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 Cafe, 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 Cafe. 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
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?”
“Postponed to tomorrow morning. The doc is hoping Cameron Brown will be thawed out by then.”
“Know anything on cause of death? Like what kind of bullet did the job?”
“Won’t know until tomorrow. Why the interest?”
I had my mouth full of chicken sandwich. I chewed and swallowed and washed it back with beer. “Just curious.” Curious because this was the second dead drug dealer I’d stumbled over since starting the Mo search. It was a stretch to think there might be a connection. Still, my radar was emitting a low-level hum.
