"What number is this?" Morelli wanted to know.
"It's my new car phone number."
"In the Buick?"
"No. Ranger gave me another car."
Silence.
"What kind of car is it this time?" he finally asked.
"Beemer."
"Has it got a registration number on it?"
"Yes."
"Is it fake?"
I shrugged. "It doesn't look fake."
"That'll go far in court."
"Have you heard anything about Mark Stemper?"
"No. I think he's probably playing rummy with your uncle Fred."
"How about Laura Lipinski?"
"Disappeared off the face of the earth. Left home the Thursday before your uncle disappeared."
Perfect timing to get stuffed into a garbage bag. "Thanks. That's all I wanted. Over and out."
I pulled into the Grand Union parking lot and drove to the end of the mall where the bank was located. I parked at a safe distance from other cars, exited the BMW, and set the alarm.
"You want me to stay with the car in case someone's riding around with a bomb in his backseat looking for a place to put it?" Lula asked.
"Not necessary. Ranger says the car has sensors."
"Ranger give you a car with bomb sensors? The head of the CIA don't even have a car with bomb sensors. I hear they give him a stick with a mirror on the end of it."
"I don't think it's anything space-age. Sounds to me like they're just motion detectors mounted on the undercarriage."
"Boy, I'd like to know where he got the motion detectors. This would probably be a good night to rob the governor's mansion."
I was starting to feel like a regular customer at the bank. I said hello to the guard at the door, and I waved to Leona. I looked for Shempsky, but he wasn't visible, and his office was empty.
"He's out to lunch," the guard said. "Took it earlier than usual today."
No problem. Leona was giving me the come here! gesture, anyway.
"I read about you in the paper," she said. "They said your car was bombed!"
"Yeah. And then a garbage truck fell on it."
"It was excellent," Lula said. "It was the shit."
"Boy, nothing fun ever happens to me," Leona said. "I've never had a car bombed or anything."
"But you work at a bank," I told her. "That's pretty cool. And you have kids. Kids are the best." Okay, so I fibbed a little about the kids. I didn't want her to feel bad. I mean we can't all be lucky enough to have a hamster.
"We came to see if you had any suspicious characters working here," Lula said.
Leona looked startled by that. "In the bank?"
"Well, maybe 'suspicious' is the wrong word," I told her. "Is there anyone here who might have connections with people who might not be totally law-abiding?"
Leona rolled her eyes. "Almost everybody. Marion Beddle was a Grizolli before she was married. You know about Vito Grizolli? And then Phil Zuck in mortgages lives next door to Sy Bernstein, the lawyer who was just disbarred for illegal practices. The guard has a brother in Rahway, doing time for burglary. You want me to go on?"
"Let's take this from a different direction. Is there anyone here who looks too successful for his job? You know, has too much money? Or is there anyone here who desperately needs money? Anyone who likes to gamble? Anyone doing expensive drugs?"
"Hmm. That's a harder question. Annie Shuman has a sick kid. Some kind of bone disease. Lots of doctor bills. Couple of people who play the numbers. I'm one of them. Rose White likes to go to Atlantic City and play the slots."
"I don't get what you want to know this for anyway," Lula said to me.
"We know of three companies with extra accounts in this bank. We think there's a possibility those accounts were opened to hold illegal money. So maybe there's a good reason the accounts were opened here."
"Like someone here in the bank is involved," Lula said.
"I see where you're going," Leona said. "You're suggesting we're laundering money. The money comes into those accounts you asked me about and almost immediately goes out."
"I don't know if it's exactly laundering," I said. "Where does the money go?"
"I don't have that information," Leona said. "You'd need a bank officer for that. And probably they wouldn't tell you. I'm sure that would be confidential. You should talk to Shempsky."
We hung around for another fifteen minutes, but Shempsky didn't materialize.
"Maybe we should go get that wife beater," Lula said. "I bet he's sitting in his living room, drinking beer, being a jerk."
I looked at my watch. Noon. Chances were good that Kenyon Lally was just getting up. Unemployed drunks were usually slow risers. Might be a good time to snag him.
"Okay," I said, "we'll take a ride over."
"Gonna fit right in with the BMW," Lula said. "Everybody in the projects gonna think you're a drug dealer."
Oh, great.
"I know about the bomb sensors and all," Lula said after we'd gone about a half mile, "but I still got the heebie-jeebies sitting next to you."
I knew exactly where she was coming from. I felt like that, too. "I could take you back to the office if you're uncomfortable."
"Hell, no. I'm not that freaked out. It just makes you wonder, you know? Anyway, I felt like that when I was a 'ho, too. You never knew when you were gonna get in the car with some maniac."
"It must have been a tough job."
"Most of my customers were repeaters, so that wasn't too bad. The worst part was standing around on the corner. Don't matter if it's hot or cold or raining, you still gotta stand there. Most people think the hard part's being on your back, but the hard part is being on your feet all day and night. I got varicose veins from standing too many hours on my feet. I guess if I'd been a better 'ho I'd have been on my back more and my feet less."
I took Nottingham to Greenwood, turned right off Greenwood, and crossed the railroad tracks. Trenton subsidized housing always reminded me of a POW camp, and in many ways, that's exactly what it was. Although, in all fairness, I have to say they aren't the worst I've ever seen. And they were preferable to living on Stark Street. I suppose the original vision was of garden apartments, but the reality is cement and brick bunkers squatting on hard-packed dirt. If I had to find a single word to describe the neighborhood, I'd have to choose bleak.
"We want the next building," Lula said. "Apartment 4B."
I parked around the corner, a block away, so Lally wouldn't see us coming, got out, and studied Lally's photo.
"Nice touch with the vest," Lula said. "It'll come in handy when the Welcome Wagon shows up."
The sky was gray and the wind whipped across yards. A few cars were parked on the street, but there was no activity. No dogs, no kids, no stoop sitters. It looked like a ghost town with Hitler as architect.
Lula and I walked to 4B and rang the bell.
Kenyon Lally answered the door. He was my height and rangy, wearing low-slung jeans and a thermal T-shirt. His hair was uncombed, and his face was unshaven. And he looked like a man who smacked women around.
"Hunh," Lula said when she saw him.
"We don't need no Girl Scout cookies," Lally said. And he slammed the door shut.
"I hate when people do that," Lula said.
I rang the bell again, but there was no response.
"Hey!" Lula yelled. "Bail Enforcement Agents. Open this door!"
"Go fuck yourself," Lally yelled back.
"The hell with this bullshit," Lula said. She gave the door a kick with her foot, and the door banged open.
We were both so surprised we just stood there. Neither of us had expected the door to open.
"Government housing," Lula finally said with a shake of her head. "It makes you wonder, don't it?"
"You're gonna pay for that," Lally said.
Lula was standing with her hands in her jacket pockets. "How about you make me? Why don't you come get me, Mr. Tough Guy?"
Lally charged Lula. Lula stuck out her hand, made contact with Lally's chest, and Lally went down like a sack of sand.