Three to Get Deadly Read Free

on fire,” Mrs. Steeger said. “You were a little fibber in the third grade, and you’re a little fibber now. Always trying to sneak gum into my classroom.”
    “Well, thanks anyway,” I said to Mrs. Steeger. “Nice seeing you after all these years.”
    SLAM. Mrs. Steeger closed her door.
    “Should of lied,” Lula said. “You never learn anything telling the truth like that. Should of told her you worked for the lottery commission, and Mo won a shitload of money.”
    “Maybe next time.”
    “Maybe next time we just open the door and start out with some bitch slapping.”
    I gave Lula a horrified glare.
    “Just a suggestion,” Lula said.
    I stepped over to the next porch and was about to knock when Mrs. Steeger stuck her head out her door again.
    “Don’t bother,” she said. “The Whiteheads are in Florida. Harry always takes his vacation this time of the year. Won’t be back for two weeks.”
    SLAM. She vanished behind the closed door.
    “No problem,” I said to Lula. “We’ll try door number three.”
    Dorothy Rostowski opened door number three.
    “Dorothy?”
    “Stephanie?”
    “I didn’t realize you were living here.”
    “Almost a year now.”
    She had a baby on her hip and another in front of the television. She smelled like she’d been knocking back mashed bananas and Chablis.
    “I’m looking for Uncle Mo,” I said. “I expected he’d be working in the store.”
    Dorothy shifted the baby. “He hasn’t been here for two days. You aren’t looking for him for Vinnie, are you?”
    “Actually…”
    “Mo would never do anything wrong.”
    “Well, sure, but…”
    “We’re just trying to find him on account of he won the lottery,” Lula said. “We’re gonna lay a whole load of money on his ass.”
    Dorothy made a disgusted sound and slammed the door closed.
    We tried the house next to Dorothy and received the same information. Mo hadn’t been at the store for two days. Nothing else was forthcoming, with the exception of some unsolicited advice that I might consider seeking new employment.
    Lula and I piled into the Buick and took another look at the bond agreement. Mo listed his address as 605 Ferris. That meant he lived over his store.
    Lula and I craned our necks to see into the four second-story windows.
    “I think Mo took a hike,” Lula said.
    Only one way to find out. We got out of the car and walked to the back of the brick building where outdoor stairs led to a second-story porch. We climbed the stairs and knocked on the door. Nothing. We tried the doorknob. Locked. We looked in the windows. Everything was tidy. No sign of Mo. No lights left burning.
    “Mo might be dead in there,” Lula said. “Or maybe he’s sick. Could of had a stroke and be laying on the bathroom floor.”
    “We are not going to break in.”
    “Would be a humanitarian effort,” Lula said.
    “And against the law.”
    “Sometimes these humanitarian efforts go into the gray zone.”
    I heard footsteps and looked down to see a cop standing at the bottom of the stairs. Steve Olmney. I’d gone to school with him.
    “What’s going on?” he asked. “We got a complaint from old lady Steeger that someone suspicious was snooping around Uncle Mo’s.”
    “That would be me,” I said.
    “Where’s Mo?”
    “We think he might be dead,” Lula said. “We think someone better go look to see if he’s had a stroke on the bathroom floor.”
    Olmney came up the stairs and rapped on the door. “Mo?” he yelled. He put his nose to the door. “Doesn’t smell dead.” He looked in the windows. “Don’t see any bodies.”
    “He’s Failure to Appear,” I said. “Got picked up on carrying concealed and didn’t show in court.”
    “Mo would never do anything wrong,” Olmney said.
    I stifled a scream. “Not showing up for a court appearance is wrong.”
    “Probably he forgot. Maybe he’s on vacation. Or maybe his sister in Staten Island got sick. You should check with his sister.”
    Actually,