“Why was Whatshis name in Munch‘s house?” I asked Diesel.

“Gerwulf Grimoire, but he goes by Wulf. I suppose he went back to get something. Or maybe he was playing with me. The house was clean when I got there. I followed Wulf‘s breadcrumbs to Broad Street, and then they disappeared.”

“Breadcrumbs?”

“Cosmic debris. Hard to explain.”

“Do I leave cosmic debris?”

“Everyone leaves it. Some people leave more than others. Wulf and I leave a lot because we‘re dense. We both carry high energy.”

“That‘s weird.”

“Tell me about it,” Diesel said. “You should walk in my shoes.” He crossed to the foyer, took my bag off its hook, and stuck his hand in.

“Hey!” I said. “What are you doing?”

“I want to read your case file on Munch.”

“How do you know it‘s in there?”

“I know. Just like I know you‘re wearing a pink lace thong, and you think I‘m hot.”

“How? What?” I said. “Lucky guess,” Diesel said, pulling the file out of my bag, scanning the pages.

“I do not think you‘re hot.”

“That‘s a big fib,” Diesel said.

“I can save you some time,” I told him. “There isn‘t anything in Munch‘s file. Only a grandmother.”

“Then let‘s talk to the grandmother.”

“I‘ve already talked to her.”

Diesel shoved his feet into his boots and laced up. “Let‘s talk to her again.”

I changed my shirt, and we headed out.

“Your car or mine?” I asked him when we got to the lot.

“What are you driving?”

“The Jeep that used to be red.”

“I like it,” Diesel said.

“What are you driving?”

“The hog.”

I looked over at the black Harley. No room for Carl, and it would wreck my hair. “Probably it‘s easier to follow cosmic dust when you‘re on a bike,” I said.

Diesel settled himself into the Jeep‘s passenger-side seat and grinned at me. “You don‘t really think there‘s cosmic dust, do you?”

I plugged the key into the ignition. “Of course not. Cosmic dust would be… ridiculous.”

Diesel hooked an arm around my neck, pulled me to him, and kissed me on the top of my head. “This is going to be fun,” he said.

THREE

CADMOUNT IS a sleepy little town on the Delaware River a few miles north of Trenton. It looks quaintly historic-a bunch of big, white, clapboard houses with black shutters and yards shaded by oak and maple trees. Lydia Munch‘s retirement home was a sprawling single-story redbrick structure. The architect had enhanced the entrance with a portico and four white columns in an attempt to make it look less like a retirement home. The result was that it looked a lot more like a funeral parlor.

I parked in the visitor lot, and we shuffled into the lobby. The walls were a pleasant pale peach, and the floor was covered in dove gray industrial pile carpet. It was a relatively small area, large enough to accommodate the reception desk manned by two green-smocked women, a uniformed security guard old enough to be a resident, and a couple wingback chairs for tired guests.

I asked for Lydia Munch and was directed to a lounge in her wing. I‘d already done this drill twice before, but no one seemed to remember me, and the rules and directions were precisely repeated. They would tell Lydia she had a visitor, and Lydia would meet us in the lounge. Diesel and I moved toward the corridor leading to the lounge, and one of the green-smocked women called after us.

“Excuse me,” she said. “There‘s a monkey following you.”

We turned and looked down at Carl. We‘d forgotten he was with us.

“Go back to the car,” I said to Carl.

Carl looked at me with his bright monkey eyes. The eyes dimmed down a notch, and he blinked.

“Don‘t play dumb,” I said to him. “I know you understand.”

Another blink.

“We don‘t allow monkeys,” the woman said.

Carl flipped her the finger and took off down the corridor toward the lounge.

“Security!” the woman shouted, waving her hand at the old man at the door. “Expel that monkey.”

The security guard looked around. “What monkey? I don‘t see no monkey.”

Carl scampered down the length of the hall and swung through the door to the lounge. A murmur went up from the room when Carl entered, a woman screamed, and something crashed to the floor.

Diesel and I followed Carl into the lounge and found a little old lady who looked like Mother Goose pressing herself into a corner. A little old man with his pants hiked up to his armpits was scrabbling after Carl. The little old man was trying to smack Carl with his cane, but Carl was too fast. Carl was scurrying around, avoiding the cane, jumping on tables, knocking lamps to the floor, climbing up the drapes. He jumped onto Mother Goose‘s head, leaned over into her face, and gave her a kiss on the lips.

“He frenched me!” Mother Goose said. “I‘ve been Frenched by a monkey.”

Diesel grabbed Carl by the tail, lifted him off Mother Goose, and held him at arm‘s length, where Carl meekly dangled like a dead opossum. The old man took a swipe at Carl with the cane but missed and tagged Diesel. Diesel held Carl with one hand, and with the other, he snatched the cane away from the man and snapped it in half.

“I need mouthwash,” Mother Goose said. “I need a tetanus shot. I need a Tic Tac.”

“I‘m looking for Lydia Munch,” Diesel said.

“Two doors down on the right,” the man told him. “Apartment 103.”

Diesel thanked him, and we trooped out of the lounge with Carl riding on Diesel‘s shoulder. Several residents were in the hall. Lydia Munch was among them. Easy to recognize Lydia. She was five-foot-nothing and had the same curly strawberry blond hair and freckled skin as her grandson.

“What‘s the ruckus in the lounge?” she asked. Her eyes focused on Carl. “Is that a real monkey?”

“Yep, it‘s a real monkey,” I told her. “And this big guy is Diesel. He‘d like to talk to you about your grandson.”

“Martin? I don‘t know what to say about him. I haven‘t seen him since Christmas. I know he‘s accused of stealing something where he worked, but it‘s hard to believe. He‘s such a nice young man.”

“I need to find him,” Diesel said. “Do you have any idea where he might be staying?”

“He has a house in Trenton. Other than that, I don‘t know. There‘s not a lot of family left. His mother and father were killed in a car wreck five years ago. He doesn‘t have any brothers or sisters. The rest of the family is in Wisconsin. He was never close to any of them.”

“Friends?” Diesel asked.

“He never mentioned any. It was always hard for him, being so smart. He didn‘t go through school with kids his own age. And then he had that whole Star Trek thing where he dressed up like Mr. Spock. I told my daughter to get him help, but she said it was just a phase. And when he took the job at the research center, he was working on something secret that he couldn‘t talk about. He was real excited about it. He worked all the time on it. Weekends and nights. I thought he should be going out with girls, making some friends, but he said everyone he met was boring.”

“Did he ever mention someone named Wulf?” Diesel asked.

“No,” she said. “I would have remembered.”

Diesel gave Lydia a business card. “I‘d appreciate a call if you hear from Martin.”

I looked over at the card. It said Diesel, and below that was a phone number.

“Very professional,” I told him.

Diesel nodded adios to Lydia, took my hand, and pulled me down the hall toward the back door. “They were a Christmas present from one of my handlers. He said I had to stop writing my phone number on people‘s foreheads.”

“Handlers?”

“The guys who move me around.”

“So you can follow the cosmic dust?”

Diesel opened the back door and pushed me through. “Very funny. Keep in mind not everything I say is bullshit.”