backed into the driveway, placing Clarence close to the building. I didn't see my uniform, so I made another call. I was promptly told not to get my shorts in a knot. Easy for them to say—they knew what they were doing.
A few minutes later Crazy Carl Costanza poked his head out the door. I'd made Communion with Crazy Carl, among other things.
He squinted past Clarence. "Stephanie Plum?"
"Hey, Carl."
His face cracked into a grin. "They told me there was a pain in the ass out here."
"That would be me," I said.
"What's with sleeping beauty?"
"He's FTA."
Carl came in for a closer look. "Is he dead?"
"I don't think so."
"He smells dead."
I agreed. "He could use to be hosed down." I gave Clarence a shake and yelled in his ear. "Let's go. Time to wake up."
Clarence choked on some spit and opened his eyes. "Where am I?"
"Police station," I said. "Everybody out."
He stared at me in unfocused drunken stupidity, and sat as still and unyielding as a sandbag.
"Do something," I said to Costanza. "Get him out of here."
Costanza grabbed Clarence's arms, and I put my foot to Clarence's butt. We pushed and pulled, and inch by inch, got Sampson's big ugly blob of putrid flesh off the seat and onto the pavement.
"This is why I became a cop," Costanza said. "I couldn't resist the glamor of it all."
We maneuvered Clarence through the security door, cuffed him to a wooden bench, and handed him over to the docket lieutenant. I ran back outside and moved the Cherokee into a regulation parking space where it would be less visible to cops who might mistake it for a stolen car.
When I returned, Clarence had been stripped of his belt and shoelaces and personal property and looked forlorn and pathetic. He was my first capture, and I'd expected to feel satisfaction for my success, but now found it was difficult to get elated over someone else's misfortune.
I collected my body receipt, spent a few minutes reminiscing with Crazy Carl, and headed for the lot. I'd hoped to leave before dark, but night had closed in early under a blanket of clouds. The sky was starless and moonless. Traffic was sporadic. Easier to spot a tail, I told myself, but I didn't believe it. I had minimal confidence in my ability to spot Morelli.
There was no sign of the van. That didn't mean much. Morelli could be driving whatever by now. I headed for Nottingham with one eye on the road and one on my rearview mirror. There was little doubt in my mind that Morelli was out there, but at least he was giving me the courtesy of not being obvious. That meant he took me moderately seriously. It was a cheery thought that prompted me to rise to the occasion with a plan. The plan was simple. Go home, park the Cherokee in the lot, wait in the bushes with my killer gas, and zap Morelli when he tried to reclaim his car.
THE FRONT OF MY APARTMENT BUILDING sat flush with the sidewalk. Parking was in the rear. The lot was minimally scenic, consisting of an asphalt rectangle subdivided into parking spaces. We weren't so sophisticated that we were assigned slots. Parking was dog-eat-dog, with all the really good places designated handicapped. Three Dumpsters hunkered at the entrance to the lot. One for general garbage. Two for recyclables. Good for the environment. Didn't do much for local aesthetics. The rear entrance had been improved by a strip of overgrown azaleas that hugged the building and ran almost the entire length of the lot. They were wonderful in the spring when they were filled with pink flowers, and they were magical in the winter when the super strung them with little blinking lights. The rest of the year they were better than nothing.
I chose a well-lighted slot in the middle of the lot. Better to see Morelli when he came to retrieve his property. Not to mention it was one of the few places left. Most of the people in my building were elderly and didn't like to drive after dark. By nine o'clock the lot was full and TVs were going full blast inside all the seniors' apartments.
I looked around to make sure there was no sign of Morelli. Then I popped the hood and removed the Cherokee's distributor cap. This was one of my many New Jersey survival skills. Anyone who has ever left their car in long-term parking at Newark Airport knows how to