and went to the door. No one answered my knock. "Mrs. Nowicki," I called out. "It's Stephanie Plum." I knocked again and was about to leave when the door opened a crack.
"Now what?" Mrs. Nowicki said.
"I'd like to talk."
"Lucky me."
"Can I come in?"
"No."
The entire top of her head was bandaged. She was without makeup and cigarette, and she looked old beyond her years.
"How's your head?" I asked.
"Been worse."
"I mean from the cut."
She rolled her eyes up. "Oh, that . . ."
"I need to know who did it."
"I did it."
"I saw the blood. And I saw the knife. And I know you didn't do this to yourself. Someone came looking for Maxine. And you ended up getting hurt."
"You want my statement? Go read it from the cops."
"Did you know someone visited Maxine's friend, Marjorie, and chopped off her finger?"
"And you think the same guy did both of us."
"It seems reasonable. And I think it would be better for Maxine if I found her before he does."
"Life is a bitch," Mrs. Nowicki said. "Poor Maxie. I don't know what she did. And I don't know where she is. What I know is that she's in a lot of trouble."
"And the man?"
"He said if I talked he'd come back and kill me. And I believe him."
"This is all in confidence."
"It don't matter. There's nothing I can tell you. There were two of them. I turned around and there they were in my kitchen. Average height. Average build. Wearing coveralls and stocking masks. Even had on those disposable rubber gloves like they wear in the hospital."
"How about their voices?"
"Only one spoke, and there wasn't anything to remember about it. Not old. Not young."
"Would you recognize the voice if you heard it again?"
"I don't know. Like I said, there wasn't anything to remember."
"And you don't know where Maxine is staying?"
"Sorry. I just don't know."
"Let's try it from another direction. If Maxine wasn't living in her apartment and didn't have to go to work every day . . . where would she go?"
"That's easy. She'd go to the shore. She'd go to get some ocean air and play the games on the boardwalk."
"Seaside or Point Pleasant?"
"Point Pleasant. She always goes to Point Pleasant."
This made sense. It accounted for the tan and the fact that she wasn't conducting business in Trenton.
I gave Mrs. Nowicki my card. "Call me if you hear from Maxine or think of anything that might be helpful. Keep your doors locked and don't talk to strangers."
"Actually, I've been thinking of going to stay with my sister in Virginia."
"That sounds like a good idea."
I TURNED LEFT onto Olden and caught a glimpse of a black Jeep Cherokee in my rearview mirror. Black Cherokees are popular in Jersey. They're not a car I'd ordinarily notice, but from somewhere in the recesses of my subconscious a mental abacus clicked in and told me I'd seen this car one time too many. I took Olden to Hamilton and Hamilton to St. James. I parked in my lot and looked around for the Cherokee, but it had disappeared. Coincidence, I said. Overactive imagination.
I ran up to my apartment, checked my answering machine, changed into my swimsuit, stuffed a towel, a T-shirt and some sunscreen into a canvas tote, pulled on a pair of shorts and took off for the shore.
The hole in my muffler was getting bigger, so I punched up the volume on Metallica. I reached Point Pleasant in less than an hour, then spent twenty minutes looking for cheap parking on the street. I finally found a space two blocks back from the boardwalk, locked up and hooked the tote bag over my shoulder.
When you live in Jersey a beach isn't enough. People have energy in Jersey. They need things to do. They need a beach with a boardwalk. And the boardwalk has to be filled with rides and games and crappy food. Add some miniature golf. Throw in a bunch of stores selling T-shirts with offensive pictures. Life doesn't get much better than this.
And the best part is the smell. I've been told there are places where the ocean smells wild and briny. In Jersey the ocean smells of coconut-scented suntan lotion and Italian sausage smothered in fried onions and peppers. It smells like deep-fried zeppoles and chili hot dogs. The scent is intoxicating and exotic as it expands in the heat rising from crowds of sun-baked bodies strolling the boardwalk.
Surf surges onto the beach and the sound is mingled with the rhythmic tick, tick,