One for the Money

One for the Money

by Janet Evanovich

THERE ARE SOME MEN who enter a woman’s life and screw it up forever. Joseph Morelli did this to me—not forever, but periodically.

Morelli and I were both born and raised in a blue-collar chunk of Trenton called the burg. Houses were attached and narrow. Yards were small. Cars were American. The people were mostly of Italian descent, with enough Hungarians and Germans thrown in to offset inbreeding. It was a good place to buy calzone or play the numbers. And, if you had to live in Trenton anyway, it was an okay place to raise a family.

When I was a kid I didn’t ordinarily play with Joseph Morelli. He lived two blocks over and was two years older. “Stay away from those Morelli boys,” my mother had warned me. “They’re wild. I hear stories about the things they do to girls when they get them alone.”

“What kind of things?” I’d eagerly asked.

“You don’t want to know,” my mother had answered. “Terrible things. Things that aren’t nice.”

From that moment on, I viewed Joseph Morelli with a combination of terror and prurient curiosity that bordered on awe. Two weeks later, at the age of six, with quaking knees and a squishy stomach, I followed Morelli into his father’s garage on the promise of learning a new game.

The Morelli garage hunkered detached and snubbed at the edge of their lot. It was a sorry affair, lit by a single shaft of light filtering through a grime-coated window. Its air was stagnant, smelling of corner must, discarded tires, and jugs of used motor oil. Never destined to house the Morelli cars, the garage served other purposes. Old Man Morelli used the garage to take his belt to his sons, his sons used the garage to take their hands to themselves, and Joseph Morelli took me, Stephanie Plum, to the garage to play train.

“What’s the name of this game?” I’d asked Joseph Morelli.

“Choo-choo,” he’d said, down on his hands and knees, crawling between my legs, his head trapped under my short pink skirt. “You’re the tunnel, and I’m the train.”

I suppose this tells something about my personality. That I’m not especially good at taking advice. Or that I was born with an overload of curiosity. Or maybe it’s about rebellion or boredom or fate. At any rate, it was a one-shot deal and darn disappointing, since I’d only gotten to be the tunnel, and I’d really wanted to be the train.

Ten years later, Joe Morelli was still living two blocks over. He’d grown up big and bad, with eves like black fire one minute and melt-in-your-mouth chocolate the next. He had an eagle tattooed on his chest, a tight-assed, narrow-hipped swagger, and a reputation for having fast hands and clever fingers.

My best friend, Mary Lou Molnar, said she heard Morelli had a tongue like a lizard.

“Holy cow,” I’d answered, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just don’t let him get you alone or you’ll find out. Once he gets you alone… that’s it. You’re done for.”

I hadn’t seen much of Morelli since the train episode. I supposed he’d enlarged his repertoire of sexual exploitation. I opened my eyes wide and leaned closer to Mary Lou, hoping for the worst. “You aren’t talking about rape, are you?”

“I’m talking about lust! If he wants you, you’re doomed. The guy is irresistible.”

Aside from being fingered at the age of six by you-know-who, I was untouched. I was saving myself for marriage, or at least for college. “I’m a virgin,” I said, as if this was news. “I’m sure he doesn’t mess with virgins.”

“He specializes in virgins! The brush of his fingertips turns virgins into slobbering mush.”

Two weeks later, Joe Morelli came into the bakery where I worked every day after school, Tasty Pastry, on Hamilton. He bought a chocolate-chip cannoli, told me he’d joined the navy, and charmed the pants off me four minutes after closing, on the floor of Tasty Pastry, behind the case filled with chocolate éclairs.

The next time I saw him, I was three years older. I was on my way to the mall, driving my father’s Buick when I spotted Morelli standing in front of Giovichinni’s Meat Market. I gunned the big V-8 engine, jumped the curb, and clipped Morelli from behind, bouncing him off the front right fender. I stopped the car and got out to assess the damage. “Anything broken?”

He was sprawled on the pavement, looking up my skirt. “My leg.”

“Good,” I said. Then I turned on my heel, got into the Buick, and drove to the mall.

I attribute the incident to temporary insanity, and in my own defense, I’d like to say I haven’t run over anyone since.

DURING WINTER MONTHS, wind ripped up Hamilton Avenue, whining past plate-glass windows, banking trash against curbs and storefronts. During summer months, the air sat still and gauzy, leaden with humidity, saturated with hydrocarbons. It shimmered over hot cement and melted road tar. Cicadas buzzed, Dumpsters reeked, and a dusty haze hung in perpetuity over softball fields statewide. I figured it was all part of the great adventure of living in New Jersey.

This afternoon I’d decided to ignore the August buildup of ozone catching me in the back of my throat and go, convertible top down, in my Mazda Miata. The air conditioner was blasting flat out, I was singing along with Paul Simon, my shoulder-length brown hair was whipping around my face in a frenzy of frizz and snarls, my ever vigilant blue eyes were coolly hidden behind my Oakleys, and my foot rested heavy on the gas pedal.

It was Sunday, and I had a date with a pot roast at my parents’ house. I stopped for a light and checked my rearview mirror, swearing when I saw Lenny Gruber two car lengths back in a tan sedan. I thunked my forehead on the steering wheel. “Damn.” I’d gone to high school with Gruber. He was a maggot then, and he was a maggot now. Unfortunately, he was a maggot with a just cause. I was behind on my Miata payments, and Gruber worked for the repo company.

Six months ago, when I’d bought the car, I’d been looking good, with a nice apartment and season tickets to the Rangers. And then bam! I got laid off. No money. No more A-1 credit rating.

I rechecked the mirror, set my teeth, and yanked up the emergency brake. Lenny was like smoke. When you tried to grab him, he evaporated, so I wasn’t about to waste this one last opportunity to bargain. I hauled myself out of my car, apologized to the man caught between us, and stalked back to Gruber.

“Stephanie Plum,” Gruber said, full of joy and faux surprise. “What a treat.”

I leaned two hands on the roof and looked through the open window at him. “Lenny, I’m going to my parents’ house for dinner. You wouldn’t snatch my car while I was at my parents’ house, would you? I mean, that would be really low, Lenny.”

“I’m a pretty low guy, Steph. That’s why I’ve got this neat job. I’m capable of most anything.”

The light changed, and the driver behind Gruber leaned on his horn.

“Maybe we can make a deal,” I said to Gruber.

“Does this deal involve you getting naked?”

I had a vision of grabbing his nose and twisting it Three Stooges style until he squealed like a pig. Problem was, it’d involve touching him. Better to go with a more restrained approach. “Let the keep the car tonight, and I’ll drive it to the lot first thing tomorrow morning.”

“No way,” Gruber said. “You’re damn sneaky. I’ve been chasing after this car for five days.”

“So, one more won’t matter.”

“I’d expect you to be grateful, you know what I mean?”

I almost gagged. “Forget it. Take the car. In fact, you could take it right now. I’ll walk to my parents‘.”

Gruber’s eves were locked halfway down my chest. I’m a 36B. Respectable but far from overwhelming on my 5‘ 7“ frame. I was wearing black spandex shorts and an over-sized hockey jersey. Not what you would call a seductive outfit, but Lenny was ogling anyway.

His smile widened enough to show he was missing a molar. “I guess I could wait for tomorrow. After all, we did go to high school together.”

“Un huh.” It was the best I could do.

Five minutes later I turned off Hamilton onto Roosevelt. Two blocks to my parents’ house, and I could feel familial obligation sucking at me, pulling me into the heart of the burg. This was a community of extended families. There was safety here, along with love, and stability, and the comfort of ritual. The clock on the dash told me I was seven minutes late, and the urge to scream told me I was home.

I parked at the curb and looked at the narrow two-story duplex with its jalousied front porch and aluminum awnings. The Plum half was yellow, just as it had been for forty years, with a brown shingle roof. Snowball bushes flanked either side of the cement stoop, and red geraniums had been evenly spaced the length of the porch. It was basically a flat. Living room in front, dining room in the middle, kitchen at the rear. Three bedrooms and bath upstairs. It was a small, tidy house crammed with kitchen smells and too much furniture, comfortable with its lot in life.

Next door, Mrs. Markowitz, who was living on social security and could only afford closeout paint colors, had painted her side lime green.

My mother was at the open screen door. “Stephanie,” she called. “What are you doing sitting out there in your car? You’re late for dinner. You know how your father hates to eat late. The potatoes are getting cold. The pot roast will be dry.”

Food is important in the burg. The moon revolves around the earth, the earth revolves around the sun, and the burg revolves around pot roast. For as long as I can remember, my parents’ lives have been controlled by five-pound pieces of rolled rump, done to perfection at six o’clock.

Grandma Mazur stood two feet back from my mother. “I gotta get me a pair of those,” she said, eyeballing my shorts. “I’ve still got pretty good legs, you know.” She raised her skirt and looked down at her knees. “What do you think? You think I’d look good in them biker things?”

Grandma Mazur had knees like doorknobs. She’d been a beauty in her time, but the years had turned her slack-skinned and spindle-boned. Still, if she wanted to wear biker shorts, I thought she should go for it. The way I saw it, that was one of the many advantages to living in New Jersey—even old ladies were allowed to look outlandish.

My father gave a grunt of disgust from the kitchen, where he was carving up the meat. “Biker’s shorts,” he muttered, slapping his palm against his forehead. “Unh!”

Two years ago, when Grandpa Mazur’s fat-clogged arteries sent him to the big pork roast in the sky, Grandma Mazur had moved in with my parents and had never moved out. My father accepted this with a combination of Old-World stoicism and tactless mutterings.

I remember him telling me about a dog he’d had as a kid. The story goes that this dog was the ugliest, oldest, most peabrained dog ever. The dog was incontinent, dribbling urine wherever it went. Its teeth were rotted in its mouth, its hips were fused solid with arthritis, and huge fatty tumors lumped under its hide. One day my Grandpa Plum took the dog out behind the garage and shot it. I suspected there were times when my father fantasized a similar ending for my Grandma Mazur.

“You should wear a dress,” my mother said to me, bringing green beans and creamed pearl onions to the table. “Thirty years old and you’re still dressing in those teeny-bopper outfits. How will you ever catch a nice man like that?”

“I don’t want a man. I had one, and I didn’t like it.”

“That’s because your husband was a horse’s behind,” Grandma Mazur said.

I agreed. My ex-husband had been a horse’s behind. Especially when I’d caught him flagrante delicto on the dining room table with Joyce Barnhardt.

“I hear Loretta Buzick’s boy is separated from his wife,” my mother said. “You remember him? Ronald Buzick?”

I knew where she was heading, and I didn’t want to go there. “I’m not going out with Ronald Buzick,” I told her. “Don’t even think about it.”

“So what’s wrong with Ronald Buzick?”

Ronald Buzick was a butcher. He was balding, and he was fat, and I suppose I was being a snob about the whole thing, but I found it hard to think in romantic terms about a man who spent his days stuffing giblets up chicken butts.

My mother plunged on. “All right, then how about Bernie Kuntz? I saw Bernie Kuntz in the dry cleaners, and he made a point about asking for you. I think he’s interested. I could invite him over for coffee and cake.”

With the way my luck was running, probably my mother had already invited Bernie, and at this very moment he was circling the block, popping Tic Tacs. “I don’t want to talk about Bernie,” I said. “There’s something I need to tell you. I have some bad news…”

I’d been dreading this and had put it off for as long as possible.

My mother clapped a hand to her mouth. “You found a lump in your breast!”

No one in our family had ever found a lump in their breast, but my mother was ever watchful. “My breast is fine. The problem is with my job.”

“What about your job?”

“I don’t have one. I got laid off.”

“Laid off!” she said on a sharp inhale. “How could that happen? It was such a good job. You loved that job.”

I’d been a discount lingerie buyer for E.E. Martin, and I’d worked in Newark, which is not exactly the garden spot of the Garden State. In truth, it had been my mother who had loved the job, imagining it to be glamorous when in reality I’d mostly haggled over the cost of full-fashion nylon underpants. E.E. Martin wasn’t exactly Victoria’s Secret.

“I wouldn’t worry,” my mother said. “There’s always work for lingerie buyers.”

“There’s no work for lingerie buyers.” Especially ones who worked for E.E. Martin. Having held a salaried position with E.E. Martin made me as appealing as a leper. E.E. Martin had skimped on the palm greasing this winter, and as a result its mob affiliations were made public. The C.E.O. was indicted for illegal business practices, E.E. Martin sold out to Baldicott, Inc., and, through no fault of my own, I was caught in the housecleaning sweep. “I’ve been out of work for six months.”

“Six months! And, I didn’t know! Your own mother didn’t know you were out on the streets?”

“I’m not out on the streets. I’ve been doing temporary jobs. Filing and stuff.” And steadily sliding downhill. I was registered with every search firm in the greater Trenton area, and I religiously read the want ads. I wasn’t being all that choosy, drawing the line at telephone soliciting and kennel attendant, but my future didn’t look great. I was overqualified for entry level, and I lacked experience in management.

My father forked another slab of pot roast onto his plate. He’d worked for the post office for thirty years and had opted for early retirement. Now he drove a cab part-time.

“I saw your cousin Vinnie yesterday,” he said. “He’s looking for someone to do filing. You should give him a call.”

Just the career move I’d been hoping for—filing for Vinnie. Of all my relatives, Vinnie was my least favorite. Vinnie was a worm, a sexual lunatic, a dog turd. “What does he pay?” I asked.

My father shrugged. “Gotta be minimum wage.”

Wonderful. The perfect position for someone already in the depths of despair. Rotten boss, rotten job, rotten pay. The possibilities for feeling sorry for myself would be endless.

“And the best part is that it’s close,” my mother said. “You can come home every day for lunch.”

I nodded numbly, thinking I’d sooner stick a needle in my eye.

SUNLIGHT SLANTED THROUGH THE CRACK in my bedroom curtains, the air-conditioning unit in the living room window droned ominously, predicting another scorcher of a morning, and the digital display on my clock radio flashed electric blue numbers, telling me it was nine o’clock. The day had started without me.

I rolled out of bed on a sigh and shuffled into the bathroom. When I was done in the bathroom, I shuffled into the kitchen and stood in front of the refrigerator, hoping the refrigerator fairies had visited during the night. I opened the door and stared at the empty shelves, noting that food hadn’t magically cloned itself from the smudges in the butter keeper and the shriveled flotsam at the bottom of the crisper. Half a jar of mayo, a bottle of beer, whole-wheat bread covered with blue mold, a head of iceberg lettuce, shrink-wrapped in brown slime and plastic, and a box of hamster nuggets stood between me and starvation. I wondered if nine in the morning was too early to drink beer. Of course in Moscow it would be four in the afternoon. Good enough.

I drank half the beer and grimly approached the living room window. I pulled the curtains and stared down at the parking lot. My Miata was gone. Lenny had hit early. No surprise, but still, it lodged painfully in the middle of my throat. I was now an official deadbeat.

And if that wasn’t depressing enough, I’d weakened halfway through dessert and promised my mother I’d go see Vinnie.

I dragged myself into the shower and stumbled out a half hour later after an exhausting crying jag. I stuffed myself into pantyhose and a suit and was ready to do my daughterly duty.

My hamster, Rex, was still asleep in his soup can in his cage on the kitchen counter. I dropped a few hamster nuggets into his bowl and made some smoochy sounds. Rex opened his black eyes and blinked. He twitched his whiskers, gave a good sniff, and rejected the nuggets. I couldn’t blame him. I’d tried them for breakfast yesterday and hadn’t been impressed.

I locked up the apartment and walked three blocks down St. James to Blue Ribbon Used Cars. At the front of the lot was a $500 Nova begging to be bought. Total body rust and countless accidents had left the Nova barely recognizable as a car, much less a Chevy, but Blue Ribbon was willing to trade the beast for my TV and VCR. I threw in my food processor and microwave, and they paid my registration and taxes.

I drove the Nova out of the lot and went straight to Vinnie. I pulled into a parking space at the corner of Hamilton and Olden, extracted the key from the ignition, and waited for the car to thrash itself off. I said a short prayer not to be spotted by anyone I knew, wrenched the door open, and scuttled the short distance to the storefront office. The blue and white sign over the door read “Vincent Plum Bail Bonding Company.” In smaller letters it advertised twenty-four-hour nationwide service. Conveniently located between Tender Loving Care Dry Cleaners and Fiorello’s Deli, Vincent Plum catered to the family trade—domestic disturbances, disorderlies, auto theft, DWI, and shoplifting. The office was small and generic, consisting of two rooms with cheap walnut paneling on the walls and commercial grade rust-colored carpet on the floor. A Danish modern couch upholstered in brown Naugahyde pressed against one wall of the reception area, and a black and brown metal desk with a multiline phone and a computer terminal occupied a far corner.

Vinnie’s secretary sat behind the desk, her head bent in concentration, picking her way through a stack of files. “Yeah?”

“I’m Stephanie Plum. I’ve come to see my cousin, Vinnie.”

“Stephanie Plum!” Her head came up. “I’m Connie Rosolli. You went to school with my little sister, Tina. Oh jeez, I hope you don’t have to make bail.”

I recognized her now. She was an older version of Tina. Thicker in the waist, heavier in the face. She had lots of teased black hair, flawless olive skin, and a five-o’clock shadow on her upper lip.

“The only thing I have to make is money,” I said to Connie. “I hear Vinnie needs someone to do filing.”

“We just filled that job, and between you and me, you didn’t miss anything. It was a crummy job. Paid minimum wage, and you had to spend all day on your knees singing the alphabet song. My feeling is, if you’re going to spend that much time on your knees, you could find something that pays better. You know what I mean?”

“Last time I was on my knees was two years ago. I was looking for a contact lens.”

“Listen, if you really need a job, why don’t you get Vinnie to let you do skip tracing? There’s good money in it.”

“How much money?”

“Ten percent of the bond.” Connie pulled a file from her top drawer. “We got this one in yesterday. Bail was set at $100,000, and he didn’t show up for a court appearance. If you could find him and bring him in, you’d get $10,000.”

I put a hand to the desk to steady myself. “Ten thousand dollars for finding one guy? What’s the catch?”

“Sometimes they don’t want to be found, and they shoot at you. But that hardly ever happens.” Connie leafed through the file. “The guy who came in yesterday is local. Morty Beyers started tracking him down, so some of the prelim is already done. You’ve got pictures and everything.”

“What happened to Morty Beyers?”

“Busted appendix. Happened at eleven-thirty last night. He’s in St. Francis with a drain in his side and a tube up his nose.”

I didn’t want to wish Morty Beyers any misfortune, but I was starting to get excited about the prospect of stepping into his shoes. The money was tempting, and the job title had a certain cachet. On the other hand, catching fugitives sounded scary, and I was a certifiable coward when it came to risking my body parts.

“My guess is, it wouldn’t be hard to find this guy,” Connie said. “You could go talk to his mother. And if it gets hairy, you could back out. What have you got to lose?”

Only my life. “I don’t know. I don’t like the part about the shooting.”

“Probably, it’s like driving the turnpike,” Connie said. “Probably, you get used to it. The way I see it, living in New Jersey is a challenge, what with the toxic waste and the eighteen-wheelers and the armed schizophrenics. I mean, what’s one more lunatic shooting at you?”

Pretty much my own philosophy. And the $10,000 was damned appealing. I could pay off my creditors and straighten my life out. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

“You have to talk to Vinnie first.” Connie swiveled her chair toward Vinnie’s office door. “Hey Vinnie!” she yelled. “You got business out here.”

Vinnie was forty-five, 5‘ 7“ without his lifts, and had the slim, boneless body of a ferret. He wore pointy-toed shoes, liked pointy-breasted women and dark-skinned young men; and he drove a Cadillac Seville.

“Steph here wants to do some skip tracing,” Connie said to Vinnie.

“No way. Too dangerous,” Vinnie said. “Most of my agents used to be in security. And you have to know something about law enforcement.”

“I can learn about law enforcement,” I told him.

“Learn about it first. Then come back.”

“I need the job now.”

“Not my problem.”

I figured it was time to get tough. “I’ll make it your problem, Vinnie. I’ll have a long talk with Lucille.”

Lucille was Vinnie’s wife and the only woman in the burg who didn’t know about Vinnie’s addiction to kinky sex. Lucille had her eyes firmly closed, and it wasn’t my place to pry them open. Of course, if she ever asked… that’d be a whole other ball game.

“You’d blackmail me? Your own cousin?”

“These are desperate times.”

He turned to Connie. “Give her a few civil cases. Stuff that involves telephone work.”

“I want this one,” I said, pointing to the file on Connie’s desk. “I want the $10,000 one.”

“Forget it. It’s a murder. I should never have posted bail, but he was from the burg, and I felt sorry for his mother. Trust me, you don’t need this kind of trouble.”

“I need the money, Vinnie. Give me a chance at bringing him in.”

“When hell freezes over,” Vinnie said. “I don’t get this guy back, I’m in the hole for a hundred grand. I’m not sending an amateur after him.”

Connie rolled her eyes at me. “You’d think it was out of his pocket. He’s owned by an insurance company. It’s no big deal.”

“So give me a week, Vinnie,” I said. “If I don’t get him in a week, you can turn it over to someone else.”

“I wouldn’t give you a half hour.”

I took a deep breath and leaned close to Vinnie, whispering in his ear. “I know about Madam Zaretski and her whips and chains. I know about the boys. And I know about the duck.”

He didn’t say anything. He just pressed his lips together until they turned white, and I knew I had him. Lucille would throw up if she knew what he did to the duck. Then she’d tell her father, Harry the Hammer, and Harry would cut off Vinnie’s dick.

“Who am I looking for?” I asked Vinnie.

Vinnie handed me the file. “Joseph Morelli.”

My heart flipped in my chest. I knew Morelli had been involved in a homicide. It had been big news in the burg, and details of the shooting had been splashed across the front page of the Trenton Times. VICE COP KILLS UNARMED MAN. That had been over a month ago, and other, more important, issues (like the exact amount of the lottery) had replaced talk of Morelli. In the absence of more information, I’d assumed the shooting had been in the line of duty. I hadn’t realized Morelli’d been charged with murder.

The reaction wasn’t lost to Vinnie. “From the look on your face, I’d say you know him.”

I nodded. “Sold him a cannoli when I was in high school.”

Connie grunted. “Honey, half of all the women in New Jersey have sold him their cannoli.”

I BOUGHT A CAN OF SODA at Fiorello’s and drank while I walked to my car. I slid behind the wheel, popped the top two buttons on my red silk shirt, and stripped off my pantyhose as a concession to the heat. Then I flipped open Morelli’s file and studied the photos first—mug shots from Morelli’s booking, a candid picture of him in a brown leather bomber jacket and jeans, and a formal pose in a shirt and tie, obviously clipped from a police publication. He hadn’t changed much. A little leaner, perhaps. More bone definition in the face. A few lines at the eyes. A new scar, paper thin, sliced through his right eyebrow, causing his right eyelid to droop ever so slightly. The effect was unsettling. Menacing.

Morelli had taken advantage of my naiveté not once, but twice. After the scene on the bakery floor, he’d never called, never sent me a postcard, never even said good-by. And the worst part of it all was that I’d wanted him to call. Mary Lou Molnar had been right about Joseph Morelli. He’d been irresistible.

History, I told myself. I hadn’t seen the man more than three or four times in the past eleven years, and each time had been at a distance. Morelli was a part of my childhood, and my childish feelings for him had no place in the present. I had a job to do. Plain and simple. I wasn’t out to avenge old injuries. Finding Morelli had nothing to do with revenge. Finding Morelli had to do with the rent money. Yeah, right. That’s why I suddenly had this knot in my stomach.

According to the information on the bond contract, Morelli lived in an apartment complex just off Route 1. This seemed like a good place to start looking. I doubted Morelli would be in his apartment, but I could question his neighbors and see if he was picking up his mail.

I set the file aside and reluctantly squeezed my feet back into my black heels. I turned the key in the ignition. No response. I gave the dash a hard shot with my fist and let out a grunt of relief when the engine cranked over.

Ten minutes later, I pulled into Morelli’s parking lot. The buildings were brick, two-story, utilitarian. Each building had two breezeways. Eight apartments opened off each breezeway, four up and four down. I cut the engine and scanned for apartment numbers. Morelli had a ground-level rear apartment.

I sat there for a while feeling stupid and inept. Suppose Morelli was home. What would I do, threaten to tell his mother if he didn’t come peaceably? The man was up for murder. He had a lot at stake. I couldn’t imagine him hurting me, but the possibility of being mortally embarrassed was extremely high. Not that I’ve ever let a little embarrassment stop me from forging blindly ahead on any number of dumb projects… like my ill-fated marriage to Dickie Orr, the horse’s behind. The memory cued an involuntary grimace. Hard to believe I’d actually married a man named Dickie.

Okay, I thought, forget about Dickie. This is the Morelli plan. Check out his mailbox and then his apartment. If I got lucky (or unlucky, depending on how you looked at it), and he answered his door, I’d lie through my teeth and leave. Then I’d call the police and let them do the physical stuff.

I marched across the blacktop and diligently stared into the bank of mailboxes set into the brick wall. All were stuffed with envelopes. Morelli’s was more stuffed than most. I crossed the breezeway and knocked on his door. No answer. Big surprise. I knocked again and waited. Nothing. I walked around to the back of the building and counted off windows. Four to Morelli and four to the apartment behind his. Morelli had his shades down, but I crept close and peeked in anyway, trying to see between the edge of the shade and the interior wall. If the shades suddenly rolled up and a face peered out, I’d wet my pants on the spot. Fortunately, the shades didn’t roll up, and unfortunately I couldn’t see anything beyond them. I went back to the breezeway and tried the three remaining apartments. Two were no answers. The third was occupied by an elderly woman who had lived there for six years and had never seen Morelli. Dead end.

I went back to my car and sat there trying to think what to do next. There was no activity on the grounds—no televisions blaring from open windows, no children riding bikes, no dogs being rude on the lawn. Not the sort of place that drew families, I thought. Not the sort of place neighbors would know neighbors.

A sporty car pulled into the lot and swung wide of me, parking in one of the front spaces. The driver sat at the wheel for a while, and I wondered if this was an assignation. Since I had nothing better to do, I waited to see what would happen. After five minutes, the driver’s door opened, and a man got out and walked to the breezeway next to Morelli’s.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. The guy was Joe’s cousin, Mooch Morelli. Mooch undoubtedly had a real name, but I couldn’t recall it. As long as I’d known him, he’d been Mooch. He’d lived one street over from St. Francis Hospital when he was a kid. Used to hang out with Joe all the time. I crossed my fingers and hoped old Mooch was retrieving something Joe had left with a neighbor. Or maybe Mooch was at this very moment jimmying a window to Joe’s apartment. I was warming to the idea of Mooch doing breaking and entering when he popped out from behind the building, key in hand, and let himself in through Joe’s front door.

I held tight, and ten minutes later Mooch reappeared carrying a black duffel bag, got into his car, and took off. I waited for him to leave the lot, then I pulled out after him. I kept a couple car lengths behind, driving white-knuckled with my heart drilling hard in my chest, dizzy with the promise of $10,000.

I followed Mooch to State Street and watched him pull into a private drive. I circled the block and parked several houses down. At one time this had been a fashionable neighborhood of huge stone houses and large, well-kept lawns. Back in the sixties, when block busting was a popular activity for liberals, one of the State Street homeowners sold out to a black family, and over the course of the next five years the entire white population panicked and left. Poorer families moved in, the houses deteriorated and were subdivided, yards were neglected, windows were boarded. But, as is often the case with a desirable location, the neighborhood was now in the process of being reclaimed.

Mooch exited the house after a few minutes. When he left, he was alone and without the duffel bag. Oh boy. A lead. What were the chances Joe Morelli was sitting in the house with the duffel bag on his lap? I decided they were fair to middlin‘. Probably worth looking into. Now I had two choices. I could call the police right off, or I could go investigate on my own. If I called the police and Morelli wasn’t there I’d look like a dunce, and the police might not be so anxious to come out and help me the second time around. On the other hand, I really didn’t want to investigate on my own. Not a good attitude for someone who has recently accepted a job as a fugitive apprehender, but there it was.

I stared at the house for a long time, hoping Morelli would come sauntering out and I wouldn’t have to go sauntering in. I checked my watch and thought about food. So far all I’d had was a bottle of beer for breakfast. I looked back out at the house. If I got this over with I could hit the golden arches and squander the loose change in the bottom of my pocketbook on a burger. Motivation.

I sucked in some air, shoved my door open, and levered myself out of the car. Just do it, I thought. Don’t make a big deal out of something simple. He probably isn’t even in there.

I strode purposefully down the sidewalk, talking to myself as I walked. I reached the house and went in without hesitation. Mailboxes in the vestibule indicated there were eight apartments. All apartment doors opened off a common stairwell. All mailboxes had names affixed to them with the exception of apartment 201. None of those names were Morelli.

For lack of a better plan, I decided to go with the mystery door. Adrenaline tripped into my bloodstream as I turned to the stairs. By the time I reached the second-floor landing, my heart was pounding. Stage fright, I told myself. Perfectly normal. I took a few deep breaths and without benefit of brain managed to motor myself to the appropriate door. A hand was knocking on the door. Holy cow, it was my hand.

I sensed movement behind the door. Someone was inside, looking at me through the security peephole. Morelli? I knew it with a certainty. Air stuck in my lungs, and my pulse throbbed painfully in my throat. Why was I doing this? I was a buyer for cheap lingerie. What did I know about catching murderers?

Don’t think of him as a murderer, I reasoned. Think of him as a macho jerk. Think of him as the man who led you astray and then wrote the details on the men’s room wall at Mario’s Sub Shop. I gnawed on my lip and sent a wobbly smile of hope and insecurity to the person behind the peephole, telling myself no macho jerk could resist coming to the aid of that much guileless stupidity.

Another moment passed, and I could almost hear him silently swearing, debating the wisdom of opening the door. I did a little finger wave at the peephole. It was tentative, nonthreatening. It told him I was a piece of fluff, and I knew he was there.

The bolt slid back, the door was yanked open, and I found myself face to face with Morelli.

His stance was passive-aggressive, his voice laced with impatience. “What?”

He was more solid than I’d remembered. More angry. His eyes were more remote, the line of his mouth more cynical. I’d come looking for a boy who might have killed out of passion. I suspected the man standing in front of me would kill with professional detachment.

I took a moment to steady my voice, to formulate the lie. “I’m looking for Joe Juniak…”

“You got the wrong apartment. There’s no Juniak here.”

I feigned confusion. Forced a tight smile. “Sorry…” I took a step backward and was about to bolt down the stairs when recognition hit Morelli.

“Jesus Christ!” he said. “Stephanie Plum?”

I was familiar with the tone of voice and the sentiment behind it. My father used that same tone when he caught the Smullens’ dog lifting its leg on his hydrangea bush. Fine by me, I told myself. Get it straight from the beginning there was no love lost between us. That made my job easier.

“Joseph Morelli,” I said. “What a surprise.”

His expression narrowed. “Yeah. Almost as surprising as when you nailed me with your father’s car.”

In the interest of avoiding confrontation, I felt compelled to explain. I didn’t feel obliged to do it convincingly. “It was an accident. My foot slipped.”

“That was no accident. You jumped the goddamn curb and followed me down the sidewalk. You could have killed me.” He leaned beyond the doorjamb and looked the length of the hallway. “So what are you really doing here? You read about me in the papers and decide my life wasn’t fucked up enough?”

My plan evaporated in a rush of pique. “I could care less about your fucked-up life,” I snapped. “I’m working for my cousin Vinnie. You’re in violation of your bond agreement.”

Good going, Stephanie. Wonderful control.

He grinned. “Vinnie sent you to bring me in?”

“You think that’s funny?”

“Yeah, I do. And I have to tell you, I really enjoy a good joke these days, because I haven’t had much to laugh about lately.”

I could appreciate his point of view. If I was looking at twenty years to life, I wouldn’t be laughing either. “We need to talk.”

“Talk fast. I’m in a hurry.”

I figured I had about forty seconds to convince him to give himself up. Hit him with the heavy stuff right off, I thought. Appeal to his familial guilt. “What about your mother?”

“What about her?”

“She signed the bond agreement. She’s going to be responsible for $100,000. She’ll have to mortgage her house. And what will she say to everyone, that her son Joe was too cowardly to stand trial?”

The contours of his face hardened. “You’re wasting your time. I have no intention of going back into custody. They’ll lock me up and throw away the key, and in the process I stand an excellent chance of getting dead. You know what happens to cops in prison. It’s not nice. And if you want to know more of the ugly truth, you’d be the last person I’d let collect the bounty money. You’re a lunatic. You ran me over with a goddamn Buick.”

I’d been telling myself I didn’t give a hoot about Morelli and his opinion of me, but in all honesty, his animosity hurt. Deep down inside, I’d wanted him to hold a tender feeling for me. I wanted to ask him why he’d never called after he’d seduced me in the bakery. Instead, I yelled at him. “You deserved to get run over. And besides, I barely tapped you. The only reason you broke your leg was because you panicked and tripped over your own feet.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t sue you.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t put the car into reverse and back over you three or four times.”

Morelli rolled his eyes and threw his hands into the air. “I gotta go. I’d love to stand around and try to understand female logic…”

“Female logic? Excuse me?”

Morelli turned from the door, shrugged into a lightweight sports coat, and grabbed the black nylon duffel from the floor. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

“Where are you going?”

He nudged me aside, shoved an ugly black gun under the waistband of his Levis, locked his door, and pocketed the key. “None of your business.”

“Listen.” I said, following him down the stairs. “I may be new at this apprehension stuff, but I’m not stupid, and I’m not a quitter. I told Vinnie I’d bring you in and that’s exactly what I intend to do. You can run if you want, but I’ll track you down and find you, and I’ll do whatever is necessary to apprehend you.”

What a load of bull! I couldn’t believe I was saying it. I’d been lucky to find him this first time, and the only way I was ever going to apprehend him was if I stumbled upon him already bound, gagged, and knocked unconscious. Even then, I wasn’t sure how far I could drag him.

He left through a back entrance and headed for a latemodel car parked close to the building. “Don’t bother tracing the plate,” he said. “The car is borrowed. I’ll have a different one an hour from now. And, don’t waste your energy following me. I’ll lose you. I guarantee it.”

He dumped the duffel onto the front seat, started to get into the car, and stopped. He turned and straightened, hooked an elbow over the door frame, and for the first time since I’d popped up on his doorstep he took a few moments to actually look at me. The first rush of angry emotion was gone, and in its place was quiet assessment. This was the cop, I thought. The Morelli I didn’t know. The grownup Morelli, if such an animal existed. Or maybe it was just the old Morelli, looking for a new angle.

“I like the way you’ve let your hair go curly,” he finally said. “Suits your personality. Lots of energy, not much control, sexy as hell.”

“You know nothing about my personality.”

“I know about the sexy as hell part.”

I felt my face burn. “Tactless of you to remind me.”

Morelli grinned. “You’re right. And, you could be right about the Buick business, too. I probably deserved to get run over.”

“Was that an apology?”

“No. But you can hold the flashlight next time we play train.”

IT WAS ALMOST ONE when I returned to Vinnie’s office. I slouched in a chair by Connie’s desk and tipped my head back to get maximum benefit from the air-conditioning.

“You been out jogging?” Connie asked. “I haven’t seen that much sweat since Nixon.”

“My car doesn’t have air.”

“Bummer. How’s it going with Morelli? You get any leads?”

“That’s why I’m here. I need help. This capturing stuff isn’t as easy as it sounds. I need to talk to someone who’s an expert at this job.”

“I know just the guy. Ranger. His full name is Ricardo Carlos Mañoso. Second generation Cuban-American. Was Special Forces. Works for Vinnie now. He makes apprehensions other agents only dream about. He gets a little creative sometimes, but hey, that’s the way it is with a genius, right?”

“Creative?”

“Doesn’t always play by the rules.”

“Oh.”

“Like Clint Eastwood in that Dirty Harry movie,” Connie said. “You don’t have a problem with Clint Eastwood, do you?”

She punched a number on her speed dial, connected with Mañoso’s pager, and left a call-back message. “Not to worry,” she said, smiling. “This guy’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

An hour later, I sat across from Mañoso in a downtown cafe. His straight black hair was slicked back in a ponytail. His biceps looked like they’d been carved out of granite and buffed up with Armour-all. He was around 5’10“ with a muscular neck and a don’t-mess-with-me body. I placed him in his late twenties.

He leaned back and grinned. “Sooooo, Connie says I’m supposed to make you into a badass fugitive apprehension agent. She says you need to get the crash course. What’s the rush?”

“You see the brown Nova at the curb?”

His eyes swiveled to the front window. “Un huh.”

“That’s my car.”

He gave an almost imperceptible nod. “So you need money. Anything else?”

“Personal reasons.”

“Bond enforcement is dangerous business. Those personal reasons better be pretty fucking good.”

“What are your reasons for doing this?”

He did a palms up gesture. “It’s what I do best.”

Good answer, I thought. More eloquent than mine. “Maybe someday I’ll be good at this too. Right now my motive is steady employment.”

“Vinnie give you a skip?”

“Joseph Morelli.”

He tipped his head back and laughed, and the sound boomed off the walls of the little sandwich shop. “Oh, man! Are you kidding me? You aren’t gonna get that dude. This isn’t some street punk you’re going after. This guy’s smart. And he’s good. You know what I’m telling you?”

“Connie says you’re good.”

“There’s me, and then there’s you, and you aren’t ever gonna be as good as me, Sweet Thing.”

At the best of times my patience was lacking, and this wasn’t nearly the best of times. “Let me make my position clear to you,” I said, leaning forward. “I’m out of work. I’ve had my car repossessed, my refrigerator is empty I’m going to get kicked out of my apartment, and my feet don’t fit in these shoes. I haven’t got a lot of energy to waste socializing. Are you going to help me or what?”

Mañoso grinned. “This is gonna be fun. This here’s gonna be like Professor Higgins and Eliza Doolittle Does Trenton.”

“What do I call you?” I asked him.

“My street name. Ranger.”

He reached across the table and took the paperwork I’d brought. He scanned the bond agreement. “You do anything on this yet? You check out his apartment?”

“He wasn’t there, but I got lucky and found him in an apartment on State Street. I got there just as he was leaving.”

“And?”

“He left.”

“Shit,” Ranger said. “Didn’t anybody tell you that you were supposed to stop him?”

“I asked him to come to the police station with me, but he said he didn’t want to.”

Another bark of laughter. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a gun?”

“You think I should get one?”

“Might be a good idea,” he said, still beaming. He finished reading the bond agreement. “Morelli offed a guy named Ziggy Kulesza. Used his personal piece to put a .45 hydroshock between Ziggy’s eyes at close range.” Ranger glanced up at me. “You know anything about guns?”

“I know I don’t like them.”

“A .45 hydroshock goes in nice and neat, but when it comes out it makes a hole the size of a potato. You end up with brains all over the place. Ziggy’s head probably exploded like an egg in a microwave.”

“Gee, I’m glad you shared that with me.”

His smile lit up the room. “I figured you’d want to know.” He tipped back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “You know any of the background on this case?”

“According to newspaper articles Morty Beyers clipped to the bond agreement, the shooting took place late at night a little over a month ago in an apartment building on Shaw. Morelli was off duty and had gone to visit Carmen Sanchez. Morelli claimed Carmen had called him concerning a police matter, that he’d responded, and that when he got to Carmen’s apartment, Ziggy Kulesza answered the door and drew on him. Morelli claimed he shot Ziggy in self-defense.

“Carmen’s neighbors told a different story. Several of them rushed into the hall at the sound of gunfire and found Morelli standing over Kulesza with a smoking gun. One of the tenants subdued Morelli until the police arrived. None of the tenants could remember seeing a gun in Ziggy’s hand, and the immediate investigation didn’t turn up any evidence that Ziggy had been armed.

“Morelli had placed a second man in Carmen’s apartment at the time of the shooting, and three of the tenants remembered seeing an unfamiliar face, but the man apparently disappeared before the police came on the scene.”

“And what about Carmen?” Ranger asked.

“No one could remember seeing Carmen. The last article was written a week after the shooting, and as of that date, Carmen still hadn’t surfaced.”

Ranger nodded. “You know anything else?”

“That’s about it.”

“The guy Morelli shot worked for Benito Ramirez. The name mean anything?”

“Ramirez is a boxer.”

“More than a boxer. He’s a fucking wonder. Heavyweight. The biggest thing to happen to Trenton since George shafted the Hessians. Trains in a gym on Stark Street. Ziggy used to stick to Ramirez like white on rice. Sometimes Ziggy’d do some sparring. Mostly Ramirez kept him on as a gofer and a bodyguard.”

“There any word on the street about why Morelli shot Kulesza?”

Ranger gave me a slow stare. “None. But Morelli must have had a good reason. Morelli’s a cool guy, and if a cop wants to pop someone, there are ways.”

“Even cool cops make mistakes.”

“Not like this, babe. Not Morelli.”

“So what are you telling me?”

“I’m telling you to be careful.”

All of a sudden I had a sick feeling in my stomach. This wasn’t just some slick adventure I was embarking upon to make a fast buck. Catching Morelli would be difficult. And turning him back in to the court would feel mean. He wasn’t my favorite person, but I didn’t hate him enough to want to see him spend the rest of his life in prison.

“You still want to tag him?” Ranger asked.

I was silent.

“If you don’t do it, someone else will,” Ranger said. “That’s something you got to learn. And, you got no business making judgments. You just do your job, and bring the man in. Got to trust in the system.”

“Do you trust in the system?”

“Beats the shit out of anarchy.”

“There’s a lot of money involved here. If you’re so good, why didn’t Vinnie give Morelli to you? Why did he originally give him to Morty Beyers?”

“Vinnie moves in mysterious ways.”

“Anything else I should know about Morelli?”

“If you want your money, you better find your man fast. Rumor has it the judicial system is the least of his problems.”

“Are you telling me there’s a contract out on him?”

Ranger made a gun sign with his hand. “Bang.”

“You sure about this rumor?”

He shrugged. “Just repeating what I heard.”

“The plot thickens,” I said to Ranger.

“Like I said before, you don’t care about the plot. Your job is simple. Find the man, bring him in.”

“Do you think I can do it?”

“No.”

If he was trying to discourage me, that was the wrong answer. “Will you help me anyway?”

“Long as you don’t tell nobody. Wouldn’t want to tarnish my image by looking like a good guy.”

I nodded. “Okay, where do I begin?”

“First thing we need to do is get you outfitted. And while we collect your hardware, I’m gonna tell you about the law.”

“This isn’t going to be expensive, is it?”

“My time and knowledge are coming to you free of charge because I like you, and I always wanted to be Professor Higgins, but handcuffs cost $40 a pair. You got plastic?”

I was all out of plastic. I’d hocked my few pieces of good jewelry and sold my living room sleep sofa to one of my neighbors to make my charge card payments. My major appliances had gone for the Nova. The only thing left was a small cache of emergency money which I’d steadfastly refused to touch. I’d been saving it to use on orthopedic reconstruction after the bill collectors broke my knees.

Well hell, it probably wasn’t nearly enough money for new knees anyway. “I have a few dollars set aside,” I said.

I DROPPED MY NEW BIG BLACK LEATHER SHOULDER BAG on the floor by my chair and took my place at the dinner table. My mother and father and Grandma Mazur were already seated, waiting to hear to hear how it went with Vinnie.

“You’re twelve minutes late,” my mother said. “I was listening for sirens. You weren’t in an accident, were you?”

“I was working.”

“Already?” She turned to my father. “The first day on the job and your cousin has her working overtime. You should talk to him, Frank.”

“It’s not like that,” I told her. “My hours are flexible.”

“Your father worked at the post office for thirty years, and he never once came home late for dinner.”

A sigh popped out before I could squelch it.

“So what’s with the sigh?” my mother asked. “And the new pocketbook. When did you get the new pocketbook?”

“I got the pocketbook today. I need to carry some things around with me for this job. I had to get a bigger bag.”

“What things do you need? I thought you were doing filing.”

“I didn’t get that job. I got another job.”

“What job did you get?”

I poured ketchup on my meatloaf and barely restrained a second sigh. “Recovery agent,” I said. “I’ve got a job as a recovery agent.”

“A recovery agent,” my mother repeated. “Frank, do you know what a recovery agent is?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Bounty hunter.”

My mother slapped her forehead and rolled her eyes. “Stephanie, Stephanie, Stephanie, what are you thinking of? This is no kind of work for a nice young lady.”

“It’s a legitimate, respectable job,” I said. “It’s like being a cop or a private investigator.” Neither one of which I had ever considered to be especially respectable.

“But you don’t know anything about this.”

“It’s simple,” I said. “Vinnie gives me an FTA, and then I find him and escort him back to the police station.”

“What’s an FTA?” my mother wanted to know.

“It’s a person who’s Failed To Appear.”

“Maybe I could be a bounty hunter,” Grandma Mazur said. “I could use to earn some spending money. I could go after those FTAs with you.”

“Jesus,” my father said.

My mother ignored both of them. “You should learn to make slipcovers,” she said to me. “There’s always a need for slipcovers.” She looked at my father. “Frank, don’t you think she should learn to make slipcovers? Isn’t that a good idea?”

I felt the muscles tense along my spine and made an effort to relax. Buck up, I told myself. This was good practice for tomorrow morning when I intended to visit Morelli’s mother.

IN THE ORDER OF THE BURG, Joseph Morelli’s mother made my mother look like a second-rate housewife. My mother was no slouch, but by burg standards, Mrs. Morelli was a housewife of heroic proportions. God himself couldn’t get windows cleaner, wash whiter, or make better ziti than Mrs. Morelli. She never missed mass, she sold Amway in her spare time, and she scared the beejeebers out of me with her piercing black eyes. I didn’t think Mrs. Morelli was likely to snitch on her last born, but she was on my quiz list anyway. No stone unturned.

Joe’s father could have been bought for five bucks and a sixpack, but his father was dead.

I’d opted for a professional image this morning, dressing in a tailored beige linen suit, complete with pantyhose and heels and tasteful pearl earrings. I parked at the curb, climbed the porch stairs, and knocked on the Morelli front door.

“Well,” Momma Morelli said, standing behind the screen, staring out at me with a degree of censure usually reserved for atheists and slackers. “Look who’s here on my porch, bright and early… little miss bounty hunter.” She boosted her chin up an additional inch. “I heard all about you and your new job, and I have nothing to say to you.”

“I need to find Joe, Mrs. Morelli. He missed a court appearance.”

“I’m sure he had good reason.”

Yeah. Like he’s guilty as hell. “I tell you what, I’ll leave my card, just in case. I got them made yesterday.” I rooted through the big black bag, finding handcuffs, hair spray, flashlight, hairbrush—no cards. I tipped the bag to look inside, and my gun fell out onto the green indoor-outdoor carpeting.

“A gun,” Mrs. Morelli said. “What is this world coming to? Does your mother know you’re carrying a gun? I’m going to tell her. I’m going to call and tell her right now.”

She sent me a look of utter disgust and slammed the front door shut.

I was thirty years old, and Mrs. Morelli was going to tell my mother on me. Only in the burg. I retrieved my gun, dumped it back into my purse, and found my cards. I stuck one of the cards between the screen and the molding. Then I drove the short distance back to my parents’ house and used their phone to call my cousin Francie, who knew everything about everyone.

He’s long gone, Francie had said. He’s a smart guy and he’s probably wearing a fake mustache by now. He was a cop. He has contacts. He knows how to get a new social security number and start over far away. Give it up, Francie had said. You’ll never find him.

Intuition and desperation told me otherwise, so I called Eddie Gazarra, who was a Trenton cop and had been one of my very best friends since the day I was born. Not only was he a good friend, but he was married to my cousin, Shirley the Whiner. Why Gazarra had married Shirley was beyond my comprehension, but they’d been married for eleven years so I suppose they had something going between them.

I didn’t bother with chitchat when I got Gazarra. I went right to the heart of the matter, telling him about my job with Vinnie and asking what he knew about the Morelli shooting.

“I know it’s nothing you want to get involved in,” Gazarra said. “You want to work for Vinnie? Fine. Get him to give you some other case.”

“Too late. I’m doing this one.”

“This one has a real bad odor.”

“Everything in New Jersey has a bad odor. It’s one of the few things a person can count on.”

Gazarra lowered his voice. “When a cop gets charged with murder, it’s serious shit. Everybody gets touchy. And this murder was especially ugly because the physical evidence was so strong against Morelli. He was apprehended at the scene with the gun still warm in his hand. He claimed Ziggy was armed, but there was no weapon found, no bullet discharged into the opposite wall or floor or ceiling, no powder residue on Ziggy’s hand or shirt. The grand jury had no choice but to indict Morelli. And then if things aren’t bad enough… Morelli goes Failure To Appear. This is a black eye to the department and fucking embarrassing. You mention Morelli in the halls and everybody suddenly remembers they’ve got something to do. Nobody’s going to be happy about you sticking your nose in this. You go after Morelli and you’re gonna be swinging on a broken branch, high off the gound, all alone.”

“If I bring him in, I get $10,000.”

“Buy lottery tickets. Your chances will be better.”

“It’s my understanding that Morelli went to see Carmen Sanchez, but that Sanchez wasn’t there when he arrived.”

“Not only wasn’t she on the scene, but she’s disappeared off the face of the earth.”

“Still?”

“Still. And don’t think we haven’t looked for her.”

“What about the guy Morelli says was in the apartment with Ziggy. The mystery witness?”

“Vanished.”

I felt my nose wrinkle in disbelief. “Do you think this is odd?”

“I think it’s odder than odd.”

“Maybe Morelli went bad.”

I could feel Gazarra shrug over the phone line. “All I know is my cop intuition tells me something doesn’t add up.”

“You think Morelli’ll join the Foreign Legion?”

“I think he’ll stick around and work to improve his odds on longevity… or die trying.”

I was relieved to hear my opinion reinforced. “You have any suggestions?”

“None you want to hear.”

“Come on, Eddie. I need help.”

Another sigh. “You’re not going to find him hiding out with a relative or a friend. He’s smarter than that. The only thing I can think of is to look for Carmen Sanchez and the guy Morelli said was in the apartment with Ziggy. If I was Morelli, I’d want to get those two missing persons, either to prove my innocence, or to make sure they couldn’t prove my guilt. I haven’t a clue how you do this. We can’t find them and chances are you can’t find them either.”

I thanked Gazarra and hung up. Looking for the witnesses sounded like a good idea. I didn’t necessarily care that it was an impossible mission. What I cared about was that if I started running down leads on Carmen Sanchez, I might be following the same route as Morelli and maybe our paths would cross again.

Where to begin? Carmen’s apartment building. I could talk to her neighbors, maybe get a line on her friends and family. What else? Talk to the boxer, Benito Ramirez. If Ramirez and Ziggy were all that close, maybe Ramirez knew Carmen Sanchez. Maybe he even had some ideas about the missing witness.

I took a can of soda from the refrigerator and a box of Fig Newtons from the pantry, deciding to talk to Ramirez first.

STARK STREET STARTED DOWN BY THE RIVER, just north of the statehouse, and ran in a northeasterly direction. Crammed with small inner-city businesses, bars, crack houses, and cheerless three-story row houses, the street stretched close to a mile. Most of the row houses had been converted to apartments or rooms to let. Few were air-conditioned. All were overcrowded. When it was hot, residents spilled from the row houses onto the stoops and street corners, looking for air and action. At ten-thirty in the morning, the street was still relatively quiet.

I missed the gym first time around, rechecked the address from the page I’d torn out of my phone book, and doubled back, driving slowly, reading off street numbers. I caught the sign, Stark Street Gym, professionally lettered in black on a door window. Not much of an advertisement, but then I supposed they didn’t need much. They weren’t exactly in competition with Spa Lady. It took two additional blocks before I found a parking space.

I locked the Nova, hung my big black bag over my shoulder, and set out. I’d put the fiasco with Mrs. Morelli behind me, and felt pretty damn slick in my suit and heels, toting my bounty hunter hardware. Embarrassing as it was to admit, I was beginning to enjoy the role, thinking there was nothing like packing a pair of cuffs to put some spring into a woman’s step.

The gym sat in the middle of its block, over A & K Auto Body. The bay doors to the auto body were open, and catcalls and kissy sounds drifted out to me when I crossed the cement apron. My New Jersey heritage weighed heavy, demanding I respond with a few demeaning comments of my own, but discretion being the better part of valor, I kept my mouth shut and hurried on by.

Across the street, a shadowy figure pulled back from a filthy third-floor window, the movement catching my attention. Someone had been watching me. Not surprising. I’d roared down the street not once, but twice. My muffler had fallen off first thing this morning, and my engine noise had rumbled off the Stark Street brick storefronts. This wasn’t what you’d call an undercover operation.

The door to the gym opened onto a small foyer with steps leading up. The stairwell walls were institutional green, covered with spray-painted graffiti and twenty years’ worth of hand smudges. The smell was bad, ripe with urine steaming on the lower steps, bonding with the musty aroma of stale male sweat and body odor. Upstairs, the warehouse-style second floor was no better.

A handful of men were working the free weights. The ring was empty. No one was at the bags. I figured everybody must be out jumping rope or stealing cars. It was the last flip thought I entertained. Activity faltered when I entered, and if I’d been uncomfortable on the street, it hardly counted at all to what I felt here. I’d expected a champion to be surrounded by an aura of professionalism. I hadn’t anticipated the atmosphere to be charged with hostility and suspicion. I was clearly a street-ignorant white woman invading a black man’s gym, and if the silent rebuke had been any more forceful I’d have been hurled backward, down the stairs like a victim of a poltergeist.

I took a wide stance (more to keep myself from falling over in fright than to impress the boys) and hitched up my shoulder bag. “I’m looking for Benito Ramirez.”

A hulking mountain of muscle rose from a workout bench. “I’m Ramirez.”

He was over 6‘ tall. His voice was silky, his lips curved into a dreamy smile. The overall effect was eerie, the voice and the smile at odds to the stealthy, calculating eyes.

I crossed the room and extended my hand. “Stephanie Plum.”

“Benito Ramirez.”

His grasp was too gentle, too lingering. More of a caress than a handshake and unpleasantly sensual. I stared into his hooded, close-set eyes and wondered about prizefighters. Until this moment, I’d assumed boxing was a sport of skill and aggression, directed toward winning the match, not necessarily toward maiming the opponent. Ramirez looked like he’d enjoy the kill. There was something about the density of his eyes, black holes where everything gets sucked in and nothing comes out, that suggested a hiding place for evil. And the smile, a little goofy, a little sick in its sweetness, hinting of insanity. I wondered if this was a contrived image, designed to spook opponents before the bell. Contrived or not, it was creepy as hell.

I made an attempt to free my hand, and his grip tightened.

“So, Stephanie Plum,” he said in his velvet voice. “What can I do for you?”

As a buyer for E.E. Martin, I’d dealt with my share of slime. I’d learned how to assert myself and still be pleasant and professional. My face and voice told Ramirez I was friendly. My words were more to the point. “You can release my hand, so I can give you my card,” I said.

His smile stayed fixed in place, more amiable and inquisitive now than crazy. I gave him my card and watched him read it.

“Fugitive apprehension agent,” he said, obviously amused. “That’s a big title for a little girl.”

I’d never thought of myself as little until I’d stood along-side Ramirez. I’m 5‘ 7“ and rawboned from the Mazur’s good Hungarian peasant stock. Perfectly constructed for laboring in the paprika fields, pulling plows, and dropping babies out like bird’s eggs. I ran and periodically starved to keep the fat off, but I still weighed in at 130. Not heavy, but not dainty, either. ”I’m looking for Joe Morelli. Have you seen him?“

Ramirez shook his head. “I don’t know Joe Morelli. I only know he shot Ziggy.” He looked around at the rest of the men. “Any of you seen that guy Morelli?”

No one responded.

“I’ve been told there was a witness to the shooting and that the witness has disappeared,” I said. “Do you have any idea who that witness might be?”

Again, no response.

I pushed on. “How about Carmen Sanchez? Do you know Carmen? Did Ziggy ever speak of her?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” Ramirez said.

We were standing close to the big old-fashioned windows in the front of the room, and for no reason other than instinct, I shifted my attention to the building across the street. Again, the shadowy figure in the same third-floor window. A man, I thought. I couldn’t tell if he was black or white. Not that it mattered.

Ramirez stroked my jacket sleeve. “Would you like a Coke? We got a Coke machine here. I could buy you a soda.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I have a busy morning, and I really should be moving along. If you spot Morelli, I’d appreciate a call.”

“Most girls think it’s a treat for the champ to buy them a soda.”

Not this girl, I thought. This girl thought the champ was possibly missing a few marbles. And this girl didn’t like the climate of the gym.

“I’d really love to stay and have a soda,” I said, “but I have an early lunch date.” With a box of Fig Newtons.

“It’s not good to go rushing around. You should stay and relax a little. Your date won’t mind.”

I shifted my weight, trying to inch away while I enhanced the lie. “Actually, it’s a business luncheon with Sergeant Gazarra.”

“I don’t believe you,” Ramirez said. His smile had turned tight, and the civility had slipped from his voice. “I think you’re lying about lunch.”

I felt tendrils of panic curl into my stomach, and I cautioned myself not to overreact. Ramirez was playing with me. Showing off in front of his friends. Probably stung because I hadn’t succumbed to his charms. Now he had to save face.

I made a display of looking at my watch. “Sorry you feel that way, but I’m supposed to meet Gazarra in ten minutes. He’s not going to be pleased if I’m late.”

I took a step backward, and Ramirez grabbed me by the scruff of my neck, his fingers digging in with enough force to make me hunch involuntarily.

“You’re not going anywhere, Stephanie Plum,” he whispered. “The champ isn’t done with you yet.”

The silence in the gym was oppressive. No one moved. No one voiced an objection. I looked at each of the men and received only blank stares back. No one’s going to help me, I thought, feeling the first licks of real fear.

I lowered my voice to match Ramirez’s soft pitch. “I came here as a member of the law enforcement community. I came looking for information to help me with the recovery of Joe Morelli, and I gave you no reason to misinterpret my intentions. I’m conducting myself as a professional, and I expect you to respect that.”

Ramirez dragged me closer. “Something you got to understand about the champ,” he said. “First off, you don’t tell the champ about respect. And second, you got to know the champ always gets what he wants.” He gave me a shake. “You know what the champ wants right now? The champ wants you to be nice to him, baby. Real nice. Gotta make up for refusing him. Show him some respect.” His gaze shifted to my breasts. “Maybe show him some fear. You afraid of me, bitch?”

Any woman with an IQ over twelve would be afraid of Benito Ramirez.

He giggled and all the little hairs on my arm stood straight out.

“You’re scared now,” he said in his whispery voice. “I can smell it. Pussy fear. Bet it making your pants wet. Maybe I should put my hand in your pants and find out.”

I had a gun in my bag, and I’d use it if I had to, but not until all else had failed. Ten minutes of instruction hadn’t made me a crack shot. That’s okay, I told myself. I didn’t want to kill anyone. I just wanted to back everyone up enough to get the hell out. I slid my hand over the leather bag until I felt the gun, hard and unyielding under my palm.

Reach in, get the gun, I thought. Take aim at Ramirez and look serious. Could I pull the trigger? I honestly didn’t know. I had my doubts. I hoped I wouldn’t have to take it that far.

“Let go of my neck,” I said. “This is the last time I’m telling you.”

“Nobody tell the champ what to do,” he roared, his composure gone, his face twisted and ugly. For a split second the door swung open, and I caught a glimpse of the inner man—a glimpse of insanity, and of hellfires burning and hatred so strong it whipped my breath away.

He grabbed the front of my shirt, and over my scream, I heard the fabric tear.

In times of crisis, when a person reacts on instinct, that person does whatever is most comfortable. I did what any other American woman would do in a similar circumstance. I roundhoused Ramirez square on the side of his head with my purse. Between the gun and the beeper and the other assorted paraphernalia, the bag must have weighed at least ten pounds.

Ramirez staggered sideways, and I bolted for the stairs. I didn’t get five feet before he jerked me back by my hair and flung me across the room like a rag doll. I lost footing and went facedown to the floor, my hands hitting first, skidding over unvarnished wood, my body following, the impact knocking the air from my lungs.

Ramirez straddled me, his butt on my back, his hand fisting in my hair, pulling savagely. I grabbed at my bag, but I was unable to get to the gun.

I heard the crack of a high-powered weapon, and the front windows shattered. More shots. Someone was emptying a clip into the gym. Men were running and shouting, looking for cover. Ramirez was among them. I was moving, too, crab style across the floor, my legs not able to support me. I reached the stairs, stood, and lunged for the railing. I missed the second step, too panicked to coordinate my movements, and half slid the rest of the way down to the cracked linoleum landing at street level. I dragged myself to my feet and staggered outside into the heat and blinding sunlight. My stockings were torn and my knees were bleeding. I was hanging onto the door handle, laboring to breathe when a hand clamped onto my upper arm. I jumped and yelped. It was Joe Morelli.

“For crissake,” he said, yanking me forward. “Don’t just stand here. Haul ass!”

I wasn’t sure Ramirez cared enough about me to come charging down the stairs, but it seemed prudent not to hang around and find out, so I clattered after Morelli with my chest burning from oxygen deprivation and my skirt hiked up to my crotch. Kathleen Turner would have made it look good on the big screen. I was something less than glamorous. My nose was running, and I think I was drooling. I was grunting in pain and sniveling from fear, making ugly animal sounds and inventive promises to God.

We turned at the corner, cut through an alley on the next block, and ran down a narrow one-lane road carved out between backyards. The road was lined with broken-down single-car wooden garages and overflowing bashed-in garbage cans.

Sirens sounded two blocks away. No doubt a couple of cruisers and an ambulance responding to the shooting. Hindsight told me I should have stayed close to the gym and conned the cops into helping me track down Morelli. Something to remember next time I’m almost raped and brutalized.

Morelli stopped abruptly and jerked me into an empty garage. The double doors were cocked open enough to slide through, not enough for a passerby to see inside. The floor was packed dirt, and the air was close, smelling metallic. I was struck by the irony of it. Here I was, after all these years, once again in a garage with Morelli. I could see the anger in his face, hardening his eyes, pinching at the corners of his mouth. He grabbed me by the front of my suit jacket and pinned me against the crude wooden wall. The impact knocked dust from the rafters and made my teeth clack together.

His voice was tight with barely controlled fury. “What the hell did you think you were doing walking into the gym like that?”

He punctuated the end of the question with another body slam, rattling more filth onto the two of us.

“Answer me!” he ordered.

The pain was all mental. I’d been stupid. And now, to add insult to injury, I was getting bullied by Morelli. It was almost as humiliating as getting rescued by him. “I was looking for you.”

“Well congratulations, you found me. You also blew my cover, and I’m not happy about it.”

“You were the shadow in the third-floor window, watching the gym from across the street.”

Morelli didn’t say anything. In the dark garage his eyes were dilated solid black.

I mentally cracked my knuckles. “And, now I guess there’s only one thing left to do.”

“I can hardly wait to hear this.”

I shoved my hand into my shoulder bag, pulled out my revolver, and jabbed Morelli in the chest with it. “You’re under arrest.”

His eyes opened wide in astonishment. “You have a gun! Why didn’t you use it on Ramirez? Jesus, you hit him with your pocketbook like some sissy girl. Why the hell didn’t you use your damn gun?”

I felt color flooding into my cheeks. What could I say? The truth was worse than embarrassing. It was counter-productive. Admitting to Morelli that I’d been more afraid of my gun than I’d been of Ramirez wasn’t going to do much to further my credibility as an apprehension agent.

It didn’t take Morelli long to put it together. He made a disgusted sound, pushed the barrel aside and took the gun from me. “If you aren’t willing to use it, you shouldn’t be carrying it. You have a permit to carry a concealed weapon?”

“Yes.” And I was at least ten percent convinced it was legal.

“Where’d you get your permit?”

“Ranger got it for me.”

“Ranger Mañoso? Christ, he probably made it in his cellar.” He shook out the bullets and gave the gun back to me. “Find a new job. And stay away from Ramirez. He’s nuts. He’s been charged with rape on three separate occasions and been acquitted each time because the victim always disappears.”

“I didn’t know…”

“There’s a lot you don’t know.”

His attitude was beginning to piss me off. I was only too well aware that I had a lot to learn about apprehension. I didn’t need Morelli’s sarcastic superiority. “So what’s your point.”

“Get off my case. You want a career in law enforcement? Fine. Go for it. Just don’t learn on me. I have enough problems without worrying about saving your ass.”

“No one asked you to save my ass. I would have saved my own ass if you hadn’t interfered.”

“Honey, you couldn’t find your ass with both hands.”

My palms were skinned and burned like the devil. My scalp was sore. My knees throbbed. I wanted to go back to my apartment and stand in a hot shower for five or six hours until I felt clean and strong. I wanted to get away from Morelli and regroup. “I’m going home.”

“Good idea,” he said. “Where’s your car?”

“Stark Street and Tyler.”

He flattened himself at the side of the door and took a quick look out. “It’s okay.”

My knees had stiffened up, and the blood had dried and caked on what was left of my pantyhose. Limping seemed like an indulgent weakness not to be witnessed by the likes of Morelli, so I forged ahead, thinking ouch, ouch, ouch but not saying a word. When we got to the corner I realized he was walking me all the way to Stark. “I don’t need an escort,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”

He had his hand at my elbow, steering me forward. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not nearly so concerned about your welfare as I am about getting you the hell out of my life. I want to make sure you leave. I want to see your tailpipe fading off into the sunset.”

Good luck, I thought. My tailpipe was somewhere on Route 1, along with my muffler.

We reached Stark, and I faltered at the sight of my car. It had been parked on the street for less than an hour, and in that time it had been spray-painted from one end to the other. Mostly Day-Glo pink and green, and the predominant word on both sides was “pussy.” I checked the plate and looked in the back seat for the box of Fig Newtons. Yep, this was my car.

One more indignity in a day filled with indignities. Did I care. Not a whole lot. I was numb. I was becoming immune to indignity. I searched through my bag for my keys, found them, and plugged them into the door.

Morelli rocked back on his heels, hands in his pockets, a grin beginning to creep to his lips. “Most people are content with pinstriping and a vanity plate.”

“Eat dirt and die.”

Morelli tipped his head back and laughed out loud. His laughter was deep and rich and infectious, and if I hadn’t been so distraught, I’d have laughed along with him. As it was, I jerked the car door open and rammed myself behind the wheel. I turned the key in the ignition, gave the dash a good hard smack, and left him choking in a cloud of exhaust and a blast of noise that had the potential to liquify his insides.

OFFICIALLY, I LIVED AT THE EASTERN BOUNDARY of the city of Trenton, but in actuality my neighborhood felt more like Hamilton Township than Trenton proper. My apartment building was an ugly dark red brick cube built before central air and thermal pane windows. Eighteen apartments in all, evenly distributed over three floors. By modern-day standards it wasn’t a terrific apartment. It didn’t come with a pool membership or have tennis courts attached. The elevator was unreliable. The bathroom was vintage Partridge family with mustard yellow amenities and French Provincial trim on the vanity. The kitchen appliances were a notch below generic.

The good part about the apartment was that it had been built with sturdy stuff. Sound didn’t carry from apartment to apartment. The rooms were large and sunny. Ceilings were high. I lived on the second floor, and my windows overlooked the small private parking lot. The building predated the balcony boom, but I was lucky enough to have an old-fashioned black metal fire escape skirt my bedroom window. Perfect for drying pantyhose, quarantining houseplants with aphids, and just big enough for sitting out on sultry summer nights.

Most important of all, the ugly brick building wasn’t part of a sprawling complex of other ugly brick buildings. It sat all by itself on a busy street of small businesses, and it bordered a neighborhood of modest frame houses. Very much like living in the burg… but better. My mother had a hard time stretching the umbilical this far, and the bakery was only one block away.

I parked in the lot and slunk into the back entrance. Since Morelli wasn’t around, I didn’t have to be brave, so I bitched and complained and limped all the way to my apartment. I showered, did the first-aid thing, and dressed in T-shirt and shorts. My knees were missing the top layer of skin and were bruised, already turning shades of magenta and midnight blue. My elbows were in pretty much the same condition. I felt like a kid who’d fallen off her bike. I could hear myself singing out “I can do it; I can do it,” and then next thing I know, I’m lying on the ground, looking the fool, with two scraped knees.

I flopped onto my bed, spread-eagle on my back. This was my thinking position when things appeared to be futile. It had obvious advantages: I could nap while I waited for something brilliant to pop into my mind. I lay there for what seemed like a long time. Nothing brilliant had popped into my mind, and I was too agitated to sleep.

I couldn’t stop reliving my experience with Ramirez. I’d never before been attacked by a man. Never even come close. The afternoon’s assault had been a degrading, frightening experience, and now that the dust had settled, and calmer emotions prevailed, I felt violated and vulnerable.

I considered filing a report with the police, but immediately shelved it. Whining to Big Brother wasn’t going to win any points for me as a rough, tough bounty hunter. I couldn’t see Ranger instituting an assault charge.

I’d been lucky, I told myself. I’d gotten away with superficial injuries. Thanks to Morelli.

The latter admission dragged a groan from me. Being rescued by Morelli had been damned embarrassing. And grossly unjust. All things considered, I didn’t think I was doing all that badly. I’d been on the case for less than forty-eight hours, and I’d found my man twice. True, I hadn’t been able to bring him in, but I was in a learning process. No one expected a first-year engineering student to build the perfect bridge. I figured I deserved to be cut the same kind of slack.

I doubted the gun would ever be of any use to me. I couldn’t imagine myself shooting Morelli. Possibly in the foot. But what were my chances of hitting a small moving target? Not good at all. Clearly I needed a less lethal way of subduing my quarry. Maybe a defense spray would be more my style. Tomorrow morning I’d go back to Sunny’s Gun Shop and add to my bag of dirty tricks.

My clock radio blinked 5:50 P.M. I looked at it dully, not immediately responding to the significance of the time, then horror ripped through me. My mother was expecting me for dinner again!

I sprang out of bed and raced to the phone. The phone was dead. I hadn’t paid my bill. I grabbed the car keys from the kitchen counter and hurtled out the door.

MY MOTHER WAS STANDING on the porch steps when I parked at the curb. She was waving her arms and shouting. I couldn’t hear her over the roar of the engine, but I could read her lips. “SHUT IT OFF!” she was yelling. “SHUT IT OFF!”

“Sorry,” I yelled back. “Broken muffler.”

“You’ve got to do something. I could hear you coming four blocks away. You’ll give old Mrs. Ciak heart palpitations.” She squinted at the car. “Did you have it decorated?”

“It happened on Stark Street. Vandals.” I pushed her into the hallway before she could read the words.

“Wow, nice knees,” Grandma Mazur said, bending down to take a closer look at my ooze. “I was watching some TV show last week, think it was Oprah, and they had a bunch of women on with knees like that. Said it was rug burn. Never figured out what that meant.”

“Christ,” my father said from behind his paper. He didn’t need to say more. We all understood his plight.

“It’s not rug burn,” I told Grandma Mazur. “I fell on my roller blades.” I wasn’t worried about the lie. I had a long history of calamitous mishaps.

I glanced at the dining room table. It was set with the good lace tablecloth. Company. I counted the plates. Five. I rolled my eyes heavenward. “Ma, you didn’t.”

“I didn’t what?”

The doorbell rang, and my worst fears were confirmed.

“It’s company. It’s no big deal,” my mother said, going to the door. “I guess I can invite company into my own house if I want to.”

“It’s Bernie Kuntz,” I said. “I can see him through the hall window.”

My mother stopped, hands on hips. “So, what’s wrong with Bernie Kuntz?”

“To begin with… he’s a man.”

“Okay, you had a bad experience. That don’t mean you should give up. Look at your sister Valerie. She’s happily married for twelve years. She has two beautiful girls.”

“That’s it. I’m leaving. I’m going out the back door.”

“Pineapple upside-down cake,” my mother said. “You’ll miss dessert if you leave now. And don’t think I’ll save some for you.”

My mother didn’t mind playing dirty if she thought the cause was worthy. She knew she had me locked in with the pineapple cake. A Plum would suffer a lot of abuse for a good dessert.

Grandma Mazur glared out at Bernie. “Who are you?”

“I’m Bernie Kuntz.”

“What do you want?”

I looked the length of the hall, and I could see Bernie shift uncomfortably on his feet.

“I’ve been invited for dinner,” Bernie said.

Grandma Mazur still had the screen door shut. “Helen,” she yelled over her shoulder, “there’s a young man at the door. He says he’s invited to dinner. Why didn’t someone tell me about this? Look at this old dress I’m wearing. I can’t entertain a man in this dress.”

I’d known Bernie since he was five. I’d gone to grade school with Bernie. We ate lunch together in grades one through three, and I would forever associate him with peanut butter and jelly on Wonder bread. I’d lost touch with him in high school. I knew he’d gone to college, and that after college he’d gone to work selling appliances in his father’s store.

He was medium height, with a medium build that had never lost its baby fat. He was all dressed up in shiny tassel loafers, dress slacks, and sports coat. So far as I could see, he hadn’t changed much since sixth grade. He looked like he still couldn’t add fractions, and the little metal pull on his zipper was sticking out, creating a tiny tent with his fly.

We took our seats at the table and concentrated on the business of eating.

“Bernie sells appliances,” my mother said, passing the red cabbage. “He makes good money at it, too. He drives a Bonneville.”

“A Bonneville. Imagine that,” Grandma Mazur said.

My father kept his head bent over his chicken. He rooted for the Mets, he wore Fruit of the Loom underwear, and he drove a Buick. His loyalties were carved in stone, and he wasn’t about to be impressed by some upstart of a toaster salesman who drove a Bonneville.

Bernie turned to me. “So what are you doing now?”

I fiddled with my fork. My day hadn’t exactly been a success, and announcing to the world that I was a fugitive apprehension agent seemed presumptuous. “I sort of work for an insurance company,” I told him.

“You mean like a claims adjuster?”

“More like collections.”

“She’s a bounty hunter!” Grandma Mazur announced. “She tracks down dirty rotten fugitives just like on television. She’s got a gun and everything.” She reached behind her to the sideboard, where I’d left my shoulder bag. “She’s got a whole pocketbook full of paraphernalia,” Grandma Mazur said, setting my bag on her lap. She pulled out the cuffs, the beeper, and a travel pack of tampons and set them on the table. “And here’s her gun,” she said proudly. “Isn’t it a beauty?”

I have to admit it was a pretty cool gun. It had a stainless steel frame and carved wood grips. It was a Smith and Wesson 5-shot revolver, model 60. A .38 Special. Easy to use, easy to carry, Ranger had said. And it had been much more reasonable than a semiautomatic, if you can call $400 reasonable.

“My God,” my mother shouted, “put it away! Someone take the gun from her before she kills herself!”

The cylinder was open and clearly empty of rounds. I didn’t know much about guns, but I knew this one couldn’t go bang without bullets. “It’s empty,” I said. “There are no bullets in it.”

Grandma Mazur had both hands wrapped around the gun with her finger on the trigger. She scrinched an eye closed and sighted on the china closet. “Ka-pow,” she said. “Ka-pow, kapow, ka-pow.”

My father was busy with the sausage dressing, studiously ignoring all of us.

“I don’t like guns at the table,” my mother said. “And the dinner’s getting cold. I’ll have to reheat the gravy.”

“This gun won’t do you no good if you don’t have bullets in it,” Grandma Mazur said to me. “How’re you gonna catch those killers without bullets in your gun?”

Bernie had been sitting open-mouthed through all of this. “Killers?”

“She’s after Joe Morelli,” Grandma Mazur told him. “He’s a bona fide killer and a bail dodger. He plugged Ziggy Kulesza right in the head.”

“I knew Ziggy Kulesza,” Bernie said. “I sold him a bigscreen TV about a year ago. We don’t sell many big screens. Too expensive.”

“He buy anything else from you?” I asked. “Anything recent?”

“Nope. But I’d see him sometimes across the street at Sal’s Butcher Shop. Ziggy seemed okay. Just a regular sort of person, you know?”

No one had been paying attention to Grandma Mazur. She was still playing with the gun, aiming and sighting, getting used to the heft of it. I realized there was a box of ammo beside the tampons. A scary thought skittered into my mind. “Grandma, you didn’t load the gun, did you?”

“Well of course I loaded the gun,” she said. “And I left the one hole empty like I saw on television. That way you can’t shoot nothing by mistake.” She cocked the gun to demonstrate the safety of her action. There was a loud bang, a flash erupted from the gun barrel, and the chicken carcass jumped on its plate.

“Holy mother of God!” my mother shrieked, leaping to her feet, knocking her chair over.

“Dang,” Grandma said, “guess I left the wrong hole empty.” She leaned forward to examine her handiwork. “Not bad for my first time with a gun. I shot that sucker right in the gumpy”

My father had a white-knuckle grip on his fork, and his face was cranberry red.

I scurried around the table and carefully took the gun from Grandma Mazur. I shook out the bullets and shoveled all my stuff back into my shoulder bag.

“Look at that broken plate,” my mother said. “It was part of the set. How will I ever replace it?” She moved the plate, and we all stared in silence at the neat round hole in the tablecloth and the bullet embedded in the mahogany table.

Grandma Mazur was the first to speak. “That shooting gave me an appetite,” she said. “Somebody pass me the potatoes.”

ALL IN ALL, Bernie Kuntz had handled the evening pretty well. He hadn’t wet his pants when Grandma Mazur shot off the chicken privates. He’d suffered through two helpings of my mother’s dreaded brussels sprouts casserole. And he’d been tolerably nice to me, even though it was obvious we weren’t destined to hit the sheets together and my family was nuts. His motives for geniality were clear. I was a woman lacking appliances. Romance is good for frittering away a few evening hours, but commissions will get you a vacation in Hawaii. Ours was a match made in heaven. He wanted to sell, and I wanted to buy, and I wasn’t unhappy to accept his offer of a 10 percent discount. And, as a bonus for sitting through the evening, I’d learned something about Ziggy Kulesza. He bought his meat from Sal Bocha, a man better known for making book than slicing fillet.

I tucked this information away for future reference. It didn’t seem significant now, but who knows what would turn out to be helpful.

I was at my table with a glass of iced tea and Morelli’s file, and I was trying to put together a plan of action. I’d made a bowl of popcorn for Rex. The bowl was on the table by me, and Rex was in the bowl, his cheeks puffed out with popcorn, his eyes bright, his whiskers a blur of motion.

“Well Rex,” I said, “what do you think? Do you think we’ll be able to catch Morelli?”

Someone tapped on my front door, and both Rex and I sat perfectly still with our radar humming. I wasn’t expecting anyone. Most of my neighbors were seniors. No one I was especially chummy with. No one I could imagine knocking on my door at nine-thirty at night. Mrs. Becker, maybe, on the third floor. Sometimes she forgot where she lived.

The tapping continued, and Rex and I swiveled our heads toward the door. It was a heavy metal fire door with a security peephole, a dead bolt, and a double-thick chain. When the weather was nice, I left my windows wide open all day and night, but I always kept my door locked. Hannibal and his elephants couldn’t have gotten through my front door, but my windows were welcome to any idiot who could climb a fire escape.

I put the splatter screen to my fry pan over the popcorn bowl so Rex couldn’t climb out and went to investigate. I had my hand on the doorknob when the tapping stopped. I looked through the peephole and saw nothing but blackness. Someone had a finger on my peephole. Not a good sign. “Who’s there?” I called.

A whisper of laughter filtered through the door frame, and I jumped back. The laughter was followed by a single word. “Stephanie.”

The voice was unmistakable. It was melodic and taunting. It was Ramirez.

“I’ve come to play with you, Stephanie,” he sang. “You ready to play?”

I felt my knees go slack, felt irrational fear swell in my chest. “Go away or I’ll call the police.”

“You can’t call anyone, bitch. You haven’t got a phone. I know because I tried your number.”

My parents have never been able to understand my need to be independent. They’re convinced I live a frightened, lonely life, and no amount of talking can persuade them otherwise. In truth, I’m almost never frightened. Maybe sometimes by gross multifooted insects. In my opinion, the only good spider is a dead spider, and woman’s rights aren’t worth dick if they mean I can’t ask a man to do my bug squashing. I don’t worry about serial skinheads bashing down my door or crawling through my open window. For the most part, they prefer to work the neighborhoods closer to the train station. Muggings and carjackings are also at a minimum in my neighborhood and almost never result in death.

Until this moment, my only truly worrisome times had been those infrequent occasions when I woke up in the middle of the night fearful of invasion by mystical horrors… ghosts, bogeymen, vampire bats, extraterrestrials. Held prisoner by my imagination gone berserk, I’d lay in bed, barely breathing, waiting to levitate. I must admit, it would be a comfort not to have to wait alone although, aside from Bill Murray, what good would another mortal be in the face of a spook attack, anyway? Fortunately, I’ve never done a total head rotation, been beamed up, or had an Elvis visitation. And the closest I’ve come to an out-of-body experience was when Joe Morelli took his mouth to me fourteen years ago, behind the éclair case.

Ramirez’s voice cut through the door. “Don’t like having unfinished business with a woman, Stephanie Plum. Don’t like when a woman run away from the champ.”

He tried the doorknob, and for a gut-cramping moment my heart leapt to my throat. The door held, and my pulse dropped down to prestroke level.

I did some deep breathing and decided the best course of action was simply to ignore him. I didn’t want to get into a shouting match. And I didn’t want to make things worse than they already were. I shut and locked my living room windows and drew the drapes tight. I hurried to my bedroom and debated using the fire escape to go for help. It felt foolish, somehow, lending more weight to the threat than I was willing to concede. This is no big deal, I told myself. Nothing to worry about. I rolled my eyes. Nothing to worry about… only a criminally insane, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man standing in my hall, calling me names.

I clapped a hand to my mouth to squelch a hysterical whine. Not to panic, I told myself. It wouldn’t be long before my neighbors would begin to investigate, and Ramirez would be forced to leave.

I got my gun out of my pocketbook and went back to the door for another look. The peephole was uncovered, and the hallway seemed empty. I put my ear to the door and listened. Nothing. I slid the bolt and cracked the door, leaving my megachain firmly attached and my gun at the ready. No Ramirez in sight. I unhooked the chain and peeked out into the hall. Very peaceful. He was definitely gone.

A splot of some noxious substance sliding down the front of my door caught my eye. I was pretty sure it wasn’t tapioca. I gagged, closed the door, and locked and chained it. Wonderful. Two days on the job and a world-class psycho had just jerked off on my door.

Things like this had never happened to me when I’d worked for E.E. Martin. Once a street person had urinated on my foot, and every now and then a man would drop his pants in the train station, but these were things you expected when you worked in Newark. I’d learned not to take them personally. This business with Ramirez was a whole other matter. This was very scary.

I yelped when a window opened and closed above me. Mrs. Delgado letting her cat out for the night, I told myself. Get a grip. I needed to get my mind off Ramirez, so I busied myself finding hockables. There wasn’t much left. A Walkman, an iron, pearl earrings from my wedding, a kitchen clock that looked like a chicken, a framed Ansel Adams poster, and two bean-pot table lamps. I hoped it was enough to pay my phone bill and get myself reconnected. I didn’t want a repeat performance of being trapped in my apartment, not able to call for help.

I returned Rex to his cage, brushed my teeth, changed into a nightshirt, and crawled into bed with every light in the apartment blazing away.

THE FIRST THING I DID ON WAKING the following morning was to check my peephole. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, so I took a fast shower and dressed. Rex was sound asleep in his soup can after a tough night of running on his wheel. I gave him fresh water and filled his cup with the dreaded hamster nuggets. A cup of coffee would have tasted great. Unfortunately, there was no coffee in the house.

I went to my living room window and scoped out the parking lot for Ramirez, and returned to the door and doubled-checked the peephole. I slid the bolt and opened my door with the chain in place. I put my nose to the crack and sniffed. I didn’t smell boxer, so I closed the door, unhooked the chain, and reopened the door. I looked out with my gun drawn. The hall was empty. I locked my door and crept down the hall. The elevator binged, the door droned open, and I almost shot old Mrs. Moyer. I apologized profusely, told her the gun wasn’t real, and slunk off to the stairs, lugging the first load of junk out to the car.

By the time Emilio opened his pawnshop, I was in caffeine withdrawal. I haggled over the earrings, but my heart wasn’t in it, and in the end I knew I’d gotten gypped. Not that I especially cared. I had what I needed. Money for a minor weapon, and the phone company, and enough change left over for a blueberry muffin and large coffee.

I took five minutes out to luxuriate over my breakfast, and then I hustled to the phone office. I stopped at a light and got hooted at by two guys in a pickup. From the hand gestures they were making I supposed they liked my paint job. I couldn’t hear what they were saying because of the engine noise. Thank God for small favors.

I noticed a haze building around me and realized I was smoking. Not the benign white exhaust of condensation on a cold day. This smoke was thick and black, and in the absence of a tailpipe was billowing out from my underbelly. I gave the dash a hard shot with my fist to see if any of the gauges would work, and sure enough, the red oil light blinked on. I pulled into a gas station on the next corner, bought a can of 10-W-30, dumped it in the car, and checked the dipstick. It was still low, so I added a second can.

Next stop, the phone company. Settling my account and arranging for service to be resumed were only slightly less complicated than getting a green card. Finally, I explained that my blind, senile grandmother was living with me between heart attacks and having a phone would possibly make the difference between life and death. I don’t think the woman behind the counter believed me, but I think I got a few entertainment points, and I was promised someone would throw a switch later in the day. Good deal. If Ramirez came back, I’d be able to dial the cops. As a backup, I intended to get a quart of defense spray. I wasn’t much good with a gun, but I was bitchin‘ with an aerosol can.

By the time I got to the gun store, the oil light was flickering again. I didn’t see any smoke, so I concluded the gauge must be stuck. And who cared anyway, I wasn’t squandering more money on oil. This car was just going to have to make do. When I collected my $10,000 bounty money I’d buy it all the oil it wanted—then I’d push it off a bridge.

I’d always imagined gun store owners to be big and burly and to wear baseball caps that advertised motorcycle companies. I’d always imagined them with names like Bubba and Billy Bob. This gun store was run by a woman named Sunny. She was in her forties with skin tanned the color and texture of a good cigar, hair that had been bleached to canary yellow frizz, and a two-pack-a-day voice. She was wearing rhinestone earrings, skintight jeans, and she had little palm trees painted on her fingernails.

“Nice work,” I said, alluding to her nails.

“Maura, at The Hair Palace, does them. She’s a genius with nails, and she’ll bikini wax you till you’re bald as a billiard ball.”

“I’ll have to remember.”

“Just ask for Maura. Tell her Sunny sent you. And what can I do for you today? Out of bullets already?”

“I need some defense spray.”

“What kind of spray do you use?”

“There’s more than one kind?”

“Goodness, yes. We carry a full line of self-defense sprays.” She reached into the case next to her and pulled out several shrink-wrapped packages. “This is the original Mace. Then we have Peppergard, the environmentally safe alternative now used by many police departments. And, last but certainly not least, is Sure Guard, a genuine chemical weapon. This can drop a three-hundred-pound man in six seconds. Works on neurotransmitters. This stuff touches your skin and you’re out cold. Doesn’t matter if you’re drunk or on drugs. One spray and it’s all over.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“You better believe it.”

“Is it fatal? Does it leave permanent damage?”

“The only permanent damage to your victim is going to be the memory of a downright humiliating experience. Of course there’ll be some initial paralysis, and when that wears off there’s usually a lot of throwing up and a monster headache.”

“I don’t know. What if I accidentally spray myself?”

She grimaced. “Darlin‘, you should avoid spraying yourself.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“It’s not complicated at all. It’s as simple as putting your finger on the button. For goodness sakes, you’re a professional now.” She patted my hand. “Take the Sure Guard. You can’t go wrong.”

I didn’t feel like a professional. I felt like an idiot. I’d criticized foreign governments for using chemical warfare, and here I was buying nerve gas from a woman who waxed off all her pubic hair.

“Sure Guard comes in several sizes,” Sunny said. “I carry the seventeen-gram key-chain model. It has its own stainless steel quick-release loop, comes in an attractive leather case, and you get to choose from three decorator colors.”

“Gee, three colors.”

“You should try it out,” Sunny told me. “Make sure you know how to use it.”

I stepped outside, held my arm straight out, and sprayed. The wind shifted, and I ran inside and slammed the door.

“That wind can be sneaky,” Sunny said. “Maybe you should go out the back way. You can exit through the gun range.”

I did as she suggested, and when I reached the street, I rushed to my car and jumped inside lest any droplets of Sure Guard were hanging around, waiting to attack my neurotransmitters. I shoved my key into the ignition and tried hard not to panic over the fact that I had tear gas under 125 pounds of pressure per square inch, which in my mind spelled nerve bomb, dangling between my knees. The engine caught and the oil light came on again, looking very red and a little frantic. Fuck it. Take a number, I thought. On my list of problems to solve, oil wasn’t even in the top ten.

I pulled into traffic and refused to check my rear-view mirror for telltale clouds of smoke. Carmen lived several blocks east of Stark Street. Not a great neighborhood, but not the worst, either. Her building was yellow brick and looked like it could do with a good scrubbing. Four stories. No elevator. Chipped tile in the small ground-floor foyer. Her apartment was on the second floor. I was sweating by the time I got to her door. The yellow crime-scene tape had been removed, but a padlock was in place. There were two other apartments on the second floor. I knocked on each door. No one home at the first. A Hispanic woman, Mrs. Santiago, somewhere in her late forties, early fifties answered the second. She had a baby on her hip. Her black hair was pulled neatly back from her round face. She wore a blue cotton housecoat and terrycloth bedroom slippers. A television droned from the dark interior of the apartment. I could see two small heads silhouetted against the screen. I introduced myself and gave her my card.

“I don’t know what more I can tell you,” she said. “This Carmen only lived here a short time. No one knew her. She was quiet. Kept to herself.”

“Have you seen her since the shooting?”

“No.”

“Do you know where she might be? Friends? Relatives?”

“I didn’t know her. Nobody knew her. They tell me she worked in a bar… the Step In on Stark Street. Maybe somebody knew her there.”

“Were you home the night of the shooting?”

“Yes. It was late, and Carmen had the television on real loud. I never heard her play it so loud. Then someone was banging on Carmen’s door. A man. Turned out he was a cop. I guess he had to bang because no one could hear him over the television. Then there was a gunshot. That’s when I called the police. I called the police, and when I got back to my front door I could hear there was a big commotion in the hall, so I looked out.”

“And?”

“And John Kuzack was there, and some others from the building. We take care of our own here. We aren’t like some of those people who pretend not to hear things. That’s why we have no drugs here. We never have this kind of trouble. John was standing over the cop when I looked out. John didn’t know the man was a cop. John saw someone shot dead in Carmen’s doorway, and this other man had a gun, so John took matters into his own hands.”

“Then what happened?”

“It was real confusing. There were so many people in the hall.”

“Was Carmen there?”

“I didn’t see her. There were just so many people. Everybody wanting to know what happened, you know? People trying to help the dead man, but it was no use. He was dead.”

“Supposedly there were two men in Carmen’s apartment. Did you see the second man?”

“I guess so. There was a man I didn’t know. Never saw before. Skinny, dark hair, dark skin, about thirty, funny face. Like it’d been hit with a frying pan. Real flat nose. That’s why I noticed him.”

“What happened to him?”

She shrugged. “Don’t know. I guess he just left. Like Carmen.”

“Maybe I should talk to John Kuzack.”

“He’s in 4B. He should be home. He’s between jobs right now.”

I thanked her and walked up two more flights of stairs, wondering what sort of person would be willing and able to disarm Morelli. I knocked at 4B and waited. I knocked again, loud enough to bruise my knuckles. The door was thrown open and my “what kind of person” question was answered. John Kuzack was 6‘ 4“ tall, weighed about two hundred and forty pounds, had his graying hair pulled into a ponytail, and had a rattler tattooed onto his forehead. He was holding a TV Guide in one hand and a can of beer in the other. The sweet aroma of pot drifted out of his hazy apartment. Vietnam vet, I thought. Airborne.

“John Kuzack?”

He squinted down at me. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m trying to get a lead on Joe Morelli. I was hoping you could tell me something about Carmen Sanchez.”

“You a cop?”

“I work for Vincent Plum. He posted the bond on Morelli.”

“I didn’t know Carmen Sanchez real good,” he said. “I’d seen her around. Said hello to her a couple times. She seemed nice enough. I was coming up the stairs when I heard the gunshot.”

“Mrs. Santiago, on the second floor, said you subdued the gunman.”

“Yeah. I didn’t know he was a cop. All I knew was he’d shot someone, and he was still armed. There were a lot of people coming into the hall, and he was telling them all to stay away. I figured it wasn’t a good situation, so I hit him with a six-pack. Knocked him out cold.”

A six-pack? I almost laughed out loud. The police report had stated that Morelli had been hit with a blunt instrument. It hadn’t said anything about a six-pack.

“That was very brave.”

He grinned. “Hell, bravery didn’t have anything to do with it. I was shitfaced.”

“Do you know what happened to Carmen?”

“Nope. Guess she disappeared in the scuffle.”

“And you haven’t seen her since?”

“Nope.”

“How about the missing male witness? Mrs. Santiago said there was a man with a flattened nose…”

“I remember seeing him, but that’s about it.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“Probably.”

“Do you think there’s anyone else in the building who might know more about the missing man?”

“Edleman was the only other person who got a good look at the guy.”

“Is Edleman a tenant here?”

“Edleman was a tenant here. He got hit by a car last week. Right in front of the building. Hit and run.”

My stomach gave a nervous flutter. “You don’t suppose Edleman’s‘s death ties in to the Kulesza murder, do you?”

“No way of knowing.”

I thanked Kuzack for his time and took the stairs slowly, enjoying the buzz from his secondary smoke.

It was close to noon, and the day was heating up. I’d gone with a suit and heels this morning, trying to look respectable and trust inspiring. I’d left the windows rolled down when I’d parked in front of Carmen’s building, half hoping someone would steal my car. No one had, so I slouched behind the wheel and finished off the Fig Newtons I’d filched from my mom’s pantry. I hadn’t found out a whole lot from Carmen’s neighbors, but at least I hadn’t been attacked or fallen down a flight of stairs.

Morelli’s apartment was next on my list.

I’D CALLED RANGER AND ASKED FOR HELP, since I was too chicken to do breaking and entering on my own. When I pulled into the lot, Ranger was waiting. He was all in black. Sleeveless black T-shirt and black fatigue-type pants. He was leaning against a gleaming black Mercedes that had enough antennae on it to get to Mars. I parked several spaces away so my exhaust wouldn’t tarnish his finish.

“Your car?” I asked. As if anyone else could possibly belong to this car.

“Life’s been good to me.” His eyes slid to my Nova. “Nice paint job,” he said. “You been on Stark Street?”

“Yes, and they stole my radio.”

“Heh, heh, heh. Good of you to make a contribution to the less fortunate.”

“I’m willing to contribute the entire car, but no one wants it.”

“Just ‘cause the dudes be crazy don’t mean they be stupid.” He nodded toward Morelli’s apartment. “Doesn’t seem like anyone’s home, so we’ll have to do the unguided tour.”

“Is this illegal?”

“Hell no. We got the law, babe. Bounty hunters can do anything. We don’t even need a search warrant.” He buckled a black nylon webbed gun belt around his waist and shoved his 9 mm Glock into it. He clipped cuffs onto the gun belt and shrugged into the same loose black jacket he’d worn when I’d met him at the coffee shop. “I don’t expect Morelli to be in there,” he said, “but you never know. You always want to be prepared.”

I supposed I should be taking similar precautions, but I couldn’t see myself with a gun butt sticking out of my skirt waistband. It’d be an empty gesture anyway, since Morelli knew I didn’t have the guts to shoot him.

Ranger and I crossed the lot and walked through the breezeway to Morelli’s apartment. Ranger knocked on the door and waited a moment. “Anybody home?” he hollered. No one answered.

“Now what?” I asked. “You going to kick the door in?”

“No way. You could break your foot doing that macho shit.”

“You’re going to pick the lock, right? Use a credit card?”

Ranger shook his head. “You’ve been watching too much television.” He took a key from his pocket and inserted it in the lock. “Got a key from the super while I was waiting for you.”

Morelli’s apartment consisted of living room, dining alcove, galley kitchen, bath, and bedroom. It was relatively clean and sparsely furnished. Small square oak table, four ladder-back chairs, comfortable overstuffed couch, coffee table, and one club chair. He had an expensive stereo system in the living room and a small TV in the bedroom.

Ranger and I searched through the kitchen, looking for an address book, riffling through bills carelessly heaped in front of the toaster oven.

It was easy to imagine Morelli at home in his apartment, tossing his keys onto the kitchen counter, kicking off his shoes, reading his mail. A wave of remorse washed over me when I realized Morelli would most likely never again be free to enjoy any of those simple rituals. He’d killed a man and in the process had effectively ended his own life as well. It was such a hideous waste. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have gotten himself into this godawful mess? How do these things happen to people?

“Nothing here,” Ranger said. He punched the playback button on Morelli’s answering machine. “Hi hotstuff,” a female voice cooed. “This is Carlene. Give me a call back.” Beep.

“Joseph Anthony Morelli, it’s your mother. Are you there? Hello? Hello?” Beep.

Ranger turned the machine over and copied the security code and special message code. “You take these numbers and you can access his messages from an outside phone. Maybe something’ll turn up.”

We moved on to the bedroom, going through his drawers, leafing through books and magazines, studying the few photographs on his dresser. The photographs were family. Nothing useful. No pictures of Carmen. For the most part his drawers had been emptied. He’d taken all his socks and underwear. Too bad. I’d been sort of looking forward to seeing his underwear.

We ended up back in the kitchen.

“This place is clean,” Ranger said. “You’re not going to find anything to help you here. And I doubt he’ll return. Looks to me like he took everything he needed.” He lifted a set of keys from a small hook on the kitchen wall and dropped them into my hand. “Hang on to these. No sense bothering the super if you want to get in again.”

We locked Morelli’s apartment and slid the super’s master key through a slot in his door. Ranger eased his body into the Mercedes, put on a pair of mirrored shades, powered back his sun roof, punched up a tape with a heavy bass, and rolled out of the parking lot like Batman.

I gave a resigned sigh and looked at my Nova. It was dripping oil onto the pavement. Two parking slots away Morelli’s new red and gold Jeep Cherokee sat gleaming in the sunshine. I could feel the weight of his keys dangling from my finger. A house key and two car keys. I decided it wouldn’t do any harm to take a closer look, so I opened the door to the Cherokee and peered inside. The car still smelled new. The instrument panel was dust-free, the rugs were freshly vacuumed and unstained, the red upholstery was smooth and perfect. The car had five on the floor, four-wheel drive, and enough horses to make a man proud. It was equipped with air-conditioning, an Alpine radio and tape deck, a two-way police radio, a cellular phone, and a CB scanner. It was a terrific car. And it belonged to Morelli. It didn’t seem fair that a scofflaw like him should have such a great car and I should have such a piece of shit.

Probably as long as I had the car open, I should start it up for him, I thought. It wasn’t good for a car to sit around and not get driven. Everybody knows that. I took a deep breath and cautiously maneuvered myself behind the wheel. I adjusted the seat and the rearview mirror. I put my hands to the wheel and tested the feel of it. I could catch Morelli if I had a car like this, I told myself. I was smart. I was tenacious. All I needed was a car. I wondered if I should drive it. Maybe simply running it wasn’t enough. Maybe the car needed to go around the block. Better yet, maybe I should drive it for a day or two to really work the kinks out.

Okay, who was I trying to kid? I was contemplating stealing Morelli’s car. Not steal, I reasoned. Commandeer. After all, I was a bounty hunter, and probably I could commandeer a car if an emergency situation arose. I glanced over at the Nova. Looked like an emergency to me.

There was an added advantage to snitching Morelli’s car. I was pretty sure he wouldn’t like it. And if he was pissed off enough, maybe he’d do something stupid and come after it.

I turned the key in the ignition and tried to ignore the fact that my heart was beating double-time. The secret to being a successful bounty hunter is being able to seize the moment, I told myself. Flexibility. Adaptation. Creative thought. All necessary attributes. And it didn’t hurt to have balls.

I did some slow breathing so I wouldn’t hyperventilate and crash my first stolen car. I had one more item on my day’s itinerary. I needed to visit the Step In Bar and Grill, Carmen’s last known place of employment. The Step In was located on lower Stark Street, two blocks from the gym. I debated going home to change into something more casual, but in the end decided to stick with the suit. No matter what I wore, I wasn’t going to blend in with the bar regulars.

I found a parking space half a block away. I locked the car, and I walked the short distance to the bar only to discover the bar was closed. The door was padlocked. The windows were boarded. No explanation was given. I wasn’t all that disappointed. After the incident in the gym, I hadn’t been looking forward to breaking into another bastion of Stark Street manhood. I scurried back to the Cherokee and drove up and down Stark Street on the long shot that I might see Morelli. By the fifth pass it was getting old and my gas was low, so I gave it up. I checked the glove compartment for credit cards but found none. Swell. No gas. No money. No plastic.

If I was going to keep after Morelli I was going to need living expenses. I couldn’t keep existing hand to mouth. Vinnie was the obvious answer to my problem. Vinnie was going to have to advance me some cash. I stopped for a light and took a moment to study Morelli’s phone. I powered it up and his number blinked on. How convenient. I figured I’d go whole hog. Why stop at stealing Morelli’s car? Might as well run his phone bill up, too.

I called Vinnie’s office, and Connie answered.

“Is Vinnie in?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “He’ll be here all afternoon.”

“I’ll be around in about ten minutes. I need to talk to him.”

“Did you catch Morelli?”

“No, but I’ve confiscated his car.”

“Has it got a sun roof?”

I rolled my eyes skyward. “No sun roof.”

“Bummer,” she said.

I hung up and turned down Southard, trying to decide on a reasonable advance. I needed enough money to get me through two weeks, and if I was going to use the car to catch Morelli I might want to invest in an alarm system. I couldn’t watch the car around the clock, and I didn’t want Morelli sneaking it out from under me while I slept, or took a pee, or went to the market.

I was pondering an appropriate figure when the phone rang, the soft “brrrrp” almost causing me to run up onto the curb. It was a weird sensation. Like getting caught eavesdropping, or lying, or sitting on the toilet and having the bathroom walls suddenly drop away. I had an irrational urge to pull off the road and run shrieking from the car.

I gingerly put the handset to my ear. “Hello?”

There was a pause and a woman’s voice came on the line. “I want to talk to Joseph Morelli.”

Holy cow. It was Momma Morelli. As if I wasn’t in deep enough do-do. “Joe isn’t here right now.”

“Who’s this?”

“I’m a friend of Joe’s. He asked me to run his car once in a while for him.”

“That’s a lie,” she said. “I know who I’m talking to. I’m talking to Stephanie Plum. I know your voice when I hear it. What are you doing in my Joseph’s car?”

No one can show disdain like Momma Morelli. If it had been an ordinary mother on the phone I might have explained or apologized, but Morelli’s mother scared the hell out of me.

“What?” I shouted. “I can’t hear you. What? What?”

I slammed the receiver down and flipped the off switch on the phone. “Good going,” I said to myself. “Very adult. Very professional. Really quick thinking.”

I parked on Hamilton and power walked half a block to Vinnie’s. I was pumping myself up for the confrontation, getting my adrenaline going, raising my energy level. I barreled through the door like Wonder Woman, gave Connie a thumbs up, and went straight to Vinnie’s office. The door was open. Vinnie was behind his desk, hunched over a racing sheet.

“Hey,” I said. “How’s it going?”

“Oh shit,” Vinnie said. “Now what?”

That’s what I like about my family. We’re so close, so warm, so polite to each other. “I want an advance on my fee. I have expenses associated with the job.”

“An advance? Are you kidding me? You’re joking, right?”

“I’m not joking. I’m going to get $10,000 when I bring Morelli in. I want a $2,000 advance.”

“When hell freezes over. And don’t think you can pull more of that blackmail crap on me. You blab to my wife, and I’ll be as good as dead. See if you can squeeze a job out of a dead man, smartass.”

He had a point. “Okay, so blackmail won’t work. How about greed? You give me the $2,000 now, and I won’t take my full 10 percent.”

“What if you don’t get Morelli? You ever think of that?”

Only every waking minute of my life. “I’ll get Morelli.”

“Un huh. Excuse me if I don’t share your positive attitude. And remember I only agreed to this lunacy for a week. You’ve got four days left. If you haven’t brought Morelli in by next Monday, I’m giving him to somebody else.”

Connie came into the office. “What’s the problem here? Stephanie needs money? Why don’t you give her Clarence Sampson?”

“Who’s Clarence Sampson?” I asked.

“He’s one of our family of drunks. Usually, he’s perfectly peaceful. Every now and then he does something stupid.”

“Such as?”

“Such as try to drive with a 150-proof blood alcohol level. On this particular occasion he had the misfortune to total a police cruiser.”

“He ran into a cruiser?”

“Not exactly,” Connie said. “He was attempting to drive the cruiser. He ran into a liquor store on State Street.”

“Do you have a picture of this guy?”

“I have a two-inch file with pictures spanning two decades. We’ve posted bail on Sampson so many times I know his social security number by heart.”

I followed her to the outer office and waited while she sorted through a stack of manila folders.

“Most of our recovery agents work a bunch of cases simultaneously,” Connie said. “It’s more efficient that way.” She handed me a dozen folders. “These are the FTAs Morty Beyers was handling for us. He’s gonna be out for a while longer, so you might as well take a crack at them. Some are easier than others. Memorize the names and addresses and hook them up to the photographs. You never know when you’ll get lucky. Last week Andy Zabotsky was standing in line for a bucket of fried chicken and recognized the guy in front of him as a skip. It was a good find, too. A dealer. We would have been out $30,000.”

“I didn’t know you posted bond for drug dealers,” I said. “I always thought you did mostly low-key stuff.”

“Drug dealers are good,” Connie said. “They don’t like to leave the area. They’ve got clients. They’re making good money. If they skip you can usually count on them to resurface.”

I tucked the files under my arm, promising to make copies and return the originals to Connie. The chicken story had been inspiring. If Andy Zabotsky could catch a crook in a chicken franchise, just think of my own personal potential. I ate that crappy food all the time. I even liked it. Maybe this bounty hunter business would work out. Once I became financially solvent, I could support myself by collecting people like Sampson and making an occasional fast-food bust.

I pushed through the front door and caught my breath at the sudden absence of air-conditioning. The day had gone from hot to blistering. The air was thick and muggy, the sky hazy. The sun prickled on exposed skin, and I looked up, shielding my eyes, half expecting to see the ozone hole gaping over me like a big cyclops eye shooting out lethal rays of radioactive whatever. I know the hole is supposedly hanging out over Antarctica, but it seemed logical to me that sooner or later it would slide on up to Jersey. Jersey produced urea formaldehyde and collected New York’s garbage offshore. I thought it only fitting that it have the ozone hole as well.

I unlocked the Cherokee and swiveled behind the wheel. Sampson’s recovery money wouldn’t get me to Barbados, but it would put something in my refrigerator besides mold. Even more important, it would give me a chance to run through the motions of an apprehension. When Ranger had taken me to the police station to get my gun permit, he’d also explained the recovery procedure, but there was no substitute for hands-on experience.

I flipped the switch on the car phone and dialed Clarence Sampson’s home number. No one answered. No work number had been given. The police report listed his address as 5077 Limeing Street. I wasn’t familiar with Limeing Street, so I’d looked it up on a map and discovered Sampson lived two blocks over from Stark, down by the state buildings. I had Sampson’s picture taped to the dash, and every few seconds I checked it against men on the street as I drove.

Connie had suggested I visit the bars on lower Stark. On my list of favorite things to do, spending happy hour at the Rainbow Room on the corner of Stark and Limeing fell just below cutting off both my thumbs with a dull knife. It seemed to me it would be just as effective and a lot less dangerous to sit locked up in the Cherokee and surveil the street. If Clarence Sampson was in one of the bars, sooner or later he’d have to come out.

It took several passes before I found a space I liked at the corner of Limeing and Stark. I had a good view of Stark, and I was also able to see half a block down Limeing. I was a little conspicuous in my suit, with all my whiteness and big shiny red car, but I wasn’t nearly as conspicuous as I’d be sashaying into the Rainbow Room. I cracked the windows and slouched down in my seat, trying to get comfortable.

A kid with a lot of hair and $700 worth of gold around his neck stopped and looked in at me while his two friends stood nearby. “Hey babe,” he said. “What you doin‘ here?”

“Waiting for someone,” I said.

“Oh yeah? A fine babe like you shouldn’t have to wait for no one.”

One of his friends stepped up. He made sucking sounds and waggled his tongue at me. When he saw he had my attention he licked my window.

I rooted through my pocketbook until I found my gun and my neuro spray. I laid them both on the dash. People stopped and stared from time to time after that, but they didn’t linger.

By five o’clock I was feeling antsy, and my rayon skirt had serious crotch wrinkles. I was looking for Clarence Sampson, but I was thinking about Joe Morelli. He was somewhere close by. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach. It was like a low-volt electric charge that hummed against the inside of my spine. In my mind I walked myself through the arrest. The easiest scenario would be for him not to see me at all, for me to come at him from behind and spray him. If that wasn’t possible, I’d have to talk to him and wait for the right moment to go for the spray. Once he was on the ground and incapacitated, I could cuff him. After I got him cuffed I’d rest easier.

By six I’d done the mental arrest about forty-two times and was psyched. By six-thirty I was on the down side of the peak, and my left cheek had fallen asleep. I stretched as best I could and tried isometrics. I counted passing cars, mouthed the words to the national anthem, and slowly read the ingredients on a pack of gum I found in my pocketbook. At seven I called time to make sure Morelli’s clock was right.

I was berating myself for being the wrong sex and the wrong color to operate effectively in over half the neighborhoods in Trenton when a man fitting Sampson’s description reeled out of the Rainbow Room. I looked at the picture on the dash. I looked back at the man. I looked at the picture again. I was 90 percent sure it was Sampson. Big flabby body, mean little head, dark hair and beard, white Caucasian. Looked like Bluto. Had to be Sampson. Let’s face it, how many bearded fat white men lived in this neighborhood?

I tucked the gun and the spray into my pocketbook, pulled away from the curb, and drove around two blocks so I could turn down Limeing and put myself between Sampson and his house. I double-parked and got out of the car. A group of teens stood talking on the corner, and two little girls sat on a nearby stoop with their Barbie dolls. Across the street a bedraggled couch, missing its cushions, had been set out on the sidewalk. The Limeing Street version of a porch swing. Two old men sat on the couch, wordlessly staring off into space, their lined faces inanimate.

Sampson was slowly weaving up the street, obviously in the glow. His smile was contagious. I smiled back at him. “Clarence Sampson?”

“Yep,” he said. “That’s me.”

His words were thick, and he smelled stale, like clothes that had been forgotten for weeks in the hamper.

I extended my hand. “I’m Stephanie Plum. I represent your bonding company. You missed a court appearance, and we’d like you to reschedule.”

Momentary confusion rippled across his brow, the information was processed, and he smiled again.

“I guess I forgot.”

Not what you’d call a type A personality. I didn’t think Sampson would ever have to worry about a stress-related heart attack. Sampson would most likely die from inertia.

More smiling on my part. “That’s okay. Happens all the time. I have a car here…” I waved in the direction of the Cherokee. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble I’ll drive you to the station, and we can take care of the paperwork.”

He looked beyond me to his house. “I don’t know…”

I looped arms with him and nudged him over. Just a friendly ole cowpoke herding a dumber’n cat-shit steer. Git along little doggie. “This won’t take long.” Three weeks, maybe.

I was oozing well-being and charm, pushing my breast into the side of his fleshy arm as added incentive. I rolled him around the car and opened the passenger side door. “I really appreciate this,” I said.

He balked at the door. “All I have to do is set a new court date, right?”

“Yeah. Right.” And then hang around in a cell until that court date pops up on the calendar. I had no sympathy for him. He could have killed someone driving while intoxicated.

I coaxed him in and fastened the seat belt. I ran around, jumped in the car, and revved the engine, afraid the light bulb would go on in his minuscule brain and he’d realize I was a recovery agent. I couldn’t imagine what would happen when we got to the police station. One step at a time, I told myself. If he got violent I’d gas him… maybe.

My fears were premature. I hadn’t driven a quarter mile before his eyes glazed over, and he fell asleep, slouched against the door like a giant slug. I said a fast prayer that he didn’t wet himself, or throw up, or do any of the other gross involuntary bodily things drunks are prone to do.

Several blocks later I stopped for a light and glanced sideways at him. He was still asleep. So far so good.

A faded blue Econoline van caught my eye on the other side of the intersection. Three antennae. A lot of equipment for a junky old van, I thought. I squinted at the driver, shadowy behind tinted glass, and an eerie feeling crept along the nape of my neck. The light turned. Cars moved through the intersection. The van rolled by, and my heart jumped to my throat as I was treated to a view of Joe Morelli behind the wheel, gaping at me in astonishment. My first impulse was to shrink in size until I was no longer visible. In theory, I should have been pleased to have made contact, but the instant reality was hurling confusion. I was good at fantasizing Morelli’s recovery. I wasn’t so confident when it came to actually pulling it off. Brakes squealed behind me, and in my rearview mirror I saw the van jump the curb to complete a midblock U-turn.

I’d expected he’d come after me. I hadn’t expected him to do it with such speed. The Jeep’s doors were locked, but I pushed the lock button again anyway. The Sure Guard was nestled in my lap. The police station was less than a mile away. I debated giving Clarence the boot and going after Morelli. Morelli was, after all, my main objective.

I did a fast run-through of possible arrest attempts, and none of them turned out satisfactory. I didn’t want Morelli to come at me while I was struggling with Clarence. And I didn’t want to drop Morelli in the street. Not in this neighborhood. I wasn’t sure I could control the outcome.

Morelli was five cars back when I stopped for a light. I saw the driver’s door open, saw Morelli get out of the van, running toward me. I gripped the gas canister and prayed for the light to change. Morelli was almost on me when we all moved forward, and Morelli was forced to go back to the van.

Good old Clarence was still sound asleep, his head dropped forward, his mouth open and drooling, emitting soft snuffling sounds. I left-turned up North Clinton, and the phone chirped.

It was Morelli, and he didn’t sound happy. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he yelled.

“I’m taking Mr. Sampson to the police station. You’re more than welcome to follow us. It would make everything much easier for me.”

A pretty ballsy reply, considering I was having an anxiety attack.

“THAT’S MY CAR YOU’RE DRIVING!”

“Mmmmm. Well, I’ve commandeered it.”

“You’ve WHAT?”

I flipped the switch to shut the phone off before the conversation deteriorated to death threats. The van disappeared from sight two blocks from the station, and I continued on with my FTA still sleeping like a baby.

The Trenton police department houses itself in a cube-like three-story brick building representing the Practical Pig approach to municipal architecture. Clearly low on the funding food chain, Police Headquarters has been afforded few frills, which is just as well considering it is surrounded by ghetto, and the location almost certainly ensures annihilation should a riot of major proportions ever occur.

A chain-link fenced lot adjoins the building and provides parking for squad cars and vans, employees, cops, and beleaguered citizens.

Gritty row houses and small businesses, typical of the area, face off with the headquarters’ front entrance—Jumbos Seafood, a bar with no visible name and ominous metal grating on the windows, a corner grocery advertising RC Cola, Lydia’s Hat Designs, a used-furniture store with a motley collection of washing machines displayed on the sidewalk, and the Tabernacle Church.

I pulled into the lot, tapped the phone back on, dialed dispatch, and requested aid with the transfer of custody. I was instructed to proceed to the rear security door, where a uniform would be waiting for me. I proceeded to the designated door and backed into the driveway, placing Clarence close to the building. I didn’t see my uniform, so I made another call. I was promptly told not to get my shorts in a knot. Easy for them to say—they knew what they were doing.

A few minutes later Crazy Carl Costanza poked his head out the door. I’d made Communion with Crazy Carl, among other things.

He squinted past Clarence. “Stephanie Plum?”

“Hey, Carl.”

His face cracked into a grin. “They told me there was a pain in the ass out here.”

“That would be me,” I said.

“What’s with sleeping beauty?”

“He’s FTA.”

Carl came in for a closer look. “Is he dead?”

“I don’t think so.”

“He smells dead.”

I agreed. “He could use to be hosed down.” I gave Clarence a shake and yelled in his ear. “Let’s go. Time to wake up.”

Clarence choked on some spit and opened his eyes. “Where am I?”

“Police station,” I said. “Everybody out.”

He stared at me in unfocused drunken stupidity, and sat as still and unyielding as a sandbag.

“Do something,” I said to Costanza. “Get him out of here.”

Costanza grabbed Clarence’s arms, and I put my foot to Clarence’s butt. We pushed and pulled, and inch by inch, got Sampson’s big ugly blob of putrid flesh off the seat and onto the pavement.

“This is why I became a cop,” Costanza said. “I couldn’t resist the glamor of it all.”

We maneuvered Clarence through the security door, cuffed him to a wooden bench, and handed him over to the docket lieutenant. I ran back outside and moved the Cherokee into a regulation parking space where it would be less visible to cops who might mistake it for a stolen car.

When I returned, Clarence had been stripped of his belt and shoelaces and personal property and looked forlorn and pathetic. He was my first capture, and I’d expected to feel satisfaction for my success, but now found it was difficult to get elated over someone else’s misfortune.

I collected my body receipt, spent a few minutes reminiscing with Crazy Carl, and headed for the lot. I’d hoped to leave before dark, but night had closed in early under a blanket of clouds. The sky was starless and moonless. Traffic was sporadic. Easier to spot a tail, I told myself, but I didn’t believe it. I had minimal confidence in my ability to spot Morelli.

There was no sign of the van. That didn’t mean much. Morelli could be driving whatever by now. I headed for Nottingham with one eye on the road and one on my rearview mirror. There was little doubt in my mind that Morelli was out there, but at least he was giving me the courtesy of not being obvious. That meant he took me moderately seriously. It was a cheery thought that prompted me to rise to the occasion with a plan. The plan was simple. Go home, park the Cherokee in the lot, wait in the bushes with my killer gas, and zap Morelli when he tried to reclaim his car.

THE FRONT OF MY APARTMENT BUILDING sat flush with the sidewalk. Parking was in the rear. The lot was minimally scenic, consisting of an asphalt rectangle subdivided into parking spaces. We weren’t so sophisticated that we were assigned slots. Parking was dog-eat-dog, with all the really good places designated handicapped. Three Dumpsters hunkered at the entrance to the lot. One for general garbage. Two for recyclables. Good for the environment. Didn’t do much for local aesthetics. The rear entrance had been improved by a strip of overgrown azaleas that hugged the building and ran almost the entire length of the lot. They were wonderful in the spring when they were filled with pink flowers, and they were magical in the winter when the super strung them with little blinking lights. The rest of the year they were better than nothing.

I chose a well-lighted slot in the middle of the lot. Better to see Morelli when he came to retrieve his property. Not to mention it was one of the few places left. Most of the people in my building were elderly and didn’t like to drive after dark. By nine o’clock the lot was full and TVs were going full blast inside all the seniors’ apartments.

I looked around to make sure there was no sign of Morelli. Then I popped the hood and removed the Cherokee’s distributor cap. This was one of my many New Jersey survival skills. Anyone who has ever left their car in long-term parking at Newark Airport knows how to remove the distributor cap. It is virtually the only way of ensuring your car will be there upon your return.

I figured when the Cherokee didn’t start, Morelli’d stick his head under the hood, and that’s when I’d gas him. I scurried to the building and hid myself behind the azaleas, feeling fairly slick.

I sat on the ground on a newspaper in deference to my skirt. I’d have liked to change my clothes, but I was afraid of missing Morelli if I dashed upstairs. Cedar chips had been spread in front of the azaleas. Back where I sat the ground was hard-packed dirt. When I was a kid I might have thought this was cozy, but I wasn’t a kid anymore, and I noticed things kids didn’t notice. Mostly that azaleas don’t look all that good from the rear.

A big Chrysler pulled into the lot, and a white-haired man got out. I recognized him, but I didn’t know his name. He slowly walked to the building entrance. He didn’t seem alarmed or yell out “Help, there’s a crazy woman hiding in the bushes,” so I felt secure that I was well hidden.

I squinted at my watch in the dark. Nine forty-five. Waiting wasn’t among my favorite pastimes. I was hungry and bored and uncomfortable. There are probably people who put waiting time to good use organizing thoughts, composing chore lists, sinking into constructive introspection. Waiting, for me, was sensory depravation. A black hole. Down time.

I was still waiting at eleven o’clock. I was cranky, and I had to go to the bathroom. Somehow I managed to sit there for another hour and a half. I was reviewing my options, considering a new plan, when it started to rain. The drops were big and lazy, falling in slow motion, spattering on the azalea bushes, leaving their imprint on the hard-packed dirt where I sat, encouraging musty smells reminiscent of cobwebs and crawl spaces to rise up from the earth. I sat with my back pressed against the building and my legs drawn up to my chest. With the exception of an occasional renegade drop, I was untouched by the rain.

After a few minutes the tempo evened out, the drops grew small and consistent, and the wind picked up. Water pooled on the black macadam, catching clots of reflective light, and the rain beaded on the shiny red paint of the Cherokee.

It was a wonderful night to be in bed with a book, listening to the tic, tic, tic of drops on the window and fire escape. It was a lousy night to be crouched behind an azalea bush. The rain had taken to swirling with the wind, catching me in gusts, soaking into my shirt, plastering my hair to my face.

By one o’clock I was shivering and miserable, soaking wet, close to peeing in my pants. Not that it would matter. At five after one I abandoned the plan. Even if Morelli did show up, which I was beginning to doubt, I wasn’t sure I was in good enough shape to make a capture. And, I definitely didn’t want him to see me with my hair like this.

I was about to leave when a car swung into the lot, parked in a space at the far perimeter, and killed its lights. A man got out of the car and quickly walked, head down, to the Cherokee. It wasn’t Joe. It was Mooch again. I rested my forehead on my knees and closed my eyes. I’d been naive to think Joe would fall into my trap. The entire police force was after his ass. He wasn’t going to barge into a setup like this. I sulked for a few seconds and then pushed it aside, vowing to be smarter next time. I should have put myself in Joe’s place. Would I have exposed myself by personally coming after the car? No. Okay, so I was learning. Rule number one: don’t underestimate the enemy. Rule number two: think like a felon.

Mooch opened the driver’s door with a key and slid behind the wheel. The starter churned but didn’t catch. Mooch waited a few minutes and tried again. He got out and looked under the hood. I knew this wouldn’t take long. It didn’t take a genius to notice a missing distributor cap. Mooch pulled his head out from under the hood, slammed the hood down, kicked a tire, and said something colorful. He jogged back to his car and peeled out of the lot.

I slunk out of the shadows and trudged the short distance to the back entrance to my building. My skirt clung to my legs and water squished in my shoes. The night had been a bust, but it could have been worse. Joe could have sent his mother to get the car.

The lobby was empty, looking even bleaker than usual. I punched the elevator button and waited. Water dripped from the end of my nose and off the hem of my skirt, forming a small lake on the gray tile floor. Two side-by-side elevators serviced the building. No one, so far as I knew, had ever plummeted to their death or been skyrocketed out of the top of the elevator shaft in a runaway elevator, but chances of getting stuck between floors was excellent. Usually I used the stairs. Tonight, I decided to carry my masochistic stupidity to the max and take the elevator. The cage lurched into place, the doors gaped open, and I stepped in. I ascended to the second floor without incident and sloshed down the hall. I fumbled in my pocketbook for the key and was letting myself into my apartment when I remembered the distributor cap. I’d left it downstairs, behind the azaleas. I thought about retrieving it, but it was a short thought and of no consequence. No way was I going back downstairs.

I bolted the door behind me and peeled my clothes off while standing on the small patch of linoleum that served as my foyer. My shoes were ruined, and the seat of my skirt bore the imprint of yesterday’s headlines. I left every stitch I’d worn in a sodden heap on the floor and went straight to the bathroom.

I adjusted the water, stepped into the tub, pulled the shower curtain closed, and let the hard spray beat down on me. The day hadn’t been all bad, I told myself. I’d made a recovery. I was legitimate now. First thing in the morning I’d collect my money from Vinnie. I lathered up and rinsed off. I washed my hair. I turned the dial to shower massage and stood for a very long time, letting the tension ease from my body. Twice now Joe had used Mooch as his errand boy. Maybe I should be watching Mooch. Problem was I couldn’t watch everyone at once.

I was distracted by a blur of color on the other side of the translucent, soap-slicked shower curtain. The blur moved and my heart momentarily stopped dead in my chest. Someone was in my bathroom. The shock was numbing. I stood statue still for a few beats without a thought in my head. Then I remembered Ramirez, and my stomach rolled. Ramirez could have come back. He could have talked the super into giving him a key, or he could have come in through a window. God only knows what Ramirez was capable of doing.

I’d brought my pocketbook into the bathroom, but it was out of reach on the vanity counter.

The intruder crossed the room in two strides and ripped the shower curtain off the rod with such force the plastic loops at the top popped off and scattered. I screamed and blindly threw the shampoo bottle, cowering back against the wall tiles.

It wasn’t Ramirez. It was Joe Morelli. He had the curtain bunched in one hand; the other hand curled into a fist. A welt was forming on his forehead where the bottle had made contact. He was beyond angry, and I wasn’t so sure gender was going to keep me from getting a broken nose. Fine with me. I was spoiling for a fight. Who did this yodel think he was, first scaring me half to death and then wrecking my shower curtain.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I shrieked. “Haven’t you ever heard of a goddamn doorbell? How did you get in here?”

“You left your bedroom window open.”

“The screen was locked.”

“Screens don’t count.”

“If you’ve ruined that screen I’ll expect you to pay for it. And what about this shower curtain? Shower curtains don’t grow on trees, you know.” I’d lowered the volume on my voice, but the pitch was still a full octave higher than normal. In all honesty, I hadn’t any idea what I was saying. My mind was racing down uncharted roads of fury and panic. I was furious that he’d violated my privacy, and I was panicked that I was naked.

Under the right circumstances naked is fine—taking showers, making love, being born. Standing naked and dripping wet in front of Joe Morelli, who was completely clothed, was the stuff nightmares are made of.

I shut the water off and grabbed at a towel, but Morelli slapped my hand away and threw the towel onto the floor behind him.

“Give me that towel,” I demanded.

“Not until we’ve gotten a few things straightened out.”

As a kid, Morelli’d been out of control. I’d reached the conclusion that as an adult Morelli had control in spades. The Italian temper was clear in his eyes, but the amount of violence displayed was tightly calculated. He was wearing a black rain-drenched T-shirt and jeans. When he twisted toward the towel rack I could see the gun stuck into his jeans at the small of his back.

It wasn’t difficult to envision Morelli killing, but I found myself agreeing with Ranger and Eddie Gazarra—couldn’t see this grown-up Morelli being stupid and impulsive.

He had his hands on his hips. His hair was wet, curling on his forehead and over his ears. His mouth was hard and unsmiling. “Where’s my distributor cap?”

When in doubt, always take the offensive. “If you don’t get out of my bathroom this instant I’m going to start screaming.”

“It’s two o’clock in the morning, Stephanie. All your neighbors are sound asleep with their hearing aids on their nightstands. Scream away. No one’s going to hear you.”

I stood my ground and scowled at him. It was my best effort at defiance. I’d be damned if I was going to give him the satisfaction of looking vulnerable and embarrassed.

“I’m going to ask you one more time,” he said. “Where’s my distributor cap?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Listen, Cupcake, I’ll tear this place apart if I have to.”

“I don’t have the cap. The cap isn’t here. And I’m not your cupcake.”

“Why me?” he asked. “What did I do to deserve this?”

I raised an eyebrow.

Morelli sighed. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.” He took my pocketbook from the counter, turned it upside down, and let the contents fall to the floor. He picked the cuffs out of the mess and took a step forward. “Give my your wrist.”

“Pervert.”

“You wish.” He flicked the cuff out and clicked it onto my right wrist.

I yanked my right arm back hard and kicked at him, but it was difficult to maneuver in the tub. He sidestepped my kick and locked the remaining steel bracelet onto the shower curtain rod. I gasped and froze, unable to believe what had just happened.

Morelli stepped back and looked at me, doing a slow whole-body scan. “You want to tell me where the cap is?”

I was incapable of speech, bereft of bravado. I could feel the flush of apprehension and embarrassment staining my cheeks, constricting my throat.

“Wonderful,” Morelli said. “Do the silent thing. You can hang there forever for all I care.”

He rummaged through the vanity drawers, emptied the wastebasket, and took the lid off the toilet tank. He stormed out of the bathroom without giving me so much as a backward glance. I could hear him methodically, professionally moving through my apartment, searching every square inch. Silverware clanked, drawers slammed, closet doors were wrenched open. There were sporadic patches of quiet, followed by mutterings.

I tried hanging my full weight on the bar, hoping to bend it, but the rod was industrial strength, built to endure.

At last Morelli appeared in the bathroom doorway.

“Well?” I snapped. “Now what?”

He indolently leaned against the frame. “Just came back to take another look.” A grin surfaced at the corners of his mouth as his eyes locked halfway down my chest. “Cold?”

When I got loose I was going to track him down like a dog. I didn’t care if he was innocent or guilty. And I didn’t care if it took the rest of my life. I was going to get Morelli. “Go to hell.”

The grin widened. “You’re lucky I’m a gentleman. There are individuals out there who’d take advantage of a woman in your situation.”

“Spare me.”

He shifted off the doorjamb. “It’s been a pleasure.”

“Wait a minute! You’re not leaving, are you?”

“Afraid so.”

“What about me? What about the handcuffs?”

He debated his options for a moment. He stepped off into the kitchen and returned with the portable phone. “I’m going to lock the front door when I leave, so make sure whoever you call has a key.”

“Nobody has a key!”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Morelli said. “Call the police. Call the fire department. Call the fucking Marines.”

“I’m naked!”

He smiled and winked and walked out the door.

I heard the front door to my apartment close and lock. I didn’t expect an answer, but I felt compelled to call out to Morelli as a test. I waited a few moments, holding my breath, listening to the silence. Morelli seemed to be gone. My fingers curled tighter around the phone. God help the phone company if they’d reneged on their promise to resume my service. I climbed onto the edge of the tub to bring myself up to the height of my secured hand. I carefully extended the antenna, pushed the on button, and put my ear to the handset. The dial tone sang out loud and clear. I was so relieved I almost burst into tears.

Now I was faced with a new problem. Who to call? The police and the fire company were out. They’d roar into my parking lot with their lights flashing, and by the time they got to my door, forty senior citizens would be standing in my hall in their jammies, waiting to see what all the excitement was about, waiting for an explanation.

I’d come to realize there were certain peculiarities about the seniors in my building. They were vicious when it came to parking, and they had a fascination for emergencies that bordered on the ghoulish. At the first hint of a flashing light, every senior in my building had their nose pressed to the window glass.

I also could do without four or five of the city’s finest leering at me chained naked to my shower curtain rod.

If I called my mother, I’d have to move out of state because she’d never let up. And besides, she’d send my father, and then my father would see me naked. Being naked and handcuffed in front of my father wasn’t something I could visualize.

If I called my sister, she’d call my mother.

I’d hang here and rot before I’d call my ex-husband.

To make it even more complicated, whoever came to rescue me was either going to have to climb the fire escape or jimmy the front door. I could only come up with one name. I squeezed my eyes shut. “Shit.” I was going to have to call Ranger. I took a deep breath and tapped out his number, praying I’d remembered it correctly.

It took only one ring for him to pick up. “Yo.”

“Ranger?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Stephanie Plum. I have a problem.”

There was a pause two beats long, and I could imagine him coming alert, sitting up in bed. “What’s the problem?”

I rolled my eyes, only half believing I was making this phone call. “I’m handcuffed to my shower curtain rod, and I need someone to open the cuffs.”

Another pause and he disconnected.

I redialed, punching the buttons so hard I almost broke a finger.

“Yo!” Ranger said, sounding good and pissed off.

“Don’t hang up! This is serious, dammit. I’m trapped in my bathroom. My front door is locked and no one has a key.”

“Why don’t you call the cops? They love this rescue shit.”

“Because I don’t want to have to explain to the cops. And besides, I’m naked.”

“Heh, heh, heh.”

“It’s not funny. Morelli broke into my apartment while I was in the shower, and the son of a bitch handcuffed me to the shower rod.”

“You gotta like the guy.”

“Are you going to help me, or what?”

“Where do you live?”

“The apartment building at the corner of St. James and Dunworth. Apartment 215. It’s a rear apartment. Morelli got in by climbing the fire escape and going through the window. You can probably do the same.”

I couldn’t actually blame Morelli for cuffing me to the curtain rod. After all, I had sort of stolen his car. And I could understand that he needed to keep me out of the way while he searched my apartment. I might even be able to forgive him for destroying my shower curtain in a show of macho force, but he went too far when he left me hanging here naked. If he thought this would discourage me, he was wrong. This whole deal was now in the ballpark of double-dare, and childish as it might be, I was not going to walk away from the challenge. I’d get Morelli or die trying.

I’d been standing in the tub for what seemed like hours when I heard my front door open and close. The steam from the shower had long ago dissipated and the air had turned cool. My hand was numb from being held overhead. I was exhausted and hungry and had the beginnings of a headache.

Ranger appeared in the bathroom doorway, and I was too relieved to be embarrassed. “I appreciate your coming out in the middle of the night,” I said.

Ranger smiled. “Didn’t want to miss seeing you chained up naked.”

“The keys are in the mess on the floor.”

He found the keys, pried the phone loose from my fingers, and unlocked the cuffs. “You and Morelli got something kinky going on?”

“Remember when you gave me his keys this afternoon?”

“Un huh.”

“I sort of borrowed his car.”

“Borrowed?”

“Commandeered, actually. You know, about us having the law and all?”

“Un huh.”

“Well, I commandeered his car, and he found out.”

Ranger smiled and handed me a towel. “He understand about commandeering?”

“Let’s just say he wasn’t pleased. Anyway, I parked the car in the lot out here and removed the distributor cap as a safety precaution.”

“Bet that went over big.”

I got out of the tub and had to squelch a scream when I saw my reflection in the vanity mirror. My hair looked like it had taken 2,000 volts and been spray starched. “I need to install an alarm system in his car, but I haven’t got the money.”

Ranger laughed soft and low in his chest. “An alarm system. Morelli’ll love that.” He took a pen from the floor and wrote an address on a piece of toilet paper. “I know a garage that’ll give you a price.”

I padded past him into the bedroom and exchanged the towel for a long terrycloth robe. “I heard you come in through the door.”

“Picked the lock. Didn’t think it prudent to wake up the super.” He looked over at my window. Rain was spattering on the dark pane, and a piece of torn screening draped over the sill. “I only do the Spiderman shit in nice weather.”

“Morelli wrecked my screen.”

“Guess he in a hurry.”

“I’ve noticed you only talk ghetto half of the time.”

“I’m multi-lingual,” Ranger said.

I followed him to the door, feeling jealous, wishing I knew a second language.

MY SLEEP WAS DEEP AND DREAMLESS, and I might have slept until November if it weren’t for the relentless pounding on my front door. I squinted at my beside clock. The display read 8:35. Used to be I loved company. Now I cringed when someone knocked on my door. My first fear was of Ramirez. My second was that the police had come to haul me away for auto theft.

I picked the Sure Guard off my night table, stuffed my arms into my robe, and dragged myself to the door. I closed one eye and looked through the peephole with the other. Eddie Gazarra looked back at me. He was in uniform, holding two Dunkin‘ Donuts bags. I opened the door and sniffed the air like a hound on a scent. “Yum,” I breathed.

“Hello to you, too,” Gazarra said, squeezing past me in the little hallway, heading for the dining room table. “Where’s your furniture?”

“I’m remodeling.”

“Un huh.”

We sat opposite each other, and I waited while he took two cardboard cups of coffee out of one of the bags. We uncapped the coffee, spread napkins, and dug into the donuts.

We were good enough friends that we didn’t have to talk while we ate. We ate the Boston creams first. Then we divided up the remaining four jelly donuts. At two donuts down he still hadn’t noticed my hair, and I was left to wonder what my hair usually looked like. He also hadn’t said anything about the mess Morelli had created while searching my apartment, which gave me pause to consider my housekeeping habits.

He ate his third donut more slowly, sipping his coffee, savoring his donut, sipping his coffee, savoring his donut. “I hear you made a recovery yesterday,” he said between savors.

He was left with just his coffee. He eyed my donut, and I protectively drew it closer to my edge of the table.

“Don’t suppose you’d want to share that,” Gazarra said.

“Don’t suppose I would,” I replied. “How did you find out about my recovery?”

“Locker room talk. You’re prime conversation these days. The boys have a pool going on when you’ll get boinked by Morelli.”

My heart contracted so hard I was afraid my eyeballs might pop out of my head. I stared at Gazarra for a full minute, waiting for my blood pressure to ease out of the red zone, imagining capillaries bursting throughout my body.

“How will they know when I’m boinked?” I asked through clenched teeth. “Maybe he’s boinked me already. Maybe we do it twice a day.”

“They figure you’ll quit the case when you get boinked. The winning time is actually when you quit the case.”

“You in the pool?”

“Nope. Morelli nailed you when you were in high school. I don’t think you’d let a second boinking go to your head.”

“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.

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.

Fortunately, the Cherokee was still at the curb, and unfortunately, Morelli was nowhere to be seen. I diligently avoided looking up at the gym windows. If Ramirez was watching me, I’d prefer not to acknowledge him. I’d pulled my hair up into a lopsided ponytail, and the back of my neck felt scratchy. I supposed I was burned there too. I wasn’t very diligent with sunscreen. Mostly, I counted on the pollution to filter out the cancer rays.

A woman came hurrying across the street to me. She was solidly built and conservatively dressed, with her black hair pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Are you Stephanie Plum?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Alpha would like to speak to you,” she said. “His office is just across the street.”

I didn’t know anyone named Alpha, and I wasn’t eager to hover in the shadow of Benito Ramirez, but the woman reeked of Catholic respectibility, so I took a chance and followed after her. We entered the building next to the gym. It was an average Stark Street row house. Narrow, three stories, sooty exterior, dark, grimy windows. We hurried up a flight of stairs to a small landing. Three doors opened off the landing. One door was ajar, and I felt air-conditioning spilling out into the hallway.

“This way,” the woman said, leading me into a cramped reception room dwarfed by a green leather couch and large scarred blond wood desk. A shopworn end table held dog-eared copies of boxing magazines, and pictures of boxers covered walls that cried out for fresh paint.

She ushered me into an inner office and shut the door behind me. The inner office was a lot like the reception room with the exception of two windows looking down at the street. The man behind the desk stood when I entered. He was wearing pleated dress slacks and a short-sleeved shirt open at the neck. His face was lined and had a good start on jowls. His stocky body still showed muscle, but age had added love handles to his waist and streaks of gunmetal gray to his slicked-back black hair. I placed him in his late fifties and decided his life hadn’t been all roses.

He leaned forward and extended his hand. “Jimmy Alpha. I manage Benito Ramirez.”

I nodded, not sure how to respond. My first reaction was to shriek, but that would probably be unprofessional.

He motioned me to a folding chair placed slightly to the side of his desk. “I heard you were back on the street, and I wanted to take this opportunity to apologize. I know what happened in the gym between you and Benito. I tried to call you, but your phone was disconnected.”

His apology stirred fresh anger. “Ramirez’s behavior was unprovoked and inexcusable.”

Alpha looked genuinely embarrassed. “I never thought I’d have problems like this,” he said. “All I ever wanted was to have a top boxer, and now I got one, and it’s giving me ulcers.” He took an economy-sized bottle of Mylanta from his top drawer. “See this? I buy this stuff by the case.” He unscrewed the cap and chugged some. He put his fist to his sternum and sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m genuinely sorry for what happened to you in the gym.”

“There’s no reason for you to apologize. It’s not your problem.”

“I wish that was true. Unfortunately, it is my problem.” He screwed the cap back on, returned the bottle to the drawer, and leaned forward, arms resting on his desk. “You work for Vinnie.”

“Yes.”

“I know Vinnie from way back. Vinnie’s a character.”

He smiled, and I figured somewhere in his travels he must have heard about the duck.

He sobered himself, fixed his eyes on his thumbs, and sagged a little in his seat. “Sometimes I don’t know what to do with Benito. He’s not a bad kid. He just doesn’t know a lot of stuff. All he knows is boxing. All this success is hard on a man like Benito, who comes from nowhere.”

He looked up to see if I was buying. I made a derisive sound, and he acknowledged my disgust.

“I’m not excusing him,” he said, his face a study in bitterness. “Benito does things that are wrong. I don’t have any influence on him these days. He’s full of himself. And he’s got himself surrounded by guys who only got brains in their boxing gloves.”

“That gym was filled with able-bodied men who did nothing to help me.”

“I talked to them about it. Was a time when women were respected, but now nothing’s respected. Drive-by killings, drugs…” He went quiet and sunk into his own thoughts.

I remembered what Morelli had told me about Ramirez and previous rape charges. Alpha was either sticking his head in the sand or else he was actively engaged in cleaning up the mess made by the golden goose. I was putting money on the sand theory.

I stared at him in stony silence, feeling too isolated in his second-floor ghetto office to honestly vent my thoughts, feeling too angry to attempt polite murmurings.

“If Benito bothers you again, you let me know right away,” Alpha said. “I don’t like when this kind of stuff happens.”

“He came to my apartment the night before last and tried to get in. He was abusive in the hall, and he made a mess on my door. If it happens again, I’m filing charges.”

Alpha was visibly shaken. “Nobody told me. He didn’t hurt anybody, did he?”

“No one was hurt.”

Alpha took a card from the top of his desk and scribbled a number on it. “This is my home phone,” he said, handing me the card. “You have any more trouble, you call me right away. If he damaged your door I’ll make good on it.”

“The door’s okay. Just keep him away from me.”

Alpha pressed his lips together and nodded.

“I don’t suppose you know anything about Carmen Sanchez?”

“Only what I read in the papers.”

I TURNED LEFT AT STATE STREET and pushed my way into rush-hour traffic. The light changed, and we all inched forward. I had enough money left to buy a few groceries, so I bypassed my apartment and drove an extra quarter mile down the road to Super-Fresh.

It occurred to me while I was standing at the checkout that Morelli had to be getting food from somewhere or someone. Did he scuttle around Super-Fresh wearing a Groucho Marx mustache and glasses with a fake nose attached? And where was he living? Maybe he was living in the blue van. I’d assumed he’d dumped it after being spotted, but maybe not. Maybe it was too convenient. Maybe it was his command headquarters with a cache of canned goods. And, I thought it was possible he had monitoring equipment in the van. He’d been across the street, spying on Ramirez, so maybe he was listening as well.

I hadn’t seen the van on Stark Street. I hadn’t been actively looking for it, but I wouldn’t have passed it by, either. I didn’t know a whole lot about electronic surveillance, but I knew the surveillor had to be fairly close to the surveillee. Something to think about. Maybe I could find Morelli by looking for the van.

I was forced to park at the rear of my lot, and did so harboring a few testy thoughts about handicapped old people who took all the best parking slots. I gripped three plastic grocery bags in each hand, plus a six-pack. I eased the Cherokee’s door closed with my knee. I could feel my arms stretching against the weight, the bags clumsily banging around my knees as I walked, reminding me of a joke I’d once heard having to do with elephant testicles.

I took the elevator, wobbled the short distance down the hall, and set my bags on the carpet while I felt around for my key. I opened the door, switched on the light, shuttled my groceries into the kitchen, and returned to lock my front door. I did the grocery unpacking bit, sorting out cupboard stuff from refrigerator stuff. It felt good to have a little cache of food again. It was my heritage to hoard. Housewives in the burg were always prepared for disaster, stockpiling toilet paper and cans of creamed corn in case the blizzard of aughty-aught should ever repeat itself.

Even Rex was excited by the activity, watching from his cage with his little pink hamster feet pressed against the glass.

“Better days are coming, Rex,” I said, giving him an apple slice. “From here on in it’s all apples and broccoli.”

I’d gotten a city map at the supermarket, and I spread it out on my table while I picked at dinner. Tomorrow I’d be methodical about searching for the blue van. I’d check the area surrounding the gym, and I’d also check out Ramirez’s home address. I hauled out my phone book and looked up Ramirez. Twenty-three were listed. Three had B as the first initial. There were two Benitos. I dialed the first Benito and a woman answered on the fourth ring. I could hear a baby crying in the background.

“Does Benito Ramirez, the boxer, live there?” I asked.

The reply came in Spanish and didn’t sound friendly. I apologized for disturbing her and hung up. The second Benito answered his own phone and was definitely not the Ramirez I was looking for. The three Bs were also dead ends. It didn’t seem worthwhile to call the remaining eighteen numbers. In a way I was relieved not to have found him. I don’t know what I would have said. Nothing, I suppose. I was looking for an address, not a conversation. And the truth is the very thought of Ramirez sent a chill to my heart. I could stake out the gym and try to follow Ramirez when he left for the day, but the big red Cherokee wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. Eddie might be able to help me. Cops had ways of getting addresses. Who else did I know who had access to addresses? Marilyn Truro worked for the DMV. If I had a license plate number, she could probably pull an address. Or I could call the gym. Nah, that’d be too easy.

Well, what the hell, I thought. Give it a shot. I’d torn the page advertising the gym out of my phone book, so I dialed information. I thanked the operator and dialed the number. I told the man who answered the phone that I was supposed to meet Benito, but I’d lost his address.

“Sure,” he said. “It’s 320 Polk. Don’t know the apartment number, but it’s on the second floor. It’s at the rear of the hall. Got his name on the door. Can’t miss it.”

“Thanks,” I told him. “Really appreciate it.”

I pushed the phone to the far corner of the table and turned to the map to place Polk. The map showed it to be at the edge of the ghetto, running parallel to Stark. I circled the address with yellow marker. Now I had two sites to search for the van. I’d park and go on foot if I had to, prowling through alleys and investigating garages. I’d do this first thing in the morning, and if nothing developed, I’d go back to the stack of FTAs Connie had given me and try to make some rent money doing nickel-and-dime cases.

I double-checked all my windows to make sure they were locked, then I drew all the curtains. I wanted to take a shower and go to bed early, and I didn’t want any surprise visitors.