There was a medium-?sized duffel bag on the backseat in Joyce's car. I searched through the bag and found the keys to the cuffs. I unlocked Mrs. Nowicki's cuffs and then Margie's cuffs. I stepped away. “You're on your own,” I told them. “I'm not authorized to arrest you, but Treasury is looking for you, and you'd be smart to turn yourselves in.”
“Yeah, sure,” Mrs. Nowicki said. “I'm gonna do that.”
Lula got Maxine to her feet and dusted her off, while Mrs. Nowicki and Margie shuffled uncomfortably on the side of the road.
“What about Maxie?” Margie asked. “Can't you let Maxie go, too?”
“Sorry. Maxine has to report back to the court.”
“Don't worry about it,” Maxine said to her mother and Margie. “It'll work out okay.”
“Don't feel right to leave you like this,” Mrs. Nowicki said.
“It's no big deal,” Maxine said. “I'll meet up with you after I get this straightened out.”
Mrs. Nowicki and Margie got into the blue Honda and drove away.
Joyce was still lying on the ground, but she'd started to twitch a little, and one of her eyes was open. I didn't want Joyce to get accosted while she was coming around, so Lula and I picked Joyce up and stuffed her into the Jeep. Then we took the Jeep keys and locked Joyce in, nice and snug and safe. The little red light was still flashing on the roof of her car, so chances were good that a cop would stop to investigate. Since the little red light was illegal, it was possible that Joyce might get arrested. But then, maybe not. Joyce was good at talking cops out of tickets.
* * * * *
MAXINE WASN'T FEELING TALKATIVE on the way to the station, and I suspected she was composing her story. She looked younger than she had in her photo. Less trampy. Maybe that's what happens when you tattoo out anger. Like breathing life back into a drown victim. In goes the good air, out comes the bad air. Or maybe it was the hundred-?dollar haircut and color, and the seventy-?five-?dollar DKNY T-?shirt. Maxine didn't look like she was hurting for money.
The Trenton Police Station is on North Clinton. The building is red brick and utilitarian. The parking lot is Brooklyn south . . . about an acre of secondrate blacktop surrounded by ten-?foot-?high chain-?link fencing. The hope is that the fencing will prevent the theft of police cars, but there's no guarantee.
We pulled into the police lot and saw there were two cruisers backed up to the drop-?off behind the building. Leo Glick was helped from one of the cars. He looked our way. His gaze was piercing and angry.
“No sense making a big scene,” I said to Lula. “We'll take Maxine in through the front so she doesn't have to deal with Leo.”
Sometimes, if court was in session, I could take my apprehension directly to the judge, but court was adjourned for the day, so I walked Maxine back to the docket lieutenant. I gave him my paperwork and handed Maxine over.
“I have a message for you,” he said. “Morelli called in about five minutes ago and left this number. Wants you to call him back. You can use the phone in the squad room.”
I made the call and waited for Morelli to come on the line.
“Since you're at the station I assume you brought Maxine in,” Morelli said.
“I always get my man.”
“That's a scary thought.”
“I was speaking professionally.”
“I need a rundown on what happened at the house here.”
I skipped over the part about using Kuntz's key to get into the house and told him the rest.
“How did you get to me so fast today?” I asked.
“I was back on surveillance at the Seven-?Eleven.” There was a moment of silence between us when I could hear people talking in the background. “Kuntz is being cooperative,” Morelli said. “He's so pissed off he's willing to tell us anything we want to know. He said Maxine was on her way to the airport.”
“Yeah. I got her on Route One.”
“She alone?”
“Nope. ”
“I'm waiting,” Morelli said.