“Better a broken windshield than a stolen car.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” Arty Boyt said. “Good thing you had that gun handy.”
Everyone else nodded. Good thing, they all said.
I slipped into the building and went to the pay phone at the front of the small lobby. I dropped a quarter and called upstairs.
“It’s me again,” I said when Morelli answered.
“Where are you?”
“Far away.”
“Liar.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “I saw you cross the parking lot.”
“Why are you stalking me?”
“Cops don’t stalk. Cops pursue.”
“Okay. Why are you pursuing me?”
“We need to talk,” Morelli said.
“That’s it? Just talk?”
“You had something else in mind?”
“Nope.”
We were both silent for a moment, contemplating the something else.
“Well,” I said, “what do you want to talk about?”
“I want to talk about Mo, and I don’t want to do it on the phone.”
“I heard some people might want to arrest me.”
“That’s true,” Morelli said. “But I’m not one of them.”
“I have your word?”
“I won’t arrest you tonight. I’d rather not make a blanket statement that covers eternity.”
He was waiting with the door open when I got off the elevator.
“You look cold and tired,” he said.
“Dodging bullets is exhausting. I don’t know how you cops do it day after day.”
“I assume you’re talking about Mr. Weinstein.”
I hung my jacket and my shoulder bag on a wall hook. “I’m talking about everyone. People keep shooting at me.” I sliced myself off a big chunk of spice cake and told Morelli about Snake.
“So what do you think?” I asked.
“I think bounty hunters should be tested and licensed. And I think you’d flunk the test.”
“I’m learning.”
“Yeah,” Morelli said. “Let’s hope you don’t get dead in the process.”
Ordinarily I’d consider a remark like that to be an insult, but I’d actually been thinking along the same lines myself. “What’s the deal with Uncle Mo?”
“I don’t know,” Morelli said. “At first I was worried he was dead. Now I don’t know what to think.”
“What kind of prints did you get from his store?”
“Yours, Mo’s and Anders’s from the door-knobs in the rear. We didn’t bother with the public areas. Two-thirds of the burg would have showed up.”
“The neighbors see anything?”
“Only the lady across the street who reported the flashlight.” Morelli was slouched against my kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest. “Any other questions?”
“Do you know who killed Anders?”
“No. Do you?”
I rinsed my plate and put it in the dishwasher. “No.” I looked at Morelli. “How did Anders get into the store? I heard him fumbling out there, trying the doorknob. At first I thought he had a key, but the door wouldn’t open. So then I decided he must be jimmying the lock.”
“There was no sign of forced entry.”
“Can we unofficially walk through this?”
“You must be reading my mind,” Morelli said.
“I’m not saying any of this to a cop, right?”
“Right.”
I poured myself a glass of milk. “This is what I know. The back door to Mo’s store was locked. I opened it with a key I got from his apartment. After I was in the store I pulled the door closed. When Ronald Anders tried to get
