Morelli looked at me speculatively. “You expecting someone?”
“It's probably old Mrs. Bestler from the third floor. Sometimes she forgets where she lives.” I put my eye to the security peephole. “Nope. Not Mrs. Bestler.” Mrs. Bestler didn't have big red hair like Little Orphan Annie. Mrs. Bestler didn't wear skin-tight black leather. Mrs. Bestler's breasts weren't in the shape of icecream cones.
I turned back to Morelli. “I don't suppose I could get you to wait in the bedroom for a moment or two . . .”
“Not on your life,” Morelli said. “I wouldn't miss this for anything.”
I threw the bolt and opened the door.
“I don't know why I'm doing this,” Sally said. “I'm like sucked into this bounty hunter trip.”
“The excitement of the chase,” I said.
“Yeah. That's it. It's the fucking chase.” He held a jar out to me. “I went back and got the clue. Borrowed one of those longhandled duster things. I decoded the note, but I don't know what it means.”
“Weren't there people around, wondering what you were doing?”
“When you look like this nobody asks. They're all happy as shit I'm not close-dancing on their front lawn with Uncle Fred.” He lifted his chin a fraction of an inch and gave Joe the once-over. “Who's this?”
“This is Joe Morelli. He was just leaving.”
“No I wasn't,” Morelli said.
Sally stepped forward. “If she says you're leaving then I think you're leaving.”
Morelli rocked back on his heels and grinned. “You gonna make me?”
“You think I can't?”
“I think somebody should help you pick out a bra. This year the rounded look is in.”
Sally looked down at his ice-cream cones. “They're my trademark. I'm making a fucking fortune off these babies.” He looked up and sucker-punched Morelli in the gut.
“Oof,” Morelli said. Then he narrowed his eyes and lunged at Sally.
“No!” I yelped, jumping between them.
There was some close-in scuffling. I got clipped on the chin and went down like a sack of sand. Both men stooped to pick me up.
“Back off,” I yelled, slapping them away. “Don't either of you touch me. I don't need help from you two infantile morons.”
“He insulted my breasts,” Sally said.
“That's what happens when you have breasts,” I shouted. “People insult them. Get used to it.”
Joe glared at Sally. “Who are you? And what's with this jar?”
Sally extended his hand. “Sally Sweet.”
Joe took the offered hand. “Joe Morelli.”
They stood like that for a moment or two, and I saw a red flush begin to creep into Sally's cheeks. The cords in Morelli's neck grew prominent. Their hands remained clasped and their bodies jerked in rigid struggle. The morons were arm wrestling.
“That does it,” I said. “I'm getting my gun. And I'm going to shoot the winner.”
Eyes slid in my direction.
“Actually, I've gotta run,” Sally said. “I've got a gig at the shore tonight, and Sugar's waiting in the car.”
“He's a musician,” I told Morelli.
Morelli took a step backward. “It's always a treat to meet Stephanie's friends.”
“Yeah,” Sally said, “my fucking pleasure.”
Morelli was grinning when I closed and locked the door. “You never disappoint me,” he said.
“What was that wrestling match about?”
“We were playing.” He glanced down at the jar. “Tell me about this.”
“Maxine Nowicki has been leaving clues for Eddie Kuntz. Sort of a revenge-driven scavenger hunt. The clues are always in code. That's where Sally comes in. He's good at cracking codes.” I opened the jar, removed the paper and read the message. “ 'Our spot. Wednesday at three.' ”
“They have a spot,” Morelli said. “Makes me feel all romantic again. Maybe I should make a fast run to the drugstore.”
“Suppose you went to the drugstore. How many would you buy? Would you buy one? Would you buy a month's worth? Would you buy a whole case?”
“Oh boy,” Morelli said. “This is about curtains, isn't it?”
“Just want to get the rules straight.”
“How about we live one day at a time.”
“One day at a time is okay,” I said. I suppose.
“So if I go to the drugstore you'll let me back in?”
“No. I'm not in the mood.” In fact, I was suddenly feeling damn cranky. And for some unknown reason the image of Terry Gilman kept popping up in my mind.
Morelli ran a playful finger along my jawbone. “Bet I could change your mood.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and looked at him slitty eyed. “I don't think so.”
“Hmmm,” Morelli said, “maybe not.” He stretched, and then he sauntered into the kitchen and retrieved his pager from the refrigerator. “You're in a bad mood because I wouldn't commit to a case.”
“Am not! I absolutely would not want a case commitment!”
“You're cute when you lie.”
I pointed stiff-armed to the door. “Out!”
* * * * *
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I could have called Eddie Kuntz and told him the newest message, but I wanted to talk to him face-to-face. Maxine Nowicki's apartment had been ransacked, and two people connected to her had been mutilated. I was thinking maybe someone wanted to find her for something other than love letters. And maybe that someone was Eddie Kuntz.
Kuntz was washing his car when I drove up. He had a boom box on the curb, and he was listening to shock jock radio. He stopped when he saw me and shut the radio off.
“You find her?”
I gave him the note with the translation. “I found another message.”
He read the message and made a disgusted sound. “ 'Our spot,' ” he said. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“You didn't know you had a spot?”
“We had lots of spots. How am I supposed to know which spot she's talking about?”
“Think about it.”
Eddie Kuntz stared at me, and I thought I caught a hint of rubber burning.
“She's probably talking about the bench,” he said. “The first time we met was in the park, and she was sitting on a bench, looking at the water. She was always talking about that bench like it was some kind of shrine or something.”
“Go figure.”
Kuntz gave me a hands-up. “Women.”
A Lincoln Town Car eased to the curb. Navy exterior, tinted windows, half a block long.
“Aunt Betty and Uncle Leo,” Eddie said.
“Big car.”
“Yeah. I borrow it sometimes to pick up a few extra bucks.”
I wasn't sure if he meant driving people around or running people over. “I have your occupation listed as cook, but you seem to be home a lot.”
“That's because I'm between jobs.”
“When was your last job as a cook?”
“I dunno. This morning. I toasted a waffle. What's it to you?”
“Curious.”
“Try being curious about Maxine.”
Aunt Betty and Uncle Leo walked up to us.
“Hello,” Aunt Betty said. “Are you Eddie's new girlfriend?”
“Acquaintance,” I told her.
“Well, I hope you turn into a girlfriend. You're Italian, right?”
“Half Italian. Half Hungarian.”
“Well, nobody's perfect,” she said. “Come in and have some cake. I got a nice pound cake at the bakery.”
“Gonna be another scorcher today,” Uncle Leo said. “Good thing we got air.”
“You got air,” Kuntz said. “My half doesn't have air. My half's hotter'n hell.”
“I gotta get in,” Uncle Leo said. “This heat is murder.”
“Don't forget about the cake,” Betty said, following Leo up the steps. “There's cake any time you want it.”
br /> “So you're doing other stuff to find Maxine, right?” Kuntz asked. “I mean, you're not just waiting for these clues, are you?”
“I've been going through the list of names and businesses you gave me. The manager of the Seven-Eleven said Maxine stopped by Sunday night. So far, no one else has seen her.”
“Christ, she's here all the time leaving these stupid clues. Why doesn't someone see her? What is she, the freaking Phantom?”
“The manager of the Seven-Eleven said something that stuck in my mind. She said Maxine always used to buy a lottery ticket, but this time she said she didn't need to win the lottery anymore.”
The line of Kuntz's mouth tightened. “Maxine's a lunatic. Who knows what she's thinking.”
I suspected Eddie Kuntz knew exactly what Maxine was thinking.
“You need to be on that bench tomorrow at three,” I told Kuntz. “I'll call you in the morning and make the final arrangements.”
“I don't know if I like this. She pitched a rock into my window. There's no telling what she might do. Suppose she wants to snuff me?”
“Throwing a rock through a window doesn't equate with killing someone.” I stared at him for a moment. “Does she have a reason for wanting to kill you?”
“I pressed charges against her. Is that a reason?”
“It wouldn't be for me.” This loser wasn't worth doing time for. “Hard to say about Maxine.”
* * * * *
I LEFT KUNTZ fiddling with his boom box. I'm not sure why I'd felt compelled to see him in person. I suppose I wanted to look him in the eye and learn if he'd scalped Maxine's mother. Unfortunately, in my experience, eyes are vastly overrated as pathways to the soul. The only thing I saw in Eddie Kuntz's eyes was last night's booze tally, which I could sum up as being too much.
I looped past Mrs. Nowicki's house and saw no sign of life. Her windows were closed shut. Shades were drawn. I parked the car and went to the door. No one answered my knock. “Mrs. Nowicki,” I called out. “It's Stephanie Plum.” I knocked again and was about to leave when the door opened a crack.
“Now what?” Mrs. Nowicki said.
“I'd like to talk.”
“Lucky me.”
“Can I come in?”
“No.”
The entire top of her head was bandaged. She was without makeup and cigarette, and she looked old beyond her years.
“How's your head?” I asked.
“Been worse.”
“I mean from the cut.”
She rolled her eyes up. “Oh, that . . .”
“I need to know who did it.”
“I did it.”
“I saw the blood. And I saw the knife. And I know you didn't do this to yourself. Someone came looking for Maxine. And you ended up getting hurt.”
“You want my statement? Go read it from the cops.”
“Did you know someone visited Maxine's friend, Marjorie, and chopped off her finger?”
“And you think the same guy did both of us.”
“It seems reasonable. And I think it would be better for Maxine if I found her before he does.”
“Life is a bitch,” Mrs. Nowicki said. “Poor Maxie. I don't know what she did. And I don't know where she is. What I know is that she's in a lot of trouble.”
“And the man?”
“He said if I talked he'd come back and kill me. And I believe him.”
“This is all in confidence.”
“It don't matter. There's nothing I can tell you. There were two of them. I turned around and there they were in my kitchen. Average height. Average build. Wearing coveralls and stocking masks. Even had on those disposable rubber gloves like they wear in the hospital.”
“How about their voices?”
“Only one spoke, and there wasn't anything to remember about it. Not old. Not young.”
“Would you recognize the voice if you heard it again?”
“I don't know. Like I said, there wasn't anything to remember.”
“And you don't know where Maxine is staying?”
“Sorry. I just don't know.”
“Let's try it from another direction. If Maxine wasn't living in her apartment and didn't have to go to work every day . . . where would she go?”
“That's easy. She'd go to the shore. She'd go to get some ocean air and play the games on the boardwalk.”
“Seaside or Point Pleasant?”
“Point Pleasant. She always goes to Point Pleasant.”
This made sense. It accounted for the tan and the fact that she wasn't conducting business in Trenton.
I gave Mrs. Nowicki my card. “Call me if you hear from Maxine or think of anything that might be helpful. Keep your doors locked and don't talk to strangers.”
“Actually, I've been thinking of going to stay with my sister in Virginia.”
“That sounds like a good idea.”
* * * * *
I TURNED LEFT onto Olden and caught a glimpse of a black Jeep Cherokee in my rearview mirror. Black Cherokees are popular in Jersey. They're not a car I'd ordinarily notice, but from somewhere in the recesses of my subconscious a mental abacus clicked in and told me I'd seen this car one time too many. I took Olden to Hamilton and Hamilton to St. James. I parked in my lot and looked around for the Cherokee, but it had disappeared. Coincidence, I said. Overactive imagination.
I ran up to my apartment, checked my answering machine, changed into my swimsuit, stuffed a towel, a T-shirt and some sunscreen into a canvas tote, pulled on a pair of shorts and took off for the shore.
The hole in my muffler was getting bigger, so I punched up the volume on Metallica. I reached Point Pleasant in less than an hour, then spent twenty minutes looking for cheap parking on the street. I finally found a space two blocks back from the boardwalk, locked up and hooked the tote bag over my shoulder.
When you live in Jersey a beach isn't enough. People have energy in Jersey. They need things to do. They need a beach with a boardwalk. And the boardwalk has to be filled with rides and games and crappy food. Add some miniature golf. Throw in a bunch of stores selling T-shirts with offensive pictures. Life doesn't get much better than this.
And the best part is the smell. I've been told there are places where the ocean smells wild and briny. In Jersey the ocean smells of coconut-scented suntan lotion and Italian sausage smothered in fried onions and peppers. It smells like deep-fried zeppoles and chili hot dogs. The scent is intoxicating and exotic as it expands in the heat rising from crowds of sun-baked bodies strolling the boardwalk.
Surf surges onto the beach and the sound is mingled with the rhythmic tick, tick, tick of the spinning game wheels and the highpitched Eeeeeeee of thrill seekers being hurtled down the log flume.
Rock stars, pickpockets, homies, pimps, pushers, pregnant women in bikinis, future astronauts, politicians, geeks, ghouls, and droves of families who buy American and eat Italian all come to the Jersey shore.
When I was a little girl, my sister and I rode the carousel and the whip and ate cotton candy and frozen custard. I had a stomach like iron, but Valerie always got sick on the way home and threw up in the car. When I was older, the shore was a place to meet boys. And now I find myself here on a manhunt. Who would have thought?
I stopped at a frozen custard stand and flashed Maxine's photo. “Have you seen her?”
No one could say for sure.
I worked my way down the boardwalk, showing the picture, distributing my cards. I ate some french fries, a piece of pizza, two chunks of fudge, a glass of lemonade and a vanilla-and-orange-swirl ice-cream cone. Halfway down the boardwalk I felt the pull of the white sand beach and gave up the manhunt in favor of perfecting my tan.
You have to love a job that lets you lie on the beach for the better part of the afternoon.
* * * * *
THE LIGHT was frantically blinking on my answering machine when I got home. If I had more than three messages my machine always went hyper. Blink, blink, blin
k, blink—faster than Rex could twitch his whiskers.
I accessed the messages and all were blank. “No big deal,” I said to Rex. “If it's important, they'll call back.”