Crick’s fiancée.
Blond, five foot five, in her forties. Carries a little bitty gun.”
“As far as we know, Crick didn’t have a fiancée.” I ended the cal with Berger and turned to Connie.
“Can you find her?”
“Brenda Schwartz is a fairly common name,” Connie said. “Do you have an address? Did you get her license plate number?”
“The first part was ‘POP,’ and I didn’t get the rest.
She was driving one of those cars that looks like a toaster.”
“It was a Scion,” Lula said.
Connie plugged the information into a search program and started working her way through it. I got a black-and-white cookie and a Frappuccino, and came back to the table.
“I think I’ve got her,” Connie said. “Brenda Schwartz. Age forty-four. Hairdresser, working at The Hair Barn in Princeton. Divorced from Bernard Schwartz, Harry Zimmer, Herbert Luckert. One child.
Jason. Looks like he’s twenty-one now. Most current address is West Windsor. Renting. No litigation against her. Picked up for possession of a control ed substance five years ago. Got a slap on the wrist.
There’s more personal information. I’l print it for you later. I haven’t got a printer here.” I wrote down Brenda’s address, ate my cookie, and sipped my drink, wondering what I should do about the photograph mess. Probably, I should tel Ranger, but he might kil everyone, and that wouldn’t help his karma issue. I glanced out the big front window and realized my car was gone.
“Damn! Shit! Sonovabitch!” I said.
“That’s a lot of swearin’,” Lula said.
“He took my car again.”
Everyone turned and looked out the window.
“Yep, it sure looks gone,” Lula said.
I cal ed the Rangeman control room. “Where’s my car?” I asked the tech who answered.
“It’s on Hamilton. Looks like it just parked at Cluck-in-a-Bucket.”
I stood at my seat. “Let’s rol ,” I said to Lula. “He’s at Cluck-in-a-Bucket.”
“WHAM!” Lula said. “Turn me loose on him.”
“I have two guys I’d like you to run through the system for me,” I said to Connie. “Mortimer Lancelot and Sylvester Larder.” I wrote the Town Car’s license plate number on a napkin. “And I’d love to know who owns the car.”
Five minutes later, we were in the Cluck-in-a-Bucket lot, and Lula was idling behind my RAV. We could see Buggy inside, standing in line at the counter.
“Now what?” Lula said. “You got any ideas how we’re gonna do this? Maybe we should go to the packing plant and borrow a cattle prod.”
“I just want my car. At this point, I don’t care if Buggy stays in the wind forever.”
“Yeah, but how are you gonna keep him from taking it again if you don’t get him locked up?”
“I’l trade the RAV in. I give up. I can’t get the key away from him, so I’l get another car.”
“Wow, that’s smart thinking.”
“I’m probably done working for the day,” I said to Lula. “I’l cal if anything changes.” TWELVE
IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON by the time I swapped out the RAV for a four-door Chevy Colorado pickup. I don’t usual y buy trucks, but the price was right, and I didn’t have a lot of choices. Apparently, a couple kids had been driving it, smoking weed, and the seat had caught fire. There wasn’t much mechanical damage, but the interior was trashed. New seats had been instal ed, but the smel of seriously smoked cannabis remained.
I’d removed the Rangeman tracking device from the RAV undercarriage, slipped it into the Chevy’s glove box, and cal ed the vehicle change in to the control room. I cal ed Morel i to tel him about the change, but he wasn’t picking up his cel . Probably, the electromagnet at the junkyard was interfering. Or maybe he saw the cal was from me, and he threw his phone into the Delaware River.
I was in a bad place with Morel i. Technical y, I hadn’t done anything wrong, since I wasn’t in a committed relationship with him. That fact didn’t stop my stomach from
Blond, five foot five, in her forties. Carries a little bitty gun.”
“As far as we know, Crick didn’t have a fiancée.” I ended the cal with Berger and turned to Connie.
“Can you find her?”
“Brenda Schwartz is a fairly common name,” Connie said. “Do you have an address? Did you get her license plate number?”
“The first part was ‘POP,’ and I didn’t get the rest.
She was driving one of those cars that looks like a toaster.”
“It was a Scion,” Lula said.
Connie plugged the information into a search program and started working her way through it. I got a black-and-white cookie and a Frappuccino, and came back to the table.
“I think I’ve got her,” Connie said. “Brenda Schwartz. Age forty-four. Hairdresser, working at The Hair Barn in Princeton. Divorced from Bernard Schwartz, Harry Zimmer, Herbert Luckert. One child.
Jason. Looks like he’s twenty-one now. Most current address is West Windsor. Renting. No litigation against her. Picked up for possession of a control ed substance five years ago. Got a slap on the wrist.
There’s more personal information. I’l print it for you later. I haven’t got a printer here.” I wrote down Brenda’s address, ate my cookie, and sipped my drink, wondering what I should do about the photograph mess. Probably, I should tel Ranger, but he might kil everyone, and that wouldn’t help his karma issue. I glanced out the big front window and realized my car was gone.
“Damn! Shit! Sonovabitch!” I said.
“That’s a lot of swearin’,” Lula said.
“He took my car again.”
Everyone turned and looked out the window.
“Yep, it sure looks gone,” Lula said.
I cal ed the Rangeman control room. “Where’s my car?” I asked the tech who answered.
“It’s on Hamilton. Looks like it just parked at Cluck-in-a-Bucket.”
I stood at my seat. “Let’s rol ,” I said to Lula. “He’s at Cluck-in-a-Bucket.”
“WHAM!” Lula said. “Turn me loose on him.”
“I have two guys I’d like you to run through the system for me,” I said to Connie. “Mortimer Lancelot and Sylvester Larder.” I wrote the Town Car’s license plate number on a napkin. “And I’d love to know who owns the car.”
Five minutes later, we were in the Cluck-in-a-Bucket lot, and Lula was idling behind my RAV. We could see Buggy inside, standing in line at the counter.
“Now what?” Lula said. “You got any ideas how we’re gonna do this? Maybe we should go to the packing plant and borrow a cattle prod.”
“I just want my car. At this point, I don’t care if Buggy stays in the wind forever.”
“Yeah, but how are you gonna keep him from taking it again if you don’t get him locked up?”
“I’l trade the RAV in. I give up. I can’t get the key away from him, so I’l get another car.”
“Wow, that’s smart thinking.”
“I’m probably done working for the day,” I said to Lula. “I’l cal if anything changes.” TWELVE
IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON by the time I swapped out the RAV for a four-door Chevy Colorado pickup. I don’t usual y buy trucks, but the price was right, and I didn’t have a lot of choices. Apparently, a couple kids had been driving it, smoking weed, and the seat had caught fire. There wasn’t much mechanical damage, but the interior was trashed. New seats had been instal ed, but the smel of seriously smoked cannabis remained.
I’d removed the Rangeman tracking device from the RAV undercarriage, slipped it into the Chevy’s glove box, and cal ed the vehicle change in to the control room. I cal ed Morel i to tel him about the change, but he wasn’t picking up his cel . Probably, the electromagnet at the junkyard was interfering. Or maybe he saw the cal was from me, and he threw his phone into the Delaware River.
I was in a bad place with Morel i. Technical y, I hadn’t done anything wrong, since I wasn’t in a committed relationship with him. That fact didn’t stop my stomach from
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