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“Anyways, I’m voting we go looking for Magpie,” Lula said, “because we could snag him for sure if we could just find him.”
Donald Grezbek, better known as Magpie, was wanted for burglary. He’d been caught on tape breaking into a flea-market stall at the fairgrounds and making off with about $700 worth of gold chains. It wasn’t his first arrest. Usually, it was shoplifting. Magpie took things that caught his eye. He loved things that were glittery or shiny. After he got his treasures, he had no clue what to do with them. Mostly, he wore them until someone found him and confiscated the loot.
Magpie lived hand to mouth out of a beat-up Crown Vic. And that was the problem. He had no job, no permanent address, no relatives, no friends. No favorite parking place. He preferred to squat on seldom-used roads. Once in a while, he was known to set up housekeeping in a cemetery.
“He could be anywhere,” I said. “I wouldn’t know where to begin looking.”
“We could rent a helicopter and try to spot him from the air,” Lula said.
“The helicopter would cost more than I’d make from the capture.”
“It’s not always about money,” Lula said.
“It is if you don’t have any.”
My cell phone rang, and the display showed an unfamiliar Jersey number.
“I’m looking for Stephanie Plum,” a woman said. “I need to talk to her about Richard Crick.”
“You’re not another FBI agent, are you?” I said. “I’m up to my armpits in FBI agents.”
“I was Ritchy’s fiancée.”
“Jeez,” I said. “I’m sorry for your loss. I didn’t know he had a fiancée.”
“I need to talk to you. You must have been one of the last people to see him.”
“I was sitting next to him on the plane, but I slept through most of the flight.”
“You’re in Trenton, right? I am, too. I’d really appreciate it if I could meet you someplace.”
“There’s a coffee shop on Hamilton, next to the hospital,” I said.
“Thanks. I’m not far from there.”
“What was that about?” Lula looked over at me when I disconnected.
“That was Richard Crick’s fiancée. How does everyone find me? The real FBI guys I get, because they have resources. But what about everyone else? They know I was sitting next to Crick. They know where I live. They know my cell phone number.”
“It’s the electronic age,” Lula said. “We aren’t the only ones got search programs. And then there’s the whole social network. ’Course, you wouldn’t know about that since you’re in the Stone Age. You don’t even tweet.”
I put the RAV in gear. “Do you tweet?” I asked Lula.
“Hell, yeah. I’m a big tweeter.”
• • •
I drove to the coffee shop and parked. Connie was back in the window. No Vinnie. Lula and I went inside and pulled chairs up to Connie’s table.
“Do we have an office?” I asked Connie.
“Yeah, Vinnie signed the papers. He wanted to come back here and punch out DeAngelo, but I told him he had to stay and wait for the furniture-rental truck. With any luck, by the time the furniture’s delivered, DeAngelo will have gone home for the day.”
“What all furniture did you rent?” Lula asked. “You got a big ol’ comfy couch, right? And one of them flat-screen televisions.”
“I got two cheap desks and six folding chairs. I’m counting on this being short-term.”
A woman walked into the coffee shop, looked around, and came over to the table.
