“No way. Too dangerous,” Vinnie said. “Most of my agents used to be in security. And you have to know something about law enforcement.”
“I can learn about law enforcement,” I told him.
“Learn about it first. Then come back.”
“I need the job now.”
“Not my problem.”
I figured it was time to get tough. “I'll make it your problem, Vinnie. I'll have a long talk with Lucille.”
Lucille was Vinnie's wife and the only woman in the burg who didn't know about Vinnie's addiction to kinky sex. Lucille had her eyes firmly closed, and it wasn't my place to pry them open. Of course, if she ever asked . . . that'd be a whole other ball game.
“You'd blackmail me? Your own cousin?”
“These are desperate times.”
He turned to Connie. “Give her a few civil cases. Stuff that involves telephone work.”
“I want this one,” I said, pointing to the file on Connie's desk. “I want the $10,000 one.”
“Forget it. It's a murder. I should never have posted bail, but he was from the burg, and I felt sorry for his mother. Trust me, you don't need this kind of trouble.”
“I need the money, Vinnie. Give me a chance at bringing him in.”
“When hell freezes over,” Vinnie said. “I don't get this guy back, I'm in the hole for a hundred grand. I'm not sending an amateur after him.”
Connie rolled her eyes at me. “You'd think it was out of his pocket. He's owned by an insurance company. It's no big deal.”
“So give me a week, Vinnie,” I said. “If I don't get him in a week, you can turn it over to someone else.”
“I wouldn't give you a half hour.”
I took a deep breath and leaned close to Vinnie, whispering in his ear. “I know about Madam Zaretski and her whips and chains. I know about the boys. And I know about the duck.”
He didn't say anything. He just pressed his lips together until they turned white, and I knew I had him. Lucille would throw up if she knew what he did to the duck. Then she'd tell her father, Harry the Hammer, and Harry would cut off Vinnie's dick.
“Who am I looking for?” I asked Vinnie.
Vinnie handed me the file. “Joseph Morelli.”
My heart flipped in my chest. I knew Morelli had been involved in a homicide. It had been big news in the burg, and details of the shooting had been splashed across the front page of the Trenton Times. VICE COP KILLS UNARMED MAN. That had been over a month ago, and other, more important, issues (like the exact amount of the lottery) ha
d replaced talk of Morelli. In the absence of more information, I'd assumed the shooting had been in the line of duty. I hadn't realized Morelli'd been charged with murder.
The reaction wasn't lost to Vinnie. “From the look on your face, I'd say you know him.”
I nodded. “Sold him a cannoli when I was in high school.”
Connie grunted. “Honey, half of all the women in New Jersey have sold him their cannoli.”
Stephanie Plum 1 - One for the Money
2
I BOUGHT A CAN OF SODA at Fiorello's and drank while I walked to my car. I slid behind the wheel, popped the top two buttons on my red silk shirt, and stripped off my pantyhose as a concession to the heat. Then I flipped open Morelli's file and studied the photos first—mug shots from Morelli's booking, a candid picture of him in a brown leather bomber jacket and jeans, and a formal pose in a shirt and tie, obviously clipped from a police publication. He hadn't changed much. A little leaner, perhaps. More bone definition in the face. A few lines at the eyes. A new scar, paper thin, sliced through his right eyebrow, causing his right eyelid to droop ever so slightly. The effect was unsettling. Menacing.
Morelli had taken advantage of my naiveté not once, but twice. After the scene on the bakery floor, he'd never called, never sent me a postcard, never even said good-by. And the worst part of it all was that I'd wanted him to call. Mary Lou Molnar had been right about Joseph Morelli. He'd been irresistible.