One for the Money (12 page)

“How do you know about high school?”

“Everybody knows about high school.”

“Jesus.” I swallowed the last piece of my last donut and washed it down with coffee.

Eddie sighed as he watched all hope for a part of the donut disappear into my mouth. “Your cousin, the queen of nags, has me on a diet,” he said. “For breakfast I got decaf coffee, half a cup of cardboard cereal in skim milk, and a half grapefruit.”

“I take it that's not cop food.”

“Suppose I got shot,” Eddie said, “and all I had in me was decaf and half a grapefruit. You think that'd get me to the trauma unit?”

“Not like real coffee and donuts.”

“Damn straight.”

“That overhang on your gun belt is probably good for stopping bullets, too.”

Eddie drained his coffee cup, snapped the lid back on, and dumped it into the empty bag. “You wouldn't've said that if you weren't still pissed at the boinking stuff.”

I agreed. “It was cruel.”

He took a napkin and expertly flicked powdered sugar off his blue shirt. One of the many skills he'd learned at the academy, I thought. He sat back, arms folded across his chest. He was 5' 10" and stocky. His features were eastern Slavic with flat pale blue eyes, white blond hair, and a stubby nose. When we were kids he lived two houses down from me. His parents still live there. All his life he'd wanted to be a cop. Now that he was a uniform he had no desire to go further. He enjoyed driving the car, responding to emergencies, being first on the scene. He was good at comforting people. Everyone liked him, with the possible exception of his wife.

“I've got some information for you,” Eddie said. “I went to Pino's last night for a beer, and Gus Dembrowski was there. Gus is the PC working the Kulesza case.”

“PC?”

“Plainclothesman.”

This brought me up straight in my seat. “Did he tell you anything more about Morelli?”

“He confirmed that Sanchez was an informant. Dembrowski let it slip that Morelli had a card on her. Informants are kept secret. The controlling supervisor keeps all the cards in a locked file. I guess in this case it was released as necessary information to the investigation.”

“So maybe this is more complicated than it would first appear. Maybe the killing tied in to something Morelli had been working on.”

“Could be. Could also be that Morelli had romantic interests in Sanchez. I understand she was young and pretty. Very Latino.”

“And she's still missing.”

“Yeah. She's still missing. The department's traced back to relatives in Staten Island and nobody's seen her.”

“I talked to her neighbors yesterday, and it turns out one of the tenants who remembered seeing Morelli's alleged witness has suffered sudden death.”

“What kind of sudden death?”

“Hit and run in front of the building.”

“Could have been an accident.”

“I'd like to think so.”

He glanced at his watch and stood. “I gotta go.”

“One last thing, do you know Mooch Morelli?”

“I see him around.”

“You know what he does or where he lives?”

“Works for public health. Some kind of inspector. Lives in Hamilton Township somewhere. Connie'll have cross-street reference books at the office. If he has a phone, you'll be able to get a street address.”

“Thanks. And thanks for the donuts and coffee.”

He paused in the hallway. “You need money?”

I shook my head. “I'm doing okay.”

He gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and he left.

I closed the door after him and felt tears pool behind my eyes. Sometimes friendship chokes me up. I padded back to the dining room, gathered together the bags and napkins, and carted them off to the kitchen wastebasket. This was the first opportunity I'd had to actually take stock of my apartment. Morelli'd obviously gone through it in a snit, venting his frustration by making the worst possible mess. Kitchen cupboards were open, contents partially strewn on the counter and floor, books had been knocked from the bookcase, the cushion had been removed from my one remaining chair, the bedroom was cluttered with clothes pulled from drawers. I replaced the cushion and put the kitchen in order, deciding the rest of the apartment could wait.

I showered and dressed in black spandex shorts and an oversized khaki T-shirt. My bounty hunter paraphernalia was still scattered over the bathroom floor. I stuffed it back into my black leather bag and slung the bag over my shoulder. I checked all the windows to make sure they were locked. This would become a morning and evening ritual. I hated living like a caged animal, but I didn't want any more surprise visitors. Locking my front door seemed more a matter of formality than security. Ranger had picked the lock with little difficulty. Of course, not everyone had Ranger's skills. Still, it wouldn't hurt to add another dead bolt to my collection of locking devices. First chance I got I'd talk to the super.

I said good-by to Rex, dredged up some courage, and poked my head into the hall before venturing farther, making certain Ramirez hadn't suddenly appeared.

Stephanie Plum 1 - One for the Money

7 

THE DISTRIBUTOR CAP WAS JUST WHERE I'D LEFT IT, under a bush, tucked in close to the building. I put it back where it belonged and pulled out of the lot, heading for Hamilton. I found a spot in front of Vinnie's office and managed to wedge the Cherokee into it on the third try.

Connie was at her desk, peering into a hand mirror, picking clumps of dried goo off the tips of heavily mascaraed lashes.

She looked up when she saw me. “You ever use this lash lengthener stuff?” she asked. “Looks like it's laced with rat hairs.”

I waved the police receipt at her. “I got Clarence.”

She made a fist and jerked her elbow back hard. “Yes!”

“Vinnie here?”

“Had to go to the dentist. Having his incisors sharpened, I think.” She pulled her master copy of the file and took my receipt. “We don't need Vinnie to do this. I can write you a check.” She made a notation on the file cover, and placed the file in a bin on the far corner of her desk. She took a ledger-style checkbook from her middle drawer and wrote out a check. “How's it going with Morelli? You able to get a fix on him?”

“Not exactly a fix, but I know he's still in town.”

“He's a serious babe,” Connie said. “Saw him six months ago, before all this happened. He was ordering a quarter pound of provolone at the meat market, and I had all I could do to keep from sinking my teeth into his butt.”

“Sounds carnivorous.”

“Carnivorous ain't the half of it. That man is fine.”

“He's also accused of murder.”

Connie sighed. “Gonna be a lot of women in Trenton unhappy to see Morelli on ice.”

I supposed that was true, but I didn't happen to be one of them. After last night, the thought of Morelli behind bars conjured only cozy feelings in my humiliated, vindictive heart. “You have a cross-street reference here?”

Connie swiveled to face the file cabinets. “It's the big book over the G drawer.”

“You know anything about Mooch Morelli?” I asked while I looked up his name.

“Only that he married Shirley Gallo.”

The only Morelli in Hamilton Township was listed at 617 Bergen Court. I checked it against the wall map behind Connie's desk. If I remembered the area correctly, it was a neighborhood of split-level houses that looked like they deserved my bathroom.

“You seen Shirley lately?” Connie asked. “She's big as a horse. Must have gained a hundred pounds since high school. I saw her at Margie Manusco's shower. She took up three folding chairs when she sat down, and she had her pocketbook filled with Ding Dongs. I guess they were for an emergency . . . like in case someone beat her to the potato salad.”

“Shirley Gallo? Fat? She was a rail in high school.”

“The Lord moves in mysterious ways,” Connie said.

“Amen.”

Burg Catholicism was a convenient religion. When the mind boggled, there was always God, waiting in the wings to take the rap.

Connie handed me the check and plucked at a clump of mascara hanging at the end of her left eyelash. “I'm telling you, it's fucking hard to be classy,” she said.

*    *    *    *    *

THE GARAGE RANGER RECOMMENDED was in a small light-industrial complex that had its backside rammed up against Route 1. The complex consisted of six concrete bunker-type buildings painted yellow, the color faded by time and highway exhaust. At the inception of the project, the complex architect had most likely envisioned grass and shrubs. The reality was hardpacked dirt littered with butts and Styrofoam cups and some spiky weeds. Each of the six buildings had its own paved drive and parking lot.

I slowly drove past Capital Printing and A. and J. Extrusions and stopped at the entrance to Al's Auto Body. Three bay doors had been set into the front of the building, but only one gaped open. Bashed-in, rusted cars in various stages of disassembly were crammed into the junkyard at the rear, and late-model fender-bended cars were parked adjacent to the third bay, in a chain-link fenced compound topped with razor wire.

I rolled into the lot and parked next to a black Toyota four-by-four that had been jacked up on wheels that were sized for a backhoe. I'd stopped at the bank on the way and deposited my recovery check. I knew exactly how much money I was willing to spend on an alarm system, and I wasn't willing to pay a penny more. Most likely the job couldn't be done for my price, but it wouldn't hurt to inquire.

I opened the car door and stepped outside into oppressive heat, breathing shallowly so I didn't suck in any more heavy metals than was necessary. The sun looked squalid this close to the highway, the pollution diluting the light, compressing the image. The sound of an air wrench carried out of the open bay.

I crossed the lot and squinted into the dim hellhole of grease guns and oil filters and potentially rude men wearing Day-Glo orange jumpsuits. One of the men ambled over to me. He was wearing the cut off and knotted thigh portion of a pair of queen-size pantyhose on his head. Undoubtedly it was a time-saver in case he wanted to rob a 7-Eleven on the way home. I told him I was looking for Al, and he told me I'd found him.

“I need an alarm system installed in my car. Ranger said you'd give me a good price.”

“How you come to know Ranger.”

“We work together.”

“That covers a lot of territory.”

I wasn't sure what he meant by that, and probably I didn't want to know. “I'm a recovery agent.”

“So you need an alarm system because you gonna be in bad neighborhoods?”

“Actually, I sort of stole a car, and I'm afraid the owner will try to get it back.”

Laughter flickered behind his eyes. “Even better.”

He walked to a bench at the back of the building and returned with a black plastic gadget about three inches square. “This is state-of-the-art security,” he said. “Works on air pressure. Anytime there's a change in air pressure, from a window getting broken or a door opening, this mother'll like to bust your eardrum.” He turned it face up in his hand. “You push this button to set it. Then there's a twenty-second delay before it goes into effect. Gives you time to get out and close the door. There's another twenty-second delay after the door is opened, so you can punch in your code to disarm.”

“How do I shut it off once the alarm is triggered?”

“A key.” He dropped a small silver key in my hand. “I suggest you don't leave the key in the car. Defeats the purpose.”

“It's smaller than I'd expected.”

“Small but mighty. And the good news is it's cheap because it's easy to install. All you do is screw it onto your dash.”

“How cheap?”

“Sixty dollars.”

“Sold.”

He pulled a screwdriver out of his back pocket. “Just show me where you want it.”

“The red Jeep Cherokee, next to the monster truck. I'd like you to put the alarm some place inconspicuous. I don't want to deface the dash.”

Minutes later I was on my way to Stark Street, feeling pretty pleased with myself. I had an alarm that was not only reasonably priced, but easily removed should I want to install it in the car I intended to buy when I cashed Morelli in. I'd stopped at a 7-Eleven on the way and gotten myself a vanilla yogurt and a carton of orange juice for lunch. I was drinking and driving and slurping, and I was very comfortable in my air-conditioned splendor. I had an alarm, I had nerve gas, I had a yogurt. What more could anyone want?

I parked directly across from the gym, guzzled the remaining orange juice, set the alarm, took my shoulder bag and file photos of Morelli, and locked up. I was waving the red flag at the bull. The only way I could possibly be more obvious was to plaster a sign to the windshield saying, “Here it is! Try and get it!”

Street activity was sluggish in the afternoon heat. Two hookers stood at the corner, looking like they were waiting for a bus, except buses didn't run down Stark Street. The women were standing there, obviously bored and disgusted, I suppose because nobody was buying at this time of day. They wore cheap plastic flip-flops, stretchy tank tops, and tight-fitting knit shorts. Their hair had been chopped short and cleverly straightened to boar-bristle quality. I wasn't sure exactly how prostitutes determined price, but if men bought hookers by the pound, these two would be doing okay.

They went into combat mode as I approached: Hands on hips, lower lips protruding, eyes opened so wide they bulged out like duck eggs.

“Hey girl,” one of the lovelies called out. “What you think you doing here? This here's our corner, you dig?”

It would appear there was a fine line between being a babe from the burg and looking like a hooker.

“I'm looking for a friend. Joe Morelli.” I showed them his picture. “Either of you see him around?”

“What you want with this Morelli?”

“It's personal.”

“I bet.”

“You know him?”

She shifted her weight. No small task. “Maybe.”

“Actually, we were more than friends.”

“How much more?”

“The son of a bitch got me pregnant.”

“You don't look pregnant.”

“Give me a month.”

“There's things you can do.”

“Yeah,” I said, “and number one is find Morelli. You know where he is?”

“Nuh uh.”

“You know someone named Carmen Sanchez? She worked at the Step In.”

“She get you pregnant too?”

“Thought Morelli might be with her.”

“Carmen's disappeared,” one of the hookers said. “Happens to women on Stark Street. Environmental hazard.”

“You want to elaborate on that?”

“She want to keep her mouth shut, is what she want to do,” the other woman said. “We don't know about any of that shit. And we don't got time to stand here talking to you. We got work to do.”

I looked up and down the street. Couldn't see any work in sight, so I assumed I was getting the old heave-ho. I asked their names and was told Lula and Jackie. I gave each of them my card and told them I'd appreciate a call if they saw Morelli or Sanchez. I'd have asked about the missing male witness, but what would I say? Excuse me, have you seen a man with a face like a frying pan?

I went door-to-door after that, talking to people sitting out on stoops, questioning storekeepers. By four I had a sunburned nose to show for my efforts and not much more. I'd started on the north side of Stark Street and had worked two blocks west. Then I'd crossed the street and inched my way back. I'd slunk past the garage and the gym. I also bypassed the bars. They might be my best source, but they felt dangerous to me and beyond my abilities. Probably I was being unnecessarily cautious, probably the bars were filled with perfectly nice people who could give a rat's ass about my existence. Truth is, I wasn't used to being a minority, and I felt like a black man looking up white women's skirts in a WASP suburb of Birmingham.

I covered the south side of the next two and a half blocks and recrossed to the north side. Most of the buildings on this side were residential, and as the day progressed more and more people had drifted outdoors, so that the going was slow now as I moved down the street back to my car.