Three to Get Deadly (12 page)

Jackie wheeled off for the Dumpster with Lula and me scrambling to keep up.

“I decided to neaten up the car,” Jackie said. “So I come over here with a bag of
trash, and I’m throwing it in the Dumpster, and I see something sort of reflecting light. And I look a little harder, and I see it’s a watch. And then I see it’s attached to a wrist. And I say, Goddamn, I know that watch and that wrist. So I dig around some and look what I come up with. Look what I hauled out of the goddamn garbage.”

She stopped at the bush, reached down, grabbed hold of the foot and dragged a man’s body out into the open. “Just look at this. He’s dead. And if that isn’t bad enough, he’s frozen solid. This motherfucker is one big frosty Popsicle. It’s not even like I get to see him rot. Damn.”

Jackie dropped the foot and gave Cameron a good solid kick in the ribs.

Lula and I jumped back and sucked in some air.

“Dang,” Lula said.

“That ain’t the half of it,” Jackie said. “I’ve been sitting here waiting to shoot him, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

Jackie opened her coat, pulled a 9mm Beretta out of her sweatpants and drilled half a clip into Cameron Brown. Cameron jumped around some from the impact, but mostly the bullets didn’t have much effect—
except for putting a bunch of extra holes in various body parts.

“Are you nuts?” Lula yelled. “This guy’s dead! You’re shooting a dead man!”

“Isn’t my fault,” Jackie said. “I wanted to shoot him while he was alive, but somebody beat me to it. I’m just making the best of a bad situation.”

“You’ve been drinking,” Lula said.

“Damn skippy. Would have froze to death if I didn’t have a nip once in a while.”

Jackie raised the gun, looking to unload a few more rounds into Cameron.

“Hold on,” Lula said. “I hear sirens.”

We stood still and listened to the whoop, whoop, whoop.

“Coming this way!” Lula said. “Every man for himself!”

We all ran for our cars and took off at the same time, almost crashing into each other trying to get out of the lot.

Jackie and Lula and I rendezvoused at a Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot, about a quarter mile from RiverEdge. We parked our cars side by side and got out to have a huddle.

“I need a doughnut,” Jackie said. “I want one of those fancy ones with the colored sprinkles on top.”

“You need more than a doughnut,” Lula told her. “You need your head examined. You just shot up a dead man. What were you thinking?”

Jackie was rummaging in her pockets, looking for doughnut money. “I guess I got a right to shoot someone if I want to.”

“Nuh-uh,” Lula said. “There’s rules. This
man was already dead, and you showed disrespect for the deceased.”

“The deceased didn’t deserve no respect. He stole my car.”

“Everybody deserves respect when they’re dead,” Lula said. “It’s a rule.”

“Says who?”

“Says God.”

“Oh yeah? Well, God don’t know jack-shit about rules. I’m telling you, that’s a stupid rule.”

Lula had her hands on her hips, and her eyes bugged out of her head. “Don’t you talk about God like that, you worthless ho. I’m not gonna stand here and let you blaspheme God.”

“Hold it!” I shouted. “What about the police?”

“What about them?” Jackie wanted to know.

“We need to call them.”

Jackie and Lula looked at me like I was speaking Klingon.

“Someone killed Cameron Brown before Jackie made Swiss cheese out of him. We can’t just leave Brown lying there alongside the Dumpster,” I told them.

“No need to worry about that,” Lula said. “That place is crawling with cops by now.
They’ll find Cameron. He’s right out there in the open.”

“Yeah, but shooting dead people is probably a crime. That makes us accessories if we don’t report it.”

“I’m not going to the police,” Jackie said. “Unh-uh. No way.”

“It’s the right thing to do,” I said.

“The hell,” Jackie said. “It’s the stupid thing to do.”

“Stephanie’s right,” Lula told Jackie. “It’s the dope and the liquor that’s stopping you from doing the right thing. Just like it’s the dope and the liquor that makes you blaspheme God. You gotta do something for yourself,” Lula said to Jackie. “You gotta go to detox.”

“Don’t need detox,” Jackie said.

“Uh-huh,” Lula told her.

“Unh-uh.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I know what you’re doing,” Jackie said. “You’ve been trying to get me to detox ever since you got straight. This here’s just a trick.”

“You bet your ass,” Lula said. “And either you go to detox, or we turn you in.” Lula looked at me. “Isn’t that right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s right.” Seemed like
that’s what the court would do anyway. Probably the clinic on Perry Street would do it better.

It started with polite rapping on my door. And then when I didn’t answer, it turned to pounding. I looked through my peephole and saw Morelli pacing and muttering. He turned and gave my door another shot with his fist.

“Come on, Stephanie,” he said. “Wake up. Get out of bed and answer your door.”

It was eight-thirty, and I’d been awake for an hour. I’d taken a shower, gotten dressed and had breakfast. I wasn’t answering my door because I didn’t want to talk to Morelli. I suspected he’d just come from RiverEdge.

I heard him fiddling with the lock. The lock clicked open. Thirty seconds later he had the deadbolt. My front door pushed open but caught on the chain.

“I know you’re there,” Morelli said. “I can smell your shampoo. Open the door, or I’m coming back with a bolt cutter.”

I slid the chain and opened the door. “Now what?”

“We found Cameron Brown.”

I opened my eyes wider to simulate surprise. “No!”

“Yes. Frozen solid. And extremely dead. Been dead for days is my guess. Found him next to the Dumpster at the RiverEdge condo complex.”

“I’ll have to tell Jackie.”

“Uh-huh. Funny thing about the body. Looked like whoever killed Brown had him tossed into the Dumpster. And then someone came along last night, dragged the body out of the Dumpster and pumped half a clip into him.”

“No!”

“Yes. It gets even funnier. Two of the RiverEdge residents came forward, saying they heard a bunch of women arguing in the lot, late at night, then they heard gunshots. When they looked out their windows what do you suppose they saw?”

“What?”

“Three cars leaving the lot. One of them was an old Buick. They thought it might be powder blue with a white top.”

“Did they get a plate? Did they see the women?”

“No.”

“Guess that’s a tough break for you guys, huh?”

“I thought you might be able to shed some light on the incident.”

“Am I talking to you as a cop this morning?”

“Shit,” Morelli said. “I don’t want to hear this.”

“So, is it against the law to shoot someone after he’s already dead?”

“Yes, it’s against the law.”

I made a small grimace. “I thought it would be. Just exactly what law is it against?”

“I don’t know,” Morelli said. “But I’m sure there’s something. I suppose there were extenuating circumstances.”

“A woman scorned…”

“Is this scorned woman going to come forward?”

“She’s going into detox.”

“Your job description reads ‘bounty hunter,’” Morelli said. “Social worker is a whole different job.”

“You want some coffee?”

He shook his head, no. “I’ve got paperwork. Then I’ve got an autopsy.”

I watched him walk down the hall and disappear into the elevator. Only an idiot would think they could talk to Morelli and not be talking to Morelli the cop. Cops never stopped being cops. It had to be the world’s hardest job.

Trenton cops wore more hats than I could
name. They were arbitrators, social workers, peacekeepers, baby-sitters and law enforcers. The job was boring, terrifying, disgusting, exhausting and often made no sense at all. The pay was abysmal, the hours were inhuman, the department budget was a joke, the uniforms were short in the crotch. And year after year after year, the Trenton cops held the city together.

Rex was in his soup can, butt side out, half buried under wood shavings, hunkered in for his morning nap. I cracked a walnut and dropped it into his cage. After a moment there was movement under the wood shavings. Rex backed himself out, snatched half of the walnut and carried it into his can. I watched a couple minutes longer, but the show was over.

I checked my pocketbook to make sure I had the essentials…beeper, tissues, hair spray, flashlight, cuffs, lipstick, gun with bullets, recharged cell phone, recharged stun gun, hairbrush, gum, pepper spray, nail file. Was I a kick-ass bounty hunter, or what?

I grabbed my keys and stuffed myself into my jacket. First thing on my agenda was a visit to the office. I wanted to make sure Jackie was holding up her part of the bargain.

The sky felt low and forbidding over the
parking lot, and the air was as cold as a witch’s fadiddy. The lock was frozen on the Buick, and the windshield was coated with ice. I hammered on the lock, but it wouldn’t break loose, so I trekked back to my apartment and got some deicer and a plastic scraper. Ten minutes later, I had my door open, the heater going full blast, and I’d chipped a squint hole in the ice on my windshield.

I slid behind the wheel, tested the hole for vision and decided it would do if I didn’t drive too fast. By the time I got to Vinnie’s I was nice and toasty and could see my entire hood, not to mention the road. Jackie’s Chrysler was parked in front of the office. I took the slot behind her and hustled inside.

Jackie was pacing in front of Connie’s desk.

“Don’t see why I need to do this,” Jackie was saying. “It isn’t like I can’t control myself. It isn’t like I couldn’t stop if I wanted. I just like to do some once in a while. Don’t see what’s so wrong about that. Everybody do some once in a while.”

“I don’t,” Connie said.

“Me either,” Lula said.

“Me either,” I said.

Jackie looked at us one by one. “Hunh.”

“You’ll be happy when you get straight,” Lula said.

“Oh yeah?” Jackie said. “I’m happy now. I’m so goddamn happy I can’t hardly stand it. Sometimes I just happy myself into a state.”

Connie had her copy of Mo’s file on her desk. “We don’t get Mo in the next five days and we’re going to have to forfeit the bond,” she said to me.

I flipped the file open and took another look at the bond agreement and the picture.

Jackie looked over my shoulder. “Hey,” she said, “it’s Old Penis Nose. You after him? I just saw him.”

Everyone turned and stared at Jackie.

“Yep, that’s him all right,” she said, flicking a false red fingernail against the photo. “Drives a blue Honda. Remember we used to see him on the street sometimes. Saw him coming out of the apartment building on Montgomery. The one next to the mission.”

Lula and I looked at each other. Duh.

“He alone?” I asked Jackie.

“I wasn’t paying much attention, but I don’t remember anyone else.”

“I’m gonna drive Jackie over to the clinic on Perry Street,” Lula said. “Help her get started.”

The problem with the clinic on Perry Street was that it was filled with dopers. Therefore, the street outside was filled with dealers. The dopers came to get their daily dose of methadone, but on the way in and out it was like walking through a controlled-substance supermarket. Easiest place to get dope in any city is always at the meth clinic.

Lula wasn’t going along to make sure Jackie got started. Lula was going along to make sure Jackie didn’t OD before she even signed the papers.

Lula followed me to my parents’ house and waited while I parked the Buick in the driveway. Then she and Jackie dropped me at the Nissan service center.

“Don’t let them give you no baloney about that truck,” Lula said. “You test-drive it. You tell them you’ll bust a cap up their ass if that truck isn’t fixed.”

“Okay,” I said. “Don’t worry. Nobody’s taking advantage of me.”

I waved her off and went in search of the service manager. “So what do you think?” I asked him. “Is the truck in okay shape?”

“We’ve got it running like a top.”

“Excellent,” I said, relieved that I didn’t have to do any cap busting.

Jackie had seen Mo coming out of an apartment building on the corner of Montgomery and Grant. I wouldn’t call it a hot lead, but it was better than nothing, and I thought it deserved a look. Montgomery and Grant were southeast of the burg in an area of Trenton that worked hard at staying prosperous. The apartment building anchored the street, with the rest of the block given over to small businesses. Sal’s Café, A&G Appliances, Star Seafood, Montgomery Street Freedom Mission and the Montgomery Street Freedom Church.

I circled the block, looking for a blue Honda. None turned up. The apartment building had its own underground parking, but a key card was required to get past the gate. No problem. I could park on the street and check the garage on foot.

I did three laps around the block, and finally someone pulled out of a desirable space at the curb. I wanted to be on Montgomery, in view of both the front door and the garage entrance. I thought I’d snoop in the garage, take a look at the mailboxes, and then maybe I’d hang out and see if anything interested me.

There were seventy-two mailboxes. None had the name “Moses Bedemier” printed
on it. The garage was only a third full. I found two blue Hondas, but none with the correct plate.

I went back to the truck and sat. I watched the people on the street. I watched the cars. I didn’t see anyone I knew. At one o’clock I got a sandwich at Sal’s Café. I showed Mo’s picture and asked if he’d been seen.

The waitress looked at it.

“Maybe,” she said. “Looks sort of familiar, but it’s hard to say for sure. We get so many people passing through. A lot of older men come in for coffee before the mission opens its doors for breakfast. It started out being for the homeless, but it’s used more by seniors who are lonely and strapped for money.”

At four I left the pickup and positioned myself just inside the building entrance where I could flash Mo’s picture and question the tenants. By seven I was out of tenants and out of luck. Not a single person had recognized Mo’s picture.

I bagged the stakeout at eight. I was cold. I was starved. And I was twitchy with pent-up energy. I drove back to the burg, to Pino’s Pizzeria.

Two blocks from Pino’s I stopped for a stop sign, and sensed seismic activity under the hood. I sat through a few shakes and some
rough idle. KAPOW. The truck backfired and stalled. “Son of a bitch!” I yelled out. “Goddamn Japanese piece-of-shit truck. Goddamn lying, cheating, goat-piss mechanic!”

I rested my forehead on the steering wheel for a second. I sounded like my father. This was probably how it felt to go down on the
Titanic.

I babied the truck into Pino’s lot, swiveled from behind the wheel and bellied up to the bar. I ordered a draft beer, a deluxe fried chicken sandwich, a small pepperoni pizza and fries. Failure makes me hungry.

Pino’s was a cop hangout. Partly because half of the force lived in the burg, and Pino’s was in a convenient location. Partly because Pino had two sons who were cops, and cops supported cops. And partly because the pizza was top of the line. Lots of cheese and grease, a little tomato sauce and great crust. Nobody cared that the roaches in the kitchen were as big as barn cats.

Morelli was at the other end of the bar. He watched me order, but held his distance. When my food arrived he moved to the stool next to me.

“Let me guess,” he said, surveying the plates. “You’ve had a bad day.”

I made a so-so gesture with my hand.

He was six hours over on a five o’clock shadow. Even in the darkened barroom I could see the tiny network of lines that appeared around his eyes when he was tired. He slouched with one elbow on the bar and picked at my fries.

“If you had a decent sex life you wouldn’t need to gratify yourself like this,” he said, his mouth curved into a grin, his teeth white and even against the dark beard.

“My sex life is okay.”

“Yeah,” Morelli said. “But sometimes it’s fun to have a partner.”

I moved my fries out of his reach. “Been to any good autopsies lately?”