I parked in the lot to the side of Carmen's apartment building, which was located in a rough neighbourhood, but it wasn't the worst. The yellow brick was filthy and in need of a cleaning with a sandblaster or power washer. When I walked past a tenant sitting in a lawn chair on the grass, he bitched about my noisy car. I shrugged and smiled apologetically. There was nothing I could do about the state of the missing muffler. The piece of crap wasn't worth repairing, though I had enough to pay for it.
The small ground-floor foyer held furniture with varying degrees of worn-out upholstery. Someone had gouged the table with a knife or used it as a battering ram. Chunks were missing along the edges, drawing attention to the chipped tile on the floor. I walked past the wobbly table to the stairwell since it was a four-story walk-up with no elevator.
When I got to Carmen's door, I was sweating profusely. It was hot inside the building, and there was no airflow. "Are you okay?" Al said in my ear.
"Hot," I mumbled. Carmen's apartment door was missing the yellow caution crime-scene tape, but someone had bolted the door. There was no way I could get inside the unit. How was I supposed to find out how Carmen left the building? "Locate," I said.
Al replied, "You're closest to the row houses across the parking lot. Maybe someone there saw something."
"Mmhmm," I said.
I looked down the hall and saw two more doors. Nobody answered at the unit beside Carmen's apartment. It was a bummer since they would most likely have heard what happened in their neighbour's home. I sighed and knocked on the other door.
A Hispanic woman, who said her name was Mrs. Santiago, answered the door. She had a baby on her right hip, bouncing it as we talked. I gave her a sympathetic smile. "I'm sorry for waking your child," I said. Mrs. Santiago looked tired. Her black hair was pulled neatly back, exposing her round face. She was wearing a housecoat and slippers. The television in the background droned on as two children watched in rapt fascination at the cartoon playing.
"I'm babysitting my grandchildren," Mrs. Santiago corrected. "Carmen only lived here for a few months. She was quiet, kept to herself, and nobody knew much about her."
"Oh. Thank you. Have you seen Carmen since the shooting?" I asked.
"No. I don't know where Carmen would be, either. One of the other neighbours said she worked at Step In on Stark Street. Maybe someone there would know more about her," Mrs. Santiago suggested.
"Were you home when Morelli shot Ziggy?"
"Yes. Carmen had the television volume too high, and it was too late. She never had it that loud before that night. Someone pounded on her door. It was the cop. He drew a lot of attention. I heard the gunshot and called the police. When I got to the door, I heard a commotion and looked out. John Kuzack and other tenants from the building were in the hallway. We take care of our own. Nobody here pretends they don't hear things. It's the only way to keep the drugs out of the building and away from the kids," she explained.
"Are you aware teens and young adults are dying from drugs containing too much fentanyl?" I asked. It was in the newspaper articles and on the news, so I assumed it was common knowledge in Trenton.
"I have, and that's why we call the cops to keep it away," she replied. "We never have this type of trouble. The cop was on the ground with John standing over him. John saw someone was shot dead in Carmen's doorway. When he saw the other man holding the gun, John took matters into his own hands. I never saw what happened because everyone was crowding around to look at the dead body."
"Did you see Carmen?" I asked, hoping she would give me a lead.
"No, but so many people crowded the hallway, wanting to know what happened. It didn't matter because the man was already dead," she replied.
"The cop, Morelli, said two men were in the apartment. Did you see the other man?"
"Maybe," Mrs. Santiago said. She furrowed her brows, trying to remember what she saw. I patiently waited for her to answer while Al suggested I mention the flat-faced man. "I do remember seeing a man I never saw before. He was skinny, had dark hair and skin, and appeared around thirty, and his face was funny."
"What do you mean by funny?" I asked.
"His nose was really flat like someone had hit him with a frying pan. It's why I noticed him. He looked funny," she replied. I had assumed he had a flat face, not that his nose was flat. "He left before the cops showed up. I don't know where he is."
"Where can I find John Kuzack?"
"He lives in 4B. John should be home because he's between jobs," she replied.
"Thank you for your help," I said, passing her my business card. I left before she closed her door.
"Who would be able to disarm Morelli?" I wondered aloud.
"Someone Tank's size," Al replied, laughing.
I knocked on 4B loudly, waiting for John to answer the door. It swung open to reveal a man Tank's height and weight, except Tank was more muscular than John Kuzack. Unlike Tank, John had his gray hair pulled into a ponytail and a rattlesnake tattoo on his forehead, reminding me of Cal and his flaming skull. He was holding a can of beer and a TV Guide. The smoke from pot wafted through the door, polluting the air I was breathing. I recognized the tattoo on his arm. He was a Vietnam Airborne veteran, and I vowed to confirm my suspicions when I got home.
"Are you John Kuzack?" I asked, ensuring I had the right man.
John squinted his eyes and looked down his nose at me. "What do you need from me?"
"I'm the bond enforcement agent tasked with finding Morelli. Do you know anything about Carmen Sanchez?" I asked, getting to the point. Al swore in my ear. Something happened, but I needed to interview John before asking Al what he and our team had uncovered.
"I'd seen Carmen around and said hello to her a couple of times. She seemed nice. I heard the gunshot when I was coming up the stairs," he replied.
"Mrs. Santiago said you subdued the gunman," I added.
"I sure did," John proudly replied. "I didn't know he was a cop. He was armed after shooting someone, yelling at the people in the hallway to stay away. It wasn't a good situation, and I could see it escalating. I hit him with a six-pack and knocked him out cold."
I grinned as Al laughed in my ear. He was wheezing from laughing so hard. "That was brave," I said, pretending to sound impressed, which I should have been because Morelli knew how to box. Kuzack didn't look strong enough to take him out without using a blunt weapon, and I never thought a six-pack would qualify as a blunt object.
"Being shit-faced helped," he said with a grin. I was about to ask if he saw Carmen when he added, "I assumed she disappeared in the scuffle. I haven't seen her since."
"What about the flat-nosed man?" I asked.
"Hmm. I remember seeing the man, and I would recognize him if I saw him again," John replied.
"Would anyone else know about that man?" I questioned.
"Edleman, but he got hit by a car the other day in front of this building and died," John answered, giving me a lead and simultaneously ripping the carpet from beneath my feet.
In my ear, Al said, "Then why bother mentioning him?"
I thanked Kuzack for the information and left without giving him a card to contact me. The stairs seemed to move as I slowly walked down them. "Shit," I hissed. "I got a nice buzz going." Al couldn't stop laughing. I was uncomfortable driving under the influence, so I walked to the row houses Al mentioned earlier.
The space between the buildings was large enough to drive a transport truck down the alley, but there wasn't much room for anything else to fit. "Hey, can you research how tall a trailer is?" I asked Al.
"What are you thinking?" Al questioned. He was undoubtedly researching the information for me while picking my brain. It was the reason we made a great team.
"If someone could move Carmen's body through her window," I replied.
"Your mind is a terrifying place. Where do you come up with these ideas?"
"I blame the pot-infused smoke," I laughed. Al knew I didn't need drugs to make my mind go in different directions.
When I approached the row houses, I was met with an older man who looked older than Grandma. He was wielding a baseball bat. His ears are large enough to flap in the breeze on a windy day. I looked into his beady eyes and avoided staring at his hooked nose. "Are you going to batting practice?" I teased.
He chuckled and replied, "At my age, you can never be too careful."
"I'm Stephanie Plum. I was hired as a bond enforcement agent to return Joseph Morelli to jail. Have you seen him?" I asked.
"Never saw the man. I have better things to do than look out the window to spy on the neighbours. It was dark the night of the murder. You couldn't see anything," he replied.
Pointing over my shoulder, I said, "There are streetlights, and it looks like it would be easy to see when they're on."
He narrowed his eyes. "Those damn lights were out. They're always out. The kids shoot them out," he said.
"How do you know the lights were out that night?" I questioned.
"I couldn't hear my TV with all the noise the cop cars and trucks were making. When I first looked out, the motor was running on a refrigerator truck," he said.
"Like the ones at a food store?" I asked.
"Exactly like one of those," he replied, sounding as crotchety as he looked. "The damned thing was parked behind my house. This neighbourhood is going to hell. People are rude and inconsiderate. They park trucks and delivery cars in that alley all the time. It shouldn't be allowed."
I nodded, encouraging him to continue talking. "Then the next truck was a damn police wagon the same size as the refrigerator truck. The cops must have gas to burn because they left their motor running, too."
"Did you see anything suspicious?" I asked after Al said he had to bug out to update our DEA contact in Miami because I didn't trust the agents in Trenton.
"Didn't I already say it was too damn dark? King Kong could have scaled the side of the building, and you wouldn't have seen it."
"Thank you for talking to me," I politely said. "Have a great day and try to stay cool." He waved and gave me a toothless grin.
"You should do something about your missing muffler," he said, laughing.
"I will, thank you," I replied.
It was close to noon and very hot. I needed something cold to cool off, so I drove to my Cousin Roonie's bar. He handed me an iced tea. After rubbing the cold glass across my forehead, I drank it in a few gulps. Roonie chuckled and sold me an ice-cold six-pack at cost.
I drove past Lula and Jackie's corner, stopping to offer them a cold beer. Neither woman had seen Morelli, and I didn't stick around in the heat to ask anything about Ramirez. That was a conversation for another day.
My next stop was the Step In Bar and Grill to ask Carmen's coworkers if they had seen her. It was located on lower Stark Street, a few blocks from the gym. I parked half a block away and walked to the bar. The door was padlocked, and the windows were boarded. It was closed, and no explanation was given.
"Was anyone there?" Al asked as I climbed back into my car.
"How did the meeting go?" I questioned, needing to know what had happened earlier.
"I talked to our contact in Miami. Did you know the DEA asked Joseph Morelli to investigate the drugs in Trenton?" Al asked. It seemed we were asking each other questions without providing actual answers.
"Really? How did you find out?"
"The DEA and Customs worked overtime for over a year to figure out how the drugs were getting offloaded into Trenton. Most of the world's heroin comes from Afghanistan, Pakistan and Burma and is routed through Africa up to Amsterdam or another city in Europe. We were brought on the case because the heroin and fentanyl were moving into the city through Port Newark," Al explained.
I hissed, "Yikes. If the DEA knows where the drugs are moving into the US, why didn't they set up ambushes at the port?"
"They tried that many times and failed. That's why we were hired. By the time a team arrived at the port, the drugs were already offloaded. The teams in North Carolina and Miami have already shut down the fentanyl shipments. But someone is tipping off the smugglers here," Al replied. "It smells like an inside job."
"Maybe," I said, thinking. "Something smells, and it isn't rotting fish. Who else was working the case besides Morelli?"
"Let me check my notes," Al said. I heard him flipping through the notepad he kept in his pocket to record pertinent information. He burned the pages once he transferred the data to a secured laptop file. "A woman named Terry Gilman."
Dun dun duuun!