“And?”

“And that’s it. That’s what I think.”

I stared at him for a moment, trying to decide if he was holding out on me. Probably he was, but there was no way to tell for sure. “Okay,” I finally said on a sigh, “I have a list of Kenny’s friends. I’m going to run through it.”

“Where’d you get this list?”

“Privileged information.”

Morelli looked pained. “You broke into his apartment and stole his little black book.”

“I didn’t steal it. I copied it.”

“I don’t want to hear any of this.” He glanced down at my pocketbook. “You’re not carrying concealed, are you?”

“Who, me?”

“Shit,” Morelli said. “I must be crazy to team up with you.”

“It was your idea!”

“Want me to help with the list?”

“No.” I figured that might be like giving a lottery ticket to your neighbor and having him win the jackpot on it.

Morelli parked behind my Jeep. “There’s something I need to tell you before you leave.”

“Yes?”

“I hate those shoes you’re wearing.”

“Anything else?”

“I’m sorry about your tire last night.”

Yeah, right.

* * *

By five o’clock I was cold and wet, but had gotten through the list. I’d done a combination of phone calls and face-to-faces, and had netted very little. Most of the people were from the burg and had known Kenny all of his life. No one admitted to having contact with him after his arrest, and I had no reason to suspect they were lying. No one knew of any business deals or personal problems between Kenny and Moogey. Several people testified to Kenny’s volatile personality and wheeler-dealer mentality. These comments were interesting, but too general to be really helpful. A few conversations had long, pregnant pauses that made me uncomfortable, wondering what was left unsaid.

As my last effort of the day I’d decided to check Kenny’s apartment again. The super had let me in two days before when he’d been temporarily confused as to my law enforcement affiliation. I’d surreptitiously lifted a spare key while admiring the kitchen, and now I could tippy-toe around whenever I wanted. The legality of this was a tad gray, but it would only be bothersome if I got caught.

Kenny lived just off Route 1 in a large apartment complex named Oak Hill. Since there were no hills or oaks in sight I can only guess they were leveled to make way for the three-story brick bunkers advertised as affordable luxury housing.

I parked in one of the slots and squinted through the dark and the rain to the lighted front entrance. I waited a moment while a couple sprinted from their car and hurried into the building. I transferred Kenny’s keys and my defense spray from my big black leather purse to my jacket pocket, pulled my jacket hood over my damp hair, and lurched out of the Jeep. The temperature had dropped during the course of the day, and the chill seeped through my wet jeans. So much for Indian summer.