I nodded to her. “Pretty cold today.”
“Hmmmph,” she said.
“Listen, it's not my fault!” I told her. “I'm just doing my job.”
The grin widened on Morelli's face. “Us crime stoppers have a tough life, huh?”
“Are you still working vice?”
“I'm working homicide. Temporarily.”
“Is that a promotion?”
“It's more like lateral movement.”
I wasn't sure I could see Morelli as a homicide cop. Morelli liked to get out there and make things happen. Homicide was a more cerebral, reactive position.
“Was there a reason for this visit?” I asked.
“I was in the area. Thought I'd see how things were going.”
“You mean things like Moses Bedemier?”
“You need to be more careful. Mo has some very protective, very noisy neighbors.”
I held my coat collar tight to my neck. “I don't get it. What's so great about this guy?”
Morelli did a palms up. “I guess he's just one of those lovable types. Friends with everyone.”
“What I'm finding is that he's friends with no one. He's a very private person. Doesn't even confide in his sister. My grandmother says it's like he's married to the store. Like a priest.”
“A lot of people let their work take over their life. It's the American way,” Morelli said.
Morelli's pager beeped.
“Christ,” Morelli said. “I hope this is something horrible. A decapitation or maybe a bullet-riddled body found in a Dumpster. Homicide in Trenton is like watching grass grow. We just don't have enough good ones to go around.”
I opened the door to my car and slid behind the wheel. “Let me know if it turns out to be Mo.”
Morelli had his own keys in hand. His black Toyota 4x4 was parked directly behind me. “Try to stay out of trouble.”
I drove off wondering what to do next. I'd covered all of the information given on Mo's bond agreement. I'd canvassed the neighborhood, searched his apartment, spoken to his only sister.
After ten minutes of cruising I found myself in the parking lot of my apartment building. The building and the lot were sterile in January. Brick and macadam unsoftened by summer shrubbery. Leaden Jersey sky, dark enough for the streetlights to blink on.
I got out of the car and walked head down to the building's back entrance, pushed through the double glass doors and was grateful for the sudden warmth.
I stepped into the elevator and punched the button for the second floor, wondering what I'd missed in my search for Bedemier. Usually something popped up in the initial investigation . . . a girlfriend, a hobby, a favorite bakery or liquor store. Nothing had popped up today.
The elevator doors opened, and I walked the short distance down the hall, planning out phone calls. I could check on Mo's bank account to see if there were any recent withdrawals. I could check his credit rating. Sometimes a credit check turned up hidden problems. I could run down utilities accounts on a possible second home. I could call Sue Ann Grebek, who knew everything about everyone.
I unlocked my apartment door, stepped into the quiet foyer and took stock of my apartment. My hamster, Rex, was sleeping in the soup can in his glass cage. There were no lights blinking on my answering machine. There were no sounds of big, hairy, snaggle-toothed guys scrambling to hide under my bed.
I dumped my pocketbook on the kitchen counter and draped my jacket over a chair. I poured some milk into a mug, nuked it for two minutes and dumped a couple spoons of instant hot chocolate mix into the hot milk. I added two marshmallows, and while they were getting gooey I made myself a peanut butter sandwich on mushy, worthless white bread.
I took all this, plus my cordless phone, to the dining room table and dialed Sue Ann.
“Stephanie, Stephanie, Stephanie,” Sue Ann said. “My phone's been ringing off the hook. Everybody's talking about how you're out to get Uncle Mo.”