As soon as Dean mentioned the luggage and briefcase locked in the trunk of the car, Fred insisted on protecting this valuable evidence by bringing them in-just for safekeeping. Dean didn't doubt for a minute the booty would be examined in detail as soon as he was asleep.
Fred made careful notes of everything Dean said, shuffling papers in his lined notebook. He was interested but perplexed about the March date when Byrne was excused from work-without his wife's knowledge. He was also curious about the tire repair kit and examined it closely, as if looking for a secret compartment. He carefully detailed the information on the torn sales receipt but made no comment. By the time Fred had finished his questioning it was nearly midnight. Dean could hardly keep his eyes open as he rose to go to bed.
"Just wait until a week from next Tuesday," said Fred with a smugness that caught Dean's attention.
"What happens then?"
Fred reached for the newspaper, tapping a small article with his fingers as he handed it to Dean. "Read it. They're going to hold a memorial service for Byrne at the Catholic Church."
"So?"
"So, that's when we stake it out and spot Byrne!"
"You've got to be kidding!"
"Everybody wants to go to their own funeral! I've read about it lots of times. Just imagine being a little mouse in the corner, seeing who shows up, what they have to say about you. He's gonna make an appearance, just you watch!"
Dean slumped down in his chair, his mind picturing a veiled fugitive, costumed as an old lady, slinking into a back pew. "Fred," he said, "I think you've finally popped your cork!"
Fred prattled on about a mystery where something similar had occurred but Dean paid him no attention as he glanced through the newspaper. The story of the inefficiencies of the Parkside Police caught his attention. The Wassermann twins, sainted boys according to the stilted account, had been all but ignored, according to the writer, Linda Segal, a name Dean didn't recognize. Lieutenant Anderson's response sounded more like an apology for being unable to locate two pillars of the community than a proper description of the two as a couple of leg-breaking punks. Dean tossed the paper aside and rose.
"Don't wake me early," he said as he walked toward the stairs.
Fred called after him, "your mysterious buddy called again, twice. This time he left a message." He looked through his notes. "Here it is. 'Yellow 42.' That's what he said to tell you, whatever it means. He said you'd know."
Dean looked annoyed. "Yeah, I know what it means. It means Vinnie Baratto is in a jam again."