Four to Score

6

I DIDN'T LIKE the idea that I might be responsible for Helen's disappearance. Morelli had agreed to make a few phone calls, but I still felt unsatisfied. I pulled the Parrot Bar matches out of my pocket and examined them. No hastily scribbled messages on the inside flap. For that matter, nothing to identify them as Maxine's. Nevertheless, first thing in the morning, I'd be on my way to Point Pleasant.

I went to the phone book and looked up Badijian. Three of them. No Helen. Two were in Hamilton Township. One was in Trenton. I called the Trenton number. A woman answered and told me Helen wasn't home from work yet. Easy. But not the right answer. I wanted Helen to be home.

Okay, I thought, maybe what I needed to do was go see for myself. Take a look in Kuntz's windows and see if he had Helen tied to a kitchen chair. I strapped on my black web utility belt and filled the pockets. Pepper spray, stun gun, handcuffs, flashlight, .38 Special. I thought about loading the .38 and decided against it. Guns creeped me out.

I shrugged into a navy windbreaker and scooped my hair up under my hat.

Mrs. Zuppa was coming in from bingo just as I was leaving the building. "Looks like you're going to work," she said, leaning heavily on her cane. "What are you packin'?"

"A thirty-eight."

"I like a nine-millimeter myself."

"A nine's good."

"Easier to use a semiautomatic after you've had hip replacement and you walk with a cane," she said.

One of those useful pieces of information to file away and resurrect when I turn eighty-three.

Traffic was light at this time of night. A few cars on Olden. No cars on Muffet. I parked around the corner on Cherry Street, a block down from Kuntz, and walked to his house. Downstairs lights were on in both halves. Shades were up. I stood on the sidewalk and snooped. Leo and Betty were feet up in side-by-side recliners watching Bruce Willis bleed on TV.

Next door, Eddie was talking on the phone. It was a portable, and I could see him pacing in his kitchen in the back of the house.

Neighboring houses were dark. Lights were on across the street, but there was no activity. I slipped between the houses, avoiding the squares of light thrown onto the grass from open windows, and crept in shadow to the back of Kuntz's house. Snatches of conversation drifted out to me. Yes, he loved her, Kuntz said. And yes, he thought she was sexy. I stood in deep shade and looked through the window. His back was to me. He was alone, and there were no whacked-off body parts lying on his kitchen table. No Helen chained to the stove. No unearthly screams coming from his cellar. The whole thing was damn disappointing.

Of course, Jeffrey Dahmer kept his trophies in his refrigerator. Maybe what I should do is go around front, knock on the door, tell Kuntz I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop in for that drink. Then I could look in his refrigerator when he went for ice.

I was debating this plan when a hand clamped over my mouth and I was dragged backward and pressed hard into the side of the house. I kicked out with my feet, and my heart was pounding in my chest. I got a hand loose and went for the pepper spray, and I heard a familiar voice whisper in my ear.

"If you're looking to grab something, I can do better than pepper spray."

"Morelli!"

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I'm investigating. What does it look like I'm doing?"

"It looks like you're invading Eddie Kuntz's privacy." He pushed my jacket aside and stared down at my gun belt. "No grenades?"

"Very funny."

"You need to get out of here."

"I' m not done."

"Yes, you are," Morelli said. "You're done. I found Helen."

"Tell me."

"Not here." He took my hand and tugged me forward, toward the street.

The light over Eddie's back stoop went on, and the back screen door creaked open. "Somebody out here?"

Morelli and I froze against the side of the house.

A second door opened. "What is it?" Leo said. "What's going on?"

"Somebody's creeping around the house. I heard voices."

"Betty," Leo yelled, "bring the flashlight. Turn on the porch light."

Morelli gave me a shove. "Go for your car."

Keeping to the shadows, I ran around the neighboring duplex, cut back through the driveway and scuttled across yards, heading for Cherry. I scrambled over a four-foot-high chain-link fence, caught my foot on the cross section and sprawled facedown on the grass.

Morelli hoisted me up by my gun belt and set me in motion.

His pickup was directly behind my CRX. We both jumped in our cars and sped away. I didn't stop until I was safely in my own parking lot.

I slid from behind the wheel, locked my car and assumed what I hoped was a casual pose, leaning against the CRX, ignoring the fact that my knees were scraped and I had grass stains the entire length of my body.

Morelli sauntered over and stood back on his heels, hands in his pockets. "People like you give cops nightmares," he said.

"What about Helen?"

"Dead."

My breath caught in my chest. "That's terrible!"

"She was found in an alley four blocks from the Seven-Eleven. I don't know much except it looks like there was a struggle."

"How was she killed?"

"Won't know for sure until they do the autopsy, but there were bruises on her neck."

"Someone choked her to death?"

"That's what it sounds like." Morelli paused. "There's something else. And this is not public information. I'm telling you this so you'll be careful. Someone chopped her finger off."

Nausea rolled through my stomach, and I tried to pull in some oxygen. There was a monster out there . . . someone with a sick, twisted mind. And I'd unleashed him on Helen Badijian by involving her in my case.

"I hate this job," I said to Morelli. "I hate the bad people, and the ugly crimes, and the human suffering they cause. And I hate the fear. In the beginning, I was too stupid to be afraid. Now it seems like I'm always afraid. And if all that isn't bad enough, I've killed Helen Badijian."

"You didn't kill Helen Badijian," Morelli said. "You can't hold yourself responsible for that."

"How do you get through it? How do you go to work every day, dealing with all the bottom feeders?"

"Most people are good. I keep that in front of me so I don't lose perspective. It's like having a basket of peaches. Somewhere in the middle of the basket is a rotten peach. You find it and remove it. And you think to yourself, Well, that's just the way it is with peaches . . . good thing I was around to stop the rot from spreading."

"What about the fear?"

"Concentrate on doing the job, not on the fear."

Easy to say, hard to do, I thought. "I assume you came to Kuntz's house looking for me?"

"I called to give you the news," Morelli said, "and you weren't home. I asked myself if you'd be dumb enough to go after Kuntz, and the answer was yes."

"You think Kuntz killed Helen?"

"Hard to say. He's clean. Has no record. The fact that he knew you were seeing Helen might have no bearing on this at all. There could be someone out there working entirely independently, turning up the same leads you're turning up."

"Whoever they are, they're ahead of me now. They got to Helen."

"Helen might not have known much."

That was possible. Maybe all she had were the matches.

Morelli locked eyes with me. "You aren't going back after Kuntz, are you?"

"Not tonight."

* * * * *

SALLY CALLED while I was waiting for my morning coffee to finish dripping.

"The code was fun, but the message is boring," Sally said. " 'The next clue is in a box marked with a big red X.' "

"That's it? No directions to find the box?"

"Just what I read. You want the paper? It's sort of a mess. Sugar tidied the kitchen this morning and accidentally tossed the clue in the trash masher. I was lucky to find it."

"Is he still mad?"

"No. He's on one of his cleaning, cooking, interior decorating benders. He got up this morning and made scratch waffles, sausage patties, fresh squeezed orange juice, a mushroom omelet, put a coffee cake in the oven, scoured the kitchen to within an inch of its life and took off to buy new throw cushions for the couch."

"Dang. I was afraid he might be upset because I borrowed the wig."

"Nope. He was all Mr. Congeniality this morning. Said you could borrow the wig anytime you wanted."

"What a guy."

"Yeah, and he makes a bitchin' waffle. I have rehearsal at ten in Hamilton Township. I can stop on my way and give you the clue."

I poured a mug of coffee and called Eddie Kuntz.

"She was here," he said. "The bitch was spying on me last night. I was on the phone, and I heard someone talking outside, so I ran out to look, but she got away. There were two of them. Maxine and someone else. Probably one of her wacky girlfriends."

"You sure it was Maxine?"

"Who else would it be?"

Me, that's who, you big dumb jerk. "I got the pie clue worked out. The next clue is coming in a box with a big red X on it. You have any boxes like that sitting on your lawn?"

"No. I'm looking out my front window, and I don't see any boxes."

"How about in back?"

"This is stupid. Clues and boxes and . . . Shit, I found the box. It's on my back stoop. What should I do?"

"Open the box."

"No way. I'm not opening this box. There could be a bomb in it."

"There's no bomb."

"How do you know?"

"It's not Maxine's style."

"Let me tell you about Maxine. Maxine has no style. Maxine's a nut case. You feel so confident about this box, you come over and open it."

"Fine. I'll come over and open it. Just leave it where it is, and I'll be there as soon as I can."

I finished my coffee and gave Rex some Cheerios for breakfast. "Plan for the day," I said to Rex. "Wait for Sally to drop off the note. Next thing I drive over to Kuntz's house to open the box. Then I spend the rest of the day in Point Pleasant looking for Maxine. Is that a plan, or what?"

Rex rushed out of his soup can, stuffed all the Cheerios into his cheeks and rushed back into the soup can. So much for Rex.

I was debating if a second cup of coffee would give me heart palpitations when someone knocked on my door. I answered the knock and stared out at a flower delivery person, just about hidden behind a huge flower spray.

"Stephanie Plum?"

"Yes!"

"For you."

Wow. Flowers. I love getting flowers. I took the flowers and stepped back. And the flower person stepped forward into my apartment and leveled a gun at me. It was Maxine.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," she said. "Fell for the old flower delivery routine. What'd you just get off the banana boat?"

"I knew it was you. I just wanted to talk to you, so I didn't let on."

"Yeah, right." She kicked the door closed and looked around. "Put the flowers on the kitchen counter and then stand facing the refrigerator, hands on the refrigerator door."

I did as she said, and she cuffed me to the fridge door handle.

"Now we're going to talk," she said. "This is the deal. Stop being such a pain in the ass and I'll let you live."

"Would you really shoot me?"

"In a heartbeat."

"I don't think so."

"Miss Know-it-all."

"What's with these clues?"

"The clues are for the jerk. I wanted to make him jump like he made me jump. But you had to come along, and now you do all his dirty work for him. What is it with this guy and women? How does he manage?"

"Well, I can't speak for anyone else, but I'm doing it for the money."

"I'm so stupid," she said. "I did it for free."

"There's something else going on here," I said. "Something serious. Do you know about your apartment being ransacked? Do you know about Margie and your mother?"

"I don't want to get into that. There's nothing I can do now. But I can tell you one thing. I'm going to get what's coming to me from that son of a bitch Eddie Kuntz. He's going to pay for everything he did."

"You mean like scalping your mother?"

"I mean like breaking my nose. I mean like all the times he got drunk and smacked me around. All the times he cheated on me. All the times he took my paycheck. And the lies about getting married. That's what he's going to pay for."

"He said you took some love letters that belong to him."

Maxine tipped her head back and laughed. It was a nice honest throaty laugh that would have been contagious if I hadn't been chained to my refrigerator. "That's what he told you? Boy, that's good. Eddie Kuntz writing love letters. You probably own stock in the Brooklyn Bridge, too."

"Listen, I'm just trying to do a job."

"Yeah, and I'm trying to have a life. This is my advice to you. Forget about trying to find me because it isn't going to happen. I'm only hanging around to have some fun with the jerk and then I'm out of here. Soon as I'm done yanking Kuntz's chain I'm gone."

"You have money to make you disappear?"

"More than God has apples. Now I'm going to tell you something about that box. It's filled with dog doody. I spent all day in the park, filling a plastic bag. The clue is in the doody in the plastic bag. I want the jerk to paw through that doody. And trust me, he wants to find me bad enough to do it. So back off and don't help him out."

I felt my lip involuntarily curl back. Dog doody. Ugh.

"That's all I have to say to you," Maxine said. "Go look for somebody else and stop helping the jerk."

"Are you the one who wrote on my door?"

She turned to leave. "No, but it's a pretty cool message."

"You're going to leave the key to the cuffs, aren't you?"

She looked at me and winked and waltzed away, closing the door behind her.

Damn! "I'm not the only one after you!" I yelled. "Watch out for that bitch Joyce Barnhardt!" Shit. She was getting away. I yanked at the cuffs, but they were secure. No knives or helpful kitchen utensils within reach. Phone too far away. I could yell until doomsday and Mr. Wolensky, across the hall, wouldn't hear me over his TV. Think, Stephanie. Think! "Help!" I yelled. "Help!"

No one came to help. After about five minutes of yelling and fuming I started to feel a headache coming on. So I stopped yelling, and I looked in the refrigerator for something that would stop a headache. Banana cream pie. There was some left from Saturday. I ate the pie and washed it down with milk. I was still hungry, so I ate some peanut butter and a bag of baby carrots. I was finishing up with the carrots when there was another knock at my door.

I went back to the yelling "Help!" routine.

The door swung open and Sally stuck his head in. "Fucking kinky," he said. "Who cuffed you to the fridge?"

"I had a little scuffle with Maxine."

"Looks like you lost."

"Don't suppose you saw her hanging out in the parking lot."

"Nope."

My biggest fear was that she'd gotten away, never to be found. My second biggest fear was that Joyce had nabbed her. "Go down to the basement and get Dillon, the super, and ask him to come up with his hacksaw."

Twenty minutes later I was still wearing a bracelet, but at least I was free of the refrigerator. Sally had left for rehearsal. Dillon was on his way downstairs with a six-pack under his arm. And I was late for an appointment with a box full of dog shit.

I barreled down the stairs and out the door. I started toward my car but pulled up short when Joyce rolled into the parking lot.

"Joyce," I said, "long time, no see." I peeked into her car, looking for Maxine. "You still following me?"

"Hell no. I have better things to do than to sit around all day waiting for someone to get hit with a pie. I came by to tell you good-bye."

"Giving up?"

"Getting smart. I don't need you to find Maxine."

"Oh yeah? Why is that?"

"I know where she's hiding. I have a contact who knows all about Maxine's transactions. Too bad you were never in retail like me. I made a lot of connections."

The driver's-side window rolled up, and Joyce roared out of the lot, down the street.

Great. Joyce has connections.

I crossed to the CRX and noticed that someone had left a note under my windshield wiper.

I said I'd get even and 1 meant it. I've been watching you and 1 know he was here. This is your last warning. Leave my boyfriend alone! Next time I soak something with gasoline I'll strike a match to it.

This was about somebody's boyfriend. And only one person came to mind. Morelli. Ugh! To think I almost went to bed with him. I squeezed my eyes shut. I fell for all that talk about no condoms and no sex. What was I thinking? I should have known better than to believe anything Morelli told me. And it wasn't hard to guess the girlfriend's name. Terry Gilman. This threat had mob written all over it. And Connie had said Terry was connected.

I sniffed at my car. Gasoline. I put my finger to the hood. It was still wet. Morelli's unhinged girlfriend must have just been here. Probably did this while I was chained to the refrigerator. No big deal, I thought. I'd run the CRX through a car wash.

I stuck the key in the door lock more out of force of habit than actual thought. The key didn't go through the usual turn, which meant the door wasn't locked. I looked closer and saw the scratches made next to the window. Someone had used a jimmy bar to pop the lock.

I had a premonition of bad news.

I did a fast peek in the window. Nothing seemed stolen. The radio looked intact. I opened the driver's side door and the gasoline smell almost knocked me to my knees. I put my hand to the seat. It was soaked. The floor mats were soaked. The dash was soaked. Gasoline pooled in nooks and crannies.

Shit! Goddamn Morelli. I was more angry at him than I was at Terry. I looked around the lot. No one there but me.

I whipped out my cell phone and started dialing. No answer at Morelli's house. No answer at his office number. No answer on his car phone. I kicked a tire and did some inventive swearing.

I was parked in a back corner of the lot with no cars in the immediate vicinity. It seemed to me the safest thing to do right now was to leave the car parked and let some of the gas evaporate away. I opened the windows wide, went back to the apartment building and called Lula at the office.

"I need a ride," I told Lula. "Car problems."

* * * * *

"OKAY, so tell me again about this box," Lula said, lining the Firebird up with the curb in front of Kuntz's house.

"Maxine says it's filled with dog doody, so we shouldn't touch it."

"You believe Maxine? Suppose it's a bomb?"

"I don't think it's a bomb."

"Yeah, but are you sure?"

"Well, no."

"I tell you what. I'm staying on the front porch while you open that box. I don't want to be anywhere near that box."

I walked around to the back of the house, and sure enough, there was the box, sitting on the stoop. The box was about a foot square. It was heavy cardboard, sealed up with tape, marked with a red X.

Kuntz was at the screen door. "Took you long enough."

"You're lucky we came at all," Lula said. "And if you don't change your attitude we're gonna leave. So what do you think of that?"

I crouched down and examined the box. Nothing ticking. Didn't smell like dog shit. No warning labels that said Dangerous Explosives. Truth is, anything could be in the box. Anything. Could be cooties left over from Desert Storm. "Looks okay to me," I said to Kuntz. "Go ahead and open it."

"You're sure it's safe?"

"Hey," Lula said, "we're trained professionals. We know about these things. Right, Stephanie?"

"Right."

Kuntz stared at the box. He cracked his knuckles and pulled his lips tight against his teeth. "Damn that Maxine." He took a Swiss army knife out of his pocket and bent to the box.

Lula and I discreetly stepped away from the stoop.

"You're sure?" he asked again, knife poised.

"Oh yeah." Another step backward.

Kuntz slit the tape, parted the flaps and peeked into the box. Nothing exploded, but Lula and I kept our distance all the same.

"What the hell?" Kuntz said, looking more closely. "What is this? Looks like a plastic bag sealed with one of those twisty tie things and filled with chocolate pudding."

Lula and I exchanged glances.

"I suppose the clue's in the bag," Kuntz said. He poked at the bag, his face contorted, and he uttered something that sound like "Ulk."

"Something wrong?" Lula asked.

"This isn't pudding."

"Well, look on the bright side," Lula said. "It didn't explode, did it?"

"Gosh, look at the time," I said, tapping my watch. "I'm going to have to run."

"Yeah, me too," Lula said. "I got things to do."

The color had drained from Kuntz's face. "What about the clue?"

"You can call me later, or you can leave it on the machine. Just read the letters off to me."

"But . . ."

Lula and I were gone. Around the side of the house. Into the Firebird. Down the street.

"Now what?" Lula said. "Gonna be hard to top that for excitement. Not every day I get to see a box full of poop."

"I need to look for Maxine. I'm not the only one to figure out she's in Point Pleasant. Unfortunately, I've got a vandalized car sitting in my parking lot, and I'm going to have to take care of that first."

I tried Morelli on the cell phone again, and got him in his car.

"Your girlfriend visited me," I said.

"I don't have a girlfriend."

"Bullshit!"

I read him the note and told him about my door and my car.

"Why do you think it's my girlfriend?" Morelli wanted to know.

"I can't think of anyone else who would make a woman so totally deranged."

"I appreciate the compliment," Morelli said. "But I'm not involved with anyone. I haven't been for a long time."

"What about Terry Gilman?"

"Terry Gilman wouldn't pour gasoline on your car. Terry Gilman would politely knock on your door, and when you answered she'd gouge your eyes out."

"When was the last time you saw Terry?"

"About a week ago. I ran into her in Fiorello's Deli. She was wearing a little denim skirt, and she looked very fine, but she's not the woman in my life right now."

I narrowed my eyes. "So who is the woman in your life now?"

"You."

"Oh. Then what is this boyfriend stuff all about?"

"Maybe it's Maxine. You said it happened after she chained you to the refrigerator."

"And she's talking about Kuntz? I don't know. It doesn't feel right."

* * * * *

LULA PARKED next to the CRX, and we got out to assess the damage.

"I don't know how you get rid of this much gasoline," Lula said. "It's everywhere. It's even spilled on the outside. You got gas puddles here."

I needed to call the police and get a report on file, and then I needed to call my insurance company. The car needed to be professionally cleaned. I probably had a deductible, but I couldn't remember the amount. Not that it mattered. I couldn't drive the car like this.

"I'm going inside to make a couple phone calls," I told Lula. "If I hustle I might be done with this in time to go to Point Pleasant and look for Maxine."

"You know what I love about Point Pleasant? I love those half-orange and half-vanilla swirly frozen custard cones. Maybe I'll have to go with you. Maybe you could use a bodyguard."

A blue Fairlane swung into the lot and skidded to a stop behind us.

"Holy cats," Lula said. "It's old lady Nowicki, driving half in the bag."

Mrs. Nowicki lurched out of the car and swayed over. "I heard that, and I'm not half in the bag. If I was half in the bag I'd be a lot happier."

She was dressed in poison-green spandex. She'd troweled on full face makeup, a cigarette was stuck in the corner of her mouth and wisps of orange frizz framed a poison-green turban . . . which I knew hid a freshly scalped head.

She looked at my car and gave a bark of laughter. "This yours?"

"Yeah."

"Didn't anybody tell you the gasoline's supposed to go in the tank?"

"Something you want to see me about?"

"I'm leaving town," Mrs. Nowicki said. "And I have some news for you. Maxine would be real mad if she knew I told you this, but I think you were right about it being better you found her than . . . you know."

"You've heard from her?"

"She brought her car around for me. Said she didn't need it anymore."

"Where is she?"

"Well, she used to be in Point Pleasant, like I thought. But she said people got wind of that so she's moved to Atlantic City. She wouldn't give me an address, but I know she likes to play at Bally's Park Place. Thinks the odds are better there."

"You're sure?"

"Well, pretty sure." She took a deep drag on the cigarette which just about wore it down to the filter. Blue smoke filtered out her nose, and she flicked the butt away. It hit the pavement, rolled under my car and . . . phunff! The car ignited.

"YIKES!" Lula and I yelped, jumping back.

The car was engulfed in a big yellow fireball.

"FIRE! FIRE!" Lula and I hollered.

Mrs. Nowicki turned to look. "What?"

KABOOM! There was an explosion, Mrs. Nowicki got knocked on her ass, and a second fireball erupted. Lula's Firebird!

"My car! My baby!" Lula yelled. "Do something! Do something!"

People were pouring out of the building, and sirens wailed in the distance. Lula and I stooped over Mrs. Nowicki, who was stretched out on the pavement, face up, eyes wide.

"Uh oh," Lula said. "You aren't gonna be dead again, are you?"

"I need a cigarette," Mrs. Nowicki said. "Light me up."

A squad car slid into the lot, lights flashing. Carl Costanza got out of the car and walked over to me. "Pretty good," he said. "Looks like you blew up two cars this time."

"One was Lula's."

"We gonna have to look for body parts? Last time you blew up a car we found body parts a block away."

"You only found one single foot a block away. Most of the parts were right here in the lot. Personally, I think Mrs. Burlew's dog carried the foot there."

"So what about this time? We gotta go looking for feet?"

"Both cars were unoccupied. Mrs. Nowicki got shook up, but I think she's okay."

"She's so okay, she left," Lula said. "She could do that on account of her piece-of-junk car didn't get cooked."

"She left?" My voice sounded like Minnie Mouse's. I couldn't believe she left after causing the accident.

"Just this second," Lula said. "Saw her just leave the lot."

I looked out to St. James, and an unsettling thought flashed into my head. "You don't suppose she did this on purpose, do you?"

"Blew up both our cars so we couldn't go off looking for her daughter? You think she's smart enough to think of something like that?"

* * * * *

THE FIRE TRUCKS left first, then the police, then the tow trucks. And now all that was left was a charred, sanded spot on the blacktop.

"Oh well," Lula said. "Easy come, easy go."

"You don't seem very upset. I thought you loved that car."

"Well the radio wasn't working right, and it got a ding on the side of the door at the supermarket. I can go out and get a new one now. Soon as I get the paperwork done I'm going car shopping. Nothing I like better than car shopping."

Nothing I hated more than car shopping. I'd rather have a mammogram than go car shopping. I never had enough money to get a car I really liked. And then there were the car salesmen . . . second only to dentists in their ability to inflict pain. Ick. An involuntary shiver gripped my spine.

"See, I'm one of those positive type people," Lula went on. "My glass isn't half empty. Nuh uh. My glass is always half full. That's why I'm making something of myself. And anyway, there's people lots worse off than me. I didn't spend my afternoon looking for a note in a box full of dog poop."

"Do you think Mrs. Nowicki was telling the truth about Atlantic City? She could have been trying to throw us off the trail."

"Only one way to find out."

"We need wheels."

We looked at each other and did a double grimace. We both knew where there was an available car. My father had a powder-blue-and-white '53 Buick sitting in his garage. From time to time I'd been desperate enough to borrow the beast.

"No, no, no," Lula said. "I'm not going down to Atlantic City in that big blue pimpmobile."

"Where's your positive attitude? What about all that cup-is-half-full stuff?"

"Fuck the cup is half full. I can't be cool in that car. And I don't ride in no uncool car. I got a reputation at stake. You see a big black woman sliding across the seat in that car, and you think one thing. Twenty-five dollars for a blow job. I'm telling you, if you aren't Jay Leno you got no business being in that car."

"Okay, let me get this straight. If I decide to go to Atlantic City, and the only car I can come up with is Big Blue . . . you don't want to go with me."

"Well, since you put it that way . . ."

I called Lula a cab, and then I trudged up the stairs to my apartment. I let myself in and went straight to the refrigerator for a beer. "I have to tell you," I said to Rex. "I'm getting discouraged."

I checked my answering machine and received a terse message from Eddie Kuntz. "I got it."

Kuntz didn't sound any happier when I called him back. He read the letters out to me. Fifty-three in all. And he hung up. No inquiring as to my health. No suggestion to have a nice day.

I dialed Sally and transferred the burden onto him. "By the way," I said. "What kind of car do you have?"

"Porsche."

Figures. "Two seater?"

"Is there any other kind?"

Room for me. No room for Lula. She'd understand. After all, this was business, right? And the fact that her car just got blown up, that was business too, right? "It wasn't my fault," I said. "I wasn't the one who tossed the cigarette."

"I must have been beamed up for a minute there," Sally said. "I think I just got a couple sentences from the other side."

I explained about the cars' catching fire and about the lead from Mrs. Nowicki.

"Sounds like we need to go to Atlantic City," Sally said.

"You think we could squash Lula into the Porsche with us?"

"Not even if we greased her."

I gave an internal sigh of regret and told Sally we'd go in my car and I'd pick him up at seven. No way was I going to be able to cut Lula out of this caper.