I put the Barroni search on hold and dropped the Lazar file and the Gorman file into my top desk drawer. I grabbed my bag and my jacket and dashed out of my cubby. There was an entirely new crew in the control room. Ranger ran the control room in eight-hour shifts around the clock. A guy named Ram was at one of the monitor banks. Two other men were at large.
I crossed the room at a run, barreled through the door to take the stairs, and crashed into Ranger. We lost balance and rolled tangled together to the fourth-floor landing. We lay there for a moment, stunned and breathless.
Ranger was flat on his back, and I was on top of him.
“Oh my God,” I said. “I'm so sorry! Are you okay?”
“Yeah, but next time it's my turn to have the top.”
The door opened above us and Ram stuck his head out. “I heard a crash... oh, excuse me,” he said. And he pulled his head back and closed the door.
“I wish this was as bad as it looks,” Ranger said. He got to his feet, scooping me up with him. He held me at arm's length and looked me over.
“You're a wreck. Did I do all this damage?”
I had some scratches on my arm, the knee had gotten torn on my jeans, and there was a rip in my T-shirt. Ranger was perfect. Ranger was like Big Blue. Nothing ever touched Ranger.
“Don't worry about it,” I said. “I'm fine. I'm late. Gotta go.” And I took off, down the rest of the stairs and out the door to the garage.
I crossed town and stopped at Mike the Greek's deli for the hot dogs and beer. Five minutes later, I had the SUV locked up in Morelli's garage. I took his back porch steps two at a time, opened the back door, and Bob rushed past me and tinkled in the middle of Morelli's backyard.
The instant the last drop hit grass, Bob bolted off into the night. I rustled the hot dog bag, pulled out a hot dog, and waved it in Bob's direction. I heard Bob stop galloping two houses down, there was a moment of silence, and then Bob came thundering back. Bob can smell a hot dog a mile away.