I ignored him and turned the radio on.
He leaned forward. "Perhaps it's difficult to get a competent person to do a menial job like this."
I glanced at him in the rearview mirror.
"I'll give you five dollars if you'll show me your breasts," he said.
I rolled my eyes and raised the volume on the radio.
He slouched back in his seat. "This is boring," he shouted at me. "And I hate this music."
"Are you thirsty?"
"Yes."
"Would you like to stop for a soda?"
"Yes!"
"Too bad."
I had my cell phone plugged into the cigarette lighter and was surprised to hear it chirp.
It was Briggs. "Where are you?" he asked. "This is your cell phone, right?"
"Yeah. I'm on the Jersey Turnpike, exit ten."
"Are you shitting me? That's great! Wait until you hear this. I've been working all night hacking into Shempsky's files, and I've got something. Late last night he made plane reservations. He's supposed to be flying out of Newark in an hour and a half. He's flying Delta to Miami."
"You are the man."
"Hey, don't piss off a little person."
"Call the police. Call Morelli first." I gave him Morelli's numbers. "If you can't get Morelli, call the station. They'll get in touch with the right people in Newark. And I'll watch out for Shempsky on the road."
"I can't tell the police I hacked into the bank!"
"Tell them I got the information and asked you to pass it on."
Fifteen minutes later, I slowed for the tollbooth to exit the turnpike. Grandma was awake, looking for the tan Taurus, and Ahmed was silent in the back, arms sullenly crossed over his chest.
"It's him!" Grandma said. "I see him ahead of us. Look at that tan car that's just leaving the tollbooth all the way to the left."
I paid the toll and glanced at the car. It did sort of look like Shempsky, but it was the fourth time Grandma had been sure she'd seen Shempsky in the last five minutes. There were a lot of tan cars on the Jersey Turnpike.
I put my foot to the pedal and roared up behind the car to check it out. The car was a Taurus, and the hair color seemed right, but I couldn't tell much from the back of his head.
"You've got to get to his side," Grandma said.
"If I come up on his side, he'll see me."
Grandma pulled a .44 magnum out of her purse. "Everybody duck, and I'll shoot out his tires."
"No!" I shouted. "No shooting. You shoot one single thing, and I'll tell Mom on you. We aren't even sure it's Allen Shempsky."
"Who's Allen Shempsky?" Ahmed wanted to know. "What's going on?"
I was riding right on the Taurus's rear. It would be safer to put a car or two between us, but I was afraid I'd lose him in traffic.
"My father hired you to protect me," Ahmed said, "not to go off chasing men."
Grandma leaned forward, keeping her eye on the Taurus. "We think this guy killed Fred."
"Who's Fred?"
"My uncle," I told him. "He's married to Mabel."
"Ah, so you're avenging a murder in the family. This is a good thing."
Nothing like a little avenging to bridge the culture gap.
The Taurus took the airport turnoff, and the driver checked his mirror as he merged with traffic, then turned in his seat and took a quick, disbelieving look back. It was Shempsky. And I was made. Not many people in Jersey driving a '53 powder blue and white Buick. Probably wondering how the devil I found him.
"He sees us," I said.
"Ram him," Ahmed said. "Disable his car. Then we'll all rush out and subdue the murdering dog."
"Yeah," Grandma said, "plow this baby right up his behind."
In theory, that sounded like a reasonable idea. In practice, I was afraid it'd result in a twenty-three-car pileup, and headlines that read BOMBSHELL BOUNTY HUNTER CAUSES CATASTROPHE.
Shempsky swerved in front of me, jumping out of his lane. He passed two cars, then swerved back. He was approaching the terminal, and he was panicking, determined to lose me. He changed lanes again and sideswiped a blue van. He overcorrected and crashed into the back of an SUV. Everyone stopped behind the accident. I was four cars back, and I couldn't get closer. No one was moving.
Shempsky was boxed in with his right front fender smashed into his right front wheel. I saw his door open. He was going to bolt. I hurled myself out of the car and hit the pavement running. Ahmed was behind me. And behind him was Grandma.
Shempsky pushed through the curbside check-in, dodging people with kids and bags. I lost him for a moment in the crowded terminal, then picked him out just ahead of me. I ran as fast as I could, not caring who I knocked over. I lunged when I was almost on Shempsky's heels, and I snagged his jacket. Ahmed grabbed Shempsky half a second after me, and the three of us went down. We rolled around a little, but Shempsky didn't put up much of a fight.
Ahmed and I had Shempsky pinned to the ground when Grandma came clattering up on her patent pumps. She had her gun in her hand and both our handbags tucked into the crook of her arm. "You should never leave your purse in the car," she said. "Do you need a gun?"
"No," I told her. "Put the gun away and give me my cuffs."
She searched through my bag, found the cuffs, handed them to me, and I clapped them on Shempsky.
Ahmed and I got to our feet, and we all did a high five with each other. And then we did a down low. And then Ahmed and Grandma did some complicated hand thing that I couldn't get the hang of.
* * * * *
CONSTANTINE STIVA STOOD at the entrance to the viewing room, keeping a close watch on the casket at the far end. Grandma Mazur and Mabel stood at the head of the casket, accepting condolences and making apologies.
"We're real sorry," Grandma Mazur said to Mrs. Patucci. "We had to have a closed casket on account of Fred was in the ground two weeks before we found him and the worms had eaten a lot of his face."
"That's such a shame," Mrs. Patucci said. "It takes something away when you can't see the deceased."
"I feel just like that, too," Grandma said. "But Stiva couldn't do nothing with him, and he wouldn't let us leave the lid up."
Mrs. Patucci turned and looked at Stiva. Stiva gave a small sympathetic nod and smiled.
"That Stiva," Mrs. Patucci said.
"Yeah, and he's watching us like a hawk," Grandma told her.
Allen Shempsky had buried Fred in a shallow grave in a little patch of woods across from the pet cemetery on Klockner Road. He'd claimed he'd shot Fred by accident, but that was hard to believe since the fatal bullet had gone dead center between Fred's eyes.
Fred had been exhumed early Friday morning, the autopsy had been done on Monday, and now it was Wednesday and Fred was having an evening viewing. Mabel seemed to be enjoying herself, and Fred would have been pleased by the crowd he got, so I guess everything turned out okay.
I was at the back of the room, to one side of the door, counting the minutes until I could leave. I was trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, staring down at the carpet, not especially anxious to engage in conversation about Fred or Shempsky.
A pair of motorcycle boots entered my field of vision. They were attached to Levi's-clad legs I knew all too well.
"Hey, Hotstuff," Morelli said. "Having fun?"
"Yeah. I love viewings. The Rangers are playing Pittsburgh, but that can't compare to a viewing. Long time, no see."
"Not since you went into a coma fully dressed in my bedroom."
"I didn't wake up fully dressed."
"You noticed."
I felt my face flush. "I guess you've been busy."
"I had to wrap up the case with Treasury. They wanted Vito in Washington, and Vito wanted me to go with him. I just got back this afternoon."
"I caught Shempsky."
This brought a smile. "I heard. Congratulations."
"I still don't understand why he felt it necessary to kill people. Wasn't he just doing his banker thing by opening accounts for clients?"