Seven Up - By Janet Evanovich Page 0,20

drives to Richmond to heist some cigs."

"You got it."

I had Metallica wailing away. Bob was riding shotgun next to me, digging Lars on the drums. The Burg was conducting business behind closed doors. And I suddenly had a disturbing thought.

"DeChooch was arrested between here and New York?"

"Yeah, the rest stop in Edison."

"Do you think he could have dropped some cigarettes off in the Burg?"

There was a moment of silence. "You're thinking of Dougie Kruper," Connie said.

I snapped the phone closed, put the car in gear, and headed for Dougie's house. I didn't bother knocking when I got there. Bob and I barged right in.

"Hey," Mooner said, ambling out of the kitchen, spoon in one hand, opened can in the other, "I'm having lunch here. You want some orange and brown stuff in a can? I got extra. Shop & Bag was having a two-for-one sale on cans without labels."

I was halfway up the stairs. "No thanks. I want to take another look at Dougie's inventory. He get anything other than that one shipment?"

"Yeah, some old guy dropped a couple boxes off a couple days ago. Wasn't much to it, though. Just a couple boxes."

"Do you know what's in those boxes?"

"First-quality ciggies. You want some?"

I pushed my way through the merchandise in the third bedroom and found the cartons of cigarettes. Damn.

"This isn't good," I said to Mooner.

"I know. They'll kill you, dude. Better off with weed."

"Superheroes don't do weed," I said.

"No way!"

"It's true. You can't be a superhero if you do drugs."

"Next thing you'll be telling me they don't drink beer."

Hard call. "I don't actually know about beer."

"Bummer."

I tried to imagine Mooner when he wasn't high, but I couldn't get a picture. Would he suddenly start wearing three-piece suits? Would he become a Republican?

"You need to get rid of this stuff," I said.

"You mean like sell it?"

"No. Get rid of it. If the police come in here you'll be charged with possession of stolen property."

"The police are here all the time, dude. They're some of Dougie's best customers."

"I mean officially. Like if they're investigating Dougie's disappearance."

"Ahhhh," Mooner said.

Bob eyed the can in Mooner's hand. The stuff in the can looked a lot like dog food. Of course when you have a Bob dog everything is dog food. I shoved Bob out the door, and we all went back downstairs.

"I have some phone calls to make," I told Mooner. "I'll let you know if anything turns up."

"Yeah, but what about me?" Mooner asked. "What should I do? I should be like . . . helping."

"Get rid of the stuff in the third bedroom!"

THE FLOWERS WERE still in the hall when Bob and I stepped out of the elevator. Bob sniffed at them and ate a rose. I dragged Bob into the apartment and, first thing, checked my phone messages. Both were from Ronald. Hope you like the flowers, the first said, they set me back a couple bucks. The second suggested we should get together because he thought we had something going between us.

Blech.

I made myself another peanut butter sandwich to get my mind off Ronald. Then I made one for Bob. I took the phone to the dining room table and called all of the Krupers on the piece of yellow paper. I told them I was a friend and I was looking for Dougie. When I was given Dougie's Burg address I faked surprise that he was back in Jersey. No need to alarm Dougie's relatives.

"We scored a big zero with the phone thing," I said to Bob. "Now what?"

I could take Dougie's photo and shop it around, but chances of anyone remembering Dougie were shin to nonexistent. I had a hard time remembering Dougie when I was standing in front of him. I called for a credit check and found Dougie had a MasterCard. That was the extent of Dougie's credit history.

Okay, now I was getting into very bleak territory. I'd eliminated friends, relatives, business accounts. This was pretty much my arsenal. And what's worse, my stomach felt hollow and icky. It was the something-is-wrong feeling. I really didn't want Dougie to be dead, but I wasn't finding any proof that he was alive.

Well, that's stupid, I said to myself. Dougie's a goof. God only knows what he could be doing. He could be on a pilgrimage to Graceland. He could be playing blackjack in Atlantic City. He could be losing his virginity to the late-night cashier of the local 7-Eleven.

And maybe the hollow, icky feeling in my