Two for the Dough

  I opened the drawers and poked through paper clips, rubber bands, and other assorted stationery flotsam. There were no messages on his answering machine. Nothing under his bed.

  I found it hard to believe there were no guns in the apartment. Spiro seemed like the kind of person to take trophies.

  I pawed through his clothes in the dresser and turned to his closet. The closet was filled with undertaker suits and shirts and shoes. Six pairs of black shoes lined up on the floor, and six shoe boxes. Hmmm. I opened a shoe box. Bingo. A gun. A Colt .45. I opened the other five boxes and ended up with a tally of three handguns and three shoe boxes filled with ammo. I copied the serial numbers off the guns and took down the information on the boxes of ammo.

  I pulled the bedroom window aside and peeked out at Lula. She was sitting on the stoop, filing her nails. I rapped on the windowpane, and the file flew from her fingers. Guess she wasn't as calm as she looked. I motioned to her that I was leaving and would meet her out back.

  I made sure everything was as I'd found it, shut off all lights, and exited through the patio door. It would be obvious to Spiro that someone had broken into his apartment, but chances were good he'd blame it on Kenny.

  “Give me the shit,” Lula said. “You found something, didn't you?”

  “I found a couple guns.”

  “That don't float my boat. Everybody got guns.”

  “Do you have a gun?”

  “Yo, momma. Damn right I got a gun.” She pulled a big black gun out of her pocketbook. “Blue steel,” she said. “Got it off Harry the Horse back when I was a ho. You want to know why we call him Harry the Horse?”

  “Don't tell me.”

  “That mother was fearful. He just wouldn't fit in anywhere. Hell, I had to use two hands to give him the poor man's special.”

  I dropped Lula back at the office and went on home. By the time I pulled into my lot, the sky had blackened under the cloud cover and a light rain had begun to fall. I slung my pocketbook over my shoulder and hurried into the building, happy to be home.

  Mrs. Bestler was doing hall laps with her walker. Step, step, clomp. Step, step, clomp.

  “Another day, another dollar,” she said.

  “True enough,” I replied.

  I could hear the rise and fall of audience participation as Mr. Wolesky's TV droned on behind his closed door.

  I plugged my key into my lock and did a quick, suspicious look around my apartment. All was secure. There were no messages on the machine, and there'd been no mail downstairs.

  I made hot chocolate and a peanut butter and honey sandwich. I stacked the plate on top of the mug, tucked the phone under my arm, grabbed the list of numbers I'd retrieved from Spiro's apartment, and carted everything off to the dining room table.

  I dialed the first number and a woman answered.

  “I'd like to speak to Kenny,” I said.

  “You must have the wrong number. There's no Kenny here.”

  “Is this the Colonial Grill?”

  “No, this is a private number.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  I had seven numbers to check out. The first four were exactly alike. All private residences. Probably clients. The fifth was pizza delivery. The sixth was St. Francis Hospital. The seventh was a motel in Bordentown. I thought this last one had some potential.

  I gave Rex a corner of my sandwich, heaved a sigh at having to leave the warmth and comfort of my apartment, and shrugged back into my jacket. The motel was on Route 206, not far from the turnpike entrance. It was a cut-rate motel, built before the motel chains moved in. There were forty units, all ground floor, opening to a narrow porch. Lights shone from two. The neon sign at roadside advertised efficiencies available. The exterior was neat, but it was a foregone conclusion that the inside would be dated, the wallpaper faded, the chenille spread threadbare, the bathroom sink rust-stained.

  I parked close to the office and hustled inside. An elderly man sat behind the desk, watching a small TV.

  “Evening,” he said.

  “Are you the manager?”

  “Yep. The manager, the owner, the handyman.”

  I took Kenny's picture out of my pocketbook. “I'm looking for this man. Have you seen him?”

  “Mind telling me why you're looking for him?”

  “He's in violation of a bond agreement.”

  “What's that mean?”

  “It means he's a felon.”

  “Are you a cop?”

  “I'm an apprehension agent. I work for his bonding company.”

  The man looked at the picture and nodded. “He's in unit seventeen. Been there for a couple days.” He thumbed through a ledger on the counter. “Here he is. John Sherman. Checked in on Tuesday.”

  I could hardly believe it! Damned if I wasn't good. “Is he alone?”

  “So far as I know.”

  “Do you have vehicle information?”

  “We don't bother with that. We got lots of parking space here.”

  I thanked him and told him I'd hang around for a while. I gave him my card and asked that he didn't give me away should he see Sherman.

  I drove to a dark corner of the lot, shut the engine off, locked the windows, and hunkered down for the duration. If Kenny showed up I'd call Ranger. If I couldn't reach Ranger, I'd go to Joe Morelli.

  By nine o'clock I was thinking I might have chosen the wrong profession. My toes were frozen, and I had to pee. Kenny hadn't materialized, and there was no activity at the motel to break the monotony of waiting. I ran the engine to warm things up and did some isometrics. I fantasized about going to bed with Batman. He was a little dark, but I liked the look of the codpiece on his rubber suit.

  At eleven I begged the manager to let me use his bathroom. I mooched a cup of coffee from him and returned to Big Blue. I had to admit, while the wait was uncomfortable, it was immeasurably better than it would have been in my little Jeep. There was a feeling of encapsulation in the Buick. Sort of like being in a rolling bomb shelter with windows and overstuffed furniture. I was able to stretch my legs across the front bench seat. Behind me, the backseat had real boudoir potential.

  I dozed off somewhere around twelve-thirty and woke up at one-fifteen. Kenny's unit was still dark, and there were no new cars in the lot.

  I had several choices available to me. I could try to stick it out myself, I could ask Ranger to rotate shifts with me, or I could pack it in for the night and return before daybreak. If I asked Ranger to rotate shifts I'd have to give him a bigger piece of the pie than I'd originally intended. On the other hand, if I tried to stick it out by myself I was afraid I'd nod off and freeze to death like the little match girl. I chose door number three. If Kenny returned tonight it would be to sleep, and he'd still be here at six in the morning.

  I sang “Row, row, row your boat” all the way home to keep awake. I dragged myself into my apartment building, up the stairs, and down the hall. I let myself into my foyer, locked the door behind me, and crawled into bed fully clothed, shoes and all. I slept flat out until six, when an inner alarm clock prodded me awake.

  I stumbled out of bed, relieved to find I was already dressed and could forgo that chore. I did the bare minimum in the bathroom, grabbed my jacket and my pocketbook, and trudged out to the parking lot. It was pitch black above the lot lights, still drizzly, and ice had formed on car windows. Lovely. I started the car, turned the heater on full blast, took the scraper out of the map pocket and chipped the windows free. By the time I was done chipping I was pretty much awake. I stopped at a 7-Eleven en route to Bordentown and stocked up on coffee and doughnuts.

  It was still dark when I reached the motel. There were no lights on in any of the units, and there were no new cars in the lot. I parked to the dark side of the office and cracked the lid on my coffee. I was feeling less optimistic today and considered the possibility that the old man in the office had been having some fun at my expense. If Kenny didn't show by midafternoon I'd ask to be let into his room.
/>
  If I'd been clever, I'd have changed my socks and brought a blanket. If I'd been really clever, I'd have given the guy in the office a twenty and asked him to call me if Kenny showed up.

  At ten minutes to seven a woman drove up in a Ford truck and parked in front of the office. She gave me a curious look and went inside. Ten minutes later the old man came out and ambled across the lot to a beat-up Chevy. He waved and smiled and drove off.

  There was no way I could be sure the old guy had told the woman about me, and I didn't want her calling the police to report a strange person loitering on the premises, so I hauled myself over to the office and went through the same drill as the night before.

  The answers were the same. Yes, she recognized the picture. Yes, he was registered as John Sherman.

  “Good-looking guy,” she said. “But not real friendly.”

  “Did you notice the car he was driving?”

  “Honey, I noticed everything about him. He was driving a blue van. Wasn't one of those fancy conversion vans. Was more of a work van. The kind without all the windows.”

  “Did you get a plate number?” I asked.

  “Hell no. I wasn't interested in his plates.”

  I thanked her and retreated to my car to drink cold coffee. Every now and then I got out and stretched and stomped my feet. I took a half-hour break for lunch, and nothing had changed when I got back.

  Morelli pulled his cop car beside me at three. He got out and slid onto the seat next to me.

  “Christ,” he said. “It's freezing in this car.”

  “Is this a chance meeting?”

  “Kelly drives by here on his way to work. He saw the Buick and started a pool on who you were shacked up with.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Unh.”

  “So what are you doing here?”

  “Through some superb detective work, I discovered that Kenny is staying here, registered as John Sherman.”

  A spark of excitement flickered across Morelli's face. “You have an ID?”

  “Both the night clerk and the day clerk recognized Kenny from his picture. He's driving a blue panel van and was last seen yesterday morning. I got here early last night and sat until one. I was back here at six-thirty this morning.”

  “No sign of Kenny.”

  “None.”

  “Have you been through his room?”

  “Not yet.”

  “The maid been through?”

  “Nope.”

  Morelli opened his door. “Let's take a look.”

  Morelli identified himself to the day clerk and got a key to number 17. He rapped on the unit's door twice. No answer. He unlocked the door, and we both entered.

  The bed was unmade. A navy duffel bag sat open on the floor. The bag contained socks and shorts and two black T-shirts. A flannel shirt and a pair of jeans had been tossed across the back of a chair. A shaving kit sat open in the bathroom.

  “Looks to me like he's been scared off,” Morelli said. “My guess is he spotted you.”

  “Impossible. I parked in the darkest part of the lot. And how did he know it was me?”

  “Sweet thing, everyone knows it's you.”

  “It's this awful car! It's ruining my life. It's sabotaging my career.”

  Morelli grinned. “That's a lot to ask of a car.”

  I tried to look contemptuous, but it was hard with my teeth chattering from the cold. “Now what?” I asked.

  “Now I talk to the clerk and ask her to call me if Kenny returns.” He gave me a fast head-to-foot appraisal. “You look like you slept in those clothes.”

  “How'd it go with Spiro and Louie Moon yesterday?”

  “I don't think Louie Moon is involved. He doesn't have what it takes.”

  “Intelligence?”

  “Contacts,” Morelli said. “Whoever has the guns is selling them off. I did some checking. Moon doesn't move in the right circles. Moon wouldn't even know how to go about finding the right circles.”

  “What about Spiro?”

  “Wasn't ready to give me a confession.” He flipped the light off. “You should go home and take a shower and get dressed for dinner.”

  “Dinner?”

  “Pot roast at six.”

  “You aren't serious.”

  The grin was back. “I'll pick you up at quarter to six.”

  “No! I'll drive myself.”

  Morelli was wearing a brown leather bomber jacket and a red wool scarf. He took the scarf off and wrapped it around my neck. “You look frozen,” he said. “Go home and warm up.” Then he sauntered off to the motel office.

  It was still drizzling. The sky was gunmetal gray, and my mood was equally grim. I'd had a good line on Kenny Mancuso, and I'd blown it. I smacked the heel of my hand against my forehead. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I'd sat out there in this big dumb Buick. What was I thinking?

  The motel was twelve miles from my apartment building, and I berated myself all the way home. I made a quick stop at the supermarket, fed Big Blue more gas, and by the time I pulled into my lot, I was thoroughly disgusted and demoralized. I'd had three chances to nail Kenny, at Julia's house, at the mall, and now at the motel, and I'd screwed up every time.

  Probably at this stage in my career I should stick to the low-level criminals, like shoplifters and drunk drivers. Unfortunately, the payout on those criminals wasn't sufficient to keep me afloat.

  I did more self-flagellation while I rode the elevator and made my way down the hall. A sticky note from Dillon was taped to my door. Got a package for you, the note said.

  I went back to the elevator and hit the button for basement. The elevator opened to a small vestibule with four closed, locked doors freshly painted battleship gray. One door led to storage cages for the use of the residents, the second door opened into the boiler room with its ominous rumblings and gurglings, the third door gave way to a long corridor and rooms dedicated to building maintenance, and Dillon lived in rent-free contentment behind the fourth door.

  I always felt claustrophobic when I came down here, but Dillon said that it suited him fine and that he found the boiler noises soothing. He'd stuck a note to his door, saying that he'd be home at five.

  I returned to my apartment, gave Rex some raisins and a corn chip, and took a long, hot shower. I staggered out red as a boiled lobster and foggy-brained from the chlorine gas. I flopped on the bed and contemplated my future. It was a short contemplation. When I woke up it was quarter to six, and someone was pounding on my door.

  I wrapped myself in a robe and padded into the foyer. I put my eye to the peephole. It was Joe Morelli. I cracked the door and looked at him over the security chain. “I just got out of the shower.”

  “I'd appreciate it if you'd let me in before Mr. Wolesky comes out and gives me the third degree.”

  I slipped the chain and opened the door.

  Morelli stepped into the foyer. His mouth curved at the edges. “Scary hair.”

  “I sort of slept on it.”

  “No wonder you have no sex life. It'd take a lot out of a man to wake up to hair like that.”

  “Go sit in a chair in the living room, and don't get up until I tell you. Don't eat my food, and don't scare my hamster, and don't make any long-distance calls.”

  He was watching television when I came out of my bedroom ten minutes later. I was wearing a granny dress over a white T-shirt, with ankle-high brown lace-up boots, and an oversized, loose-weave cardigan sweater. It was my Annie Hall look, and it made me feel feminine, but it always had the opposite effect on the opposite sex. Annie Hall was guaranteed to wilt the most determined dick. It was better than Mace on a blind date.

  I wrapped Morelli's red scarf around my neck and buttoned myself into my jacket. I grabbed my pocketbook and shut the lights off. “There's going to be hell to pay if we're late.”

  Morelli followed me out the door. “I wouldn't worry about it. Once your mother sees you in that get-up, she'll forget about the time.”

  “It's my Annie
Hall look.”

  “Looks to me like you've put a jelly doughnut in a bag labeled bran muffin.”

  I rushed down the hall and took the stairs. I got to the ground floor and remembered the package Dillon was holding. “Wait a minute,” I yelled to Morelli. “I'll be right back.”

  I scrambled down the stairs to the cellar and pounded on Dillon's door.