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.
Chapter Six
I was on my feet with my gun in my hand, but I couldn't make a decision on direction. I could call the cops, jump out my window, or rush out and attempt to shoot the son of a bitch at my door. Fortunately, I didn't have to choose because I recognized the voice cussing in the hall. Morelli's.
I looked at the bedside clock. Eight. I'd overslept. Happens when you don't close your eyes until daybreak. I slipped my feet into my Doc Martens and shuffled to the foyer, where glass shards were scattered over a four-foot area. Morelli had managed to work the chain off the latch and was standing in the open doorway, surveying the mess. He raised his eyes and gave me the once-over. 'You sleep in those shoes?' I sent him a nasty look and went to the
