When I tossed Winkerman's apartment, I didn't find any computers or cell phones. Both Winkerman's laptop and Graham's were gone. If he hadn't created a body receipt yet, maybe he needed to get a copy of one. And he'd need access to a printer, too. Maybe he was over at St. Francis. I also thought there was a chance he was using Graham's laptop instead of his own, so that his misdeeds wouldn't be traced to his own laptop. Maybe I could still track him with Zook's cell phone. It was a long shot, but I had to keep looking.

I cruised slowly through the parking lot around St Francis, hoping for a blip on the phone to alert me that Graham's laptop was nearby. I got nothing. I considered doing some sleuthing inside, but decided against it. It would probably just get me arrested. Where else would he have access to a printer? The college? Probably, but I figured I could expect a phone call from Jim if Winkerman dared enter the computer lab. The only other option I could come up with was his mother's house.

I needed to know more about Winkerman. What was so horrible about living at home with his mother that he had been driven over the edge?

I dug Graham's file out of my bag and found the address Zook gave me for Winkerman's mother's house. I don't know what I was expecting, but what I found was a middle-class house painted like a colonial, white with black door and shutters. Two car garage. Neatly manicured yard.

I parked in the drive and walked up to the front door, ringing the bell. I dug into my bag for my fake badge. Moments later, the door opened and a woman in her 50's answered. She was probably a beautiful woman once, but the permanent scowl on her face ruined her good looks. Her salt and pepper hair was tightly pulled back into a severe bun on the back of her head.

"Yes?" she asked in a voice that caused a chill to creep up and down my spine. I felt like I was face to face with Cruella De Vil. I wondered if I should check the garage for missing puppies while I was at it.

I gathered up my courage and pressed on, remembering how much more frightening Ranger could be.

"My name is Stephanie Plum. We spoke on the phone the other day. I am the bond enforcement agent assigned to locate Gordon Graham."

"Oh, yes," she nodded. "Well, I'm sorry, I haven't seen him."

"I understand. Could I come in, just for a minute? I'd like to know more about the relationship between Graham and Frank."

"Why?" she asked, eyebrow raised suspiciously.

"I have to admit, I'm at a dead end. Frank is not cooperating. When we spoke, I got the feeling you were eager for Graham to spend some time away. I'd be grateful for your assistance."

She considered for a moment. "Very well," she relented, opening the door and stepping back so I could enter. As I stepped past her, she closed and locked the door behind me. I suddenly felt somewhat trapped, and had to steady my nerves as I walked cautiously beyond the foyer.

The sickly yellow-green living room was neat as a pin. The windows were crystal clear. The light shining through didn't illuminate even a speck of dust. There was form-fitting plastic on the furniture. The tile flooring was polished to a high gloss. The table tops were glass and the flowers in the crystal vases were silk. This was a no-kid zone, strictly maintained for guests, although, I couldn't see this woman enjoying entertaining anyone.

I sat gingerly on the gold colored sofa as she sat opposite me, perched on the edge of a matching wing-backed chair.

"While I admit Frank is not cooperating, I have to compliment you on what a polite young man he is," I began, thinking to play to her vanity a little. "He seems very intelligent, and focused for his age."

"Yes," she agreed, dourly. "He is."

"Is he working or going to school?" I asked.

"Yes," she said, as if she did not approve. "He's enrolled at the community college."

Now she had my attention. "How long has he been away?"

"He enrolled this past spring."

"When he moved out with Graham?"

"Yes," she said, her tone dripping with disapproval.

"How is he paying his half of the rent?" I asked. "Student loans?"

"He took a job at St. Francis," she said.

"Doing what?"

"Janitorial work," she said, as if both proud he would know how to clean properly and horrified that he'd be picking up germs at a hospital.

"What is it about Graham that you don't like?" I asked, point blank.

"He's a bad influence on Frank," she said, wiping an invisible piece of dust from the plastic covered arm of her chair. "He was a good boy before he met Gordon."

"How has he influenced him?" I pressed.

"Gordon has a potty mouth," she said, as if that were expressing it mildly.

"He has a medical condition," I told her.

"His problem is that he has no respect for his parents, or anyone else for that matter. He is undisciplined. If he were my son..." She shook her head, and I let my imagination fill in the blanks of what Cruella De Vil might do.

"How did they meet? Did they go to school together?" I asked.

"No. They met at some computer game party at the college."

"Is Frank interested in computers?" I asked.

"All boys his age are interested in computers," she said.

"Most boys his age are interested in girls," I corrected.

"Not my Frank," she snapped. "He's a good boy."

Whoa. I'd seen a dozen horror movies start out this way.

"I heard that you removed him from a game at the college. Is that true?"

"Yes," she said, without a hint of shame. "Frank is special, and I don't want him wasting his time with those people."

The way she said "those people" caught my attention.

"Does Frank have any friends you do approve of?" I wondered.

"Frank doesn't go to school to make friends. Friends get a boy into trouble." She realized her voice was rising, and paused, taking a breath and smoothing her hair back, regaining her composure. "When Frank went on play dates in grade school, he always came home with his allergies upset. Those people don't know how to keep a house. Dust mites, filthy kitchens. Once, Frank actually came home with bed bugs on his clothes, if you can even imagine. I had to keep him home from school several times because classmates brought head lice to school. But the worst was the peanut cross-contamination. Most of those people don't even know how to wash their hands properly. The children are fed peanut butter and jelly day and night, and they are not made to eat at the table like civilized human beings. They smear peanut butter on their clothes, so they constantly get the oil on their hands, and they leave it on door knobs, tables, papers and pencils, bathroom areas, chairs, even in their beds. It's everywhere. There was no way I could protect Frank's delicate skin from exposure. Every time I let him visit a friend, even though I specifically warned them about his allergies, he would come home covered head to toe with red blisters and wheezing and coughing. He was exposed so many times at school, I finally had to give up my job and stay home with him."

"Frank was home schooled?"

"From third grade on. They wanted to hold him back, because he missed so much school. Why should my bright boy be held back because the teachers don't know how to use a wet-nap to keep the desks clean?"

"So, Frank and Graham both had issues socializing with their peers," I noted. "Do you think that's what brought them together? A common bond?"

"I don't know," she said, as if she didn't care either. "What I do know is that Frank needs to focus on his future. The sooner this little episode is over, the better."

"What is your hope for Frank's future?"

"Frank is too fragile for this world. They are holding a place for him at St. Mary's Abbey in Morristown."

I knew all too well how it felt to have a mother with certain expectations. My mother was never going to be happy until I was a housewife with at least two children. But Frank's mother would have him consigned to a monastery, locked away, safely hidden from the world. I was unable to suppress a shudder.

"What does Frank think about this plan?" I asked, knowing full well the answer.

"He's been reluctant," she admitted, "but it's only a matter of time before he comes to accept this as the only reasonable solution."

"Why?"

Mrs. Winkerman sighed, pressing her lips in annoyance. "Those people out there have no regard for a sensitive boy like Frank. He simply won't survive anywhere else. Eventually, he'll have endured enough pain and suffering. Then he'll see that I'm right."

Or he'll snap and kill someone, I thought.

I considered what Frank's life at the college must have been like. I remembered the look of relief on the professor's face when he said Frank was no longer a student. Frank was socially awkward, his compulsion would make him stand out like a sore thumb in any group, and his peanut allergy was so severe that it was difficult for him to be exposed to public facilities. The school failed him for missing too much time due to his peanut allergy. It seemed it really was impossible for him to live a normal life. And while I understood Mrs. Winkerman's point of view, her solution was cruel all the same.

"Do you have any idea where Gordon Graham might be?" I asked, thinking it best to at least pretend to ask the obvious questions.

"No," she said, simply.

"When is the last time you saw him?"

"A few months after Frank moved out, at their apartment. I brought Frank's summer wardrobe. He'd left it in closet, in the spare room."

I flashed back to the coats hanging in Graham's closet. Frank was doing what he was raised to do, store his off-season wardrobe in the spare room. I wondered what other habits he had picked up from his long captivity in this house. Maybe wrapping things in plastic, I thought with another shiver.

"I understand Graham's father is a lawyer," I said, just fishing now.

"That's right," she said, with that same sour look on her face she had for Graham.

"I would like to speak to him as well. Do you know how I could reach him?"

"Arnold Graham. He's listed," she said, not offering anything more.

I took that as my cue to leave. I stood and Mrs. Winkerman walked me to the door. As she was working the lock, I glanced at the family photos hanging on the wall in the foyer. I took a good look at Mr. Winkerman. He didn't look any happier than his wife. There was only one elementary school portrait. Frank was probably in second grade, and there was a large red blotch covering his left cheek, and his eye was swollen.

Mrs. Winkerman caught me staring at the photo. "I would have asked for re-takes," I said, joking.

"That was the re-take," she answered sharply, with no sense of humor at all.

I sat behind the wheel in Big Blue, wondering whether to call Mr. Graham. I turned the key in the ignition and looked down at the needle pointing to empty. I needed to put gas in the car. I started digging through my bag for loose change. I came up with enough for one gallon of gas. It was going to have to do. I headed for the nearest gas station, ten blocks away, just off Olden. I pulled up to the pump and got out. I was about to go inside to pay when I stopped in my tracks. I was parked right next door to Quality Modular Homes. I'm sure they probably had a nice catalog full of modular homes inside the office, but outside, all they had were rows and rows of mobile homes, some new, most used.

"That ain't real estate," I thought, remembering Ranger's warning.

I pulled out my cell and dialed Ranger.

"Yo," he answered quietly.

"What's up?" I asked.

"I have a cramp in my ass," he complained. This got a smile out of me, because this was usually my line when we were on a stake out together.

"Do you want me to do something about it?" I asked, giving him his line.

"Not right now, but maybe later," he teased.

"So, were you really worried about me earlier?" I asked. If he was teasing, he was still unaware of my predicament.

"Babe," he said, meaning yes.

"If I did purchase, what would worry you most? The neighbors?" I asked.

"Their snakes," he said dryly.

Bingo. Ranger had once helped me hunt down fugitive grave-robber Simon Diggery. The allusion to Diggery's monster python told me I was right on the money.

"Gotta go," I told him, and disconnected.

I jumped back in Big Blue and popped the brake. Riding in neutral, I coasted Big Blue down the hill and behind the privacy fence that separated the gas station from the sales lot, struggling to guide the behemoth without the benefit of power steering. I jumped out, locked up, and snuck through a broken board in the fence. I was looking for the light gray tarp. The Panamera was close. I could feel it. I started a frantic search of the large lot, crawling under some trailers that didn't have skirting, going around the backs of others, trying to stay hidden. No Panamera.

After searching half the lot, I heard voices approaching from the direction of the office. I was in a section that butted right up against the fence. I couldn't go around or hide underneath. There was no place to hide. I scrambled up the concrete steps and tried the door on the nearest trailer, an older, used model. The door wasn't locked, so I dashed inside, hoping for the best. It seemed for all the world like I'd just walked into someone's house. The furniture was used. The house had a distinctly lived-in feel. The vinyl flooring was worn in a path through the kitchen and in front of the sink and stove. There was a flattened path in the carpet that lead from the kitchen to the television set to the couch. I walked down the hallway, past a bedroom, a bath, and finally another bedroom. I peeked out the windows, not seeing anyone. I listened, but didn't hear anything. I quietly made my way back to the front door. I was about to sneak out and continue my search when I stopped and turned to stare at the refrigerator in the kitchen.

Winkerman's uncle lived in a mobile home park. Maybe Winkerman had been here before, with his uncle. Maybe he knew there were rows upon rows of empty homes with unlocked doors and empty refrigerator freezers, where no one would be surprised to see a lock on the door. There was no lock on this one, but I opened it just to be sure. Electricity was on. Cold freezer air wafted out at me from the empty recesses. I closed the door and started searching in earnest. Mobile home after mobile home, I found the electricity was on. Almost every one was furnished. I looked inside all of the empty freezers. Some were plugged in, some weren't. There were two couples checking out the models on their own. No salesmen in sight. I pretended to be just another interested home buyer, smiling and waiving when they did.

I was about to call for backup when I struck pay dirt. There was an exterior padlock on a deep freezer in a laundry room of a used trailer toward the very back of the lot. The room was across from a back door. I smelled bleach lingering in the air and almost danced for joy. I looked out the back window and saw the gray car cover peeking out from the corner of a storage shed. My hands were shaking as I dialed Gazarra.

Fifteen minutes later, Eddy was standing beside me with the owner of the sales lot. With his permission, Eddy jimmied the lock open and we all stared down at the plastic cocoon that contained Graham's frozen remains. The owner quickly excused himself. We heard him throwing up in the bathroom next door like he was still in the same room.

"Thin walls," I said, grimacing.

"Plywood thin," Eddy agreed. He tapped gently on the wall and it flexed under his fingers. He looked down into the freezer again, making a face at the smell. "Well, that's a dead body alright. Still frozen. He looks like he's sitting in a chair," Eddy said, poking around with his night stick. "Can you make a positive ID?" he asked me.

"You do it," I told him, handing him Graham's file photo. Eddy made a face at me. "Yeah, you know, we really shouldn't disturb evidence," he said, handing me back the photo and reaching for his radio.

"What are you doing?" I asked, grabbing his hand, fearing the inevitable.

"I'm calling it in," he said, shaking my hand loose.

"Not over the radio," I begged. If he did that, Rangeman would know. They always monitored the police bands.

"You serious?" he asked.

"If you have to, just do it as quietly as possible," I begged.

I listened as Eddy called it in on his cell. He listened for a few minutes, confirmed the address and the pertinent details of my involvement, then disconnected.

The owner stuck his head in to say he'd wait in the office. Eddy stepped into the kitchen with him for a moment to discuss crime scene procedures and warned him to keep a lid on it. Then the owner left. Eddie's phone rang, and he answered it, listened for a moment, then disconnected.

"Morelli's on his way," he said.

"Okay," I answered, as I sank down on the floor, leaning against the washing machine. I put my head between my knees and started deep breathing.

"Is that a problem?" Eddy asked.

"Is there any way you'd agree to help me hide the Panamera?"

"Why?"

"Eddie, I'm begging you."

"As the mode of transport, I think it may be relevant to the investigation," he pointed out.

"Not if we didn't know how he got the body here," I suggested.

Eddie thought about it for a minute. "Your grandma knows. The ladies at Clara's know. How do you think you're going to keep this a secret from Morelli?"

"I don't know," I groaned, sinking even lower.

"Okay, but you owe me," he said, an evil grin creasing his lips. That could only mean one thing. Babysitting Eddy's brats.

I rolled my eyes. "Anything," I promised.

"Fine," he agreed. "You never told me about the Panamera. I didn't see the Panamera. I know nothing about the Panamera," he chanted.

"What about the Panamera?" Morelli asked, walking in through the back door.

Oh boy.