Dirty Thirty (Stephanie Plum, #30)



It was close to eleven o’clock when I cruised down the main street of Alberton. The main street was named Main Street, and from what I could see at night the town looked like a movie set. White church with steeple. Hardware store. Grocery store. Real estate office. Rosey’s Bakery. The Champion Bar and Grill. There were streetlights, but that was the only sign of life. No lights in any of the businesses. Mine was the only car on the road.

“This is it?” Lula said, looking out the window. “Is it charming? I can’t tell in the dark. And my powers of observation aren’t as good as usual because I’m weak due to my sugar level is all off on account of I never got a bacon cheeseburger.”

“We stopped for dinner, and you got the Thanksgiving in October Special. Turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, green beans, cranberry sauce, herb stuffing, pumpkin pie, and ice cream.”

“That was a long time ago,” Lula said. “I’m a big girl. I need to eat at regular intervals. I have an active metabolism.”

I drove past a small park with a kid playground. A gas station was across the street from the playground, and next to the gas station was the Haggerty Inn.

“This is it,” Lula said, reading from Connie’s notes. “The Haggerty Inn. A three-star accommodation that’s dog friendly and has free breakfast. From the picture it looks like it’s got three floors and it says it’s got two hundred fifty rooms. It doesn’t say anything about room service or a bar.”

I parked in the lot, and we got out of the car and stood for a moment letting our joints adjust.

“It’s frigging cold here,” Lula said. “It’s wintertime cold. My nipples are all shrunk up and frozen. We don’t have weather like this in Trenton. I didn’t bring clothes for this. I don’t even own clothes for this.”

I zipped up my sweatshirt, popped the hatch on the Explorer, and grabbed my duffel and Bob’s food. “I’ll race you to the front desk.”

Lula hauled her suitcase out of the SUV, and we hustled across the parking lot to the lobby.

“We have you in two of our nicest rooms on the second floor,” the desk clerk said.

“What about food?” Lula asked.

“Free breakfast starting at seven o’clock,” he said.

“Yeah, but what about now?” Lula asked.

“You’ll find a list of takeout places in your room. Most are closed at this hour, but Jake’s Bar is open until midnight, and they deliver.”

Twenty minutes later, we were in my room, waiting for pizza and beer to get delivered. I’d already called Morelli and told him I was safely locked away for the night. I didn’t bother calling Ranger. He was able to follow his cars, and he knew my exact location in real time. Plus, he probably had my messenger bag bugged and a GPS tracker sewn into the pocket of my sweatshirt.

“This is a pretty nice hotel,” Lula said. “I tested out the bed and the pillows, and the linens are nice too.”

“I’d like to get an early start tomorrow,” I said. “Breakfast at seven and then we’ll check out the brother’s house.”

“It’s okay with me. I’m an early riser. And I’m going to get a good night’s sleep in my nice hotel room without Grendel.”





CHAPTER FOURTEEN




Bob and I got to the breakfast room a couple minutes after seven. I helped myself to coffee, a box of Frosted Flakes, a blueberry Danish, and a banana. Lula shuffled in fifteen minutes later, did a tour of the buffet, and came to my table with coffee.

“I wasn’t ready for seven o’clock,” Lula said. “I was worn out from the ride. How can you get dead tired from sitting all day? I barely dragged myself out of bed. I’m too tired to eat.” She looked at my Danish. “Is that any good?”

“It’s average.”

“Average is okay. Average means good enough. And average is a lot better than lousy. I might need one.”

“What about being too tired to eat?”

“Yeah, but I should force myself to eat something to get my energy up. I need to get my yin and yang balanced out.”

Lula went to take a second look at the pastries and Ranger called.

“Checking in,” Ranger said. “How’s Alberton?”

“I haven’t seen much of it yet, but I suspect there isn’t much to see. Lula is laying waste to the free breakfast bar right now. When we’re done with breakfast we’ll head out to the brother’s house.”

“The brother is William Dugan. Forty years old. Manages an auto parts store. Two kids with wife number one. They’re with the first wife. Wife number two is Adele. She’s a dental assistant. They’ve been married for three years. No kids. Two dogs. They belong to the Methodist church and they’re on the Alberton Knights softball team. It looks like the Alberton Knights haven’t won a game in the last seven years. Adele and William have matching Honda Civics. Gray. They have a mortgage, the cars are leased, they pay their bills on time, no arrest records.”

“Thanks. They sound like good people.”

“There’s a cousin on death row in South Carolina for killing and beheading twelve people, but he’s twice removed.”

“Every family has one of those,” I said.

“Babe,” Ranger said. And he disconnected.

Lula returned with a bunch of pastries, a sausage and egg sandwich in a paper wrapper that was soaked in grease, a bagel, and more coffee.

“I got the bagel for Bob,” Lula said.

Bob’s ears perked up at the mention of his name and his eyes got bright. Lula handed him the bagel and he gulped it down.

By eight o’clock we were on the road. William Dugan lived in a tidy neighborhood a couple miles out of town. The houses were modest and a mixture of ranches and small two-stories. Yards were large enough for swing sets and an occasional aboveground pool. The Dugan house was a Cape Cod with a red door and a gray Honda Civic in the driveway.

I parked in front of the house and explained to Bob that he was going to have to stay in the car, and he needed to be good because the car belonged to Ranger.

“You think he got all that?” Lula asked. “It’s not like you were talking dog to him. There’s a good chance he don’t know what you said past Bob.”

“Maybe you should stay with him,” I said.

“Hell no. I’m not gonna miss this. From what Ranger told you, these people are softballers. They got matchy-matchy cars. I mean, this is good stuff. This is like walking into a fifties sitcom. This is Leave It to Beaver shit. And on top of that I can’t wait to see Nutsy. It’s not every day you get to see someone called Nutsy. And I got a lot of clown questions.”

“Okay,” I said, “but let me do the talking. I don’t want to freak anyone out as soon as we walk in the door.”

“When did I ever freak anyone out?” Lula said. “I’m a perfect example of decorum. I got a innate sense of saying the right thing. Are we going in guns blazing?”

“No guns. No pepper spray. No stun guns. No punching people out. Are you sure you don’t want to stay with Bob?”