“Julie Ruley?” I asked.
“That’s me,” one of the women said.
Julie Ruley was about five four with straight blond hair parted in the middle and tucked back behind her ears. No makeup. Oversized T-shirt. Jeans. Ratty sneakers. Glossy black polish on nails cut short. Hard to tell if she was Malibu Barbie under the T-shirt, and I didn’t see any tattoos.
“Would it be possible to speak to you in private?” I asked her.
“Sure,” she said, rising out of her chair. “We can talk in the hall.”
I found a quiet spot against the wall and introduced myself.
“It’s all bogus,” Julie said. “Mintner is out to close Zeta, and he’s using Gobbles to do it. Mintner asked Gobbles to stop by his house, and when Gobbles got there Mintner was nuts. Gobbles said Mintner was yelling about the evil stuff going on at Zeta. Totally out of control.”
“What about the baseball bat?”
“Gobbles was on his way home from playing ball with some friends. He had a bat and a mitt with him.”
“That’s not the way the police report reads. Mintner said his living room was trashed and Gobbles broke his arm.”
“Gobbles said Mintner was on a rant and fell over the ottoman. Maybe that’s how his arm got broken. Gobbles left after Mintner fell. I believe Gobbles,” Julie said. “He’s never lied to me. And I don’t like Dean Mintner. No one likes him.”
“Why is Gobbles in hiding? Why didn’t he show up for his court date?”
“He thinks everything is stacked against him. And I think he’s right. People are going to believe Dean Mintner.”
“Still, he should check in with the court. We can get him bonded out again. Right now he’s considered a felon, and that’s not a good thing.”
“I’ll pass it along if I hear from him.”
I gave her my card, and returned to my car. There was a note under the windshield wiper.
Stop hunting Gobbles or else.
P.S. Zeta rules!!
I looked around, but I didn’t see anyone I recognized from the fraternity. No one seemed to be watching me. No big deal, I thought. I’d been threatened by psychopathic serial killers, mutant gangbangers, and Morelli’s crazy Sicilian grandmother. This hardly registered on my fright meter.
I settled myself behind the wheel, and texted Connie and asked her to get me information on Julie Ruley. With any luck she lived off campus and was harboring Gobbles.
I hadn’t heard anything from Ranger or Connie about Lula, so I called Morelli.
“I’m worried about Lula,” I told him. “I went into the deli on K Street for lunch, and when I came out she was gone.”
“And?”
“She left without her egg salad.”
“I could see where that would be worrisome.”
“I’m serious. I had an FTA in the backseat of Lula’s Firebird. She’s not answering her phone, and she’s not at the office. I have Ranger’s men looking for her, but they haven’t turned up anything. I thought you might keep your eyes open for her.”
There was a long moment of silence.
“You called Ranger before me?” Morelli asked.
“I needed a ride.”
“Your father drives a cab.”
“Jeez Louise. I’m reporting a missing person, okay?”
“It hasn’t been twenty-four hours since I suggested we back off a little on our relationship and already you’re with Ranger.”
“I work with the man. I have a professional relationship with him.”
“I love you, but you give me acid reflux,” Morelli said.
“Yeah, well, you gave me a pimple.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Morelli gave a bark of laughter. “I’ll pass the word on Lula. Let me know if she turns up.”
I thunked my forehead on the steering wheel. My life was a mess. A car drove by, and someone in the backseat threw an egg at me and yelled “Zeta!” It splattered against my driver’s side window and oozed down into the door. I looked at my watch and wondered if it was too early to start drinking. A glass of wine or a beer. Just one. Maybe two at the most. Reality check. I’m not good at drinking. I get very happy and then I fall asleep. Since I had to work with Ranger that night, I thought I should delay drinking. Donuts would be a better way to go. A dozen donuts would significantly improve my day.
I hit a Dunkin’ Donuts drive-thru and started working on the donuts in the parking lot. By the time I got home there were six left in the box, and I didn’t want to see another donut ever again. Not ever. Perhaps a Boston Kreme, but that was it.
I live in a modest apartment building on the fringe of Trenton proper. It’s ten minutes from the bonds office, ten minutes from my parents’ house, and fifty years out of date. It’s a solid three-story building with cheap aluminum windows and an unreliable elevator. My second-floor apartment looks out at the parking lot at the rear of the building. Not exactly scenic, but I have a front-row seat for the occasional dumpster fire.