Two for the Dough by Janet Evanovich Page A

Sandeman’s life wasn’t high on my list of favored activities, but I thought I should probably spare him some time. At the very least I needed to take a look at his home sweet home and make sure Kenny wasn’t sharing the rent.
    I drove down Hamilton and found a parking place two doors from Vinnie’s office. Connie was stomping around the office, slamming file drawers and cussing when I walked in.
    “Your cousin is dog shit,” Connie yelled at me. “ Stronzo! ”
    “What did he do now?”
    “You know that new file clerk we just hired?”
    “Sally Something.”
    “Yeah. Sally Who Knew the Alphabet.”
    I looked around the office. “She seems to be missing.”
    “You bet she’s missing. Your cousin Vinnie caught her at a forty-five-degree angle in front of the D drawer and tried to play hide the salami.”
    “I take it Sally wasn’t receptive.”
    “Ran out of here screaming. Said we could give her paycheck to charity. Now there’s no one to do the filing, so guess who gets the extra work?” Connie kicked a drawer shut. “This is the third file clerk in two months!”
    “Maybe we should chip in and get Vinnie neutered.”
    Connie opened her middle desk drawer and extracted a stiletto. She pressed the button and the blade flashed out with a lethal click. “Maybe we should do it ourselves.”
    The phone rang and Connie flipped the knife back into her drawer. While she was talking I thumbed through the file cabinet looking for Sandeman. He wasn’t in the file, so either he hadn’t bothered making bail on his arrest, or else he’d used another bondsman. I tried the Trenton area phone book. No luck there. I called Loretta Heinz at the DMV. Loretta and I went way back. We’d been Girl Scouts together and had bitched our way through the worst two weeks of my life at Camp Sacajawea. Loretta punched up her handy-dandy computer and, voilà , I had Sandeman’s address.
    I copied the address and mouthed “ ’bye” to Connie.
    Sandeman lived on Morton Street in an area of large stone houses that had gone to trash. Lawns were neglected, torn shades hung limp in dirty windows, cornerstones bore spray-painted gang slogans, and paint blistered from window trim. Most of the houses had been converted to multiple occupancy. A few of the houses had been torched or abandoned and were boarded. A few of the houses had been restored and struggled to recapture some of their original grandeur and dignity.
    Sandeman lived in one of the multifamily houses. Not the nicest on the street, but not the worst either. An old man sat on the front stoop. The whites of his eyes had yellowed with age, gray stubble clung to cadaverous cheeks, and his skin was the color of road tar. A cigarette hung from the side of his mouth. He sucked in some smoke and squinted at me.
    “Guess I know a cop when I see one,” he said.
    “I’m not a cop.” What was it with this cop stuff? I looked down at my Doc Martens, wondering if it was the shoes. Maybe Morelli was right. Maybe I should get rid of the shoes. “I’m looking for Perry Sandeman,” I said, presenting my card. “I’m interested in finding a friend of his.”
    “Sandeman isn’t home. Works at the garage during the day. Not home much at night either. Only comes here when he’s drunk or doped up. And then he’s mean. You want to stay away from him when he’s drunk. Gets extra mean when he’s drunk. Good mechanic, though. Everybody says so.”
    “You know his apartment number?”
    “Three C.”
    “Anybody there now?”
    “Haven’t seen anybody go in.”
    I moved past the man, into the foyer, and stood for a moment letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. The air was stagnant, thick with the smell of bad plumbing. Stained wallpaper peeled back at the edges. The wood floor was gritty underfoot.
    I transferred the canister of pepper spray from my pocketbook to my jacket pocket and ascended the stairs. There were three doors on the third floor. All were closed and locked. A