I did the shopping first, and by the time I was done and had the groceries tucked away in the trunk, the bank was open. Business was slow first thing on a Tuesday morning. No one in the lobby. There were two tellers counting out money. Probably practicing. I didn't see Leona.
Allen Shempsky was in the lobby drinking coffee, talking to a bank guard. He saw me and waved. “How's the Uncle Fred hunt going?” he asked.
“Not that good. I was looking for Leona.”
“It's her day off. Maybe I can be of help.”
I rooted around in my bag, located the check, and handed it over to Allen. “Anything you can tell me about this?”
He examined it front and back. “It's a canceled check.”
“Anything weird about it?”
He looked at it some more. “Not that I can see. What's so special about this check?”
“I don't know. Fred was having billing problems with RGC. He was supposed to bring this check to the office the day he disappeared. I guess he didn't want to take the original, so he left it home on his desk.”
“Sorry I can't be more helpful,” Shempsky said. “If you want to leave it with me I can ask around. Sometimes different people pick up different things.”
I dropped the check back into my bag. “Think I'll hang on to it. I have a feeling people have died because of this check.”
“That's serious,” Shempsky said.
I walked back to the car feeling spooky and not knowing why. Nothing alarming had happened at the bank. And no one was parked or standing by the Porsche. I checked the lot. No Bunchy. No Ramirez that I could see. Still, there was that uncomfortable feeling. Something forgotten, maybe. Or someone watching. I unlocked the car and looked back at the bank. It was Shempsky I'd sensed. He was standing to the side of the bank building, smoking a cigarette, watching me. Oh man, now I was getting the creeps from Shempsky. I blew out a breath. My imagination was in overdrive. The man was just sneaking a smoke, for Pete's sake.
The only oddity in the act was that Allen Shempsky actually had a bad habit. A bad habit seemed like an excess of personality for Allen Shempsky. Shempsky was a nice guy who never offended anyone and was totally forgettable. He'd been like that for as long as I could remember. When we were in school he was the kid in the back of the room who never got called on. Quiet smile, never a conflicting opinion, always neat and clean. He was like a chameleon whose clothes matched the wall behind him. After knowing Allen all my life, I'd be hard-?pressed to name his hair color. Maybe mouse brown. Not that he was rodentlike. He was a reasonably attractive man with an average nose and average teeth and average eyes. He was average height, of average build, and I assumed of average intelligence, although there was no way of knowing for sure.
He'd married Maureen Blum a month after they both graduated from
Rider College. He had two young children and a house in Hamilton Township. I'd never driven past his house, but I was willing to bet it was forgettable. Maybe that wasn't so bad. Maybe it was a good thing to be unmemorable. I bet Maureen Blum Shempsky didn't have to worry about being stalked by Benito Ramirez.
Bunchy was waiting when I got back to my apartment building. He was in the lot, sitting in his car, looking grumpy.
“What's with the Porsche?” he wanted to know, coming over.
“It's on loan from Ranger. And if you put a tracking device on it he won't be happy.”
“Do you know how much a car like this costs?”
“A lot?”
“Maybe more than you want to pay,” Bunchy said.
“I hope that's not the case.”
He took one of the grocery bags and followed me upstairs. “You go to the bank like you said?”
“Yep. I talked to Allen Shempsky, but I didn't learn anything new.”
“What did you talk to him about?”
“The weather. Politics. Managed health care.” I balanced my bag on my hip while I unlocked the door.
“Boy, you're a beaut. You don't trust anybody, do you?”
“I don't trust you.”
“I wouldn't trust him, either,” Briggs said from the living room. “He looks like he's got a social disease.”