"What's the matter, Berryhill?"

  "My ankle. Damn."

  "Just keep walking."

  After some thirty minutes of walking along the old trail, Little Mack stopped abruptly, pointing his flashlight at an abandoned smelt iron bog. Oliver could smell the brackish water and, when the flashlight panned across the area, he saw bits of abandoned brick structures, one of the many "lost" towns deep within the Pine Barrens.

  Little Mack turned to face Oliver. "My plan was to bring you out here and leave you."

  Oliver began to panic. "But I'd never find my way back."

  Little Mack roared with laughter, and Oliver understood Little Mack's intentions.

  "Relax, Berryhill. I've changed my mind."

  Oliver was relieved, but confused. He was afraid to ask.

  "I'm not gonna kill you. Not today, anyway. But I am gonna expect something in return."

  "Anything. Anything at all. Just ask."

  "I'm glad you feel that way." Even in the dark of night, Oliver could see Little Mack smile. "Let me explain," said Little Mack. "If I believe you . . ."

  "You can," Oliver assured him.

  "If I believe you, then someone else is responsible for my father's murder."

  "That's right. It was someone else." Oliver was nodding like a bobble-head doll, a collectible Local Hero Security Guard figurine.

  "So here's what you're gonna do for me, Berryhill. Well, not so much for me, but for my father."

  Suddenly, Oliver felt sick to his stomach.

  "You're gonna find the killer for me, and you're gonna avenge my father's murder."

  Oliver grabbed his stomach. Deep in the Pine Barrens, in the dead of night, Oliver Berryhill threw up.

  Little Mack chuckled. "I feel better already."

  Oliver sank to his knees in the heavy underbrush at the edge of the bog and, for a second time, he threw up.

  Planning a Good Dinner Party

  "I didn't do it." Morris looked defiantly at Detective Bebedict, standing on the sidewalk in front of Louie's pawnshop. He turned to Cassie for help. "Tell him. Just 'cause I saw Louie a coupla three days ago doesn't mean anything."

  Detective Bebedict growled. "What it means is maybe you saw something could help us solve the case."

  Morris shrank back, exhaling deeply. "Oh . . . of course."

  Eggs waited, growing impatient. "Well?"

  "Well what?"

  Eggs controlled the urge to unleash a string of insults. "Did you," he said, "see something?"

  Morris thought for a moment before answering. "No. Not that I can remember. I came in with the guitar. We argued a little about the autograph, about price, but otherwise, nothing. I gave him the guitar and a promise to come back with authentication. He gave me cash and a promise of more cash when I returned. I took the money and went straight to Deep's to buy back my car."

  Eggs looked across the street at Morris's aging green Buick and laughed. "That piece of shit?" He caught a look in Cassie's eyes that told him not to make fun of Morris's car. "Sorry."

  Morris turned red. "It's a long story."

  Eggs wasn't really interested in the car. What he was interested in was Louie. "How did you meet Louie?"

  Morris didn't understand the question. "I met him when I walked into the pawnshop."

  "No, Morris. I mean, why did you pick Louie? There must be plenty of places would buy your guitar."

  "I found him listed in the yellow pages." Morris explained that more reputable dealers wanted to see a certificate of authenticity.

  A million questions bounced around inside Oliver's head and in his gut. Ethical questions. Ten Commandment questions. Life and death questions. Thou shalt not kill. And more practical questions. Like, where and how to buy a gun. What kind of gun to buy? Who has the best prices? Oliver had thought of nothing else since his walk in the woods with Little Mack. He couldn't think clearly. His head was too cluttered with questions.

  Oliver pulled out a yellow legal pad and began writing down questions. Any question. Every question. No question was too big or too small. Oliver quickly filled the top page on the legal pad and flipped to a second. Will I need to show identification? How much will it cost to buy a phony driver's license? Is it always wrong to kill? Will I go to hell? Will I go to jail? Will I know how to load the bullets? What kind of gun should I buy? Does Consumer Reports have a gun issue? How close will I need to stand to be sure not to miss the target? Who is the target? Can I trust Little Mack? Do I have a choice? Oliver got the questions down on paper, freeing up much-needed file space in his cerebral cortex.

  Oliver reread his list of questions. He felt better, just knowing he'd gotten them down on paper. And he realized that he had some answers. After Little Mack announced that Oliver was going to avenge Big Mack's murder, he volunteered the name of a gun dealer in Woodbine who would ask no questions. Oliver told himself he could get through this if he just took things one step at a time. It was critical, Oliver realized, to think just enough, but not too much; to think ahead, but not too far. In that respect, Oliver realized, planning a murder was not unlike planning a good dinner party.

  Oliver decided to think only as far as the drive to Woodbine. He put the yellow legal pad in the junk drawer in his kitchen.

  A Weird Coincidence

  Oliver Berryhill drove to Woodbine, slowly, wondering if New Jersey had a minimum speed limit. He would hate to be ticketed for driving too slowly. He eased his foot off the accelerator, coasting south to Woodbine.

  While the car coasted, Oliver rehearsed, trying out one unsatisfactory opening after another, starting with the simple, "I'd like to buy a gun." He rejected the simple declarative, hoping to come up with something that would make him sound more . . . well, dangerous.

  "Can you show me something in a forty-five caliber?" (Oliver realized he didn't even know what a caliber was).

  Oliver searched his memory for a movie scene that he could play when he got to Louie's. There had to be hundreds of old gangster movies, but Oliver couldn't remember a single one. He thought of Charlie Chaplin in The Pawnshop, but he wasn't going to get his opening line of dialogue from a silent movie.

  Meanwhile, even at coasting speed, Woodbine approached.

  Oliver had no trouble locating Louie's in the small town. As he looked for a spot to park his car, Oliver noticed two men and a woman engaged in an animated conversation on the sidewalk right in front of the pawnshop. He couldn't be certain, but it appeared that the store was closed. Oliver slowed the car and took a closer look, suddenly recognizing one of the men as the officer who had investigated the death of Big Mack. Then he realized the woman was that writer who'd been hanging around the mall. Oliver stomped on the accelerator, passing the pawnshop and continuing on down the rural route, hoping they hadn't noticed the driver of the speeding Subaru.

  Oliver's head, once again, was crammed with questions. He drove for another mile or so before he pulled his car to a stop at the side of the road and mopped the cold sweat from his forehead. He wondered what they were doing outside Louie's pawnshop. He wondered if they had seen him behind the wheel of the Subaru. He wondered about the identity of the second man.

  Detective Bebedict watched as the Subaru sped down the otherwise quiet street. "Did you see that?"

  Cassie nodded. "Yeah."

  "I mean did you see the driver?"

  "I'm not sure. He looked familiar though. Did you get a good look?"

  Eggs grinned. "It was Oliver."

  "Holy shit. You're right."

  Morris's head bounced back and forth between Eggs and Cassie, trying to follow the conversation. Finally, he interrupted. "Who's Oliver?"

  Eggs looked at Cassie. "Go ahead."

  "When Big Mack died," Cassie explained. "Oliver is the rent-a-cop at the mall."

  Morris looked down the street, as though he could still see the Subaru. "The security guard? But what's he doing here?"

  Eggs growled. "I think we ought to get off the street. Anybody else hungry?"

  Morris said, "I know a pretty good Indian luncheonette not far from here."

  Cassie was in the mood for a plate of chicken tikka masala, but Eggs vetoed the idea. "Curry? I don't think so. C'mon. I think there's a burger joint just up the road a ways."

  Morris walked to his Buick and Eggs to his car. Cassie was momentarily stuck between rides. Turn to her left and go with Morris or to her right and Eggs? She turned to her right.

  Eggs pointed up the street for Morris's benefit. "We're going that way. Follow me."

  As they drove up the street, Cassie noticed the Subaru parked at the curb, Oliver sitting behind the wheel. She turned to Eggs, "Over there." She pointed to the Subaru.

  "Yeah. Thanks."

  "What do you think he's up to?" But Eggs wasn't ready to answer Cassie's question. He waited until they arrived at the burger joint and placed their order.

  "When two people are killed at the Mall of New Jersey in the space of a couple of weeks, it can't be coincidence," Eggs explained between bites of cheeseburger. "I was looking for a connection between the knifing of Teddy Maciborski and the shooting of Louie Feldman."

  "And?" Morris asked, prompting Eggs to continue.

  "And we just saw the connection sitting in the Subaru."

  "Oliver Berryhill?" asked Morris.

  "Yeah." Eggs thought for a moment. "Oliver is the link between the two dead bodies."

  Cassie picked at a French fry, dreaming of tikka masala. "I agree. But why?"

  "Let's review," growled Eggs. "What do we know for sure?"

  Cassie started them off. "We know that Big Mack died of a knife wound to the throat in the men's room."

  "Okay, good. What else?"

  "He was stealing jewelry from the mall," she added.

  "Maybe," suggested Eggs, "maybe not." Eggs saw Cassie's puzzled look and explained. "We know Big Mack was a career criminal and we know he was found with stolen jewelry, but shoplifting . . . well, that's small potatoes for Big Mack."

  Cassie began to see where Eggs was going. "So you're thinking . . . ?"

  "I'm thinking Big Mack wasn't at the mall to steal jewelry."

  Cassie jumped in, finishing the detective's train of thought. "He was there to receive stolen jewelry."

  Eggs was pleased with Cassie's intuitive grasp of the case. "And that means . . ." He waited for Cassie to answer.

  "And that means," she said, "that Big Mack had a partner at the mall."

  Morris blurted out the answer. "Little Mack."

  Eggs barely looked at him, dismissing Morris's too-obvious answer. "Well, yeah, Big Mack always worked with his son, but I mean someone on the inside . . . someone at the mall."

  Morris tried again, more tentative this time. "Oliver?"

  Eggs nodded. "Yeah, Oliver."

  "So Oliver was using the cover of his position as a security guard," said Cassie, "to steal jewelry at the mall. Then he'd pass the stuff to the Macks."

  Eggs agreed with Cassie. "That's right. Then the Macks would use Louie to fence the stolen goods."

  Cassie jumped back in. "Making Oliver the prime suspect in two murders."

  "That's what I'm thinking," growled Eggs. "But I woulda expected Little Mack to be with his father at the mall. I guess they figured it was an easy job, no real danger."

  Morris suddenly remembered. "Little Mack was in Woodbine the day his father was killed."

  "Huh?" Detective Bebedict turned and stared at Morris. The first time Morris made mention of Little Mack, the comment had barely registered with the detective. "How do you know so much about Little Mack?"

  "I saw him register at the Bhait's Motel."

  Cassie nearly jumped out of her chair. "That's right, Morris."

  Eggs looked from Morris to Cassie and back to Morris. "What am I missing here?"

  "Little Mack was looking for me."

  "How come."

  "I borrowed some money and fell behind in the payments."

  Detective Bebedict measured his words with care. "If you have anything to do with this, anything at all, this is your only chance to get out from under, Morris. Right here. Right now."

  Morris tried to maintain eye contact with the detective. "It's just a weird coincidence."

  Eggs spoke slowly, so slowly you could drive a truck between his words. "I . . . don't . . . believe . . . in . . . coincidence."

  Morris squirmed in his seat.

  A Couple of Fire Trucks, a Few Cars, and Some Tractors

  "So what do we do now?" Cassie directed her question at Eggs, ending the awkward exchange between Eggs and Morris.

  "We? What do we do now?" Eggs got serious. "We take you home."

  Cassie was surprised by the detective's answer and waited for him to continue.

  "This case is now a double murder investigation, and that's no place for amateurs," he explained.

  "Do you have a plan?"

  "Yeah," growled Eggs. "I gotta search the pawnshop."

  "What are you looking for?" wondered Morris.

  "Stuff from the mall. Stuff showing the chain from Oliver to Big Mack to Louie. Jewelry, most likely."

  Morris was nodding his head in agreement. "That shouldn't be too hard."

  Eggs snorted. "It shouldn't be, but it's gonna be a royal pain. I don't have jurisdiction in Woodbine," he said. "So I gotta talk to my captain, who's gotta talk to the captain in Woodbine, who's gotta . . . look, you don't need a friggin' lecture on inter-governmental police work. Trust me on this. It's gonna be a pain in the ass."

  Cassie saw that Eggs was correct. "We should get going."

  "Yeah. I'll take you home and head back to the station house. If my captain agrees, I'll be back here tomorrow to look inside."

  Cassie looked at Morris. "You gonna be okay?"

  "Yeah, Cassie. Thanks. I can drive myself home. It'll feel good to be behind the wheel of the Buick."

  They settled up the bill and left, Cassie with Eggs, Morris with his Buick.

  In the car, riding home to Doah, an uneasy silence enveloped Cassie and Eggs. They rode in silence for half an hour. As they approached Doah, Eggs cleared his throat.

  "How well do you know Morris?"

  "He's just a good friend." But Cassie had misunderstood the detective's point.

  "Do you think he could be involved in this somehow?"

  Cassie felt her face turn red. Of course, Detective Bebedict was thinking about the investigation. "No. No way. Not Morris."

  "Are you sure?"

  Cassie thought about the changes since Morris sold the magazine. "He's gotten himself in some kind of money trouble, that much is obvious, but I've known him almost twenty years. He's really a sweet guy. A good editor too. No. No way." Cassie thought for a moment, adding, "At least I don't think so."

  Eggs pulled into the parking lot in front of Cassie's condominium. "Remember what I told you," he growled.

  "About the investigation? The fingerprints?"

  "When I ask you out on a date, you'll know it."

  There it was again. When, not if. Cassie didn't let him see her smile as she walked from the car to her condo.

  Morris took his time getting into his car, fumbling with the keys, waiting for Cassie and Eggs to drive away before starting up the Buick. He didn't want them to notice he wasn't leaving Woodbine just yet. He had several hours to kill before nightfall.

  Morris considered his options. He had no place to be until nighttime and nearly no money in his wallet. It would not be smart to attract undue attention. Morris knew he couldn't sit in his parked car for hours. Eventually, it would attract attention. Even if it didn't, he'd get so antsy sitting in the car, he'd probably do something stupid. Like not wait for the cover of darkness. Morris considered where he could go, just a couple of gallons of gas in the tank, just a couple of bucks in his wallet, a place to blend in, to kill time.

  Morris sat in his car, knowing he should be moving along, but without a place to go. With a knock on his passenger window, the decision was made for him.

  "Excuse me, sir."

  Morris was startled by the appearance of a local Woodbine police officer. He told himself to stay calm, that he hadn't done anything wrong . . . yet.

  "Yes, Officer?"

  "I need you to move your car."

  "Of course. Is everything okay?"

  The officer looked closely at Morris. "You're not from around here. Are you?"

  "No."

  "Well, today's the annual Christmas parade and party. Before you know it, the parade's going to be coming down the street and, well, it's not the biggest parade, not the fanciest, but we kinda like it."

  Morris smiled. "It sounds very nice."

  "So if you would move the car around the corner, I sure would appreciate it. You can watch the parade from here and if you like, stop by the firehouse for the after party."

  "Thank you, Officer. I think I'll do that."

  Morris had lived in New Jersey for more than twenty years, but he grew up a New Yorker, and a parade, to Morris, meant the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. Anything else was a pale imitation at best. Woodbine's parade was not much, by those standards: a couple of fire trucks, a few cars and some tractors, the mayor on foot, the Cub Scouts, the Brownies, Future Farmers of America.

  It was, Morris decided, the nicest parade he'd ever seen, a town getting together to celebrate the holiday, a town borne of Jewish roots joyously celebrating Christmas. After a while, it was impossible to distinguish who was marching and who was watching, as family and friends simply mingled on the street, with all of them eventually making their way to the firehouse for a low-key community party.

  Morris was having such a good time, sipping punch at the firehouse and chatting with strangers, that he failed to notice as the sky outside the firehouse darkened. When he stepped outside for a cigarette, he was startled by the night sky. It was time.

  Morris pulled his car into the alley that ran behind Louie's Pawnshop. The pawnshop was dark. The street was dark at this end, away from the Christmas lights and the community gathering. He hoped the pawnshop wasn't alarmed. He hoped he could jimmy the lock.

 

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