Part 1 (1/2)

THE LAST PEEP.

Janet Evanovich.

A Stephanie Plum story.

FIRST APPEARANCE: One for the Money, 1994.

Janet Evanovich struck gold with her lady bounty hunter Stephanie Plum. Readers and critics alike hailed both appearances on the scene with open arms and enthusiasm. Having appeared in five novels to date, Stephanie-and her creator-show no sign of slowing down and continue to forge their own path in the mystery genre, rather than follow someone who came before. Such originality is welcome, and refres.h.i.+ng.

This story first appeared in the Mary Higgins Clark anthology The Plot Thickens.

”Oh-oh,” Lula said. ”There's something crawling on me. I think it's big and black and ugly. And it's not my boyfriend, you see what I'm saving?”

Lula is a former hooker turned bounty hunter in training. She looks like George Foreman with hair by s.h.i.+rley Temple, and she has the disposition of a '54 Buick. Lots of power under the hood, headlights the size of basketb.a.l.l.s, plus you can hear her coming a mile away.

I don't look at all like George Foreman. I'm more Wonder Woman with a B cup. I'm the bounty hunter who's training Lula, but the truth is, I'm not exactly the bounty hunter from h.e.l.l. A year ago, I blackmailed my bail bondsman cousin, Vinnie, into giving me this job, and now I'm going one day at a time, hoping the bad guys are all out of bullets.

”This is your fault,” Lula said. ”You're the one wanted to see what was in this dumb-a.s.s cellar. Let's go down those rickety stairs and have a look, you said. Let's see if Sammy the Squirrel is down there. And then slam the door got closed and locked, and you drop your dumb flashlight and can't find it, and here we are in dark so thick I can smell it. Here we are standing on a dirt floor with things crawling on us.”

”I told you to be careful of the door! I told you to make sure it stayed open!”

”Well, excuse me, Ms. Stephanie Plum,” Lula said. ”I was concentrating on not breaking my neck on the first step which happens to have a board missing.”

”We should feel around for a light switch,” I said. ”There must be a light switch here someplace.”

”I'm not feeling nothing. I'm not putting my hands to places I can't see.”

”Then give me your gun. Maybe I can blast the lock off the door.”

”I don't have no gun. I'm wearing spandex. I'm making a fas.h.i.+on statement here. I haven't got no room for gun bulges. I thought it was your turn to carry the gun.”

”I didn't think I'd need it. I wasn't planning on shooting anyone today.”

”Yow!” Lula said. ”There's something just dropped on me again, and it's moving. s.h.i.+t! There's another one. There's things all over me, I'm telling you. I bet they're spiders. I bet this place is filled with spiders.”

”Just brush them off,” I said. ”Spiders won't hurt you.”

I could be real brave as long as they weren't dropping on me.

”Ahhhh!” Lula yelled. ”I hate spiders. There's nothing I hate more than spiders. Let me out of this place. Where's the door? Where's the freaking door?”

The door was at the top of the stairs, but the door was locked. We'd already tried the door.

”Outta my way,” Lula said, somewhere in the blackness. ”I'm not staying down here with no spiders.”

Stomp, stomp, stomp. I could hear her on the stairs. And then cras.h.!.+ There was the sound of splintering wood and hinges popping. And a shaft of light cut through the dark.

I ran up the stairs and angled myself through the broken door.

Lula was spread-eagle on her back, on the floor, breathing heavy. ”I don't like spiders,” she said. ”I got any on me?”

”Don't see any.”

In all honesty, I wasn't looking too closely because my attention was diverted to a pile of rags on the other side of the room. We'd done a fast, room by room check of the house, but I hadn't looked under the soiled mattress or kicked around in the clutter. Some filthy blankets had been flung against the far wall, and from this angle I could see fingertips sticking out from under the blankets. I crossed the room in two strides, lifted the top blanket and found Sammy the Squirrel aka Sam Franco. He was dead. And he was naked.

The court wanted him for fleeing a charge of indecent exposure. I wanted him for the apprehension fee which was ten percent of his bond amount. Lula wanted him for her share of my share. And so far as I know that was the extent of Sam's being wanted. He was a societal dropout of the first magnitude.

”Uh-oh,” I said to Lula. ”Sam's turned up.”

Lula opened her eyes and rolled her head to the side. ”Yikes!” she shrieked, jumping to her feet.

The Squirrel had a hole in the middle of his forehead and a toe tag tied to his Mr. Happy. Someone had printed ”Get a life” on the toe tag.

”Looks like the Squirrel flashed the wrong person,” Lula said. ”Someone didn't like him wagging his wonkie around.”

Seemed like a high price to pay for wonkie wagging. ”He wasn't shot here,” I said. ”No blood and brains on the floor.”

”Yeah, and he's been dead awhile,” Lula said. ”He's pretty stiff.” She took a closer look. ”Most of him, anyway.”

We were in a broken-down, boarded-up bungalow on Ryker Street in Trenton, New Jersey. The house backed up to the Conrail track and was a block from the old Milped b.u.t.ton Factory. There were scrubby fields on either side of the house and beyond that more abandoned bungalows. Very isolated. Excellent place to dump a body.

Everyone knew Sam lived in the house, and everyone knew he wasn't dangerous. Lula and I hadn't expected complications.

Lula cut her eyes side to side. ”All of a sudden, this house is giving me the creeps. I don't like dead guys. I especially don't like them with their head ventilated like this.”

There was a rattle at the back door and Lula and I exchanged glances.

”Probably the wind,” I said.

”I'd go take a look, but one of us should call the police about the body. It's not that I'm afraid, or anything, it's just I got other things to do.”

Unlike Lula, I was perfectly willing to admit I was spooked. No way was I staying there all by myself, waiting to get fitted for one of those toe tags using some innovative attachment process. ”I'm sure there's no reason to be alarmed,” I said. ”But just in case, we'll both call the police.”

”No need to panic,” Lula said.

”Right. No need.”

Then we whirled around almost knocking each other over trying to get out the front door. We scuttled across the yard of hard-packed dirt and weeds, to my black CRX and took off, laying rubber.

I usually carry a cell phone, but today it was home, recharging on my kitchen counter, so we drove around, looking for a place to make a call. I used to have one of those gizmos that let my phone charge in my car, but someone stole it, and I hadn't had a chance to get a replacement. If it had been an emergency I'd have stopped and rapped on a stranger's door, but I didn't think five minutes here or there would matter to Squirrel. All the king's horses and all the king's men weren't going to put Squirrel back together again.

I turned onto State Street, drove two more blocks and found a 7-Eleven with a pay phone. I put the call into police dispatch, identified myself and reported the body. Then Lula and I retraced our route back to the bungalow.

A blue and white was already on the scene. Two uniforms stood beside the car. One was Carl Costanza. I've known Carl for twenty-five years, ever since kindergarten. When Carl was nine he could burp in time to the ”Star Spangled Banner.” This was an acccmplishment I unsuccessfully tried for years to emulate.

Carl gave me his long-suffering cop look. ”Let me guess,” Carl said. ”You were the one who made the call.”

”Yep.”