Free Two for the Dough by Janet Evanovich

coffins.
    Trenton traffic looked insignificant compared to the Holland Tunnel outbound on a Friday afternoon, but it was a pain in the ass all the same. I decided to preserve what little sanity had surfaced this morning and forgo safe, scenic, car-clogged Hamilton. I turned onto Linnert after two blocks of stop-and-go tedium and threaded my way through the blighted neighborhoods that surround center city. I skirted the area around the train station, cut through town, and picked up Route 1 for a quarter mile, getting off at Oatland Avenue.
    R and J Storage occupied about a half acre of land on Oatland Avenue. Ten years ago, Oatland Avenue had been a hardscrabble patch of throwaway property. Its spiky grass had been littered with broken bottles and bottle caps, filter tips, condoms, and tumbleweed trash. Industry had recently found Oatland, and now the hardscrabble land supported Gant Printing, Knoblock Plumbing Supply House, and R and J Storage. The spiky grass had given way to blacktop parking lots, but the shards of glass, bottle caps, and assorted urban flotsam had endured, collecting in unattended corners and gutters.
    Sturdy chain-link fencing surrounded the self-storage facility, and two drives, designated IN and OUT, led to the honeycomb of garage-sized warehouses. A small sign fixed to the fence stated business hours as 7:00 to 10:00 daily. The gates to the entrance and exit were open, and a small OPEN sign had been hung in the glass-paned office door. The buildings were all painted white with bright blue trim. Very crisp and efficient looking. Just the place to snug away hot caskets.
    I pulled into the entrance and crept along, counting off numbers until I reached 16. I parked on the apron in front of the unit, inserted the key in the lock, and pressed the button that triggered the hydraulic door. The door rolled up along the ceiling and, sure enough, the warehouse was empty. Not a coffin or clue in sight.
    I stood there for a moment, visualizing the pine boxes stacked chocablock. Here one day, gone the next. I turned to leave and almost crashed into Morelli.
    “Jesus,” I exclaimed, hand on heart, after squelching a yelp of surprise. “I hate when you creep up behind me like that. What are you doing here, anyway?”
    “Following you.”
    “I don’t want to be followed. Isn’t that some sort of an infringement of my rights? Police harassment?”
    “Most women would be happy to have me follow them.”
    “I’m not most women.”
    “Tell me about it.” He gestured at the empty bay. “What’s the deal?”
    “If you must know … I’m looking for caskets.”
    This drew a smile.
    “I’m serious! Spiro had twenty-four caskets stored here, and they’ve disappeared.”
    “Disappeared? As in stolen? Has he reported the theft to the police?”
    I shook my head. “He didn’t want to bring the police in. Didn’t want word to get out that he’d bulk-bought a bunch of caskets and then lost them.”
    “I hate to rain on your parade, but I think this smells bad. People who lose things worth lots of money file police reports so they can collect their insurance.”
    I closed the door and dropped the key into my pocketbook. “I’m getting paid one thousand dollars to find lost caskets. I’m not going to try to identify the odor. I have no reason to believe there’s anything bogus going on.”
    “What about Kenny? I thought you were looking for Kenny.”
    “Kenny’s a dead end right now.”
    “Giving up?”
    “Dropping back.”
    I opened the door to the Jeep, slid behind the wheel, and shoved the key into the ignition. By the time the engine cranked over, Morelli had seated himself next to me.
    “Where are we going?” Morelli asked.
    “ I’m going to the office to talk to the manager.”
    Morelli was smiling again. “This could be the start of a whole new career. You do good on this one and maybe you can advance to catching grave robbers and headstone vandals.”
    “Very funny. Get out of my