“Where do we go from here?” I asked Briggs.
“We could check out the poker players. Of course, one’s dead and two are missing, but last I heard, Buster was still around.”
“The cousin.”
“Yeah. He was tight with Jimmy. He was the guy Jimmy trusted to go to Mexico to solve labor issues.”
“You mean with the cars?”
Briggs ate a handful of Froot Loops. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask questions. I just tapped in Buster’s travel expenses. Hotels and planes and stuff. I came to the dealership on Broad twice a week and cooked the books. It didn’t seem like such a big deal. Everyone hates the IRS, right?”
“Do you know where Buster lives?”
“Downtown Trenton. I don’t know exactly where. His wife kicked him out of the house and took out a restraining order, so now he lives in an apartment over a pizza place. I think he owns the building.”
I went to my computer and ran Buster through a search program.
“He’s on the third block of Stark,” I said. “So far as I can see, he hasn’t got a job.”
“He had some kind of deal with Jimmy. He got money under the table. And there’s a holding company called Bust Inc. that I think is his.”
I gave the last chunk of my sandwich to Rex and grabbed my messenger bag. “Let’s take a look at Buster.”
“Great, but I’m not wearing the wig. It itches. And it’s a stupid disguise. I’m four feet tall if I wear lifts and lie. People figure it out.”
“If those people who figure it out start shooting at you, I’d appreciate it if you’d step away from me.”
I rolled down the third block on Stark and slowed as we approached the pizza place. A bunch of guys were hanging in front of it, smoking whatever, trying hard to look bad. Heck, what do I know … probably they were bad. Probably they were the ones who’d taken my wheels.
“This pizza place is a dump,” Briggs said, “but it’s full of people.”
“Dinnertime,” I told him. “It’s easy food.”
Briggs was sitting on his knees, his nose pressed to the window. “I swear I can smell it! Oh man, would I love a piece of pizza! We should check it out. You want to talk to Buster anyway, right?”
“Right.”
I found a parking place across the street from Buster’s building.
“I’m going to sit here and watch the second-floor windows,” I said to Briggs. “You can run across and get a slice of pizza.”
“I’ll get trampled. You have to come with me.”
“You won’t get trampled. I’ve seen you in action. You’ve destroyed more knees than pro football.”
“Yeah, but then there’s usually a riot.”
This was true.
“Okay, I’ll come with you, but you have to promise not to bite anyone or whack anyone with your iPhone.”
The pizza place was just counter service. Strictly takeout. No tables. The room was packed. A single fan spun overhead. No air. We squeezed in and inched along with the rest of the people who were making their way to the counter.
“Do you see the pizza?” Briggs asked. “What have they got?”
“I can’t see the pizza. I can’t see anything.”
“I want extra cheese and pepperoni.”