These things never happened in the burg because it was like a retirement village for the mob. Years ago when Trenton rioted no one even considered sending a squad car in to protect the burg. Every old soldier and capo was up in his attic getting out his tommy gun.

“When did you notice it gone?” Morelli asked.

“This morning,” Leo said. “When I came out to go to work. It wasn’t here.”

“When did you see it last?”

“Last night. When I came home from work at six o’clock.”

“When was the last time you saw Kenny?”

Everybody blinked.

“Kenny?” Leo’s mother said. “What’s Kenny got to do with this?”

Morelli was back on his heels with his hands in his pockets. “Maybe Kenny needed a car.”

No one said anything.

Morelli repeated it. “So, when was the last time anybody talked to Kenny?”

“Christ,” Leo’s father said to Leo. “Tell me you didn’t let that asshole idiot have your car.”

“He promised me he’d bring it right back,” Leo said. “How was I to know?”

“Shit for brains,” Leo’s father said. “That’s what you got … shit for brains.”

We explained to Leo how he’d been aiding and abetting a felon, and how a judge might look askance at such an activity. And then we explained how if he ever saw or heard from Kenny again he should right away rat on him to his cousin Joe or Joe’s good friend Stephanie Plum.

“Do you think he’ll call us if he hears from Kenny?” I asked when we were alone in the car.

Morelli stopped for a light. “No. I think Leo will beat the crap out of Kenny with a tire iron.”

“It’s the Morelli way.”

“Something like that.”

“A man thing.”

“Yeah. A man thing.”

“How about after he beats the crap out of him? Do you think he’ll call us then?”

Morelli shook his head. “You don’t know much, do you?”

“I know a lot.”

This brought a smile to Morelli’s lips.

“Now what?” I asked.

“Julia Cenetta.”

Julia Cenetta worked in the bookstore at Trenton State College. We checked her house first. When no one answered we headed off for the college. Traffic was steady, with everyone around us rigidly obeying the speed limit. Nothing like an unmarked cop car to slow things down to a crawl.

Morelli entered through the main gate and looped around toward the single-level brick-and-cement bookstore complex. We passed by a duck pond and a few trees and expanses of lawn that hadn’t yet succumbed to winter blight. The rain had picked up again and was coming down with the boring relentlessness of an all-day soaker. Students walked head down, with the hoods pulled up on raincoats and sweatshirts.

Morelli took a look at the bookstore lot, filled to capacity with the exception of a few slots on the outermost rim, and without hesitation parked in a no-parking zone at the curb.

“Police emergency?” I asked.

“You bet your sweet ass,” Morelli said.