“We could use a baby-sitter next Friday.”
“I don't owe you that much.”
Eddie grunted and disconnected.
I took a fast shower, blasted my hair with the hair dryer, and squashed it under a New York Rangers hat, turning the brim to the back. I was wearing button-fly Levi's, a red plaid flannel shirt over a black T-shirt, and Doc Martens in honor of the rain.
Rex was asleep in his soup can after a hard night on the wheel, so I tiptoed past him. I switched the answering machine on, grabbed my pocketbook and my black-and-purple Gore-Tex jacket, and locked up behind myself.
The gas station, Delio's Exxon, was on Hamilton, not far from my apartment. I stopped at a convenience store on the way and got a large coffee to go and a box of chocolate-covered doughnuts. I figured if you had to breathe New Jersey air there wasn't much point in getting carried away with always eating healthy food.
There were a lot of cops and cop cars at the gas station, and an emergency rescue truck had backed itself up close to the office door. The rain had tapered off to a fine drizzle. I parked half a block away and made my way through the crowd, taking my coffee and doughnuts with me, looking to spot a familiar face.
The only familiar face I saw belonged to Joe Morelli.
I sidled up to him and opened the doughnut box.
Morelli took a doughnut and shoved half in his mouth.
“No breakfast?” I asked.
“Got yanked out of bed for this.”
“I thought you were working vice.”
“I am. Walt Becker is the primary here. He knew I was looking for Kenny, and thought I'd want to be included.”
We both chewed some doughnut.
“So what happened?” I asked.
There was a crime photographer working in the office. Two paramedics stood by, waiting to zip the body into a bag and take off.
Morelli watched the action through the plate-glass window. “The M.E. estimates time of death at six-thirty. That's right about when the victim would have been opening up. Apparently someone just walked in and blew him away. Three shots to the face, close range. No indication of theft. The cash drawer was intact. No witnesses so far.”
“A hit?”
“Looks like it.”
“This garage selling numbers? Dealing dope?”
“Nothing I know about.”
“Maybe it's personal. Maybe he was screwing someone's wife. Maybe he owed money.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe Kenny came back to shut him up.”
Morelli didn't move a muscle. “Maybe.”
“You think Kenny'd do that?”
He shrugged. “Hard to say what Kenny'd do.”
“You run the plate on that car last night?”
“Yeah. It belongs to my cousin Leo.”