Two for the Dough (Stephanie Plum 2)

“Sally Something.”

“Yeah. Sally Who Knew the Alphabet.”

I looked around the office. “She seems to be missing.”

“You bet she's missing. Your cousin Vinnie caught her at a forty-five-degree angle in front of the D drawer and tried to play hide the salami.”

“I take it Sally wasn't receptive.”

“Ran out of here screaming. Said we could give her paycheck to charity. Now there's no one to do the filing, so guess who gets the extra work?” Connie kicked a drawer shut. “This is the third file clerk in two months!”

“Maybe we should chip in and get Vinnie neutered.”

Connie opened her middle desk drawer and extracted a stiletto. She pressed the button and the blade flashed out with a lethal click. “Maybe we should do it ourselves.”

The phone rang and Connie flipped the knife back into her drawer. While she was talking I thumbed through the file cabinet looking for Sandeman. He wasn't in the file, so either he hadn't bothered making bail on his arrest, or else he'd used another bondsman. I tried the Trenton area phone book. No luck there. I called Loretta Heinz at the DMV. Loretta and I went way back. We'd been Girl Scouts together and had bitched our way through the worst two weeks of my life at Camp Sacajawea. Loretta punched up her handy-dandy computer and, voilà, I had Sandeman's address.

I copied the address and mouthed “ 'bye” to Connie.

Sandeman lived on Morton Street in an area of large stone houses that had gone to trash. Lawns were neglected, torn shades hung limp in dirty windows, cornerstones bore spray-painted gang slogans, and paint blistered from window trim. Most of the houses had been converted to multiple occupancy. A few of the houses had been torched or abandoned and were boarded. A few of the houses had been restored and struggled to recapture some of their original grandeur and dignity.

Sandeman lived in one of the multifamily houses. Not the nicest on the street, but not the worst either. An old man sat on the front stoop. The whites of his eyes had yellowed with age, gray stubble clung to cadaverous cheeks, and his skin was the color of road tar. A cigarette hung from the side of his mouth. He sucked in some smoke and squinted at me.

“Guess I know a cop when I see one,” he said.

“I'm not a cop.” What was it with this cop stuff? I looked down at my Doc Martens, wondering if it was the shoes. Maybe Morelli was right. Maybe I should get rid of the shoes. “I'm looking for Perry Sandeman,” I said, presenting my card. “I'm interested in finding a friend of his.”

“Sandeman isn't home. Works at the garage during the day. Not home much at night either. Only comes here when he's drunk or doped up. And then he's mean. You want to stay away from him when he's drunk. Gets extra mean when he's drunk. Good mechanic, though. Everybody says so.”

“You know his apartment number?”

“Three C.”

“Anybody there now?”

“Haven't seen anybody go in.”

I moved past the man, into the foyer, and stood for a moment letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. The air was stagnant, thick with the smell of bad plumbing. Stained wallpaper peeled back at the edges. The wood floor was gritty underfoot.

I transferred the canister of pepper spray from my pocketbook to my jacket pocket and ascended the stairs. There were three doors on the third floor. All were closed and locked. A television droned on behind one of the doors. The other two apartments were silent. I rapped on 3C and waited for a reply. I rapped again. Nothing.

On the one hand, the thought of confronting a felon scared the hell out of me, and I wanted nothing more than to leave pronto. On the other hand, I wanted to catch Kenny and felt obligated to see this through.

There was a window to the back of the hall, and through the window I could see black rusty bars that looked like a fire escape. I moved to the window and looked out. Yep, it was a fire escape all right, and it bordered part of Sandeman's apartment. If I got out onto the fire escape I could probably look in Sandeman's window. No one seemed to be on the ground below. The house to the rear had all the shades drawn.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. What was the worst that could happen? I could get arrested, shot, pitched overboard, or beaten to a pulp. Okay, what was the best that could happen? No one would be home, and I'd be off the hook.

I opened the window and crawled out feet first. I was an old hand at fire escapes, since I'd spent many hours on my own. I quickly scuttled to Sandeman's window and looked in. There was an unmade cot that served as his bed, a small Formica kitchen table and chair, a TV on a metal stand, and a dorm-sized refrigerator. Two hooks on the wall held several wire clothes hangers. A hot plate rested on the table, along with crushed beer cans, soiled paper plates, and crumpled food wrappers. There were no doors other than the

front door, so I assumed Sandeman had to use the john on the second floor. I bet that was a treat.

Most important, there was no Kenny.

I had one foot through the hall window when I looked down between the bars and saw the old man standing directly below me, looking up, shading his eyes from the sun, my card still pressed between his fingers.

“Anybody home?” he asked.

“Nope.”