'Sorry I can't be more helpful,' Shempsky said. 'If you want to leave it with me I can ask around. Sometimes different people pick up different things.'
I dropped the check back into my bag. 'Think I'll hang on to it. I have a feeling people have died because of this check.'
'That's serious,' Shempsky said.
I walked back to the car feeling spooky and not knowing why. Nothing alarming had happened at the bank. And no one was parked or standing by the Porsche. I checked the lot. No Bunchy. No Ramirez that I could see. Still, there was that uncomfortable feeling. Something forgotten, maybe. Or someone watching. I unlocked the car and looked back at the bank. It was Shempsky I'd sensed. He was standing to the side of the bank building, smoking a cigarette, watching me. Oh man, now I was getting the creeps from Shempsky. I blew out a breath. My imagination was in overdrive. The man was just sneaking a smoke, for Pete's sake.
The only oddity in the act was that Allen Shempsky actually had a bad habit. A bad habit seemed like an excess of personality for Allen Shempsky. Shempsky was a nice guy who never offended anyone and was totally forgettable. He'd been like that for as long as I could remember. When we were in school he was the kid in the back of the room who never got called on. Quiet smile, never a conflicting opinion, always neat and clean. He was like a chameleon whose clothes matched the wall behind him. After knowing Allen all my life, I'd be hard-pressed to name his hair color. Maybe mouse brown. Not that he was rodentlike. He was a reasonably attractive man with an average nose and average teeth and average eyes. He was average height, of average build, and I assumed of average intelligence, although there was no way of knowing for sure.
He'd married Maureen Blum a month after they both graduated from RiderCollege. He had two young children and a house in HamiltonTownship. I'd never driven past his house, but I was willing to bet it was forgettable. Maybe that wasn't so bad. Maybe it was a good thing to be unmemorable. I bet Maureen Blum Shempsky didn't have to worry about being stalked by Benito Ramirez.
Bunchy was waiting when I got back to my apartment building. He was in the lot, sitting in his car, looking grumpy.
'What's with the Porsche?' he wanted to know, coming over.
'It's on loan from Ranger. And if you put a tracking device on it he won't be happy.'
'Do you know how much a car like this costs?'
'A lot?'
'Maybe more than you want to pay,' Bunchy said.
'I hope that's not the case.'
He took one of the grocery bags and followed me upstairs. 'You go to the bank like you said?'
'Yep. I talked to Allen Shempsky, but I didn't learn anything new.'
'What did you talk to him about?'
'The weather. Politics. Managed health care.' I balanced my bag on my hip while I unlocked the door.
'Boy, you're a beaut. You don't trust anybody, do you?'
'I don't trust
'I wouldn't trust him, either,' Briggs said from the living room. 'He looks like he's got a social disease.'
'Who's that?' Bunchy wanted to know.
'That's Randy,' I said.
'Want to see him disappear?'
I looked over at Briggs. It was a tempting offer. 'Some other time,' I said to Bunchy.
Bunchy unpacked his bag and set everything out on the kitchen counter. 'You've got some strange friends.'
And they hardly counted at all compared to my relatives. 'I'll make you lunch if you tell me who you're working for and why you're interested in Fred,' I said.
'No can do. Besides, I think you'll make me lunch anyway.'
I made canned tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. I made grilled cheese because that's what I felt like eating. And I made the soup because I like to keep a clean can in reserve for Rex.
Halfway through lunch I looked at Bunchy, and Morelli's words echoed in my ear. I'm working with a couple Treasury guys who make me look like a Boy Scout, he'd said. The Hallelujah Chorus rang out in my head, and I had an epiphany. 'Holy cow,' I said. 'You're working with Morelli.'
'I don't work with anyone,' Bunchy said. 'I work alone.'
'That's a load of pig pucky.'
This wasn't the first time Morelli had been involved in one of my cases and had kept it from me, but it was the first time he'd sent someone to spy on me. This was a new all-time low for Morelli.
Bunchy sighed and pushed his dish away. 'Does this mean I'm not getting dessert?'
I gave him one of the leftover candy bars. 'I'm depressed.'
'Now what?'
'Morelli is scum.'
He looked down at the candy bar. 'I told you I work alone.'
