go down and investigate.”
Morelli had his gun in his hand. “Stay here,” he said.
Which was as good as guaranteeing I’d follow him down.
We crept down together, noting at once that the cellar posed no threat. No bad guys lurking in corners. No nasty-breathed, hairy-handed monsters lying in wait.
“Dirt floor,” I said.
Morelli holstered his gun. “A lot of these old cellars have dirt floors.”
A couple winter overcoats hung on wall pegs. Bags of rock salt, snow shovels, picks and heavy, long-handled spades lined the wall beside the coats. The furnace rumbled, central in the cellar. A jumble of empty cardboard boxes littered a large portion of the room. The smell of damp cardboard mingled with something more foul.
Morelli tossed some of the boxes to one side. The ground beneath the boxes had been recently disturbed. Morelli became more methodical, moving the boxes with the toe of his boot until he uncovered a patch of dirt that showed black garbage bag peeking through.
“Sometimes people get eccentric when they get old,” I said. “Don’t want to pay for trash pickup.”
Morelli took a penknife from his pocket and exposed more of the plastic. He made a slit in the plastic and let out a long breath.
“What is it?” I asked. As if I didn’t know.
“It isn’t candy.” He turned me around and pushed me toward the stairs. “I’ve seen enough. Let’s leave this to the experts. Don’t want to contaminate the scene any more than we already have.”
We sat in his car while he called in to the station.
“I don’t suppose you’d consider going home to your parents’ tonight?” he asked.
“Don’t suppose I would.”
“I’d rather you didn’t go back to your apartment alone.”
Me too. “I’ll be fine,” I said.
A blue-and-white cruised to the curb behind Morelli’s 4x4. Eddie Gazarra got out of the car and walked our way. We met him on the street, and we all looked to the store.
“Break out the crime tape,” Morelli said.
“Shit,” Gazarra said. “I’m not going to like this.”
Nobody was going to like this. It was not good etiquette to bury bodies in the basement of a candy store. And it would be especially loathsome to accuse Mo of doing the burying.
Another blue-and-white showed up. Some more homicide cops arrived on the scene. The ID detective came with his tool kit and camera. People started appearing on front porches, standing with arms crossed, checking out the traffic jam. The crowds on the porches grew larger. A reporter stood, hands in pockets, behind the crime tape.
Two hours later I was still sitting in Morelli’s car when they brought out the first body bag. The media coverage had grown to a handicam and a half dozen reporters and photographers. Three more body bags were trundled out from the cellar. The photographers hustled for shots. Neighbors left the comfort of their living rooms to return to the porches.
I sidled over next to Morelli. “Is this it?”
“This is it,” Morelli said. “Four bodies.”
“And?”
“And I can’t tell you more than that.”
“Any forty-five-caliber bullets embedded in bone?”
Morelli stared at me. Answer enough.
“Anything to implicate Mo?” I asked.
Another stare.
Morelli’s eyes moved to a spot behind my left shoulder. I followed his eyes and found Ranger standing inches away.
“Yo,” Ranger said. “What’s the deal here?”
Morelli looked to the store. “Somebody buried four guys in Mo’s cellar. The last one was buried shallow.”
And he probably hadn’t been buried so long ago, I thought. Like maybe the night Mo stole Ranger’s car and smelled like sweat and dirt and something worse.
“I’ve got to move,” Morelli said. “I’ve got paperwork.”
I had to go, too. I felt like someone stuck a pin in me and let out the air. I fished car keys and a tissue out of my pocket. I blew my nose one last time and pumped myself back up for the walk to the car.
“How are you feeling?” I asked Ranger.
“Feeling fine.”
“Want to run tomorrow morning?”
He raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t ask the question. “See you at six.”
