Top Secret Twenty-One (14 page)

I pulled the Buick into the funeral line at the church and had a funeral flag attached to my car. Lula slid in line behind me in her red Firebird. We all got out of our cars and gathered on the sidewalk. Lula was wearing five-inch heels and a stretchy black skirt and wrap top. Her hair had been toned down for the occasion from hot pink to magenta.

“So what’s the plan?” Lula wanted to know. “We gonna hang the little guy out and hope someone takes a potshot at him?”

“That’s plan B,” I said. “We’ll do that tomorrow if plan A doesn’t work today.”

“And plan A would be what?” Briggs asked.

“We go to the church service and the funeral and hope we see Jimmy Poletti lurking somewhere,” I said. “We’ll spread out and keep in touch by phone.”

“I’m ready to take him down,” Grandma said. “I’ve got the big boy with me.”

“Keep the big boy in your purse, please,” I said, “and call me if you see Jimmy. I’m going to hang outside. I want you and Lula to go inside with Briggs. Don’t let anyone snatch him.”

I crossed the street to get a better view of the church and
its surroundings. I’d fibbed a little about not hanging Briggs out for a potshot. Of course I was hanging him out. Everyone knew it, including Briggs, but I didn’t think he wanted to hear me admit it.

My phone buzzed, and I looked down at the text message:

Babe
.

Ranger was in place … somewhere.

Five minutes later, Grandma texted me. She, Lula, and Briggs were seated in the last row and could see the whole church, and so far they hadn’t spotted Jimmy, but the Poletti boy was there with his hands bandaged.

Organ music drifted out to me. The big carved oak doors closed, and there was silence.

Another text from Ranger.
Two plainclothes cops inside, and one outside standing half a block from you
.

I looked down the block and waved at the guy on the corner. He grinned but didn’t wave back. I looked around for Ranger, but couldn’t find him. No surprise there.

I watched the passing cars and the side doors of the church. I didn’t see any unusual activity. After a while the big double doors at the front of the church opened, and people began trickling out.

I got a text from Lula.
We’re staying with the dead lady. So far no one’s wanted short stuff, but he’s gotten a bunch of dirty looks from a lot of people. He don’t seem to be real popular
.

I waited across the street until Mrs. Poletti was eased into the hearse. The cop at the corner was still in place. Grandma and Lula were on the sidewalk by the hearse with Briggs
squashed between them. No Ranger in sight. Grandma and Briggs went with Lula, I got behind the wheel of the Buick, and we all played follow the leader to the cemetery.

I parked on the road that led to the gravesite, got out of the car, and immediately got a text from Ranger.

Looking good
.

I didn’t know if he meant me in my little black suit, or if he meant that Jimmy Poletti was here. Either way, it was a good message. I followed the people who were walking to where a tent gave shelter to a few chairs. The cemetery was old and held generations of families. Grave markers varied from simple flat stones on the ground to elaborate granite statues of angels. The terrain was for the most part open grass fields, but there were also mature trees scattered over acres of graves.

The Poletti grave was on the side of a gently sloping hill. There were approximately fifty people at graveside. A few mourners were sitting on folding chairs, but most were standing. Lula, Grandma, and Briggs were at the outer edge of the crowd. I was a short distance away, with my back to the gravesite, watching the road.

I felt a change in my force field, caught a hint of Bulgari Green shower gel, and knew Ranger was near.

“You’re looking in the wrong direction,” he said, close behind me. “He’s standing off to the side, by the maple tree.”

I turned and picked out Jimmy Poletti, partly hidden by the tree, dressed in a dark suit, looking solemn.

“I feel bad that we’re taking him down at his mother’s funeral,” I said.

“Babe, he shot a firebomb into your apartment.”

“We don’t know for sure that it was him.”

“Do you want to let him walk?”

“No, but it would be nice if we could wait until the ceremony is over to grab him.”

“I’m willing to wait, but I can’t speak for the undercover guys.”

“Do you think they see him?”

“Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time, because he’s creeping closer.”

“How did he get here?”

“He has a car parked on the other side of the hill.”

“And he’s alone?”

“He was the only one in the car.”

“How is it that you know all these things and I don’t?” I asked.

“I know where to look.”

I couldn’t hear the priest from where I was standing, but I could see that he was going through the ritual. Briggs looked bored, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He couldn’t see much in front of him. He was looking around, up at the sky, back at me, over to the maple tree. I saw him stiffen, and I knew he’d spotted Jimmy Poletti.

“Briggs!” I said to Ranger. “He sees Jimmy.”

Ranger moved forward, but not in time to stop Briggs.

“It’s
him
!” Briggs yelled, pointing to Poletti. “You son of a bitch!”

The priest froze midblessing, mouth open, eyes wide. Every
head swiveled to the maple tree. Poletti went deer in the headlights.

“I got a gun,” Lula said, shoving her hand into her purse. “Just everyone hold up until I get my gun.”

The plainclothes guys were on the move, and fifty geriatric mourners scrambled to get away from the action, pushing and shoving, heading for their cars.

Poletti turned to go up the hill, saw a cop running down the hill toward him, and changed direction, running straight for the grave. A shot was fired and everyone hit the deck, except Lula, Grandma, and Briggs, who were holding their ground.

Lula had a two-handed grip on her Glock and was trying to get a sight on Poletti. Briggs was enraged, his face bright red, his eyes crazy.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Briggs yelled at Poletti. “You blew up my apartment, you moron!”

“You fucked my wife!” Poletti yelled back, running full-tilt at Briggs. “I hate you.”

“Everybody fucks your wife,” Briggs shouted. “I don’t see you blowing up
everybody’s
apartment. It’s because I’m short, isn’t it?”

Lula fired off a shot that went wide, and Poletti charged Briggs. Grandma swung her purse just as Poletti swept past her. The big black patent leather bag caught Poletti on the side of the head, and Poletti staggered and crashed to the ground. Ranger cuffed him, and the three cops took over.

Lula and Grandma did a complicated high five.

“I did it,” Grandma said. “I just ticked off one of the things
on my bucket list. I just took down a bad guy. I got to put on some fresh lipstick. I’m going to be the talk of the wake.”

“I could have taken him,” Briggs said. “I would have ripped him to shreds.”

“Yeah, you could have bitten him in the knee,” Lula said.

“Don’t underestimate a bite in the knee,” Briggs said. “It could cripple someone.”

RANGER AND I
followed Poletti and the police down the hill to the cars and on to the police station. I waited while Poletti was booked in, I got my body receipt, and I returned to the parking lot, where Ranger was waiting. He was dressed in black slacks, a form-fitting black T-shirt, and a black blazer.

“You’re not in Rangeman fatigues,” I said. “Are you a businessman today, or is this just funeral attire?”

“I need to go to New York, and I thought the security guard look would be limiting. It would be helpful if you could come with me.”

“I assume you’re looking for Vlatko.”

“Right now the hotel is my only lead.”

I drove to the office and handed the body receipt to Connie.

“I’m going on a field trip with Ranger,” I told her. “Poletti is off the streets. So Briggs can manage on his own now.”

I don’t get to New York as often as I’d like. Mostly because I have no time and no money. So even though this was business, I was excited about the trip. And let’s be honest, I was excited about going to New York with Ranger. Plus I know this is shallow, but I was in his megabucks Porsche, feeling like I was in a James Bond movie.

Ranger took the Turnpike to the Lincoln Tunnel and parked in a lot on the Upper West Side of Manhattan not far from the Gatewell Hotel. It was midday, and the streets were crammed and the sidewalks weren’t much better. The Gatewell was in the middle of the block, two blocks off Broadway. The doorman was dressed to look like Chairman Mao. The lobby was small but elegant. Lots of shiny black and white and silver with touches of red.

Ranger showed the manager his identification and his right-to-recover papers for Emilio Gardi.

“We have reason to believe he stayed in this hotel,” Ranger said.

“The FBI have already asked about him,” the manager said. “They were here yesterday.”

“This is a different issue,” Ranger said. “I represent his family and his bondsman.”

“I don’t have much information on him. He stayed here for one night last week. His room was prepaid in cash. There were no additional charges. No credit card on file.”

“Do you have the name or phone number of the person who made the reservation?” Ranger asked.

“There’s nothing on record, but one of the young men on
the front desk remembered the transaction. The man making the reservation did it in person two days in advance and prepaid in full. He stood out because he had a slight British accent and an odd tattoo on his neck. A skull and a flower.”

The hotel had a lounge off the lobby. We sat at a high-top table and ordered sandwiches from the bar menu.

“Is Vlatko British?” I asked Ranger.

“He’s Russian, but he speaks fluent English that’s more British than American.”

“Do you speak Russian?”

“I understand some Russian, but I speak very little.”

“There has to be a reason why he chose this hotel.”

“There’s a large Russian community here on the West Side,” Ranger said. “I’m guessing he has ties to something nearby. A relative. A friend. A job. A woman.”

We finished our lunch, and Ranger returned to the manager.

“Do you have many Russians staying here?” he asked.

“A fair amount,” the manager said. “There’s a satellite arm of the consulate one block south on Seventy-fifth Street. They host trade shows and small VIP parties, and they sometimes recommend us to visitors.”

I followed Ranger out of the hotel and we walked one block to Seventy-fifth. We looked up and down the street but saw no Russian flags displayed. We walked east and studied the buildings we passed. We found the consulate on the second block. It was identified by a gold plaque fixed to the building. Writing was in Russian and English. The door was locked. There was a call box beside the gold plaque.

We crossed the street to get a better look. Five stories. Black wrought iron filigree on the lower-level windows. The windows on the upper floors were tinted and most likely impact glass. Security cameras scanned the street from the roof.

Ranger called Tank, gave him the consulate’s address, and told him to research the week’s events. Minutes later, Tank texted Ranger the consulate’s schedule.

“There’s a trade show going on this week for Russian vodka,” Ranger said. “This consulate will be hosting a meet-and-greet party at five o’clock. That would be a good time for us to slip in.”

We had some time to kill, so we went back to our high-top table at the Gatewell Hotel. We ordered drinks and received our complimentary bowl of bar nuts. We didn’t touch any of this. We watched the room. There were four men at the bar. Two of them looked like cartoon versions of Russian vodka salesmen. Large red noses, too much flesh, laughing too loud, drinking vodka. And they were speaking Russian.

“You need to introduce yourself to those men,” Ranger said. “It would help break the ice if you gave them more to look at. Something that would compensate for the fact that you don’t speak Russian.”

“What if they don’t speak English?”

“They probably speak enough to get by.”

I went to the ladies’ room and looked at myself in the mirror. I was wearing a black business suit with a silky white shirt under it. My hair was pulled into a ponytail, and I was wearing heels. It was appropriately sexy for a funeral, but not so much for Russian vodka salesmen.

I opened enough buttons on the shirt that I was showing some cleavage. I wasn’t sure if it was enough cleavage to compensate for my lack of Russian, so I stuffed some toilet paper into my bra. The cleavage got better, but I still wasn’t anywhere near Lula cleavage. I walked around a little to make sure the toilet paper didn’t rustle or shift in place, and then I shoved in some more. I was now bulging out of my bra, straining the fabric on my silky shirt, and there was no way I could button my jacket.

I jumped up and down to make sure I wouldn’t unexpectedly have a wardrobe malfunction. I jiggled a little, and my nipples didn’t pop out of my bra, so I figured I was good to go. I gunked up my eyes with a lot more mascara, added some eyeliner, and applied a fresh coat of blood red lipstick. I looked at myself in the full-length ladies’ room mirror and worried that I still might not be compensating enough for my lack of language skills, so I pulled the scrunchie off my ponytail.
Whoosh
, my hair instantly expanded. I worked at it with water and hairspray until the natural curls were back. I now had a
lot
of hair, and a
lot
of it was frizz. This is why I usually wear a ponytail. Still, I thought it might be sexy, if you like the big frizzy-hair look. I mean, you see it in
Vogue
all the time, right?

I went back to the full-length mirror and took another look.
Yikes!
Good thing my mother wasn’t here or I’d be grounded. I might have overdone the toilet-paper thing.

Ranger called my cellphone. “Babe,” he said, “you’ve been in there a long time. Is everything okay?”