Walter and Jean had named their store the One-?Stop. It was across the street from a twenty-?four-?hour supermarket and would have been driven out of business long ago were it not for the fact that in one stop customers could purchase a loaf of bread, play the numbers, and put down twenty dollars on some nag racing at Freehold.
Walter was behind the register reading the paper when I walked into the store. It was early afternoon, and the store was empty. Walter put the paper down and got to his feet. “Did you find him?”
“No. Sorry.”
He took a deep breath. “Jesus. I thought you were coming to tell me he was dead.”
“Do you think he's dead?”
“I don't know what I think. In the beginning I figured he just wandered off. Had another stroke or something. But now I can't figure it. None of it makes sense.”
“Do you know anything about Fred having problems with his garbage company?”
“Dad had problems with everyone,” Walter said.
I said good-?bye to Walter, fired up the Buick, and drove across town to the pork roll factory. I parked in a visitor slot, went inside, and asked the woman at the front desk to pass a note through to Ronald.
Ronald came out a few minutes later. “I guess this is about Dad,” he said. “Nice of you to help us look for him. I can't believe he hasn't turned up by now.”
> “Do you have any theories?”
“None I'd want to say out loud.”
“The women in his life?”
Ronald shook his head. “He was a pip. Cheap as they come and could never keep his pecker in his pants. I don't know if he can still fire up the old engine, but he's still running around. Christ, he's seventy-?two years old.”
“Do you know anything about a disagreement with the garbage company?”
“No, but he's had a year-?long feud with his insurance company.”
Stephanie Plum 5 - High Five
Stephanie Plum 5 - High Five
Stephanie Plum 5 - High Five
3
I LEFT THE pork roll factory's parking lot and headed across town. It was almost five and government workers were clogging the roads. That was one of the many good things about Trenton. If you needed to practice Italian hand signals, there was no shortage of deserving bureaucrats.
I made a fast stop back at my apartment for some last-?minute beautifying. I added an extra layer of mascara, fluffed my hair, and headed out.
Morelli was at the bar when I got to Pino's. He had his back to me, and he was lost in thought, elbows on the bar, head bent over his beer. He wore jeans and running shoes and a green plaid flannel shirt unbuttoned over a Gold's Gym T-?shirt. A woman at the opposite end of the bar was watching him in the behind-?the-?bar mirror. Women did that now. They watched and wondered. When he was younger and his features were softer, women did more than watch. When he was younger, mothers statewide warned their daughters about Joe Morelli. And when he was younger, daughters statewide didn't give a darn what their mothers told them. Morelli's features were more angular these days. His eyes were less inviting to strangers. Women included. So women watched and wondered what it would be like to be with Morelli.
I knew, of course, what it was like to be with Morelli. Morelli was magic.
I took the stool next to him and waved a “beer, please” signal to the bartender.
Morelli gave me an appraising look, his eyes dilated black in the dim bar light. “Business suit and heels,” he said. “That means you've either been to a wake, a job interview, or you tried to trick some nice old lady out of information she shouldn't be giving you.”
“Door number three.”
“Let me guess . . . this has to do with your uncle Fred.”
“Bingo,”
“Having any luck?”