Morelli was wearing a brown leather bomber jacket and a red wool scarf. He took the scarf off and wrapped it around my neck. 'You look frozen,' he said. 'Go home and warm up.' Then he sauntered off to the motel office.
It was still drizzling. The sky was gunmetal gray, and my mood was equally grim. I'd had a good line on Kenny Mancuso, and I'd blown it. I smacked the heel of my hand against my forehead. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I'd sat out there in this big dumb Buick. What was I thinking?
The motel was twelve miles from my apartment building, and I berated myself all the way home. I made a quick stop at the supermarket, fed Big Blue more gas, and by the time I pulled into my lot, I was thoroughly disgusted and demoralized. I'd had three chances to nail Kenny, at Julia's house, at the mall, and now at the motel, and I'd screwed up every time.
Probably at this stage in my career I should stick to the low-level criminals, like shoplifters and drunk drivers. Unfortunately, the payout on those criminals wasn't sufficient to keep me afloat.
I did more self-flagellation while I rode the elevator and made my way down the hall. A sticky note from Dillon was taped to my door. Got a package for you, the note said. I went back to the elevator and hit the button for basement. The elevator opened to a small vestibule with four closed, locked doors freshly painted battleship gray. One door led to storage cages for the use of the residents, the second door opened into the boiler room with its ominous rumblings and gurglings, the third door gave way to a long corridor and rooms dedicated to building maintenance, and Dillon lived in rent-free contentment behind the fourth door.
I always felt claustrophobic when I came down here, but Dillon said that it suited him fine and that he found the boiler noises soothing. He'd stuck a note to his door, saying that he'd be home at five.
I returned to my apartment, gave Rex some raisins and a corn chip, and took a long, hot shower. I staggered out red as a boiled lobster and foggy-brained from the chlorine gas. I flopped on the bed and contemplated my future. It was a short contemplation. When I woke up it was quarter to six, and someone was pounding on my door. I wrapped myself in a robe and padded into the foyer. I put my eye to the peephole. It was Joe Morelli. I cracked the door and looked at him over the security chain. 'I just got out of the shower.'
'I'd appreciate it if you'd let me in before Mr. Wolesky comes out and gives me the third degree.'
I slipped the chain and opened the door.
Morelli stepped into the foyer. His mouth curved at the edges. 'Scary hair.'
'I sort of slept on it.'
'No wonder you have no sex life. It'd take a lot out of a man to wake up to hair like that.'
'Go sit in a chair in the living room, and don't get up until I tell you. Don't eat my food, and don't scare my hamster, and don't make any long-distance calls.' He was watching television when I came out of my bedroom ten minutes later. I was wearing a granny dress over a white T-shirt, with ankle-high brown lace-up boots, and an oversized, loose-weave cardigan sweater. It was my Annie Hall look, and it made me feel feminine, but it always had the opposite effect on the opposite sex. Annie Hall was guaranteed to wilt the most determined dick. It was better than Mace on a blind date. I wrapped Morelli's red scarf around my neck and buttoned myself into my jacket. I grabbed my pocketbook and shut the lights off. 'There's going to be hell to pay if we're late.'
Morelli followed me out the door. 'I wouldn't worry about it. Once your mother sees you in that get-up, she'll forget about the time.'
'It's my Annie Hall look.'
'Looks to me like you've put a jelly doughnut in a bag labeled bran muffin.' I rushed down the hal and took the stairs. I got to the ground floor and remembered the package Dillon was holding. 'Wait a minute,' I yelled to Morelli. 'I'll be right back.' I scrambled down the stairs to the cellar and pounded on Dillon's door. Dillon peered out.
'I'm late, and I need my package,' I said.
He handed me a bulky overnight mail envelope, and I ran back up the stairs.
'Three minutes one way or the other can make or break a pot roast,' I told Morelli, grabbing him by the hand, dragging him across the lot to his truck. I hadn't intended to go with him, but I figured if we hit traffic he could use his rooftop flasher. 'You have a flasher on this truck?' I asked, climbing on board.
Morelli buckled himself in. 'Yeah, I have a flasher. You don't expect me to use it for pot roast, do you?'
I swiveled in my seat and stared out the back window.
Morelli cut his eyes to the rearview mirror. 'Are you looking for Kenny?'
'I can feel him out there.'
