okay now.”
I mentally banged my head against the wall. “Benito Ramirez is a sleaze. If he calls up again, don’t talk to him.”
“He was polite to me on the phone.”
Yeah, I thought, the most courteous homicidal rapist in Trenton. And now he knew he could call me.
MY APARTMENT BUILDING was pre-laundry room vintage, and the present owner felt no compulsion to add amenities. The nearest coin-op, Super Suds, was about a half mile away on Hamilton. Not a journey of insurmountable proportions, but a pain in the ass all the same.
I tucked the stack of FTAs I’d received from Connie into my pocketbook and slung my pocketbook over my shoulder. I lugged my laundry basket into the hall, locked my door, and hauled myself out to the car.
As far as laundromats went, Super Suds wasn’t bad. There was parking in a small lot to the side of the building and a luncheonette next door where a person could get a tasty chicken salad sandwich if a person had cash on hand. I happened to be low on cash on hand, so I dumped my laundry into a machine, added detergent and quarters, and settled down to review my FTAs.
Lonnie Dodd was at the top of the stack and seemed like the easiest apprehension. He was twenty-two and lived in Hamilton Township. He’d been charged with auto theft. A first-time offender. I used the laundromat pay phone to call Connie to verify that Dodd was still outstanding.
“He’s probably in his garage, changing his oil,” she said. “Happens all the time. It’s one of those man things. Hell, they say to themselves, nobody’s gonna push me around. All I did was steal a few cars. What’s the big fuckin‘ deal? So they don’t show up for their court date.”
I thanked Connie for her insight and returned to my chair. As soon as my laundry was done, I’d mosey on over to Dodd’s place and see if I could find him.
I slid the files back into my pocketbook and transferred my clothes to the dryer. I sat down, looked out the big plate glass front window, and the blue van rolled by. I was so startled I froze, mouth open, eyes glazed, mind blank. Not what you would call a quick draw. The van disappeared down the street, and in the distance I could see the brake lights go on. Morelli was stopped in traffic.
Now I moved. Actually, I think I flew, because I don’t remember my feet touching pavement. I peeled out of the lot, smoking rubber. I got to the corner and the alarm went off. In my haste I’d forgotten to punch in the code.
I could barely think for the noise. The key was on my key ring, and the key ring was attached to the key in the ignition. I slammed my foot on the brake, fishtailing to a stop in the middle of the road. I looked in the rearview mirror after the fact, relieved to find there were no cars behind me. I deactivated the alarm and took off again.
Several cars were between me and Morelli. He turned right, and I gripped the wheel tighter, creeping along, inventing colorful new expletives as I made my way to the intersection. By the time I turned he was gone. I slowly worked my way up and down the streets. I was ready to quit when I spotted the van parked in the back lot to Manni’s Deli.
I stopped at the entrance to the lot and stared at the van, wondering what to do next. I had no way of knowing if Morelli was behind the wheel. He could be stretched out in back, taking a snooze, or he could be in Manni’s ordering tuna on a kaiser to go. Probably I should park and investigate. If it turned out he wasn’t in the van, I’d hide behind one of the cars and gas him when he came into range.
I pulled into a slot at the back of the lot, four cars down from the van, and cut the engine. I was about to reach for my bag when suddenly the driver’s side door was ripped open, and I was yanked from behind the wheel. I stumbled forward, slamming into the wall of Morelli’s chest.
“Looking for me?” he asked.
“You might as well give up,” I told him, “because I never will.”
The line of his mouth tightened. “Tell me about it. Suppose I lay down on the pavement and you run over me a few times with my own car… just for old times. Would you like that? Do you get your money dead or alive?”
“No reason to get testy about it. I have a job to do. It’s nothing personal.”
“Nothing personal? You’ve harassed my mother, stolen my car, and now you’re telling people I’ve gotten you pregnant! In my opinion, getting someone pregnant is pretty fucking personal! Jesus, isn’t it enough I’m accused of murder? What are you, the bounty hunter from hell?”
“You’re overwrought.”
“I’m beyond overwrought. I’m resigned. Everyone has a cross to bear… you’re mine. I give up. Take the car. I don’t care anymore. All I ask is that you try not to get too many dings on the door and you change the oil when the red light goes on.” His eyes flicked to the car interior. “You’re not making phone calls, are you?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Phone calls are expensive.”
“Not to worry.”
“Shit,” he said. “My life is shit.”
“Probably this is just a phase.”
His expression softened. “I like this outfit you’re wearing.” He hooked a finger around the wide neck of my Tshirt and looked inside at the black spandex sports bra. “Very sexy.”
A flash of heat shot through my stomach. I told myself it was anger, but I suspect carnal panic would be closer to the truth. I smacked his hand away. “Don’t be rude.”
“Well hell, I’ve made you pregnant, remember? One more little intimacy shouldn’t bother you.” He moved closer. “I like the lipstick, too. Cherry red. Very tempting.”
He lowered his mouth and kissed me.
