Morelli’s phone buzzed and I did a mental groan. He was done for the day, but he was on call. He read the text message and he pushed back from the table.
“I have to go,” Morelli said. “There’s a problem on Kubacky Street.”
That got my attention. “I was on Kubacky Street this morning,” I said. “What’s the house number?”
“315 Kubacky,” Morelli said.
My heart did a flip and missed a beat. “Crap,” I said on a whisper. “That’s Clark Stupin’s address.”
“Is it a murder?” Grandma asked Morelli. “Kubacky Street can be dicey.”
“I need to go with you,” I said to Morelli. “I’ll talk to you in the car.”
“There’s chocolate cake,” my mother said.
Five minutes later I was in the car with Morelli and half a chocolate cake. Morelli was behind the wheel and the cake was in a small cooler in the backseat.
“Talk to me,” Morelli said.
“I’m looking for Oswald Wednesday. He broke into a rental unit and was taken down by a cop who was living there.”
“I remember,” Morelli said.
“Two weeks ago, he went FTA. I got a tip that he’s a hacker, so I paid a visit on Melvin Schwartz today, and Schwartz led me to Clark Stupin.”
“There’s more?”
“Maybe. Schwartz and Stupin knew Oswald Wednesday. They didn’t know him personally. He was kind of their hero. Apparently, he’s famous as a super hacker. Supposedly Schwartz and Stupin’s hacker group momentarily hacked into Oswald’s private network. Stupin sounded nervous about Oswald being in Trenton. There’s some sort of online chatter about Oswald having something big about to go down.”
“Do you think Oswald would kill over someone knowing about this big thing or leaking information?”
I shrugged. “It seems extreme, but he could have some personality problems.”
“Such as?”
“He likes to give and receive pain, and over the years, several of his female companions have disappeared. More recently two of his hacker partners disappeared.”
Morelli stopped for a light and looked over at me. “How do you know all this?”
“I have a source.”
“I don’t suppose you want to reveal that source?”
“I’d rather not.”
“Tell me anyway,” Morelli said.
I blew out a sigh. “It’s Diesel.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. It’s Diesel. He’s looking for Oswald.”
“Since when?”
“Since yesterday,” I said. “He showed up last night. He said Oswald hacked his employer and might have some sensitive information.”
“So, he got in touch with you?”
“He was looking for a place to stay.”
“And?”
“And he’s staying someplace else.”
“I’m surprised Diesel is employed. I thought he just hung out around the world, looking for a good hammock and the perfect wave.”
“He’s always more or less employed,” I said. “The employer is a big secret.”
Morelli drove down Kubacky Street and parked behind an EMT truck. Several uniforms were standing, talking on the sidewalk. The front door to Clark’s house was open. I followed Morelli out of the car and into the house. The front room was filled with two more uniforms, a couple of EMTs with their bags, and a stretcher. Clark was on the floor, on his side. His hands were bound behind his back. There was some blood around his head.
Morelli took it in and looked back at me.
“Clark Stupin,” I said.
The medical examiner walked in with a forensic photographer. Everyone went to work, collecting evidence, recording the obvious. I went outside to get some air and let Morelli do his thing.
I didn’t see so much of this type of thing that I was hardened to it. Or maybe you never got hardened to it. Morelli was able to wade through it, but I’m sure it took a toll on him. He managed because he believed in the job and justice. And because he had a need to solve the crime.
I was standing off to the side, by myself, and Diesel ambled over.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“It looks like someone killed Clark Stupin.”
“Bummer.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“My office heard the call go out for this address.”
“You have an office?”
“I have a guy who does whatever.”