Two for the dough

'I followed you. Figured you'd watch for Kenny a while longer. You're not very good at this law enforcement stuff, but you're freaking lucky, and you've got the temperament of a pit bull with a soup bone when you're on a case.'

Not a flattering assessment, but dead accurate. 'You on good terms with Kenny?' Morelli shrugged. 'Don't know him all that well.'

'So you wouldn't want to drive over there and say hello.'

'Hate to ruin Julia's good time if it isn't Kenny.'

We were both staring at the truck, and even without a night scope we could see it had begun to rock. Rhythmic grunting sounds and whimpers carried across the empty lot. I resisted the urge to squirm in my seat.

'Damn,' Morelli said. 'If they don't pace themselves they're going to kill the shocks on that little car.'

The car stopped rocking, the motor caught, and the lights flashed on.

'Jeez,' I said. 'That didn't take long.'

Morelli hustled around to the passenger seat. 'Must have gotten a head start on the way over. Wait until he hits the road before you use your lights.'

'That's a great idea, but I can't see without my lights.'

'You're in a parking lot. What's to see besides three acres of unobstructed macadam?' I crept forward a little.

'You're losing him,' Morelli said. 'Step on it.' I pushed it up to 20, squinting into the darkness, swearing at Morelli that I couldn't see jackshit.

He made chicken sounds, and I mashed the gas pedal to the floor.

There was a loud wump , and the Wrangler bucked out of control. I slammed my foot to the brake and the car came to a sudden stop with the left side tilted at a 30degree angle. Morelli got out to take a look. 'You're hung up on a safety island,' he said. 'Back up, and you should be okay.'

I eased off the island and rolled several feet. The car pulled hard to the left. Morelli did the take-a-look thing again while I thrashed around in the driver's seat, sputtering and fuming and berating myself for listening to Morelli.

'Tough break,' Morelli said, leaning into the open window. 'You bent your rim when you hit the curb. You got road service?'

'You did this on purpose. You didn't want me to catch your rotten cousin.'

'Hey, cupcake, don't blame me just because you made some bad driving decisions.'

'You're scum, Morelli. Scum.'

He grinned. 'Better be nice. I could give you a ticket for reckless driving.' I yanked the phone out of my pocketbook and called Al's Auto Body. Al and Ranger were good friends. During the day Al ran a legitimate business. I suspected that at night he ran a chop shop, hacking up stolen cars. It didn't matter to me. I just wanted to get my tire fixed.

An hour later I was on my way. No sense trying to track down Kenny Mancuso. He'd be long gone. I stopped at a convenience store, bought a pint of artery-clogging coffee ice cream, and headed for home.

I live in a blocky three-story brick apartment building located a couple miles from my parents' house. The front door to the building opens to a busy street filled with little businesses, and a tidy neighborhood of single-family bungalows sprawls to the rear. My apartment is in the back of the building, on the second floor, overlooking the parking lot. I have one bedroom, one bath, a small kitchen, and a living room that combines with the dining area. My bathroom looks like it came off the set from The Partridge Family, and due to temporarily strained finances my furniture could be described as eclectic—which is a snooty way of saying nothing matches.

Mrs. Bestler from the third floor was in my hal when I got off the elevator. Mrs. Bestler was eighty-three and didn't sleep well at night, so she walked the halls to get exercise.

'Hey, Mrs. Bestler,' I said. 'How's it going?'

'Don't do no good to complain. Looks like you've been out working tonight. You catch any criminals?'

'Nope. Not tonight.'