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  I pushed through the front door and caught my breath at the sudden absence of air-conditioning. The day had gone from hot to blistering. The air was thick and muggy, the sky hazy. The sun prickled on exposed skin, and I looked up, shielding my eyes, half expecting to see the ozone hole gaping over me like a big cyclops eye shooting out lethal rays of radioactive whatever. I know the hole is supposedly hanging out over Antarctica, but it seemed logical to me that sooner or later it would slide on up to Jersey. Jersey produced urea formaldehyde and collected New York’s garbage offshore. I thought it only fitting that it have the ozone hole as well.

  I unlocked the Cherokee and swiveled behind the wheel. Sampson’s recovery money wouldn’t get me to Barbados, but it would put something in my refrigerator besides mold. Even more important, it would give me a chance to run through the motions of an apprehension. When Ranger had taken me to the police station to get my gun permit, he’d also explained the recovery procedure, but there was no substitute for hands-on experience.

  I flipped the switch on the car phone and dialed Clarence Sampson’s home number. No one answered. No work number had been given. The police report listed his address as 5077 Limeing Street. I wasn’t familiar with Limeing Street, so I’d looked it up on a map and discovered Sampson lived two blocks over from Stark, down by the state buildings. I had Sampson’s picture taped to the dash, and every few seconds I checked it against men on the street as I drove.

  Connie had suggested I visit the bars on lower Stark. On my list of favorite things to do, spending happy hour at the Rainbow Room on the corner of Stark and Limeing fell just below cutting off both my thumbs with a dull knife. It seemed to me it would be just as effective and a lot less dangerous to sit locked up in the Cherokee and surveil the street. If Clarence Sampson was in one of the bars, sooner or later he’d have to come out.

  It took several passes before I found a space I liked at the corner of Limeing and Stark. I had a good view of Stark, and I was also able to see half a block down Limeing. I was a little conspicuous in my suit, with all my whiteness and big shiny red car, but I wasn’t nearly as conspicuous as I’d be sashaying into the Rainbow Room. I cracked the windows and slouched down in my seat, trying to get comfortable.

  A kid with a lot of hair and $700 worth of gold around his neck stopped and looked in at me while his two friends stood nearby. “Hey babe,” he said. “What you doin’ here?”

  “Waiting for someone,” I said.

  “Oh yeah? A fine babe like you shouldn’t have to wait for no one.”

  One of his friends stepped up. He made sucking sounds and waggled his tongue at me. When he saw he had my attention he licked my window.

  I rooted through my pocketbook until I found my gun and my neuro spray. I laid them both on the dash. People stopped and stared from time to time after that, but they didn’t linger.

  By five o’clock I was feeling antsy, and my rayon skirt had serious crotch wrinkles. I was looking for Clarence Sampson, but I was thinking about Joe Morelli. He was somewhere close by. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach. It was like a low-volt electric charge that hummed against the inside of my spine. In my mind I walked myself through the arrest. The easiest scenario would be for him not to see me at all, for me to come at him from behind and spray him. If that wasn’t possible, I’d have to talk to him and wait for the right moment to go for the spray. Once he was on the ground and incapacitated, I could cuff him. After I got him cuffed I’d rest easier.

  By six I’d done the mental arrest about forty-two times and was psyched. By six-thirty I was on the down side of the peak, and my left cheek had fallen asleep. I stretched as best I could and tried isometrics. I counted passing cars, mouthed the words to the national anthem, and slowly read the ingredients on a pack of gum I found in my pocketbook. At seven I called time to make sure Morelli’s clock was right.

  I was berating myself for being the wrong sex and the wrong color to operate effectively in over half the neighborhoods in Trenton when a man fitting Sampson’s description reeled out of the Rainbow Room. I looked at the picture on the dash. I looked back at the man. I looked at the picture again. I was 90 percent sure it was Sampson. Big flabby body, mean little head, dark hair and beard, white Caucasian. Looked like Bluto. Had to be Sampson. Let’s face it, how many bearded fat white men lived in this neighborhood?

  I tucked the gun and the spray into my pocketbook, pulled away from the curb, and drove around two blocks so I could turn down Limeing and put myself between Sampson and his house. I double-parked and got out of the car. A group of teens stood talking on the corner, and two little girls sat on a nearby stoop with their Barbie dolls. Across the street a bedraggled couch, missing its cushions, had been set out on the sidewalk. The Limeing Street version of a porch swing. Two old men sat on the couch, wordlessly staring off into space, their lined faces inanimate.

  Sampson was slowly weaving up the street, obviously in the glow. His smile was contagious. I smiled back at him. “Clarence Sampson?”

  “Yep,” he said. “That’s me.”

  His words were thick, and he smelled stale, like clothes that had been forgotten for weeks in the hamper.

  I extended my hand. “I’m Stephanie Plum. I represent your bonding company. You missed a court appearance, and we’d like you to reschedule.”

  Momentary confusion rippled across his brow, the information was processed, and he smiled again.

  “I guess I forgot.”

  Not what you’d call a type A personality. I didn’t think Sampson would ever have to worry about a stress-related heart attack. Sampson would most likely die from inertia.

  More smiling on my part. “That’s okay. Happens all the time. I have a car here… .” I waved in the direction of the Cherokee. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble I’ll drive you to the station, and we can take care of the paperwork.”

  He looked beyond me to his house. “I don’t know …”

  I looped arms with him and nudged him over. Just a friendly ole cowpoke herding a dumber’n cat-shit steer. Git along little doggie. “This won’t take long.” Three weeks, maybe.

  I was oozing well-being and charm, pushing my breast into the side of his fleshy arm as added incentive. I rolled him around the car and opened the passenger side door. “I really appreciate this,” I said.

  He balked at the door. “All I have to do is set a new court date, right?”

  “Yeah. Right.” And then hang around in a cell until that court date pops up on the calendar. I had no sympathy for him. He could have killed someone driving while intoxicated.

  I coaxed him in and fastened the seat belt. I ran around, jumped in the car, and revved the engine, afraid the light bulb would go on in his minuscule brain and he’d realize I was a recovery agent. I couldn’t imagine what would happen when we got to the police station. One step at a time, I told myself. If he got violent I’d gas him … maybe.

  My fears were premature. I hadn’t driven a quarter mile before his eyes glazed over, and he fell asleep, slouched against the door like a giant slug. I said a fast prayer that he didn’t wet himself, or throw up, or do any of the other gross involuntary bodily things drunks are prone to do.

  Several blocks later I stopped for a light and glanced sideways at him. He was still asleep. So far so good.

  A faded blue Econoline van caught my eye on the other side of the intersection. Three antennae. A lot of equipment for a junky old van, I thought. I squinted at the driver, shadowy behind tinted glass, and an eerie feeling crept along the nape of my neck. The light turned. Cars moved through the intersection. The van rolled by, and my heart jumped to my throat as I was treated to a view of Joe Morelli behind the wheel, gaping at me in astonishment. My first impulse was to shrink in size until I was no longer visible. In theory, I should have been pleased to have made contact, but the instant reality was hurling confusion. I was good at fantasizing Morelli’s recovery. I wasn’t so confident when it came to actually pulling it off. Brakes sq
uealed behind me, and in my rearview mirror I saw the van jump the curb to complete a midblock U-turn.

  I’d expected he’d come after me. I hadn’t expected him to do it with such speed. The Jeep’s doors were locked, but I pushed the lock button again anyway. The Sure Guard was nestled in my lap. The police station was less than a mile away. I debated giving Clarence the boot and going after Morelli. Morelli was, after all, my main objective.

  I did a fast run-through of possible arrest attempts, and none of them turned out satisfactory. I didn’t want Morelli to come at me while I was struggling with Clarence. And I didn’t want to drop Morelli in the street. Not in this neighborhood. I wasn’t sure I could control the outcome.

  Morelli was five cars back when I stopped for a light. I saw the driver’s door open, saw Morelli get out of the van, running toward me. I gripped the gas canister and prayed for the light to change. Morelli was almost on me when we all moved forward, and Morelli was forced to go back to the van.

  Good old Clarence was still sound asleep, his head dropped forward, his mouth open and drooling, emitting soft snuffling sounds. I left-turned up North Clinton, and the phone chirped.

  It was Morelli, and he didn’t sound happy. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he yelled.

  “I’m taking Mr. Sampson to the police station. You’re more than welcome to follow us. It would make everything much easier for me.”

  A pretty ballsy reply, considering I was having an anxiety attack.

  “THAT’S MY CAR YOU’RE DRIVING!”

  “Mmmmm. Well, I’ve commandeered it.”

  “You’ve WHAT?”

  I flipped the switch to shut the phone off before the conversation deteriorated to death threats. The van disappeared from sight two blocks from the station, and I continued on with my FTA still sleeping like a baby.

  The Trenton police department houses itself in a cubelike three-story brick building representing the Practical Pig approach to municipal architecture. Clearly low on the funding food chain, Police Headquarters has been afforded few frills, which is just as well considering it is surrounded by ghetto, and the location almost certainly ensures annihilation should a riot of major proportions ever occur.

  A chain-link fenced lot adjoins the building and provides parking for squad cars and vans, employees, cops, and beleaguered citizens.

  Gritty row houses and small businesses, typical of the area, face off with the headquarters’ front entrance—Jumbos Seafood, a bar with no visible name and ominous metal grating on the windows, a corner grocery advertising RC Cola, Lydia’s Hat Designs, a used-furniture store with a motley collection of washing machines displayed on the sidewalk, and the Tabernacle Church.

  I pulled into the lot, tapped the phone back on, dialed dispatch, and requested aid with the transfer of custody. I was instructed to proceed to the rear security door, where a uniform would be waiting for me. I proceeded to the designated door and backed into the driveway, placing Clarence close to the building. I didn’t see my uniform, so I made another call. I was promptly told not to get my shorts in a knot. Easy for them to say—they knew what they were doing.

  A few minutes later Crazy Carl Costanza poked his head out the door. I’d made Communion with Crazy Carl, among other things.

  He squinted past Clarence. “Stephanie Plum?”

  “Hey, Carl.”

  His face cracked into a grin. “They told me there was a pain in the ass out here.”

  “That would be me,” I said.

  “What’s with sleeping beauty?”

  “He’s FTA.”

  Carl came in for a closer look. “Is he dead?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “He smells dead.”

  I agreed. “He could use to be hosed down.” I gave Clarence a shake and yelled in his ear. “Let’s go. Time to wake up.”

  Clarence choked on some spit and opened his eyes. “Where am I?”

  “Police station,” I said. “Everybody out.”

  He stared at me in unfocused drunken stupidity, and sat as still and unyielding as a sandbag.

  “Do something,” I said to Costanza. “Get him out of here.”

  Costanza grabbed Clarence’s arms, and I put my foot to Clarence’s butt. We pushed and pulled, and inch by inch, got Sampson’s big ugly blob of putrid flesh off the seat and onto the pavement.

  “This is why I became a cop,” Costanza said. “I couldn’t resist the glamor of it all.”

  We maneuvered Clarence through the security door, cuffed him to a wooden bench, and handed him over to the docket lieutenant. I ran back outside and moved the Cherokee into a regulation parking space where it would be less visible to cops who might mistake it for a stolen car.

  When I returned, Clarence had been stripped of his belt and shoelaces and personal property and looked forlorn and pathetic. He was my first capture, and I’d expected to feel satisfaction for my success, but now found it was difficult to get elated over someone else’s misfortune.

  I collected my body receipt, spent a few minutes reminiscing with Crazy Carl, and headed for the lot. I’d hoped to leave before dark, but night had closed in early under a blanket of clouds. The sky was starless and moonless. Traffic was sporadic. Easier to spot a tail, I told myself, but I didn’t believe it. I had minimal confidence in my ability to spot Morelli.

  There was no sign of the van. That didn’t mean much. Morelli could be driving whatever by now. I headed for Nottingham with one eye on the road and one on my rearview mirror. There was little doubt in my mind that Morelli was out there, but at least he was giving me the courtesy of not being obvious. That meant he took me moderately seriously. It was a cheery thought that prompted me to rise to the occasion with a plan. The plan was simple. Go home, park the Cherokee in the lot, wait in the bushes with my killer gas, and zap Morelli when he tried to reclaim his car.

  CHAPTER

  6

  THE FRONT OF MY APARTMENT BUILDING sat flush with the sidewalk. Parking was in the rear. The lot was minimally scenic, consisting of an asphalt rectangle subdivided into parking spaces. We weren’t so sophisticated that we were assigned slots. Parking was dog-eat-dog, with all the really good places designated handicapped. Three Dumpsters hunkered at the entrance to the lot. One for general garbage. Two for recyclables. Good for the environment. Didn’t do much for local aesthetics. The rear entrance had been improved by a strip of overgrown azaleas that hugged the building and ran almost the entire length of the lot. They were wonderful in the spring when they were filled with pink flowers, and they were magical in the winter when the super strung them with little blinking lights. The rest of the year they were better than nothing.

  I chose a well-lighted slot in the middle of the lot. Better to see Morelli when he came to retrieve his property. Not to mention it was one of the few places left. Most of the people in my building were elderly and didn’t like to drive after dark. By nine o’clock the lot was full and TVs were going full blast inside all the seniors’ apartments.

  I looked around to make sure there was no sign of Morelli. Then I popped the hood and removed the Cherokee’s distributor cap. This was one of my many New Jersey survival skills. Anyone who has ever left their car in long-term parking at Newark Airport knows how to remove the distributor cap. It is virtually the only way of ensuring your car will be there upon your return.

  I figured when the Cherokee didn’t start, Morelli’d stick his head under the hood, and that’s when I’d gas him. I scurried to the building and hid myself behind the azaleas, feeling fairly slick.

  I sat on the ground on a newspaper in deference to my skirt. I’d have liked to change my clothes, but I was afraid of missing Morelli if I dashed upstairs. Cedar chips had been spread in front of the azaleas. Back where I sat the ground was hard-packed dirt. When I was a kid I might have thought this was cozy, but I wasn’t a kid anymore, and I noticed things kids didn’t notice. Mostly that azaleas don’t look all that good from the rear.

>   A big Chrysler pulled into the lot, and a white-haired man got out. I recognized him, but I didn’t know his name. He slowly walked to the building entrance. He didn’t seem alarmed or yell out “Help, there’s a crazy woman hiding in the bushes,” so I felt secure that I was well hidden.

  I squinted at my watch in the dark. Nine forty-five. Waiting wasn’t among my favorite pastimes. I was hungry and bored and uncomfortable. There are probably people who put waiting time to good use organizing thoughts, composing chore lists, sinking into constructive introspection. Waiting, for me, was sensory depravation. A black hole. Down time.

  I was still waiting at eleven o’clock. I was cranky, and I had to go to the bathroom. Somehow I managed to sit there for another hour and a half. I was reviewing my options, considering a new plan, when it started to rain. The drops were big and lazy, falling in slow motion, spattering on the azalea bushes, leaving their imprint on the hard-packed dirt where I sat, encouraging musty smells reminiscent of cobwebs and crawl spaces to rise up from the earth. I sat with my back pressed against the building and my legs drawn up to my chest. With the exception of an occasional renegade drop, I was untouched by the rain.

  After a few minutes the tempo evened out, the drops grew small and consistent, and the wind picked up. Water pooled on the black macadam, catching clots of reflective light, and the rain beaded on the shiny red paint of the Cherokee.

  It was a wonderful night to be in bed with a book, listening to the tic, tic, tic of drops on the window and fire escape. It was a lousy night to be crouched behind an azalea bush. The rain had taken to swirling with the wind, catching me in gusts, soaking into my shirt, plastering my hair to my face.

  By one o’clock I was shivering and miserable, soaking wet, close to peeing in my pants. Not that it would matter. At five after one I abandoned the plan. Even if Morelli did show up, which I was beginning to doubt, I wasn’t sure I was in good enough shape to make a capture. And, I definitely didn’t want him to see me with my hair like this.