would happen. After five minutes, the driver’s door opened, and a man got out and walked to the breezeway next to Morelli’s.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. The guy was Joe’s cousin, Mooch Morelli. Mooch undoubtedly had a real name, but I couldn’t recall it. As long as I’d known him, he’d been Mooch. He’d lived one street over from St. Francis Hospital when he was a kid. Used to hang out with Joe all the time. I crossed my fingers and hoped old Mooch was retrieving something Joe had left with a neighbor. Or maybe Mooch was at this very moment jimmying a window to Joe’s apartment. I was warming to the idea of Mooch doing breaking and entering when he popped out from behind the building, key in hand, and let himself in through Joe’s front door.
I held tight, and ten minutes later Mooch reappeared carrying a black duffel bag, got into his car, and took off. I waited for him to leave the lot, then I pulled out after him. I kept a couple car lengths behind, driving white- knuckled with my heart drilling hard in my chest, dizzy with the promise of $10,000.
I followed Mooch to State Street and watched him pull into a private drive. I circled the block and parked several houses down. At one time this had been a fashionable neighborhood of huge stone houses and large, well- kept lawns. Back in the sixties, when block busting was a popular activity for liberals, one of the State Street homeowners sold out to a black family, and over the course of the next five years the entire white population panicked and left. Poorer families moved in, the houses deteriorated and were subdivided, yards were neglected, windows were boarded. But, as is often the case with a desirable location, the neighborhood was now in the process of being reclaimed.
Mooch exited the house after a few minutes. When he left, he was alone and without the duffel bag. Oh boy. A lead. What were the chances Joe Morelli was sitting in the house with the duffel bag on his lap? I decided they were fair to middlin‘. Probably worth looking into. Now I had two choices. I could call the police right off, or I could go investigate on my own. If I called the police and Morelli wasn’t there I’d look like a dunce, and the police might not be so anxious to come out and help me the second time around. On the other hand, I really didn’t want to investigate on my own. Not a good attitude for someone who has recently accepted a job as a fugitive apprehender, but there it was.
I stared at the house for a long time, hoping Morelli would come sauntering out and I wouldn’t have to go sauntering in. I checked my watch and thought about food. So far all I’d had was a bottle of beer for breakfast. I looked back out at the house. If I got this over with I could hit the golden arches and squander the loose change in the bottom of my pocketbook on a burger. Motivation.
I sucked in some air, shoved my door open, and levered myself out of the car. Just do it, I thought. Don’t make a big deal out of something simple. He probably isn’t even in there.
I strode purposefully down the sidewalk, talking to myself as I walked. I reached the house and went in without hesitation. Mailboxes in the vestibule indicated there were eight apartments. All apartment doors opened off a common stairwell. All mailboxes had names affixed to them with the exception of apartment 201. None of those names were Morelli.
For lack of a better plan, I decided to go with the mystery door. Adrenaline tripped into my bloodstream as I turned to the stairs. By the time I reached the second-floor landing, my heart was pounding. Stage fright, I told myself. Perfectly normal. I took a few deep breaths and without benefit of brain managed to motor myself to the appropriate door. A hand was knocking on the door. Holy cow, it was my hand.
I sensed movement behind the door. Someone was inside, looking at me through the security peephole. Morelli? I knew it with a certainty. Air stuck in my lungs, and my pulse throbbed painfully in my throat. Why was I doing this? I was a buyer for cheap lingerie. What did I know about catching murderers?
Don’t think of him as a murderer, I reasoned. Think of him as a macho jerk. Think of him as the man who led you astray and then wrote the details on the men’s room wall at Mario’s Sub Shop. I gnawed on my lip and sent a wobbly smile of hope and insecurity to the person behind the peephole, telling myself no macho jerk could resist coming to the aid of that much guileless stupidity.
Another moment passed, and I could almost hear him silently swearing, debating the wisdom of opening the door. I did a little finger wave at the peephole. It was tentative, nonthreatening. It told him I was a piece of fluff, and I knew he was there.
The bolt slid back, the door was yanked open, and I found myself face to face with Morelli.
His stance was passive-aggressive, his voice laced with impatience. “What?”
He was more solid than I’d remembered. More angry. His eyes were more remote, the line of his mouth more cynical. I’d come looking for a boy who might have killed out of passion. I suspected the man standing in front of me would kill with professional detachment.
I took a moment to steady my voice, to formulate the lie. “I’m looking for Joe Juniak…”
“You got the wrong apartment. There’s no Juniak here.”
I feigned confusion. Forced a tight smile. “Sorry…” I took a step backward and was about to bolt down the stairs when recognition hit Morelli.
“Jesus Christ!” he said. “Stephanie Plum?”
I was familiar with the tone of voice and the sentiment behind it. My father used that same tone when he caught the Smullens’ dog lifting its leg on his hydrangea bush. Fine by me, I told myself. Get it straight from the beginning there was no love lost between us. That made my job easier.
“Joseph Morelli,” I said. “What a surprise.”
His expression narrowed. “Yeah. Almost as surprising as when you nailed me with your father’s car.”
In the interest of avoiding confrontation, I felt compelled to explain. I didn’t feel obliged to do it convincingly. “It was an accident. My foot slipped.”
“That was no accident. You jumped the goddamn curb and followed me down the sidewalk. You could have killed me.” He leaned beyond the doorjamb and looked the length of the hallway. “So what are you
My plan evaporated in a rush of pique. “I could care less about your fucked-up life,” I snapped. “I’m working for my cousin Vinnie. You’re in violation of your bond agreement.”
Good going, Stephanie. Wonderful control.
