Dirty Thirty (Stephanie Plum, #30)(38)

I drove past Duncan Dugan’s house. There was no activity on the street. A few cars parked at the curb but none in front of number 72 Faucet. I drove down the alley and stopped when I came to Dugan’s backyard. The Kia Rio was missing. I idled there for a while before moving on.

“Your luck is holding,” Lula said. “You got no luck at all.”

“It’s a process,” I said. “If you stick with it long enough, you get lucky.”

“That’s a load of baloney,” Lula said. “If something good happens to you right off the bat, it’s that you got lucky. If something good happens to you after you put in days of not being lucky, it’s hard work rewarded. And then there’s times when you gotta wait for all your stars to get in alignment.”

“That’s today,” I said. “My stars are in alignment.”

“How do you know?” Lula asked. “Did you get your chart done?”

“No. I just know. Like I said before, all the traffic lights were green this morning.”

“I gotta admit, that’s a sign.”

I cruised two more blocks and turned down an alley that had single-car garages that belonged to the houses. Two houses in I saw a green tarp covering something that might have been a bike parked next to the garage. I sucked in some air and my heart skipped a couple beats.

I pulled to the side of the alley one house down and Lula and I walked back to the garage with the tarp. I lifted the tarp and looked at the Yamaha 400. More heart irregularities.

“Good golly, Miss Molly,” Lula said.

“I want to see what’s in the garage,” I said to Lula. “There are windows in the doors but they’re too high for me to see in them. Can you give me a boost?”

“A boost? How am I supposed to do that? It’s not like I’m Ranger.”

“I’m an expert,” I said. “Just squat down a little so I can get my foot on your leg and then I’ll get on your shoulders.”

“I guess I could do that,” Lula said. “It’s like we’re cheerleaders.”

“Exactly!”

We got in front of the garage doors, Lula squatted a little, and I got my foot on her leg and climbed onto her shoulders.

“Whoa, missy,” Lula said. “How much do you weigh? I feel like all my spine is getting fused together and shrunk. How do those cheerleaders do this?”

“Move over a little so I can see in the window.”

Lula inched over. “What do you see?”

“Duncan’s Kia Rio.”

I climbed off Lula and peeked around the side of the garage. No one was standing there with a shotgun. Yay.

“How’s this going down?” Lula said. “You got your stun gun? Pepper spray? Cuffs? I know you don’t got a gun.”

“I don’t think I’ll need any of that. I’m going to knock on the door and talk to Nutsy.”

“Last time you said you were just gonna talk to someone you got punched in the face.”

“This is different. Nutsy and I were friends. He felt me up. That has to be worth something.”

“I didn’t know he felt you up,” Lula said. “That might make a difference if it was a good feel.”

“I was fourteen. It didn’t amount to much.”

“In that case, maybe you should take your stun gun.”

I looked back at Bob. He had his nose pressed to the window.

“Stay with Bob,” I said to Lula. “I don’t want him eating Ranger’s car.”

“His problem is that he gets separation anxiety,” Lula said. “He’s an insecure dog. And on top of that he gets bored and then he gets even more anxiety. That television show I told Plover about was about all this. It was about a beagle that was in therapy because his owners got a divorce. He was eating everything too, and he got fat and diabetes.”

“Did the therapy help him?”

“They didn’t say. The next part of the show was about a cat with eczema.”

“I won’t be long. I’ll call if I need help.”

Lula walked to the Explorer, and I went to the back door and knocked. A woman answered. She had the right hair color and cut. She was medium height and medium build, wearing a T-shirt and jeans and sneakers. I was guessing she was my age. Pleasant looking, but a little worried.

“Sissy?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Do I know you?”

“I’m friends with Nutsy.”

“There’s nobody here named Nutsy.”

“Andrew Manley,” I said.

“No. Sorry. You have the wrong house.”

“I know he’s here. His bike is outside. I need to talk to him.”

“Honestly, he really isn’t here.”

“How about Duncan Dugan? Is he here?”

“No,” she said.

I showed her my credentials. “As a representative of Duncan’s bail bonds agent, I’m legally authorized to search your house.”

“Okay,” she said. “But they aren’t here.”

“Do you know where they are?”

“Not exactly.”

“When will they be back?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “They might not be coming back.”