Page 19 of Top Secret Twenty-One (Stephanie Plum 21)
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.
