“I was on Ward. There’s nothing there. A cemetery and a ceramic pipe factory.”

“You must be missing something. Or maybe there are two Ward Streets. Are you feeling okay? You look sort of green.”

“I had breakfast with Lula, and it’s not sitting well.”

“What did you eat?”

“Everything.”

I shoved the new FTAs in my bag and left the bonds office. Might as well get the lying and begging out of the way first thing, I thought. Visit Anthony’s wife and get it over and done. It wasn’t a long drive to his house. He lived in the Burg in a house similar to my parents’ house. The sun was weak in the sky, the sky was gray with a thick cloud cover, and the air felt raw.

Anthony’s wife is named Angelina. Angie for short. I think Stephanie Plum is an okay name, but Angelina Morelli is a symphony. If I was named Angelina, I’d marry a Morelli just for the name alone.

Angie opened the door as soon as I rang the bell. We went to the same schools but never knew each other until we both hooked up with a Morelli. She was two years younger than me, and she was really pretty. Classic Italian. Olive skin, brown eyes, lush body, and lustrous black hair. She also had a splotch of baby barf on her shirt.

“Omigod,” she said. “Let me guess. They sent you over to talk me into taking him back.”

“Yep.”

“Come on in. I’m feeding little Anthony.”

Little Anthony was in one of those baby-chair contraptions. Hard to say how old he was. All babies sort of look alike to me. He had a lot of orange glop on his pajamas, and he didn’t smell all that good. I was thinking I was smart to have a hamster.

Angie sat opposite Barfman, and I took a chair as far away as possible. She spooned some green stuff into him, and he gummed it around.

“So,” I said. “Are you going to take him back?”

“Do you think I should?”

“No.”

Angie laughed out loud. “You’re not supposed to say that. Didn’t they give you a rehearsal?”

“You have a nice house. It’s cozy. It’s a family house.”

“I feel like the lady in the shoe who had so many kids she didn’t know what to do. We’re bursting at the seams.”

“Yes, but it feels good in here.”

Except for the kid with the spewed mush on his clothes. It was Saturday morning, and the rest of her pack was in front of the tele vision in the small living room. They were all eating cereal out of a box, not saying anything, mesmerized by what ever was on the screen.

“Is it easier without Anthony?” I asked her. “One less mouth to feed.”

“No. He’s great with the kids. Not like his father. His father was a mean, abusive drunk. Anthony is sweet. He’s just got too much machismo. All dick and no brain.”

“You love him.”

“Yeah. Stupid, huh?”

“Yes, but in a good way. God knows, someone has to love him. He’s pathetic. Did they tell you he got shot with a nail gun?”

Angie pressed her lips together. “He is such a jerk. He deserved to get shot. And I’m not letting him back in this house until the stitches come out. He’s horrible when he’s sick. He expects to be waited on hand and foot. A head cold is a major catastrophe for him.”

“So, you’re taking him back?”

“Probably. Someone has to haul the garbage out to the curb and shovel the walk, and it’s not going to be me. And maybe someday he’ll grow up, or get a prostate condition. He’d be terrific if he didn’t have gonads.”

“I guess my work here is done,” I said. “I have to go catch some felons now.”

Angie stood and walked me to the door. “It was nice to see you. Stop in anytime.”

I gave her a hug, walked to the Jeep, wedged myself behind the wheel, and called Morelli. “I talked to Angie,” I said.

“And?”

“There’s some good news, and there’s some bad news.”

“I hate this good news, bad news shit,” Morelli said.

“How about this. There’s bad news, and there’s bad news. Do you like that any better?”

“No.”

“She’s taking him back, but not until the stitches come out.”

“I don’t suppose you’d want to come over for dinner to night?”

“You suppose right. Anyway, I’m trying to find Martin Munch. Vinnie’s in a rant over him. Anything new on your end?”

“No,” Morelli said. “But we found eight other unsolved murders spread all over the country with the same MO.”

“Rotated neck and a burn that looks like a handprint?”

“Yes.”

“It’s creepy. Is that Anthony yelling in the background?”

“He wants breakfast. He can’t find clean socks. He needs batteries in the television remote. It’s endless.”

“You’re being an enabler. He can do all those things for himself, but he has no incentive if you do them for him. And he has no incentive to want to shape up and go home to his wife as long as you’re taking her place. The only thing missing in your relationship is sex. And that might not be a big selling point, since I suspect the sex scene in his house is going to be very frosty for a long time.”

“You’re right,” Morelli said. “Let him find his own damn socks. I’m done.”

“Gotta go. Things to do.”

FIFTEEN

DIESEL WAS ON the phone when I walked into my apartment. His hair was damp, and he was freshly shaved, which meant he’d used my razor. Diesel traveled light. He hung up and wrapped an arm around me.

“You smell like doughnuts,” he said.

“I bought Lula breakfast.”

“I have a guy flying in to a small airport just north of Hammonton. He’s going to take us over the Barrens. I’m hoping we can spot the rocket-launch site from the air.”

“How small is this plane?”

“It’s not a plane. It’s a he li cop ter.”

“Oh boy.”

“Something wrong with that?”

“I’ve never been in a he li cop ter. I’ve never wanted to be in a he li cop ter. They don’t look safe.”

“Sweetie, nothing that flies looks safe, including birds.”

He lifted my bag off the hook on the wall and draped it over my shoulder. “Time to roll.”

We took the Subaru with the trailered ATVs. If we found the launch site, we’d use the ATVs to get back to it. If we didn’t find the launch site, we’d ride around and hope we got lucky. I had mixed feelings about getting lucky. I wanted to snag Munch, but I didn’t especially want to see Diesel in action, shutting Wulf down.

At the best of times, Trenton isn’t especially pretty. And this wasn’t the best of times. The sky was the color and texture of wet cement, and everything under it felt like doom. I looked up at the sky, and I prayed for rain. I was pretty sure he li cop ters didn’t fly in the rain.

By the time we found Hammonton Airport, the sky had lightened a little, and I knew I wasn’t going to be saved by rain. The he li cop ter was sitting on a stretch of blacktop, waiting for us. It was blue and white, had a clear bubble nose, and looked like a big dragonfly. It seated four.

“Oh God,” I said on a moan.

“Think of this as an adventure,” Diesel said.

“I’m from Jersey. I get my adventure on the Turnpike. I only fly if there’s a beach or a casino involved. And then it’s in a big plane serving alcohol.”

We parked and crossed the blacktop to the pi lot. He was average height, average weight, and covered head to toe with tattoos. His graying blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

“This is Boon,” Diesel said. “I’ve known Boon for about a hundred years.”

I nodded a numb ac know ledg ment and stood in a catatonic stupor.

“She thinks he li cop ters aren’t safe,” Diesel said to Boon.

“Hah. If everything we did was safe, we’d never do anything, would we?” Boon said.

I inadvertently whimpered, and Diesel scooped me up and set me in the backseat of the helicopter. He took the seat next to Boon and passed me a headset with a microphone.

“Buckle up and put the headset on so we can talk to each other,” Diesel said.