She flashed a smile on Kuntz. “Hello, handsome.”
I turned to Lula, and we made the finger-down-the-throat, tongue-stuck-out gag gesture to each other.
“If I had those breasts I could clean up,” Sally whispered to me. “I could make enough money in a year to fucking retire. I wouldn't ever have to put on another pair of heels.”
“What are you doing here, Joyce? I thought Vinnie was going to talk to you.”
“It's a free country,” Joyce said. “I can go where I want. Do what I want. And right now what I want is to get Maxine.”
“Why?”
“Just for the fun of it,” Joyce said.
“Bitch.”
“Slut.”
“Whore.”
“Cunt.”
I kicked Joyce in the shin. I draw the line at cunt. And besides, ever since that day I caught her bare-assed on my dining room table with my husband, I've been wanting to kick her.
Joyce responded by grabbing my hair.
“Yow!” I said. “Let go!”
She wouldn't let go, so I gave her a good pinch in the arm.
“Hold on here,” Lula said. “I can tell you don't know nothing about fighting. This woman got you by the hair, and all you can do is give her a pinch?”
“Yeah, but it'll leave a bruise,” I said.
Joyce yanked harder at my hair. Then suddenly she gave a squeak, and she was on her back, on the floor.
I glared over at Lula.
“Well, I just wanted to see if the new batteries were working,” Lula said.
“So how much do you think breasts like that would cost?” Sally asked. “Do you think they'd look good on me?”
“Sally, those are real breasts.”
Sally bent down and took a closer look. “Damn.”
“Uh oh,” Lula said. “I don't know how to break this to you, but we're missing someone.”
I looked around. Kuntz was gone. “Sally, you check the men's room. Lula, you search the room here. I'll see if he's outside.”
“What about Joyce?” Lula said. “Maybe we should shove her over in the corner where people won't trip on her.”
Joyce's eyes were glazed, and her mouth was open. Her breathing seemed normal enough, considering she'd just taken a few volts.
“Joyce?” I said. “You okay?”
One of her arms flailed out.
A small crowd had accumulated.
“Dizzy spell,” I told everyone.
“I read in the manual sometimes people wet themselves when they have one of these dizzy spells,” Lula said. “Wouldn't that be fun?”
Joyce's legs started flopping around, and her eyes came into focus.
Lula hoisted her up and sat her in a chair. “You should see a doctor about these spells,” Lula said.
Joyce nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”
We got Joyce a cold beer and went off to find Kuntz.
I went outside to Morelli. “You see Eddie Kuntz leave?”
“What's he look like?”
“Five-eleven. Bodybuilder. He was wearing black pleated slacks and a black short-sleeve shirt.”
“Yeah, I saw him. He left about five minutes ago. Drove off in a Chevy Blazer.”
“He alone?”
“Yep.”
“Nobody followed him?”
“Not that I noticed.”
I returned to the bar and stood at the entrance looking for Sally and Lula. The room was crowded, and the noise level had risen considerably. I was jostled forward and then sharply yanked back, face-to-face with an angry woman I didn't recognize.
“I knew it was you!” she said. “You bitch.”
I knocked her hands off me. “What's your problem?”
“You're my problem. Everything was fine before you came along.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know what I'm talking about. And if you have any sense in that big bimbo head of yours you'll get out of town. You'll go far away. Because if you don't I'm gonna find you and turn you into a pile of ashes . . . just like your apartment.”
“You set fire to my apartment!”
“Hell no, not me. Do I look crazy enough to do something like that?”
“Yes.”
She laughed very softly, but her eyes were small and hard with emotions that had nothing to do with joy. “Believe what you want. Just stay away from my boyfriend.” She gave me a rough shove backward and stalked off toward the door, disappearing in the crowd.
I started after her, but the guy next to me moved in. “So,” he said, “you want a boyfriend all your own?”
“Jesus,” I said. “Get a life.”
“Hey,” he said, “just asking. No reason to get all huffy.”
I shoved my way around him, but the woman was gone. I worked through the room to the door. I looked outside. I went back inside and looked some more. No luck.
I found Sally and Lula at the bar.
“This is impossible,” Lula said. “There's wall-to-wall people here. You can't hardly even get a drink, much less find someone.”
I told them Morelli saw Kuntz take off in the Blazer, but I didn't tell them about the angry woman. The angry woman was a separate issue. Probably.
“If there's not gonna be any more action here, Sally and me are taking off for this place he knows has good music,” Lula said. “You want to come with?”
“No thanks, I'm calling it a night.”
Sally and Lula gave each other the elbows.
* * * * *
“SO WHAT HAPPENED?” Morelli asked when I got back to the truck.
“Nothing.”
“Just like always?”
“Yeah, except this was more nothing than usual.” I rummaged through my shoulder bag, found my cell phone and dialed Kuntz. No answer. “This is too weird. Why would he leave the bar like that?”
“Were you with him the whole time? Maybe someone gave him another clue, and he went off on his own.”
We were still parked at the curb, and I was thinking I should go back to the bar and ask some questions. “Wait here,” I told Morelli.
“Again?”
“This will only take a few minutes.”
I went to the bartender who'd been tending bar near us when Joyce went down.
“Do you remember the dark-haired guy I was with?” I asked. “The one dressed in black.”
“Yeah. Eddie Kuntz.”
“You know him?”
“No. Some woman came in around seven, right after I came on. She gave me a picture of Kuntz and ten dollars to pass him a note.”
“Do you know what the note said?”
“Nope. It was in a sealed envelope. Must have been good, though. He left as soon as he read it.”
Well, duh.
I returned to Morelli, slouched down in the seat and closed my eyes. “Stick a fork in me, I'm done.”
Morelli turned the key in the ignition. “You sound bummed.”
“Bummed at myself. I was stupid tonight. I let myself get distracted.” Even more embarrassing, I hadn't immediately thought to question the bartender. And that wasn't all that had me bummed. Morelli had me bummed. He didn't understand about cookie jars. He gave his mother the wrong answer at the table. And I hated to admit it, but that eye thing had me worried. My God, what if Bella was right and I was pregnant?
I looked over at Morelli. His features were softened by shadow, but even in the dark I could see the paper-thin scar that sliced through his right eyebrow. A few years ago, Morelli had walked into a knife. And he'd probably walk into another. Maybe a bullet. Not a comforting thought. Nor was his love life comforting. In the past, Morelli'd had a short attention span when it came to romance. From time to time, he'd shown flashes of protective tenderness for me, but I wasn't always a priority. I was a friend, like Terry Gilman and the pissed-off woman, whoever the hell she was.
So I was thinking maybe Morelli wasn't prime husband material. Not even counting the fac
t that he didn't want to get married. Okay, now for the big one. Was I in love with Morelli? Hell, yes. I'd been in love with him since I was six years old.
I smacked myself in the forehead with the heel of my hand. “Unh.”
Morelli gave me a sideways glance.
“Just thinking,” I said.
“Must have been some thought. You almost knocked yourself out.”
The thing is, while I was in love with Morelli for all these years, I'd always known it was best if nothing came of it. Loving Morelli was like loving cheesecake. Hours of misery on the Stairmaster, working off ugly fat, in return for a moment of blissful consumption.
All right, maybe it wasn't as bad as all that. Morelli had matured. How much he'd matured I couldn't nail down. Truth is, I didn't know a lot about Morelli. What I knew was that I had a hard time trusting him. Past experience led me to believe blind faith in Morelli might not be a smart thing.
In fact, now that I thought about it, maybe love wasn't the right word. Maybe enamored was better. I was definitely enamored.
We rode in silence for most of the way home. Morelli had the golden oldies station on, and I was sitting on my hands so I wouldn't rip the knob off the radio.
“You look worried,” Morelli said.
“I was thinking about the note the bartender gave to Eddie Kuntz. He said Kuntz read it and took off.”
“And?”
“The other notes were all in code. Kuntz couldn't figure them out. That's why Sally was brought into it. Sally was always the only one who could read the notes.”
Morelli cruised down his street and parked in front of his house. “I don't suppose you'd consider turning all this over to the police?”
And cut myself out of a recovery fee and leave the possibility open for Joyce to bring Maxine in? Fat chance. “Nope. I wouldn't consider it.”
Lights were blinking off in the downstairs windows in Joe's neighborhood. Early to bed, early to rise meant you had a job that allowed you to make the mortgage payment every month. Blocks away cars hummed on Chambers, but there was no traffic on Joe's street.
“I had something else sort of odd happen tonight,” I said. “I had a run-in with a woman at the bar.”
Morelli unlocked his front door and flipped the light switch. “And?”
I gave Morelli the details of the conversation. “So what do you think?” I asked.
“I don't know what to think. Obviously it wasn't Terry.”
“No. It wasn't Terry. There was something familiar about her, though. Like maybe I'd seen her someplace before. You know, like a nameless face in the supermarket.”
“You think she firebombed your apartment?”
“I wouldn't write her off the list. You recognize any women going in or out?”
“No. Sorry.”
Our eyes locked, and we both knew the doubt was there.
He tossed his keys on a sideboard, shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it across the lone wooden chair. He moved to the kitchen, where he checked his answering machine, unclipped his gun and his pager and laid them on the counter. “You need to pass that information about the woman on to the arson squad.”
“Should I call tonight?”
Morelli closed the distance between us and took me in his arms. “Monday will be soon enough.”
“Hmm,” I said, in a less than encouraging voice.
“What hmm?”
“I'm not sure this is a good idea.”
He kissed me lightly on the mouth. “This was never a good idea.”
“Exactly. You see, this is exactly what I mean.”
“Oh shit,” Morelli said. “You're not going to make this all complicated, are you?”
My voice rose an octave. “Damn right I'm going to make this complicated. What do you think this is here anyway?”
“This is . . . satisfying mutual needs.”
“A good fuck.”
“Well, yeah.”
I shoved him away. “Don't you ever need more than a good fuck?”
“Not right now! And what about you? You going to tell me you don't need it?”
“I have control over my needs.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I do!”
“That's why your nipples are hard.”
I looked down at my dress. You could see the shape of my nipples behind the cotton fabric. “They've been like that all day. There's something wrong with them.”
A smile twitched at the corners of Morelli's mouth. “You want me bad.”
Damn skippy I wanted him. And that made me even more furious. Where were my principles? I wasn't sure I believed his answer about the woman who confronted me at the bar. I sensed a continuing relationship of some sort between him and Terry Gilman. And here I was with hard nipples! Ugh.
“I can do without you just fine,” I said. “Don't call me. I'll call you.”
“You won't last through the night.”
Egotistical jerk. “Fifty bucks says I will.”
“You want to bet on this?” He sounded incredulous.
“The first one to crack pays up.”
Morelli's brows lowered and his eyes narrowed. “Fine. It won't be me, sweetheart.”
“Hah!”
“Hah!”
I whirled around and stomped up the stairs. I brushed my teeth, got into my nightshirt and crawled into bed. I laid there for a half hour in the dark, feeling cranky and lonely, wishing Rex wasn't in the kitchen, wondering what ever possessed me to make that stupid bet. Fear, I thought. That's what possessed me. Fear of being dumped again. Fear of getting screwed over. Fear of defective condoms. Finally I got out of bed and stomped back down the stairs.
Morelli was in the living room, slouched in his favorite chair, watching television. He gave me a long, considering look.
“I came to get Rex,” I said, swishing past him.
Morelli was still watching me when I returned carrying the hamster cage. The look was speculative and quietly unnerving.
“What?” I said.
“Nice nightshirt.”
* * * * *
SUNDAY MORNING I opened my eyes and thought about Maxine Nowicki. I'd been on the case for a week. It felt like three. I dressed in shorts and T-shirt, and without even bothering to comb my hair, carted Rex to the kitchen.
Morelli glanced up from the paper when I padded in. He took in my hair and smiled. “Trying to help me win the bet?”
I poured out a mug of coffee and looked at the white bakery bag on the table. “Doughnuts?”
“Yeah. I was going to go to church, but I decided to get doughnuts instead.”
I sat across from him and selected a Boston creme. “I've been on this Nowicki case for a week, and I don't think I'm making any progress.”
“Imagine how the merry mutilator-murderer feels. He's hacking people up and making no progress.”
“There's that.” I reached behind me for the portable phone and dialed Kuntz. “No answer.”
Morelli gave a chunk of doughnut to Rex and topped his cup. “Maybe we should take a ride over there this morning.”
This caught my attention. “You have one of those cop feelings, don't you?”
“Feels funky.”
I agreed. It felt funky. I ate two doughnuts, read the funnies and went upstairs to take a shower. I left the door unlocked, but Morelli didn't traipse inside. Good, I told myself. This was much better. Yeah, right.
Morelli was waiting for me when I came down the stairs. “Ready,” I said.
Morelli looked at the big black leather tote bag draped over my shoulder. “You have a gun in there, don't you?”
“Christ, Morelli, I'm a bounty hunter.”
“You have a permit to carry concealed?”
“You know I don't.”
“Then get rid of the gun.”
“You're wearing a gun!”
“I'm a cop.”
I screwed up my mouth. “Big deal.”
“Listen,” Morelli sai
d, “this is just the way it is. I'm a cop, and I can't go out with you when I know you're carrying concealed illegally. Besides, the thought of you with a gun in your hand scares the crap out of me.”
Four to Score Page 18
