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“What ever happened to that check?” Shempsky asked. “Did you solve your mystery?”
“Not yet, but I'm making progress. I found a similar check from another business. And the curious thing is that both checks were canceled here.”
“Why is that curious?”
I decided to fib. I didn't want to involve Leona or Margaret Burger. “The checks I write to those companies are canceled elsewhere. Don't you think that's weird?”
Shempsky smiled. “No. Not at all. Businesses often keep small, liquid local accounts, but deposit the bulk of their money somewhere else.”
“Heard that before,” Lula said.
“Do you have the other check with you?” Shempsky asked. “Would you like me to look at it?”
“No, but thanks for offering.”
“Boy,” Shempsky said. “You're really tenacious. I'm impressed. I assume you think this all ties in with Fred's disappearance?”
“I think it's possible.”
“Where do you go from here?”
“RGC. I still need to get the account straightened out. I was going to do it last Friday, but I got there after Lipinski killed himself.”
“Not a good time to take care of business,” Shempsky said.
“No.”
He gave me a friendly banker smile. “Well, good luck.”
“She don't need luck,” Lula said. “She's excellent. She always gets her man, you see what I'm saying? She's so good she drives a Porsche. How many bounty hunters you know got a Porsche?”
“It's actually a company car,” I told Shempsky.
“It's a great car,” he said. “I saw you drive off in it yesterday.”
Finally I felt like I was on to something. I had an idea how a lot of stuff might tie together. It was still pretty half-?baked, but it was something to think about. I took Klockner to Hamilton and crossed South Broad. I pulled into the industrial area and was relieved at the absence of flashing lights and police cruisers. No human disasters today. The RGC lot was empty of trucks and didn't smell bad. Clearly midday is the preferred time to visit a garbage company.
“They might be a little sensitive in here,” I said to Lula.
“I can sensitive your ass off,” Lula said. “I just hope they got their wall painted.”
The office didn't look freshly painted, but it didn't look bloody either. A man was behind the counter, working at one of the desks. He was somewhere in his forties, brown hair, slim build. He looked up when we approached.
“I'd like to settle an account,” I said. “I spoke to Larry about it, but it was never resolved. Are you new here?”
He extended his hand. “Mark Stemper. I'm from the Camden office. I'm filling in temporarily.”
“Is that the wall where the brains were splattered?” Lula asked. “It don't look fresh painted. How'd you get it so clean? I never have any luck getting blood off walls like that.”
“We had a cleaning crew come in,” Stemper said. “I don't know exactly what they used.”
“Boy, too bad, because I could use some of that.”
He looked at her warily. “You get blood on your walls a lot?”
“Well, not usually on my walls.”
“About this account,” I said.
