"I think I could get used to living on Cupcake time," Joe whispered. Joe and I were lazing around in bed after a little afternoon romance.
"I set my own hours," I told him. "Now you can too."
I felt Joe smiling against my shoulder. "Sounds good."
"What time is it?" I wondered. I glanced up at the clock beside the bed. "Three-thirty," I groaned. "I should get up. Gina said your shirt would be ready for pick up today."
"I think I can handle one more day without my shirt," Joe groaned.
"We aren't making any money laying here," I reminded him.
"Picking up my shirt isn't going to help," He mumbled. "We can't get a look at the notebook until tomorrow."
"What if we don't find the treasure? What if we find the treasure, but we can't keep it?"
"I've been thinking about that too, but I haven't looked into it yet," he admitted.
"That is part of your job. It's a legal matter."
"Yeah. I know. But not now," he whispered. I could tell he was warming up for another round.
"We keep running into DeChooch," I mused. "Do you think he might have killed Judge O'Brien?"
"DeChooch is nuts," Joe said, rolling onto his back, reluctantly allowing his cop mode to kick in. He could tell my mind was back on the job, even if my body was still in the bed.
"The ladies at Clara's said the attorney appointed to defend DeChooch did a terrible job. They said he wasn't qualified."
"What's your theory?"
"I don't know. DeChooch was feeling lucky when he turned himself in. He had just escaped death and had his ear shot half off. I'm sure the optimism waned once he was back behind bars."
"I don't know why DeChooch would have thought he could expect parole," Joe said.
"Maybe just because he's so old, and it's hard to find anyone to testify against DeChooch."
"You think the attorney should have got him probation, but screwed it up somehow? And what would that have to do with the Judge?"
"I don't know. I just have a feeling it's all connected somehow." That, and I felt a little guilt for losing us the Stapleton gig. I needed to get us a new line on a payday.
"Go with your gut, Cupcake."
I swung my legs over the side and got up, slipping on a robe. I went to the kitchen for my bag. I dialed the last person in the world I wanted to owe a favor to.
"Dickie Orr," my ex-husband answered.
"It's Stephanie. Don't hang up," I said in a rush. "I just need some court information, and it's not something confidential you're not supposed to tell me. It's not about one of your clients."
"You know, you only call when you want something," Dickie said.
"Do you want me to call you more often?" I asked, being a smart ass.
"Good point," he said. "But I'm going to start billing you for services."
"No you're not," I said.
"Why not?"
"I don't have a good reason right now, but you know damn well I can think of one if I need to," I told him. It wasn't really a hollow threat either, and Dickie knew it.
"Okay, okay. Sheesh!" I could hear him get up from his chair and close his office door for privacy. "What do you want to know this time?" He was exasperated, but resigned. Right where I wanted him.
"What can you tell me about DeChooch's last court appearance? I know he was sentenced to some prison time by Judge O'Brien. But I heard there might have been something going on with his public defender. Pretend I don't know anything about the situation. What can you tell me?"
"You're looking for the Judge?" Dickie presumed.
"Yeah."
"And you think DeChooch is involved?"
"Yeah."
"Isn't DeChooch in jail?"
"Not anymore," I told him.
"Didn't know that."
"Should you be worried?" I asked.
"I don't think so. You're not going to tell him I helped you with this, are you? Because I don't want my name brought up if you bring him in again. If I keep helping you, I'll be on every hit list in town."
"Mums the word," I promised.
"Yeah, right."
"Are we going to do this the easy way, or the hard way?" I asked him, tapping my foot impatiently, hoping he could sense it on the other end.
"Don't get your panties in a twist," he told me.
I made an ugly face into the phone at him.
"Here's the story. DeChooch's case was assigned to a newbie fresh from his bar exam, Gordon Swissler. So, the first thing this guy does at the arraignment is argue to reduce the charges from indictable to non-indictable violations. Now, you know O'Brien is laughing is ass off inside. They just read this ridiculously long list of charges, and he's not about to let DeChooch go. So, he generously agrees to give the attorney everything he asked for, except bail. Swissler no sooner sits down, than O'Brien sets the date for sentencing. You should have seen DeChooch's face!" he laughed.
"So, what happened?" I asked. I wasn't laughing. I didn't get the joke.
"He got 179 days for each count. By the time they got to court, there were 13 charges. Now, being assigned this guy is referred to as getting the 'Swissler Stick'." I pressed my finger to the corner of my eye. Dickey's enjoyment of another's pain was giving me a familiar eye twitch.
"Wow. Well, that explains it. Thanks," I said, ready to end the call as soon as possible.
"Remember, you didn't hear it from me."
"You bet." I disconnected. He was right. I didn't hear anything he said aside from the fact that DeChooch's lawyer was an idiot and O'Brien sentenced him to a lot of jail time.
I dialed the other attorney in my life, my brother-in-law, Albert Kloughn. Albert married my sister, Valerie. It was her second marriage and his first. Albert was step-dad to my nieces, Angie and Mary Alice. He was father to baby Lisa.
I really liked Albert. He reminded me of the Pillsbury Dough Boy. But, that jolly, squishy quality didn't make for the best lawyerly exterior. If I were ever on trial for murder, I'd need a third lawyer in my life.
"Stephanie," Albert answered, chipper as ever. "It's so good to hear from you! How's the married life?"
"Great," I said. "Actually, Joe and I are looking in to the disappearance of Judge O'Brien. It seems Eddie DeChooch broke out of prison just before O'Brien went missing. I heard some gossip that maybe DeChooch's attorney screwed up in court, but I'm not getting the whole story. Did you happen to hear anything?"
Albert was making a nervous sort of laugh. "Wow, I think everyone heard about that. And they think I'm a sorry excuse for an attorney," he laughed self-consciously.
"You're a wonderful provider for your family, Albert," I told him.
"Yes, but I'm not a very good attorney," he admitted. "Still, this guy takes the cake."
"Can you tell me in plain English what happened?"
"Sure. DeChooch was assigned a public defender. He literally just passed the bar like the day before. DeChooch was charged with 13 indictable offenses. Those are serious charges that usually carry jail time and stay on your criminal record.
"The new guy, Swissler, asked for the charges to be reduced to less serious charges, like disorderly conduct. Those charges usually carry minimal jail time. Sometimes they don't even go on the permanent criminal record. Sometimes there's just a fine. They're just like getting a parking ticket."
"That sounds like a good thing," I said. "Why was that stupid?"
"It was stupid because DeChooch expected to have the charges dropped because he's an old man. And sometimes an elderly defendant is found not guilty merely because a jury doesn't have the heart to send grandpa to the pokey," Albert explained. "A jury trial would have been the best way to go to get DeChooch cleared of all charges. The thing is, a defendant is only entitled to a trial by jury for indictable offenses. Since the charges were reduced, DeChooch lost his right to a jury trial. And thus, his only chance to be found not guilty."
"Oh!" I gasped, catching up. "So the judge realized what kind of mistake the rookie was making, but he let him make it anyway. He humiliated the kid and he sentenced DeChooch."
"Yeah," Albert agreed. "And if DeChooch is out, I'll bet that public defender is dead or missing too."
"Ok, so, what did you hear DeChooch got sentenced to?"
"Usually, a non-indictable offense carries a sentence of less than six months, which is 180 days. Judge O'Brien gave DeChooch 179 days for each count. So, times 13 counts, it came to just under six and a half years."
"Woah!" I said, shocked. "No wonder DeChooch is out for blood. He doesn't take disappointment well. At his age, that was life in prison."
"Or a death sentence," Albert suggested.
"That's what I needed. Thanks. Say hi to Valerie and the girls for me."
"I will. Be careful!" Albert said, and he disconnected.
I ran back into the bedroom, hopped on the bed, and told Joe what I found out about DeChooch and O'Brien.
"Surely Swissler is in police protective custody by now," Joe said, getting up and looking around for his clothes.
"One way to find out. Call the Chief."
Joe made the call. He was giving me the oddest look while he listened. Then, he thanked the Chief and disconnected.
"Swissler isn't missing. He was ruined by the public humiliation following the DeChooch thing. And it happened right after being stressed out over the bar exam. Turns out, no one has seen him lately because he had a nervous breakdown after losing his fifth straight case. When they found out that DeChooch escaped, Swissler was the first person the Chief thought of. So, Swissler was transferred to an out-of-state facility. The location has not been disclosed. Swissler is safe. And he's eating solid food again, so that's good, I guess."
"Are his lawyering days over?" I asked.
"Sounds like it. He can probably do some kinds of research or related law work, but I doubt he'll ever be back in a court room."
"That's a shame," I said, feeling sorry for the guy. I was all too familiar with public humiliation. I'd made the front page a few times myself.
"The Chief contacted O'Brien to let him know DeChooch escaped. It's not uncommon for a judge to be threatened, so he just assumed O'Brien would take precautions. He was surprised when O'Brien vanished without a trace. He doesn't know if he's dead or just laying low somewhere until DeChooch is caught."
"We should have a talk with Mrs. O'Brien," I decided.
"Yeah. I'll bring a contract," he said. He was digging around on his desk. He could feel my eyes on him. "What?" he asked without looking up at me.
"You're serious," I realized.
"Hey, if you're going to keep bumping into DeChooch, we ought to get paid."
We jumped in the Camaro and drove to Hamilton Township to the O'Brien house.
"Do you usually show up unannounced?" Joe asked.
"Yeah, it saves time. I mean, no one wants to meet with a BEA. And this way, Mrs. O'Brien doesn't have time to think of a reason not to give us the contract."
"You mean she won't have time to check our lack of references."
"That too."
We walked up to the door and knocked. A plump woman of about fifty answered the door. Her navy blue and white floral wrap dress was hiding a bountiful figure, and her white hair was swept up in a bun on top of her head. The only wrinkles she had were laugh lines. She looked both young and old at the same time. My first thought was Aunt Bea, and even their house was a little Mayberry.
"Mrs. O'Brien. My name is Joe Morelli, and this is my wife, Stephanie," Joe said, holding out his hand as he introduced us. "We are private investigators. We would like to offer our services."
"Oh, my," she said, gingerly offering her hand to Joe and then to me. "Come in, won't you?"
We followed her inside. We were seated on a large, overstuffed couch in the living room. Mrs. O'Brien sat in a wing-chair to my left.
"Jack has been missing over a week," she told us. "I have no idea where he is."
"We heard what happened with the DeChooch case. Mrs. O'Brien, I am a retired Trenton police detective. I worked my way up from patrolman, through vice. I have seen a lot of things. Stephanie is a retired Bond Enforcement Agent, and it's possible she's seen more action that I have. We are capable and qualified to conduct an investigation into your husband's disappearance. The Trenton PD is undermanned and under-funded. I know they want to help you, but it isn't possible for them to expend the resources necessary to locate your husband. Stephanie and I are capable and willing, but we have to earn a living, you understand."
Mrs. O'Brien nodded. "I understand. What are your fees?"
I stood, allowing Joe to trade places with me. Joe reviewed the contract while I studied the room.
The room was tidy and bright, with warm light pouring through the large bay window. It didn't look like the little missus was in mourning or worried to distraction. And I didn't see any sign of overcompensation. Everything seemed peaceful and normal. I assumed Mr. O'Brien spent very little time in his own home. That would account for the sense that all was well. His absence was normal.
"Very well," Mrs. O'Brien said. "Will you accept a check?"
"We would," Joe agreed. Mrs. O'Brien signed the contract along with Joe. Joe gave Mrs. O'Brien the yellow copy of the contract. He folded and pocketed the white copy along with the check she handed him.
"Can I offer you some tea?" she asked. "I assume we have a lot of talking to do now."
"Yes, tea would be wonderful," I said.
Mrs. O'Brien nodded, and she tottled off to the kitchen.
"How much?" I whispered to Joe.
"Three thousand dollar deposit to cover expenses. Another seven thousand once we have located and returned her husband."
"Ten thousand?" I asked.
"Five after the metal detector," he said. "Not much after bills are paid."
"Close enough," I told him.
"I wasn't trying to gouge her. I'm just trying to keep us in business. And she can afford it," he said. "She agreed. It's not like stealing to make a deal. Besides, we're not the only game in town."
"Why hasn't anyone else been knocking on her door then?" I wondered. "You don't think she hired all of us do you? Like the Stapleton's?"
"Don't know," he admitted.
Mrs. O'Brien returned with a silver tea tray set with China. I involuntarily glanced down at the rug. It appeared to be StainMaster rather than Sotheby's, so I relaxed a little. I caught Joe smiling at me.
"Are you newlyweds?" Mrs. O'Brien asked.
"Yes," I blushed.
"It shows," she said, smiling at us. "You look good together. Such a handsome couple, and so in love."
"Like you and Jack?" I asked. I couldn't help myself. My spidey sense spotted an opportunity, so I took it.
Joe's expression didn't give anything away.
"There was a time," she said wistfully. "But that was a long time ago."
"You aren't happily married?" I asked sympathetically.
"I would say we are settled into a comfortable rut," she told us.
Joe decided to change the subject before I accused our only benefactor of adultery with the neighbor.
"Do you recall your husband receiving any threats?"
"No. He received a call from the Chief when DeChooch escaped, but that was all."
"How did he react to that call," Joe asked.
"Well, he didn't run and pack a bag, if that's what you're asking. He has a loaded gun in the night stand in his room. It's still there."
"You don't share the same bedroom?" I asked, not entirely surprised.
"No. Jack keeps long hours, and he doesn't want to wake me when he retires."
"Are any of this clothes missing?"
"No. He didn't take anything."
"Would you mind if we had a look around?" I asked.
"Of course. Follow me."
The house was a single story ranch. We followed her all the way down the hallway.
"This is Jack's room."
It was the master bedroom, with a private bath. The large bed was neatly made. The room was masculine in decor. There were no frilly feminine touches. All of the toiletries belonged to the Judge. I opened the closet door. The shoe rack had only one pair missing, and there was only one empty hanger.
"What was the Judge wearing when he disappeared?" I asked.
"His dark brown suit, and brown dress shoes," she said. "I picked up his laundry from the cleaners the other day. I didn't know what else to do, so I hung up the suits and put his other things in his drawers. I hope I didn't mess anything up for your investigation."
"No, that's fine," I assured her. "What dry cleaner do you use?" Just curious.
"Kan Kleen," she said.
"The Macaroni's do good work," I told her.
"Yes, except this last time." She opened one of the dresser drawers and pulled out a pair of silk boxer briefs that had been absolutely ruined. It looked like they had been pressed for too long at high heat. They were discolored, shapeless, and very shiny. "And the suits," she said, pulling out a dark blue pinstripe and a black tailored suit. I looked at them, not seeing the disaster. Then she pulled out another suit for comparison. The first two suits had obviously shrunk. "I didn't complain yet. If Jack doesn't make it back, there's no point worrying about it. And if he does, I'll just let him handle it."
I nodded, not sure what to say.
We returned to the living room.
"I assume Mr. O'Brien didn't make any large withdrawals that you are aware of," Joe said.
"No. But, it's quite possible he has access to funds I don't know about. He takes care of all the money. I have my own account, and I get an allowance."
"Are there people he would go to for help? Family, friends?" I asked.
"Not really. I've called all of his family members. I don't think they are hiding him. Do you want to try to contact them again?" she asked.
"Yes. If you could make us a list, any contacts you can think of would be helpful."
"I have that list all ready," she said. She went to the kitchen and returned with a photo copy of a hand-written list of names, relationships, and phone numbers.
"I'm sorry to ask, but have you hired any other investigators?"
"No, I haven't."
"I was just curious," I said.
"About the list? I gave it to the police last week."
"That's very helpful," Joe assured her. "Just a few more questions."
She nodded.
"Can you describe the last contact you had with your husband?" Joe asked.
"I heard him getting ready for work. It was Tuesday morning. The Chief had called the night before. I didn't get up. Jack usually leaves before I get up. So, everything was normal."
"You heard him getting ready. What did you hear?" Joe asked.
"The shower came on at five thirty, the usual time. The national news was on in his room, on the television. He got into his closet. The television went off and he walked down the hall, out the front door, and he drove away."
"But, you didn't actually see him?" Joe asked.
"No, but it was Jack. Nothing was different about his morning routine. I could smell his after shave when I got up to make coffee."
"He didn't make it to work that morning?"
"No."
"He didn't have any breakfast or coffee before he left?"
"No. He has a Starbucks' habit. He gets a fancy coffee and a Danish every morning on the way to work."
"Did the police determine if he had been seen at Starbucks that morning?" Joe asked.
"They talked to the barista that always waits on him. She had noticed that he didn't come in that morning. He's always there by six."
"So, he went missing between five thirty and six last Tuesday," I confirmed.
"Yes."
"And his car is also missing?"
"Yes. It's a black Dodge Charger. The plate number is on the bottom of the page." She pointed it out to Joe.
"Did your husband ever talk about going someplace, like a fantasy spot?" Joe asked.
"You mean, if he won the lottery?"
"Exactly."
"He joked about Barbados sometimes. But it's not like he ever brought home travel brochures. He was married to his work. I can't imagine him taking a few days off, let alone, dropping everything and going on an exotic vacation." She looked thoughtful for a moment. "But...is there such a place as Micronesia?"
"What do you mean?" Joe asked.
"Whenever Jack presided over a case where the thief was caught, but the money wasn't found, Jack used to comment that the money was in Micronesia."
"Huh. I'll look into it." Joe said, jotting it down on the list.
"That's all I've got. Steph?" He turned to me.
"I'm sure we'll have a few more questions as the investigation unfolds," I said. "We'll keep in touch and let you know how things are progressing."
"Thank you," she said, seeing us to the door.
Joe and I got in the car, and stared at each other in stunned silence for a minute.
"She isn't the least bit concerned that her husband might be dead," I said.
"Micronesia is a non-extradition country. It's made up of thousands of tiny islands north of Australia. English is the official language. And I'll bet the Judge already had money in an account there."
"Do you think he's hiding from DeChooch in Micronesia? Or from the wife?" I wondered.
"I'm not ruling out the wife's boyfriend, either."
"If O'Brien fled to the Pacific, how are we supposed to bring him back?"
"I don't know, Cupcake."
"I think I miss the good old days when I was chasing down drunks and perverts," I said wistfully.
"Yeah. A straight forward ventilation job down on Comstock was a lot less complicated."
"Let's go get your shirt. I want to talk to Gina Macaroni about her new hire."
We rolled up to Kan Kleen. I ran in while Joe waited in the car.
The front was unattended again. "Knock, knock!" I called out. "Gina, are you back there?"
A wispy teenager with a short, dark pixie cut came bounding up to the counter. She was wearing all black. Black nails, black lips, black eye makeup. She looked like Tinkerbell's evil twin.
"Gina stepped out for a minute," She said.
"Oh, well, maybe you can help me. I dropped off a shirt, and Gina said I could pick it up today." I handed her my ticket.
She looked at me with a blank expression.
"Can you find my shirt so I can pay you for it? My husband is waiting in the car, so I need to hurry."
"Oh," she looked out the window at Joe. "He's pretty hot."
"Yeah," I said, a warning in my voice. She pulled back from her drooling and looked at me. "The shirt. Can you find the shirt?"
"I just started working here the other day. I haven't learned customer service yet," she said, handing me back my ticket.
"I used to work here," I told her. "Would it be okay if I come back there and get the shirt?"
"Sure," she said, stepping back, allowing me access to the moving rack. I hit the button, and the clothes danced past like a parade. I scanned the numbers on the tickets until I found Joe's shirt. I let go of the button, and the rack stopped. I knew immediately that something was wrong when I could see the ends of the hangar sticking out through the shirt sleeves.
I removed the plastic and I held the shirt out to the girl. "Does this shirt look familiar to you?" I asked.
"Oh, yeah," she said. "It's a cute shirt. Your little boy must kill in that shirt."
"My big boy is going to kill when he sees this shirt," I told her. "This was my husband's favorite shirt. And you shrunk it to about one quarter it's normal size. How did you even do that?"
"I don't know. Gina's been trying to help me learn how to work the machines. She thinks I'm not mixing the chemicals correctly. And I like everything neatly pressed, but I guess not everything is supposed to be put in the press. And it doesn't have a timer, so I don't know when it's done," she droned on.
I ignored her. I went to the register and wrote a note for Gina to call me.
"Gina can call me when she gets in. I'll come back later to take care of the shirt with her," I said to the pixie.
"Yeah, that would be best," she agreed.
As I stormed out the door, I could hear her calling after me.
"Oh, thanks for using Kan Kleen. Come again!"
I slammed the car door shut and handed Joe what was left of his shirt.
"New girl," I told him.
"Figures," he said, tossing the shirt over his shoulder into the back seat.
"Are you mad?" I asked.
"No, I'm not mad. Bob will look great in that shirt."
"It's too small for Bob."
"Maybe Rex will like it," he teased. Rex is my pet hamster.
"I'm really sorry," I told him.
He took my hand and kissed it. "It's not your fault, Cupcake." This got a smile out of me.