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“He’s a businessman. He was wearing a suit for his mugshot. He’s not going to go nuts on us. And besides, we don’t shoot people … hardly ever.”
Lula buckled herself into the passenger seat. “I’m just saying.”
It was nine o’clock Monday morning. It was August. It was hot. It was humid. The air had a brown tinge to it and sort of stuck to your eyeballs and the back of your throat. It was summer in Jersey.
I had my shoulder-length curly brown hair pulled up into a ponytail, and I was wearing jeans and a red tanktop. Lula was wearing a black satin bustier from her Wild West ’Ho House collection, and a poison green skirt that came just a couple inches below her doo-dah. Lula is shorter than me, but there’s a lot more of her. I could be naked standing next to Lula, and no one would give me a second glance.
TWO
JIMMY POLETTI LIVED in an upper-end neighborhood on the western edge of the city. According to the bio Connie had given me, he was on his third wife, had two adult sons, and owned a second home on Long Beach Island.
I took Hamilton to Broad and then
cut onto State Street. I turned off State and wound around until I found the large brick colonial that belonged to Poletti and his wife, Trudy. I pulled into the drive court, and Lula and I got out and took it all in. Professional landscaping. Four-car garage. Two stories. Oversize mahogany front door. Dog barking somewhere inside. Sounded like a small dog.
I rang the bell, and a woman answered. She was slim. In the vicinity of forty. Long brown hair. Dressed in black Pilates pants and an orange fitted short-sleeve tee.
“I’m looking for Jimmy Poletti,” I said.
“Take a ticket,” she told me. “We’re all looking for him.”
“Does that mean he isn’t here?”
“Last I saw him was at breakfast on Friday. I went to my Pilates class, and he was gone when I came back.”
“Did you report it to the police?”
“No. I didn’t see much point to it. It’s not like he was kidnapped.”
“How do you know he wasn’t kidnapped?”
“He left me a note telling me to remember to take the garbage out on Monday and Thursday.”
“That was it? Nothing else in the note?”
“That was it.”
“No sign of struggle or forced entry here?”
“Nope.”
“Did he take anything with him?”
“Some clothes. One of the cars. He took the Mustang.”
“And you haven’t heard from him?”
“Not a word.”
“You don’t seem too upset.”
“The house is paid off, and it’s in my name. And he left the dog and the Mercedes.” She checked her watch. “I need to run. I’m late for Pilates.”
“Guess it was one of them love matches with you and him,” Lula said.
“Yeah,” Trudy said. “I loved his money, and he loved himself.”
I gave her my card. “I represent his bail bonds agent. I’d appreciate a call if you hear from him.”
