The light changed, and Lula headed south on Route 1. She cut off at Masters Street, preferring to drive a few blocks out of the way rather than chance crossing center city with Elliot. By the time we hit Hamilton Avenue the sky was dark under cloud cover, and the streetlights had blinked on.
Eddie Gazarra lived in a three-bedroom ranch on the fringe of the burg. The house had been built in the sixties. Red brick and white aluminum siding. Postage stamp fenced-in yard. Bugs the Rabbit lived in a wooden hutch at the rear of the yard, banished from the house after eating through the TV cable.
Lula parked in front of the house, and we stared in silence at the black windows.
“Doesn't look like anyone's home,” Lula said.
I agreed, but I went to the door anyway. I pressed the doorbell and waited a few seconds. I pressed the doorbell again. I waded into the azaleas, cupped my hands against the living room window and looked inside. Nobody home.
Gus Balog, Eddie's next-door neighbor, stuck his head out his front door. “What's going on? Is that Stephanie Plum?”
“Yes. I'm looking for Eddie.”
“Nobody's home. They took the kids out to that new chicken place. Is that your car . . . that red one?”
“It belongs to an associate.”
“What's sticking out the trunk? Looks like legs.”
“It's just a dummy. You know, like from a department store.”
“Don't look like a dummy,” Gus said. “Looks like a dead guy. I heard you were looking for Mo. Those aren't Mo's legs, are they?”
I backed out of the azaleas and retreated to the car. “No. They're not Mo's legs.” I jumped into the car and slammed the door shut. “Time to leave,” I said to Lula.
Lula cruised around a couple blocks. “Well?” she asked.
“I'm thinking. I'm thinking.” The problem was that I could only come up with one other person who might be able to help me out. Joe Morelli. Not someone I wanted to see in my present bedraggled condition. And not someone I wanted to owe an additional favor. And not someone I totally trusted to choose me over the Trenton Police Department.
“I'm cold, and I'm wet and I'm sure as anything gonna have the runs any minute now,” Lula said. “You better decide what to do pretty soon, or there could be a big mess in the car.”
Morelli had recently moved out of his apartment and into a row house on Slater Street. I didn't know any of the details, but the move seemed out of character for Morelli. His previous apartment had been sparsely furnished. Comfortable in a utilitarian sort of way. Minimum maintenance. An entire house for Morelli felt much too domestic. Who would clean it? And what about curtains? Who would pick out curtains?
“Take Chambers and turn left when you get to Slater,” I said.
Slater was outside the boundaries of the burg by about a half mile. It was an ethnically mixed neighborhood of modest homes and people scraping to maintain them.
I couldn't remember the number, but I'd know the house. I'd given in to morbid curiosity about a month ago and driven by to check things out. It was brown shingle in the middle of the block. Two stories, small cement front porch. A handyman's special.
We drove two blocks down Slater, and I could see Morelli's car parked at the curb half a block ahead. My stomach gave a nervous little twitch, and I did a panicky review of my options.
“What are you doing making those whimpering sounds?” Lula asked.
“I'm reviewing my options.”
“And?”
“I don't have any.”
Lula idled at Morelli's back bumper. “Looks like a cop car. Smells like a cop car . . .”
“Joe Morelli.”
“Is this his house?”
“Yeah,”
I said. “Pull over. I'll only be a minute.”