I finished my pizza, wiped my hands on my jeans, and looked across the street. The pizza place took up the entire first floor of Buster’s building, with the exception of a door at the end. I assumed this door led to the apartment on the second floor. There were five second-floor windows looking out at the street. None had shades drawn. So far, I hadn’t seen any shadows pass in front of the windows.
“What’s the plan?” Briggs asked.
“We go to the door and ring the bell.”
“Suppose no one answers?”
“I call his phone.”
“What if he doesn’t answer his phone?”
“I write him a letter.”
I had the car keys in one pocket, pepper spray in another, and cuffs tucked into my jeans at the small of my back. Just in case.
“Let’s go,” I said to Briggs. “Let’s see if Buster wants to talk to us.”
We crossed the street, went to the door, and I was about to ring the bell when I heard someone inside thundering down the stairs. The door was yanked open, and a guy rushed out and slammed into me. He looked at me, then he looked down at Briggs and his face flushed.
“You son of a bitch,” Briggs yelled at him. “You blew up my apartment. What the fuck is the matter with you?”
“Jimmy Poletti?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Yeah,” he said. “What are you doing here with the runt?”
“Runt?” Briggs said, his voice an octave higher than normal, a vein popping out in his forehead.
I grabbed my cuffs and clapped one onto Poletti’s wrist. “I represent your bail bondsman.”
“Of all the crap luck,” Poletti said. Then he gave me a hard shove into Briggs. Briggs went flat on his back, I tumbled on top of him, and Poletti turned and ran. I scrambled to my feet and chased Poletti down Stark. He had a good lead, but I was faster. We ran to the end of the block and around the corner. He cut down an alley, and I was almost at arm’s length when he slipped into a building, slammed the door shut, and threw the bolt. It was, I realized, the rear entrance to the pizza place.
Briggs pulled up behind me.
“Stay here in case he tries to sneak back out,” I told him. “I’m going around to the front.”
“What if he shoots at me?”
“Yell for help.”
“I could be dead.”
“Deal with it,” I said, and I raced back to Stark.
Just as I rounded the corner, Poletti jumped into a car and roared away. The car wasn’t the Mustang. It was a small silver sedan. It all happened too fast for me to get the plate or the make of the car.
I took a moment to catch my breath, then I texted Briggs and told him to come around to the front. I rang the bell while I waited. No answer. I called the phone number I had for Buster, but no one picked up, and I couldn’t hear the phone ringing upstairs.
“Where is he?” Briggs asked when he reached me. “What happened?”
“He got away.”
“Now what?”
I looked at the door that led to the second-floor apartment. It was still open. “We go upstairs and look around,” I said.
“Is that legal?”
“Yes. I have reason to believe there’s a felon up there.”
“Who?”
“Poletti.”
Briggs’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”
“No. Not really. Not even maybe.”
We stepped inside and closed and locked the door behind us. I paused at the top of the stairs and announced myself. “Bond enforcement. Anyone home?”
Silence.
“This is a pretty nice apartment,” Briggs said, looking around. “He’s got a flat-screen television and a leather recliner. And he’s got a real kitchen.”
The refrigerator was stocked with food. Dirty dishes in the half-filled dishwasher. An iPhone charger on the kitchen counter. No iPhone. We moved into the bedroom and found a guy stretched out on the floor, staring up at the ceiling.
“Is this Buster?” I asked Briggs.
“No. It’s Bernie Scootch. He doesn’t look so good. Is he okay?”
Bernie was definitely not okay. He was lying in a pool of blood, and his chest had a bunch of bullet holes in it. For that matter, I wasn’t doing so great either. I was clammy with cold sweat and the horror of Bernie Scootch leaking his bodily fluids all over the carpet.
I bit into my lower lip. “I’m pretty sure he’s dead.”
“Oh jeez,” Briggs said. “That’s bad. That sucks.”
I dialed 911 and gave the dispatcher the address and the big picture. Five minutes later a uniform arrived, with Morelli following. I was on the sidewalk when they angle-parked at the curb.
“I was on my way home from my mom’s house when I heard the call come in,” Morelli said. “What’s the deal here?”
“There’s a dead guy upstairs. Randy identified him as Bernie Scootch. He’s been shot … a lot.”
Morelli went upstairs to take a look and returned after a couple minutes. “You’re right,” he said. “He’s been shot a lot. What were you doing in the apartment?”
“I was looking for Jimmy Poletti.”
“You had reason to believe he was there?”
“It’s sort of a gray area.”
Morelli looked like he needed a Rolaid. “You didn’t shoot Scootch, did you?”
“No!”
I gave Morelli the long version while more people showed up—the coroner, a crime photographer, a couple more uniforms, the crime lab techs, and Bryan Kreider.
Kreider is another plainclothes cop in the Crimes Against Persons unit. He nodded and smiled at me. “Hey, Steph, how’s it going?”
“It’s going good except for the dead guy upstairs.”
Kreider looked at Morelli. “Have you seen him?”
“Yeah. Multiple bullet wounds. Looks recent.”
Kreider trudged upstairs, and Morelli turned back to me.
“So this is Buster’s apartment,” he said, “but there’s no Buster.”
“Haven’t seen him,” I said. “I also haven’t seen the murder weapon. It wasn’t near the body, and Poletti didn’t have it on him.”
“You’re sure he wasn’t carrying?”
“He was wearing a shirt tucked into slacks and there was no gun. Plus he didn’t try to shoot Briggs.”
The line of Morelli’s mouth tightened a little. “Opportunities missed.”
The sun was low on the horizon, hidden by the urban landscape. Stark Street was in deep shade. Lights blinked on in Buster’s apartment. The customers were beginning to thin out at the pizza place. A few people were standing around, gawking at the police activity, but a murder on Stark doesn’t draw much of a crowd.
“I’ll pass the information on to Kreider,” Morelli said, “and then I’m heading home. I’ve got Bob in the car.”
“I’m heading home too,” I said, looking across the street at the Buick. “I’ve got Briggs in the car.”
Briggs was on the edge of his seat when I slid behind the wheel.
“Did you hear them?” he asked, eyes wide, hands braced on the dash.
“Who?”
“The dogs. The Chihuahua pack. I heard them yipping. Like tiny coyotes. And at the end of the block I saw a tiny shadow with glowing red eyes. It was eerie. It gave me goosebumps.”
“I didn’t hear them. Are you sure you didn’t imagine it?”
“I got it on my phone.”
Briggs passed me his phone, and I looked at a dark screen with two little red dots.
“This could be anything,” I said. “It’s just dots.”
“Those are the eyes of a wild demon Chihuahua,” Briggs said.