One for the Money Page 0,84

the outskirts of Atlantic City. I've found the witness. His name is Louis."

"Is he with you?"

"He's down the road." I briefed Morelli on the day's events and gave him directions to the marina. I bought a soda from an outside machine and went back to do more waiting.

It was deep twilight when Morelli finally pulled up next to me in the van. There'd been no traffic on the road since Ramirez, and I was sure the truck hadn't slipped by. It had occurred to me that Louis might be on a boat, possibly spending the night. I couldn't see any other reason for the truck to still be in the marina lot.

"Is our man at the marina?" Morelli asked.

"So far as I know."

"Has Ramirez come back?"

I shook my head no.

"Think I'll take a look around. You wait here."

No way was I doing any more waiting anywhere. I was fed up with waiting. And I didn't entirely trust Morelli. He had an annoying habit of making beguiling promises and then waltzing out of my life.

I followed the van to the water's edge and parked beside it. The white refrigerator truck hadn't been moved. Louis wasn't out and about. The boats tied up to the wharf were dark. The Pachetco Inlet Marina was not exactly a bustling hub of activity.

I got out of the Nova and walked around to Morelli.

"I thought I told you to wait at the gas station," Morelli said. "We look like a fucking parade."

"I thought you might need help with Louis."

Morelli was out of the van and standing beside me, looking disreputable and dangerous in the dark. He smiled, and his teeth were startlingly white against his black beard. "Liar. You're worried about your $10,000."

"That too."

We stared at each other for a while, making silent assessments.

Morelli finally reached through the open window, snatched a jacket off the front seat, pulled a semiautomatic from the jacket pocket, and shoved it into the waistband of his jeans. "I suppose we might as well look for my witness."

We walked to the truck and peered inside the cab. The cab was empty and locked. No other cars were parked in the lot.

Nearby, water lapped at pilings, and boats groaned against their moorings. There were four board docks with fourteen slips each, seven to a side. Not all of the slips were in use.

We quietly walked the length of each dock, reading boat names, looking for signs of habitation. Halfway down the third dock we stopped at a big Hatteras Convertible with a flying bridge, and we both mouthed the boat's name. "Sal's Gal."

Morelli boarded and crept aft. I followed several feet behind. The deck was littered with fishing gear, long-handled nets and gaffs. The door to the salon was padlocked on the outside, telling us Louis was probably not on the inside. Morelli pulled a penlight from his pocket and shone it into the cabin window. The largest portion of the boat interior appeared to have been stripped down for serious fishing, similar to a head boat, with utilitarian benches in place of more luxurious accommodations. The small galley was cluttered with crushed beer cans and stacks of soiled paper plates. The residue from some sort of powder spill glittered under the penlight.

"Sal's a slob," I said.

"You sure Louis wasn't in the car with Ramirez?" Morelli asked.

"I have no way of knowing. The car has tinted glass—But it only seats two, so at least one person is left here."

"And there were no other cars on the road?"

"No."

"He could have gone in the other direction," Morelli said.

"He wouldn't have gone far. It dead-ends in a quarter mile."

The moon was low in the sky, spilling silver dollars of light onto the water. We looked back at the white refrigerator truck. The cooler motor hummed quietly in the darkness.

"Maybe we should take another look at the truck," Morelli said.

His tone gave me an uneasy feeling, and I didn't want to voice the question that had popped into my head. We'd already determined Louis wasn't in the cab. What was left?

We returned to the truck, and Morelli scanned the outside thermostat controls for the refrigeration unit.

"What's it set at?" I asked.

"Twenty."

"Why so cold?"

Morelli stepped down and moved to the back door. "Why do you think?"

"Somebody's trying to freeze something?"

"That would be my guess, too." The back door to the truck was held closed by a heavy-duty bolt and padlock. Morelli weighed the padlock in the palm of his hand. "Could be worse," he said. He jogged