“I could be helpful,” Morelli said. “I could lend authority and credibility to your questions.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“I’m a nice guy.”
I felt my fingers begin to clutch at his shirt and made an effort to relax. “Try again.”
“Kenny, Moogey, and Spiro were practically joined at the hip in high school. Moogey’s dead. I’ve got a feeling Julia, the girlfriend, is out of the picture. Maybe Kenny’s turned to Spiro.”
“And I’m working for Spiro, and you’re not sure you believe the coffin story.”
“I don’t know what to think of the coffin story. You have any more information on these coffins? Where they were originally purchased? What they look like?”
“They’re made of wood. About six foot long …”
“If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a wise-ass bounty hunter.”
I showed him the picture.
“You’re right,” he said. “They’re made of wood, and they’re about six foot long.”
“And they’re ugly.”
“Yeah.”
“And very plain,” I added.
“Grandma Mazur wouldn’t be caught dead in one of these,” Morelli said.
“Not everyone is as discerning as Grandma Mazur. I’m sure Stiva keeps a wide range of caskets on hand.”
“You should let me question the manager,” Morelli said. “I’m better at this than you are.”
“That does it. Go sit in the car.”
In spite of all the sparring that went on between us, I sort of liked Morelli. Good judgment told me to stand clear of him, but then I’ve never been a slave to good judgment. I liked his dedication to the job, and the way he’d risen above his wild teen years. He’d been a street-smart kid, and now he was a street-smart cop. True, he was sort of a chauvinist, but it wasn’t entirely his fault. After all, he was from New Jersey, and on top of that he was a Morelli. All things considered, I thought he was coping pretty well.
The office consisted of a small room divided in half by a service counter. A woman wearing a white T-shirt sporting a blue R and J Storage logo stood behind the counter. She was in her late forties—early fifties, with a pleasant face and a body that had comfortably gone to plump. She gave me a perfunctory nod before focusing on Morelli, who had paid no attention to my order and was standing close behind me.
Morelli was wearing washed-out jeans that had suggestively molded to an impressive package in front and the state’s best buns in back. His brown leather jacket hid only his gun. The R and J lady swallowed visibly and dragged her eyes upward from Morelli’s crotch.
I told her I was checking on some stored items for a friend of mine and that I was concerned with security.
“Who was this friend?” she asked.
“Spiro Stiva.”
“No offense,” she said, fighting back a grimace, “but he’s got that locker filled with coffins. He said they were empty, but I don’t care. I wouldn’t come within fifty feet of that place. And I don’t think you have to worry about security. Who on earth would steal a coffin?”
“How do you know he has coffins in there?”
“Saw them come in. He had so many they had to come in a semi and get off loaded with a forklift.”
“Do you work here full-time?” I asked.
“I work here all the time,” she said. “My husband and I own it. I’m the R in the R and J. Roberta.”
“You have any other big trucks come in here in the last couple of months?”
“A few real big U-Hauls. Is there a problem?”
Spiro had sworn me to secrecy, but I didn’t see any way I could get the information I needed without bringing Roberta into the investigation. Besides, she undoubtedly had a master key, and coffins or not, she’d probably check on Spiro’s locker when we left and discover it was empty.
“Stiva’s coffins are missing,” I said. “The locker is empty.”
“That’s impossible! A person can’t just make off with a locker full of caskets. That’s a lot of caskets. They filled the locker from one end to the other!
“We have trucks coming and going all the time, but I would have known if they were loading caskets!”
“Locker sixteen is in the back,” I said. “You can’t see it from here. And maybe they didn’t take them all at once.”
“How did they get in?” she wanted to know. “Was the lock broken?”
I didn’t know how they got in. The lock wasn’t broken, and Spiro had been emphatic that the key had never left his possession. Of course, that could be a lie.
“I’d like to see a list of your other renters,” I said. “And it would be helpful if you could think back to trucks in the vicinity of Spiro’s locker. Trucks big enough to haul those caskets.”
“He’s insured,” she said. “We make everybody take insurance.”
“He can’t collect on insurance without filing a police report, and at this preliminary stage Mr. Stiva would prefer to keep things quiet.”
“Tell you the truth I’m not anxious for this to get around, either. Don’t want people thinking our lockers aren’t safe.” She punched up her computer and produced a printout of renters. “These are renters that are on the books right now. When someone vacates we keep them in file for three months and then the computer drops them.”
Morelli and I scanned the list, but we didn’t recognize any of the names.
“Do you require identification?” Morelli asked.
“Driver’s license,” she said. “The insurance company makes us get a photo ID.”
I folded the printout, tucked it into my pocketbook, and gave Roberta one of my cards with instructions to call should something turn up. As an afterthought I asked her to use her set of master keys and check each locker on the odd possibility that the caskets weren’t taken off the premises.
When we got back to the Jeep, Morelli and I looked the list over one more time and drew a big zero.
Roberta hustled out of her office with keys in hand and the portable phone stuffed into her pocket.
“The great coffin search,” Morelli said, watching her disappear around the end of the first row of lockers. He slouched in his seat. “Doesn’t compute to me. Why would someone choose to steal caskets? They’re big and heavy, and the resale market is limited to nonexistent. People probably have all kinds of things stored here that would be easier to fence. Why steal caskets?”
“Maybe that’s what they needed. Maybe some down-on-his-luck undertaker took them. Like Mosel. Ever since Stiva opened up his new addition, Mosel has been on a downslide. Maybe Mosel knew Spiro had caskets stashed here, and he tippy-toed in one dark night and swiped them.”
Morelli looked at me like I was from Mars.
“Hey, it’s possible,” I said. “Stranger things have happened. I think we should go around to a bunch of viewings and see if anyone’s laid out in one of Spiro’s caskets.”
“Oh, boy.”
I shifted my bag higher onto my shoulder. “There was a guy at the viewing last night named Sandeman. Do you know him?”
“I busted him for possession about two years ago. He got caught in a sweep.”
“Ranger tells me Sandeman worked with Moogey at the garage. Said he heard Sandeman was there the day Moogey got shot in the knee. I was wondering if you’d talked to him.”
“No. Not yet. Scully was the investigating officer that day. Sandeman gave him a statement, but it didn’t say much. The shooting took place in the office, and Sandeman was in the garage working on a car at the time. Had an air wrench going and didn’t hear the shot.”
“Thought maybe I’d see if he had any ideas on Kenny.”
“Don’t get too close. Sandeman’s a real jerk. Bad temper. Bad attitude.” Morelli pulled car keys out of his pocket. “Terrific mechanic.”
“I’ll be careful.”
Morelli gave me a look of total no-confidence. “You sure you don’t want me to go with?” he asked. “I’m goo
d at thumbscrews.”
“I’m not really into thumbscrews, but thanks for the offer.”
His Fairlane was parked next to my Jeep.
“I like the hula girl in the back window,” I said. “Nice touch.”
“It was Costanza’s idea. It covers an antenna.”
I looked at the top of her head and, sure enough, there was the tip of an antenna poking through. I squinted at Morelli. “You’re not going to follow me, are you?”
“Only if you say please.”
“Not in this lifetime.”
Morelli looked like he knew better.
I cut across town and left turned onto Hamilton. Seven blocks later I nosed into a parking slot to the side of the garage. Early morning and evening the pumps were in constant use. At this hour they didn’t see much action. The office door was open, but the office was empty. Beyond the office the doors to the bays were up. The third bay had a car on a rack.
Sandeman worked nearby, balancing a tire. He was wearing a faded black Harley tank top that stopped two inches short of low-rider, grease-stained jeans. His arms and shoulders were covered with tattoos of snakes, fangs bared, forked tongues sticking out. Stuck between snakes was a red heart with the inscription I LOVE JEAN. Lucky girl. I decided Sandeman could only be enhanced by a mouthful of rotting teeth and possibly a few festering facial sores.
He straightened when he saw me and wiped his hands on his jeans. “Yeah?”
“You’re Perry Sandeman?”
“You got it.”
“Stephanie Plum,” I said, forgoing the usual formality of an introductory handshake. “I work for Kenny Mancuso’s bondsman. I’m trying to locate Kenny.”
“Haven’t seen him,” Sandeman said.
“I understand he and Moogey were friends.”
“That’s what I hear.”
“Did Kenny come around the garage a lot?”
“No.”
“Did Moogey ever talk about Kenny?”
“No.”
Was I wasting my time? Yes.
“You were here the day Moogey was shot in the knee,” I said. “Do you think the shooting was accidental?”
“I was in the garage. I don’t know anything about it. End of quiz. I got work to do.”
I gave him my card and told him to get in touch if he should think of anything useful.
He tore the card in half and let the pieces float to the cement floor.
Any intelligent woman would have made a dignified retreat, but this was New Jersey, where dignity always runs a poor second to the pleasure of getting in someone’s face.
I leaned forward, hands on hips. “You got a problem?”
“I don’t like cops. That includes pussy cops.”
“I’m not a cop. I’m a bond enforcement agent.”
“You’re a fucking pussy bounty hunter. I don’t talk to fucking pussy bounty hunters.”
“You call me pussy one more time, and I’m going to get mad.”
“Is that supposed to worry me?”
I had a canister of pepper spray in my pocketbook, and I was itching to give him a blast. I also had a stun gun. The lady who owned the local gun shop had talked me into buying it, and so far it was untested. I wondered if 45,000 volts square in his Harley logo would worry him.
“Just make sure you’re not withholding information, Sandeman. Your parole officer might find it annoying.”
He gave me a shot to the shoulder that knocked me back a foot. “Somebody yanks my parole officer’s chain, and somebody might find out why they call me the Sandman. Maybe you want to think about that.”
Not anytime soon.
It was still early afternoon when I left the garage. About the only thing I’d learned from Sandeman was that I thoroughly disliked him. Under ordinary circumstances I couldn’t see Sandeman and Kenny being buddies, but these weren’t ordinary circumstances, and there was something about Sandeman that had my radar humming.
Poking around in Sandeman’s life wasn’t high on my list of favored activities, but I thought I should probably spare him some time. At the very least I needed to take a look at his home sweet home and make sure Kenny wasn’t sharing the rent.
I drove down Hamilton and found a parking place two doors from Vinnie’s office. Connie was stomping around the office, slamming file drawers and cussing when I walked in.
“Your cousin is dog shit,” Connie yelled at me. “Stronzo!”
“What did he do now?”
“You know that new file clerk we just hired?”
“Sally Something.”
“Yeah. Sally Who Knew the Alphabet.”
I looked around the office. “She seems to be missing.”
“You bet she’s missing. Your cousin Vinnie caught her at a forty-five-degree angle in front of the D drawer and tried to play hide the salami.”
“I take it Sally wasn’t receptive.”
“Ran out of here screaming. Said we could give her paycheck to charity. Now there’s no one to do the filing, so guess who gets the extra work?” Connie kicked a drawer shut. “This is the third file clerk in two months!”
“Maybe we should chip in and get Vinnie neutered.”
Connie opened her middle desk drawer and extracted a stiletto. She pressed the button and the blade flashed out with a lethal click. “Maybe we should do it ourselves.”
The phone rang and Connie flipped the knife back into her drawer. While she was talking I thumbed through the file cabinet looking for Sandeman. He wasn’t in the file, so either he hadn’t bothered making bail on his arrest, or else he’d used another bondsman. I tried the Trenton area phone book. No luck there. I called Loretta Heinz at the DMV. Loretta and I went way back. We’d been Girl Scouts together and had bitched our way through the worst two weeks of my life at Camp Sacajawea. Loretta punched up her handy-dandy computer and, voilà, I had Sandeman’s address.
I copied the address and mouthed “ ’bye” to Connie.
Sandeman lived on Morton Street in an area of large stone houses that had gone to trash. Lawns were neglected, torn shades hung limp in dirty windows, cornerstones bore spray-painted gang slogans, and paint blistered from window trim. Most of the houses had been converted to multiple occupancy. A few of the houses had been torched or abandoned and were boarded. A few of the houses had been restored and struggled to recapture some of their original grandeur and dignity.
Sandeman lived in one of the multifamily houses. Not the nicest on the street, but not the worst either. An old man sat on the front stoop. The whites of his eyes had yellowed with age, gray stubble clung to cadaverous cheeks, and his skin was the color of road tar. A cigarette hung from the side of his mouth. He sucked in some smoke and squinted at me.
“Guess I know a cop when I see one,” he said.
“I’m not a cop.” What was it with this cop stuff? I looked down at my Doc Martens, wondering if it was the shoes. Maybe Morelli was right. Maybe I should get rid of the shoes. “I’m looking for Perry Sandeman,” I said, presenting my card. “I’m interested in finding a friend of his.”
“Sandeman isn’t home. Works at the garage during the day. Not home much at night either. Only comes here when he’s drunk or doped up. And then he’s mean. You want to stay away from him when he’s drunk. Gets extra mean when he’s drunk. Good mechanic, though. Everybody says so.”
“You know his apartment number?”
“Three C.”
“Anybody there now?”
“Haven’t seen anybody go in.”
I moved past the man, into the foyer, and stood for a moment letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. The air was stagnant, thick with the smell of bad plumbing. Stained wallpaper peeled back at the edges. The wood floor was gritty underfoot.
I transferred the canister of pepper spray from my pocketbook to my jacket pocket and ascended the stairs. There were three doors on the third floor. All were closed and locked. A television droned on behind one of the doors. The other two apartments were silent.
I rapped on 3C and waited for a reply. I rapped again. Nothing.
On the one hand, the thought of confronting a felon scared the hell out of me, and I wanted nothing more than to leave pronto. On the other hand, I wanted to catch Kenny and felt obligated to see this through.
There was a window to the back of the hall, and through the window I could see black rusty bars that looked like a fire escape. I moved to the window and looked out. Yep, it was a fire escape all right, and it bordered part of Sandeman’s apartment. If I got out onto the fire escape I could probably look in Sandeman’s window. No one seemed to be on the ground below. The house to the rear had all the shades drawn.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. What was the worst that could happen? I could get arrested, shot, pitched overboard, or beaten to a pulp. Okay, what was the best that could happen? No one would be home, and I’d be off the hook.
I opened the window and crawled out feet first. I was an old hand at fire escapes, since I’d spent many hours on my own. I quickly scuttled to Sandeman’s window and looked in. There was an unmade cot that served as his bed, a small Formica kitchen table and chair, a TV on a metal stand, and a dorm-sized refrigerator. Two hooks on the wall held several wire clothes hangers. A hot plate rested on the table, along with crushed beer cans, soiled paper plates, and crumpled food wrappers. There were no doors other than the front door, so I assumed Sandeman had to use the john on the second floor. I bet that was a treat.
Most important, there was no Kenny.
I had one foot through the hall window when I looked down between the bars and saw the old man standing directly below me, looking up, shading his eyes from the sun, my card still pressed between his fingers.
“Anybody home?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“That’s what I thought,” he said. “Won’t be home for a while yet.”
“Nice fire escape.”
“Could use some repair, what with the bolts being all rusted out. Don’t know if I’d trust it. Course if there was a fire a body might not care about rust.”
I sent him a tight smile and crawled the rest of the way through the window. I wasted little time getting down the stairs and out of the building. I hopped into my Jeep, locked the doors, and took off.
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