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I nodded. “That makes sense.”
“I have to keep moving,” Jeanine said. “I’m meeting my mom for coffee at nine o’clock, and she hates when I’m late. She’s become so rigid with age.”
“She gave Grandma a tin of homemade cookies last night. Please thank her again for us.”
“Oh jeez,” Jeanine said. “I hope you didn’t eat any. She makes the world’s worst cookies.”
Besides getting staples like strawberry Pop-Tarts and coffee ice cream, I also got a bunch of frozen vegetables, frozen chicken nuggets, frozen enchiladas, and frozen turkey burgers. Next time Morelli looked in my freezer I’d have food in it. Whether I would actually get around to eating any of it, other than the ice cream, was something else.
* * *
—
Connie stood at her desk and waved a file at me when I came through the door.
“I have a priority job for you,” she said. “This just came in. Steven Cross. Didn’t show up for court yesterday. His judge set bail at six figures. High risk of flight. Vinnie should never have posted a bond for him.”
“I remember when he was arrested. It made national news. Good-looking older guy. Worth tons of money. Hung out with movie stars and European royalty. Thought he was the Pink Panther. Robbed jewelry stores for kicks. Over a five-year period stole a couple hundred million dollars’ worth of stuff. Got carried away at Stiffow Jewelers in Trenton and beat the seventy-year-old security guard senseless.”
“Yep, that’s him,” Connie said. “He lives in a mansion-type house across the river. Also has houses in Monte Carlo, Palm Beach, Carmel, and Washington, D.C. If you’re lucky he’s still in Pennsylvania. He has a boyfriend here.”
Lula was on the couch, taking it all in. “What’s the boyfriend do?” Lula asked.
“He’s a hairdresser,” Connie said. “Has a salon in downtown Trenton. Sort of a local celebrity.”
“I like it,” Lula said. “This is right up my wheelhouse. I love those Pink Panther movies with David Niven and what’s his name.”
“Peter Sellers,” I said.
“Yeah, Peter Sellers,” Lula said. “And now you add a hairdresser into it. It couldn’t hardly get any better.”
I took the file from Connie and paged through it. Lula was looking over my shoulder.
“He even looks like David Niven,” Lula said. “He’s got the mustache.”
“He might not have it anymore,” Connie said. “I think it was a paste-on that he used when he was doing a heist.”
I pulled his address up on Google Maps and went to bird’s-eye view. “This is impressive. It looks out over the river, and it has its own tennis court.”
“He’s going to have a hard time adapting to prison life,” Lula said. “Most prisons don’t have tennis courts.”
I shoved the file into my messenger bag. “Let’s roll.”
Thirty-five minutes later we pulled into the driveway and stopped.
“It’s gated,” I said.
“Maybe there’s a button you push.”
I looked at the keypad, pushed the red button, and smiled into the camera.
“Yes?” someone asked.
“I’m here to see Steven Cross.”
“Steven isn’t here.”
“I spoke to him earlier this morning, and he said I should come over.”
