I went to the Yellow Pages, found the number for RGC, and dialed the number. Larry Lipinski answered the phone.
"Larry," I said, "this is Stephanie Plum, remember me?"
"Sure," Larry said, "but I'm a little busy right now."
"I read about Martha—"
"Yeah, Martha. What's on your mind?"
"My aunt's garbage. The thing is, Larry, the truck went right by her house just now and didn't pick up her garbage."
There was a big sigh. "That's because she didn't pay her bill. There's no record of payment."
"We went through all that yesterday. You said you'd take care of it."
"Look, lady, I tried, okay? But there's no record of payment, and frankly I'm thinking Martha was right, and you and your aunt are trying to gyp us."
"Listen, Larry!"
Larry disconnected.
"You dumb fuck!" I yelled at the phone.
Aunt Mabel looked shocked.
"Sorry," I said. "I got carried away."
I went down to the cellar, got the canceled RGC check off Fred's desk, and dropped it into my shoulder bag.
"I'll take care of this tomorrow," I said. "I'd do it today, but I don't have time."
Mabel was wringing her hands. "That garbage is going to smell if I leave it sitting out there in the sun," she said. "What will the neighbors think?"
I did some mental head-banging. "No problem. Don't worry about it."
She gave me a tremulous smile.
I said good-bye, marched to the curb, extracted Mabel's nicely tied up plastic garbage bag from her container, and stuffed it into the trunk of my car. Then I drove to RGC, pitched the bag onto the sidewalk in front of their office, and raced away.
Am I a take-charge woman or what?
I drove away thinking about Fred. Suppose Fred saw someone do that? Well, not exactly what I just did. Suppose he saw someone take a garbage bag out of the trunk of their car and put it on the curb, alongside someone else's garbage. And suppose for one reason or another he got to wondering what was in the garbage bag?
This made a reasonable picture to me. I could see this happening. What I didn't understand, if in fact any of this occurred the way I imagined, was why Fred didn't report it to the police. Maybe he knew the person dumping the bag. But then why would he take pictures?
Hold on, let's reverse it. Suppose someone saw Fred dump the bag. They went to investigate, found the body and took pictures for evidence, then tried to blackmail Fred. Who would do such a thing? Bunchy. And maybe Fred all of a sudden got spooked and left for points south.
What's wrong with this picture? I couldn't see Fred taking a chain saw to some woman. And you'd have to be pretty dumb to blackmail Fred, because Fred didn't have any money.
* * * * *
THE SKIRT TO my black suit hit two inches above my knee. The jacket sat high on my hipbone. My stretchy white jersey tucked into the skirt. I was wearing sheer, barely black pantyhose and black heels. My .38 was in my black leather shoulder bag. And for this special occasion, I'd taken the time to put some bullets in the stupid thing . . . just in case Ranger showed up and gave me a pop quiz.
Bunchy was in the parking lot, parked behind my Buick. "Going to a funeral?"
"I have a job chauffeuring a sheik from Newark. It's going to take me out of town for the rest of the afternoon, and I'm worried about Mabel. Since you like to sit around and do nothing, I thought you might sit around and do nothing across from Mabel's house." Give him something to do, I thought. Keep the guy busy.
"You want me to protect the people I'm squeezing?"
"Yeah."
"It doesn't work that way. And what the hell are you doing going off on a chauffeuring job? You're supposed to be looking for your uncle."
"I need money."
"You need to find Fred."
"Okay, this is the honest-to-God truth . . . I don't know how to find Fred. I run down leads and they don't go anywhere. Maybe it would help if you told me what you were really after."
"I'm after Fred."
"Why?"
"You better get going," Bunchy said. "You're gonna be late."
* * * * *
THE GARAGE AT Third and Marshall didn't have a name. It was probably listed under something in the phone book, but on the outside of the building there was nothing. Just a redbrick building with a paved parking lot, enclosed by chain-link fencing. There were three bays in the side of the building, opening out to the lot. The bay doors were open and men worked on cars in each of the bays. A white stretch limo and two black Town Cars were parked in the lot. I pulled the Buick into a slot next to one of the Town Cars, locked the Buick, and dropped the keys into my shoulder bag.
A guy who looked like Antonio Banderas on an off day sauntered over to me.
"Nice car," he said, eyeing the Buick. "Man, they don't make cars like this anymore." He ran a hand over the back fender. "Cherry. Real cherry."
"Uh-huh." The cherry car got four miles to a gallon and cornered like a refrigerator. Not to mention it was all wrong for my self-image. My self-image called for fast and sleek and black, not bulbous and powder blue. Red would be okay, too. And I needed a sunroof. And a good sound system. And leather seats . . .
"Earth to Babe," Banderas said.
I dragged myself back to the moment. "You know where I can find Eddie?"
"You're looking at him, Cookie. I'm Eddie."
I extended my hand. "Stephanie Plum. Ranger sent me."
"I got a car ready and waiting." He rounded the nearest Town Car, opened the driver's side door, and took a large white envelope from behind the visor. "Here's everything you need. The keys are in the ignition. The car's gassed up."
"I don't need a chauffeur's license to do this, do I?"
He stared at me blank-faced.
"Yeah, right," I said. Probably nothing to worry about anyway. It wasn't easy to get a permit to carry concealed in MercerCounty. And I wasn't one of the chosen. If I got stopped by a cop he'd be so overjoyed to be able to arrest me for illegally carrying concealed that he'd no doubt forget to charge me for the driving thing.
I took the envelope and slid behind the wheel. I adjusted the seat and leafed through the papers. Flight information, parking directions, some procedural instructions, name and brief description, and snapshot of Ahmed Fahed. No age was given, but he looked young in the photo.
I eased the Lincoln out of the lot and headed for Route 1. I picked up the turnpike in East Brunswick and glided along in my big, black, climate-controlled car, feeling very professional. Chauffeuring wasn't so bad, I thought. Today a sheik, tomorrow . . . who knows, maybe Tom Cruise. Definitely better than getting some computer nut out of his apartment. And if it wasn't for the fact that I couldn't stop thinking about that severed right hand and decapitated head, I'd really be enjoying myself.
I took the airport exit and found my way to Arrivals. My passenger was coming in from San Francisco, flying commercial. I parked in the area reserved for limos, crossed the road, entered the terminal, and checked the monitors for gate information.
A half hour later, Fahed strolled through the gate, wearing two-hundred-dollar sneakers and oversize jeans. His T-shirt advertised a microbrewery. His red plaid flannel shirt was wrinkled and unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbow. I'd expected sheik clothes with the head thing and robe. Fortunately for me, he was the only arrogant Arab departing first class, so it wasn't hard to pick him out.
"Ahmed Fahed?" I asked.
His eyebrows raised ever so slightly in acknowledgment.
"I'm your driver."
He looked me over. "Where's your gun?"
"In my shoulder bag."
"My father always orders a bodyguard for me. He's afraid someone will kidnap me."
Now it was my turn to raise an eyebrow.
He shrugged. "We're rich. Rich people get kidnapped."