Hard Eight (Stephanie Plum 8)

“Soder had to post a bond, too?”

“Yes, although Soder's was relatively meaningless. Soder owns a local business and isn't likely to flee. Evelyn, on the other hand, had nothing holding her here.”

“What do you think of Soder?”

“He was a decent client. Paid his bill on time. Got a little hot under the collar in court. There's no love lost between him and Evelyn.”

“Do you think he's a good father?”

Dickie did a palms-up. “Don't know.”

“What about Evelyn?”

“She never looked like she was totally with the program. A real space cadet. Probably in the kid's best interest to get found. Evelyn might misplace her and not realize it for days.”

“Anything else?” I asked him.

“No, but it doesn't seem right that you haven't gone for my throat,” Dickie said.

“Disappointed?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I bought pepper spray.”

It would have been funny if it had been casual banter, but I suspected Dickie was serious. “Maybe next time.”

“You know where to find me.”

Lula and I sashayed out of the office, down the hall, and into the elevator.

“That wasn't as much fun as last time,” Lula said. “You didn't even threaten him. You didn't chase him around the desk, or anything.”

“I don't think I hate him as much as I used to.”

“Bummer.”

We crossed the street and stared at my car. It had a parking ticket on the window.

“See this,” Lula said. “It's your moons. You made a bad money decision when you picked this busted meter.”

I stuffed the ticket into my bag and wrenched the door open.

“You better watch out,” Lula said. “The man trouble's gonna come next.”

I called Connie and asked for an address for Albert Kloughn. In minutes I had Kloughn's business address and Soder's home address. Both were in Hamilton Township.

We drove past Soder's home first. He lived in a complex of garden apartments. The buildings were two-story brick, decked out to be colonial style with white window shutters and white columns at the front doors. Soder's apartment was on the ground floor.

“Guess he hasn't got the little girl in his cellar,” Lula said. “Since he hasn't got a cellar.”

We sat and watched the apartment for a few minutes, but nothing happened, so we moved on to Kloughn.

Albert Kloughn had a two-room office, next to a Laundromat, in a strip mall. There was a desk for a secretary but no secretary was in residence. Instead, Kloughn was at the desk, typing at the computer. He was my height and looked like he was approaching puberty. He had sandy-colored hair, a face like a cherub, and the body of the Pillsbury Doughboy.

He looked up and smiled tentatively when we entered. Probably thought we were scrounging quarters to do our laundry. I could feel my feet vibrating from the drums tumbling next door, and there was a distant rumble from the large commercial washers.

“Albert Kloughn?” I asked.

He was wearing a white shirt, red-and-green striped tie, and khakis. He stood and self-consciously smoothed out his tie. “I'm Albert Kloughn,” he said.