IT WAS A couple minutes before five when we rolled up to the deli. People were trickling out of the train station, and there was more than the usual amount of traffic on the street. I circled the block three times before finding a place to park.
Kulicki was dressed in gray slacks and a blue button-down shirt with a small RGC logo embroidered on it. The shirt and slacks were slightly wrinkled, and I thought they were probably the clothes he’d had on when he got fired and locked out of his house.
Half the booths were filled when we walked into the deli, and there were two people standing at the takeout counter.
Raymond looked up from his fry station when we brought Kulicki into the kitchen. Stretch went hands on hips.
“Who’s this?” Stretch asked.
“This is Wayne Kulicki,” Lula said. “He’s the new manager. We’re delegating authority.”
“He have any experience?” Stretch asked.
“He’s got a lot of experience,” Lula said. “Just not in the deli industry.”
Stretch shook his head and went back to chopping an onion.
“All you gotta do is keep things running smooth,” Lula said to Kulicki. “Sometimes you gotta make an emergency run to the grocery store down the street. And you gotta keep track of the food these guys need and make sure they don’t run out.”
“Sure,” Kulicki said. “I can do that.”
“Does he know about the shoe?” Stretch asked.
“He knows he’s gotta wear them,” Lula said. “We don’t want managers without shoes.”
“No,” I said. “He doesn’t know about the shoe.”
“It would be a bad thing to give him this job and not tell him about the shoe,” Raymond said. “It would put your karma in the shitter.”
“The last three managers have mysteriously disappeared,” I said to Kulicki. “No one knows what happened to them. They went out the back door and never returned.”
“And always there was one of their shoes left by the dumpster,” Raymond said. “It is the best part of the story.”
“What do you think happened to them?” Kulicki asked.
“I’m pretty sure it was space aliens,” Lula said. “It’s something they would do.”
“Order up,” Stretch yelled.
Dalia swooped in, whisked two plates off the service counter, and took them to a booth. Two more people joined the takeout line. Dalia took their orders and handed them over to Stretch. Stretch passed them over to me, and I gave them to Kulicki.
“You’re the takeout order filler,” I said to Kulicki.
“And I’m going to work with you,” Lula said. “I’m the celebrity sandwich maker.” She looked around. “Where are the hats? We need our hats.”
“We can’t all fit in the kitchen,” I said. “I’m leaving, but I’ll be back to close up and drive everyone home.” I turned to Kulicki. “And then I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at nine o’clock and get you rebonded.”
Morelli lives two minutes outside of the Burg and five minutes from the bonds office. His house is very similar to my parents’ house. The front door opens to a tiny foyer that leads to the living room, the living room leads to the dining room, and the dining room leads to the kitchen. There are three small bedrooms upstairs plus a bathroom. Morelli has added a downstairs powder room and swapped out his aunt’s dining room table for a billiard table.
I let myself in and braced for impact. I could hear Bob galloping through the house to greet me. He’s a big sweetie pie, a floppy-eared dog with shaggy orange hair. He has no manners, and more enthusiasm than brains. He launched himself through the air when he saw me and body-slammed me back against the front door.
I ruffled his ears and gave him a hug, and he trotted off, satisfied that he’d given me a proper welcome.
Morelli was in the kitchen. He had a beer in one hand and a spatula in the other. “Just in time,” he said, wrapping an arm around me, giving me a kiss. “I was worried you might not show, and I’d have to eat all these burgers by myself.”
“I left Lula at the deli. I said I would be back to close and drive her home.”
“I heard about Vinnie and the shoe.”
“It’s weird, right?”
Morelli tossed a package of hamburger buns on a tray with the burgers and slices of cheese, and carried it all outside. “Yeah, it’s weird. Hard to believe anyone would want to abduct Vinnie.”
“Lula thinks it’s space aliens.”
“What do you think?” Morelli asked.
“I think it might be Ernie Sitz. Or someone associated with him.”
Morelli put the burgers on the grill. “What about motive?”
“Maybe he’s angry that he lost the deli and wants to get some sort of revenge.”
“I’m having a hard time with revenge. Sitz isn’t stupid. He had to know he was going to lose the deli when he used it as collateral against his bond. It was a calculated move. He traded the deli for his freedom. He never intended to hang around for his court appearance. He was out of the country less than twenty-four hours after Vinnie had him released.”
“That leaves us with the space aliens theory.”
Morelli grinned. “I like it. Takes the pressure off my department. Trenton PD doesn’t get involved in intergalactic crime.”
We ate burgers and chips and had ice cream for dessert. We walked Bob around the block and returned to the kitchen to do cleanup.
“Here’s the deal,” Morelli said, stuffing plates and utensils in the dishwasher. “The game doesn’t start until eight tonight, so we have some time to kill.”
“And?”
“I’ve missed you,” he said.
He pulled me close and kissed me. His hands were warm at my waist and the kiss was soft. I felt a rush of desire swirl through my stomach and head south.
Morelli was like the post office. He always delivered. If the delivery vehicle ran out of gas, there was no need to panic. Morelli had battery backup.
“Maybe we should move this upstairs,” Morelli said. “By the time I’m done we’re going to need a shower.”
Okay, this worked for me. We’ve had passionate experiences on the little kitchen table, bent over the kitchen counter, on the couch, the billiard table, the coffee table, the washing machine, and halfway up the stairs. His nice, big king-sized bed was definitely my favorite. I’ll take comfort over novelty any day of the week. An orgasm is an orgasm, but getting there can leave you with a herniated disc if you aren’t careful.
After the shower, we settled in to watch the game on Morelli’s big-screen TV. It’s a cozy seating arrangement since Morelli and I have to scrunch ourselves together at one end of the couch so Bob can sprawl at the other. My phone rang at nine-thirty.
“You gotta get here,” Lula said. “I’m totally freaked. I need tranqs or a burrito or something.”
“You’re in a deli,” I said. “Make yourself a grilled cheese.”
“That’s not going to do it. Maybe mac and cheese. I need a gallon of mac and cheese.”
“There’s a problem?” I asked Lula.
“Fuckin’ A there’s a problem. We got a freakin’ shoe in the parking lot. Next to the dumpster.”
“Oh boy.”
“Exactly,” Lula said. “It’s a ‘oh boy’ problem.”
“Do you know who belongs to the shoe?”
“Hell yeah. It’s Kulicki’s shoe. He was being all smart-ass about how nothing was going to happen to him. And how there weren’t aliens beaming people up to their spaceship. And next thing he was taking a bag of garbage to the dumpster and whoosh no more Kulicki. Only his shoe.”
“Did anyone see this happen?”
“No. We were all busy cleaning up and taking care of the last two customers. I couldn’t even say how long he was gone. Stretch went to the storeroom and noticed the back door to the deli was open and the light was on in the parking area. He looked out and saw the shoe.”
“Maybe Kulicki is playing a joke.”
“We called out to him but he didn’t answer,” Lula said. “And Raymond and Stretch went outside, looking around, but they couldn’t find him.”
“Did you call the police?”
“I’m thinking that’s what I’m doing now. And remember I need a ride to my car. It’s at the office.”
“Okeydokey then. I’ll see you in a little bit.”
I disconnected, gave up a sigh, and stood. “It looks like Kulicki lost a shoe.”
“Who’s Kulicki?”
“He was the new deli manager. We sort of hired him.”
“And he lasted how long?”
I checked my watch. “Approximately four hours.”
“Damn,” Morelli said. “Those aliens are good. They spotted a new manager after only four hours.”
“You’re thinking someone on the inside is involved.”
“It’s possible.”
“There were only three people who knew Kulicki was the manager.”
“Krut probably wants to talk to them . . . again.”
I grabbed my messenger bag off the coffee table and hiked it onto my shoulder. “I have to roll.”
“I’ll roll with you. I want to make sure you don’t get beamed up by mistake.”
Morelli called Jimmy Krut from the car, and by the time we got to the deli there were already two uniforms on the scene. Krut arrived a couple minutes after us. Lula, Stretch, Raymond, and Dalia were hunkered down inside.
“This is getting very old,” Raymond said to me. “I am thinking this is not such a good place to work.” He looked over at Morelli. “I have a green card.”
“Good for you,” Morelli said. “Can I see it?”
“No,” Raymond said. “It would not be possible to show it to you at this time. I fear I have misplaced it.”
“You should try to find it,” Lula said. “You could lose your job here without that green card.”
“Fortunately, this is a sanctuary deli,” Raymond said. “It is a prime consideration for maintaining employment at this establishment.”
One of the uniforms ran a strip of crime scene tape across the back of the deli parking lot, and a photographer showed up to take pictures of the shoe before Krut bagged and labeled it. Morelli walked the alley with a flashlight, and I stayed inside and helped myself to a piece of coconut cream pie.
“We should get Vinnie to put up a security camera over the back door,” Lula said. “Then we’d see next time someone got snatched.”
“Vinnie is MIA,” I said. “He’s not going to be a lot of help here.”
“I forgot,” Lula said. “There’s so many people missing I could hardly keep track of them.”
I ate my pie and considered Raymond, Stretch, and Dalia. Morelli brought up a good point. Kulicki disappeared in record time. Not many people knew he was the manager. That information had to have been passed on from Raymond, Stretch, or Dalia.
We were all sitting in the dining area. Lula was checking out Facebook. Dalia was filing her nails. Raymond and Stretch were texting on their smartphones.
“Did any of you tell anyone we had a new manager?” I asked.
Everyone shook their head no.
“Someone knew,” I said.
“Those space aliens got ways,” Lula said. “They can probably read minds.”
“How long must we sit here?” Raymond asked. “I have many things to do.”
I went outside and found Krut. “How’s it going?” I asked him.
“It’s not,” he said. “Nada. Bupkus. Nothing happening. How am I supposed to explain this to my wife? I got called out at ten o’clock at night because someone found a shoe by a dumpster. You know what she thinks? She thinks I’ve got something going on the side.”
“Do you?”
“Not tonight,” Krut said.
I looked back at the deli. “The natives are getting restless in there.”
“Tell them they can go. If we need to talk to them we know where to find them.”
I dismissed the troops and drove Lula to the office so she could get her car. I returned to the deli and tagged after Morelli. He was done walking the alley, and he was examining the parking area around the dumpster.
“You really like this,” I said.
He nodded. “I like police work in general, but this case is especially interesting. I’m sucked in by the single shoe left behind. It’s a calling card.”
“Someone is sending a message.”
“Yeah. Too bad I don’t know the content of the message. I only know the signature.”
“What do you think has happened to all these people? Dead?”
“That’s one possibility.”
“What would be another?”
“I don’t have another,” Morelli said. “I suppose they could all be working at a bodega in Bogotá.”
This was especially chilling since one of the victims was a man I’d deliberately put in harm’s way and another was my cousin. I wasn’t fond of Vinnie, but he was my cousin all the same.
“I’m not feeling good about this,” I said.
“I’m not feeling good about you even being involved. There’s a serious lunatic at work here, and so far, forensics isn’t finding anything useful.” He narrowed his eyes ever so slightly and looked at me. “You aren’t involved, right?”
“Technically I might still be the manager.”
“I thought you were going to quit.”
“I sent Vinnie the text message when I was with you, but I never got an answer. I suppose he was already beamed up or rubbed out or shipped off to Bogotá.”
“My understanding is that the deli is owned by Harry. You can tell Harry you’re no longer manager.”
“You’re right. I’ll get in touch with Harry first thing in the morning.”