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“Is this about the Berringer murders?”
“Someone else was just found dead in the building.”He clipped his gun onto his belt and pulled a sweater over a T-shirt. “I'll call when I can.”
I had A third of a jar of peanut butter in my pantry, no milk, no bread, no juice. Half a box of Cheerios. I dropped some Cheerios into Rex's food dish and mixed some up with the peanut butter for myself. I washed the Cheerios and peanut butter down with black coffee and grabbed my coat.
Marty Gobel, the cop who was in charge of Dickie's disappearance, was supposed to call to talk. If I wasn't Morelli s girlfriend, I'd probably be getting fingerprinted. Good thing I had something solid in my stomach because otherwise I might be inclined to throw up. I really didn't want to go to jail.
Peter Smullen was first on
my list of hideous jobs. According to Ranger's research, Smullen would be rolling into Starbucks a little after eight. I arrived fifteen minutes in front of the hour and tried to look inconspicuous by studying the shelves of coffee mugs for sale. Not that inconspicuous was much of a problem. The place was packed, and anyone under seven feet tall wasn't going to stand out.
I saw Smullen push through the door at five of eight and realized I might have a problem. He was buttoned into a black cashmere overcoat. There was no way to drop a bug into his suit pocket. Fortunately, the store was warm and the line was long. If the line went slowly enough, he'd unbutton his coat. I watched from my spot at the front of the store. I had a plan. I was going to wait until he had his coffee, and then I'd approach him. My coat was open, and I was wearing a low-cut V-neck sweater with a push-up bra. I looked pretty good considering my boobs were real, but it was hard to compete with all the double-D silicone jobs.
Smullen finally got to the counter and put in his order. He unbuttoned his coat to get his wallet, and I almost collapsed with relief. I had access to his pockets. He shuffled to the pickup counter, got his triple Frappuccino, and when he turned toward the door, he was flat against me. I had my boobs pressed into his chest and my leg between his.
“Whoops,” I said, sliding my hand under his coat, dropping the bug into his pocket. “Sorry!”
Smullen didn't blink. He just hung on to his Frappuccino as if this happened every morning. And maybe it did. There were a lot of people in the store. I took one step back and one step to the side to let Smullen get past me, and he inched his way toward the door and disappeared.
I felt someone lean in to me from behind, and a coffee was placed in my hand.
“Nice,” Ranger said, guiding me out to the sidewalk. “I couldn't have gotten that close. And he wouldn't have been distracted by my chest.”
“I don't think he even noticed.”
“A man would have to be dead not to notice,” Ranger said.
“Morelli's worried I'll be involved in Dickie's disappearance. He said I should ask you for help.”
“He's a good man,” Ranger said. “And you?” “I’m better."
Lula WAS filing when I walked into the bonds office.
“What s with this?” I asked.
“Hunh,” Lula said. “You act like I never do nothing. It's just I'm so efficient I get my work done before anyone notices. My name should be Flash. You ever see any files laying around?”
“I assumed you were throwing them away.”
'Tour ass," Lula said.
For a short time, we had a guy named Melvin Pickle doing our filing. Pickle was a filing dynamo. Unfortunately, he was so good he was able to get a better job. Les Sebring hired him to work in his bonds office, and Connie had to coerce Lula to take back filing responsibilities.
Connie was carefully adding a topcoat to her nails. “Having any luck with the new batch of FTAs?”
“No, but Milton Buzick is getting buried today. I'm waiting to get a jewelry report from Grandma.”
“If he got a Rolex on, I don't want to know,” Lula said. “Two things I'm not doing. I'm not going back to that trailer, and I'm not sitting in no cemetery. Dead people creep me out.”
“What about Carl Coglin?” Connie asked. “He looks pretty straightforward. He has a small shop attached to his home.”
'Who's Carl Coglin?" Lula wanted to know.
I pulled Carl's file out of my bag and flipped it open. “Sixty-four years old. Never married. Lives alone. His sister put up the bond. Accused of destruction of personal property. Doesn't go into detail. Lists his occupation as taxidermist.”
“Taxidermist,” Lula said. “We never busted a taxidermist before. It could be fun.”
A half hour later, we were in North Trenton, standing in front of Coglin's house. This was a working-class neighborhood filled with people stretched too thin to plant flowers in the spring. Houses were neat but shabby. Cars were tired.
