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“Jeez. I hope I didn’t kill him.”
“It would be convenient if you did, but it’s unlikely. He was able to drive away. There’s been no police chatter of finding the Camry or a body that fits Smulet’s description. He didn’t check into any of the local ERs for treatment.”
“Now what happens?”
“You eat your breakfast while I make some phone calls and then we take a look at Smulet’s house.”
Karnery Street was less than a mile from Pino’s. It wasn’t in the Burg, but it felt like the Burg. Small two-story houses on small lots. Single-car detached garages.
Ranger parked his Porsche Cayenne two doors down from Smulet’s, and we sat for a moment, taking the pulse of the area. I knew Ranger had men watching behind the house and in front of the house, but I didn’t see them.
We left the Porsche and walked to Smulet’s front door. Ranger rang the bell once and knocked twice. There was no answer, so Ranger did his magic, unlocked the door, and we went inside. We pulled on gloves and methodically went through each room.
The furniture was basic. A couch and two armchairs upholstered in beige. Coffee table. Area rug, also beige. Medium-sized flat-screen television facing the couch. Walnut dining table with six chairs. Kitchen with brown granite counters and ivory cabinets. Standard appliances. Everything neat. No clutter. No houseplants. Condiments in the fridge but not a lot of food. No dirty dishes in the sink. Several takeout boxes and fast-food bags in the kitchen trash. There were three bedrooms and a bath upstairs. Two beds were made. One had been slept in. Men’s clothes in the one closet and dresser. Men’s toiletries in the bathroom.
“He sleeps here, but he doesn’t live here,” Ranger said. “He probably spends a lot of time on the road. Maybe spends time at a girlfriend’s house.”
“There wasn’t a Pino’s bag in the trash. He got takeout but he didn’t bring it back here.”
“He’ll come back here eventually,” Ranger said. “He’ll need clothes. He owns this house. He’s not going to walk away from it. Not yet. As long as he has hopes of getting his eleven million, he’s going to hang around. I’ll switch to electronic surveillance tonight.”
“What about relatives?”
“None in Trenton. There’s a brother in El Paso. A sister in Massachusetts with his parents. The brother is also a trucker. The sister works for a bank. Parents are retired.”
“It was stupid of him to try to kidnap me in Pino’s parking lot,” I said.
“He saw an opportunity,” Ranger said. “And he underestimated you.”
“I’m a killer with a pizza box.”
The bus was still parked on the street, and a thick orange extension cord tethered it to an electrical outlet at the rear of the property. Lula and Connie were inside. Connie was setting up a new computer and Lula was on the couch, surfing on her phone. She looked up and grimaced when I walked in.
“Holy crap,” Lula said. “What happened to you?”
“I was sort of aiming my gun and it kicked back and got me between the eyes.”
“Again?” Lula said.
“Who were you aiming at?” Connie asked.
I took a doughnut from the box on Connie’s makeshift desk. “Marcus Smulet. He attacked me in Pino’s parking lot. I smacked him in the face with the pizza box and then I think I might have shot him. Anyway, he got away, but I was able to get a picture of his car.”
“Was it a Camry?” Lula asked. “I just know it was a Camry. Damn, girl, you’re good. Did you get the plate?”
“Yep. I got the plate,” I said. “I sent it to Ranger, and he traced it. We went through Smulet’s house but didn’t find anything useful. Smulet wasn’t there.”
“Where’s he live?” Lula asked.
“Karnery Street.”
“That’s a nice neighborhood,” she said. “You wouldn’t expect a kidnapper to be living there.”
“Knock, knock,” Grandma said from the sidewalk.
She was standing at the open door, holding a grocery bag and peering in at us.
“What happened to your eyes?” Grandma asked me. “They look terrible.”
