“What uh-oh?”
“I don’t know how to break this to you, but the floor is moving. Either we’re having an earthquake, or else I’m drunk.”
“You only had three schnapps!”
“I’m not much of a drinker. And I didn’t have supper.”
My voice sounded like it was resonating from a tin can, far far away.
“Oh boy,” Morelli said. “How drunk are you?”
I blinked and squinted at him. He had four eyes. I hated when that happened. “You have four eyes.”
“That’s not a good sign.”
“Maybe I should go home now,” I said. Then I threw up.
I woke up with a blinding headache and my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I was wearing a flannel nightshirt, which I dimly remembered crawling into. I was pretty sure I was alone at the time, although the evening was fuzzy from the third schnapps on.
What I clearly remembered was that a Morelli-induced orgasm had once again eluded me. And I was fairly certain Morelli hadn’t fared any better.
He’d done the responsible thing and had insisted I sober up some before I went home. We’d logged a couple miles in the cold air. He’d poured coffee into me, force-fed me scrambled eggs and toast, and then he’d driven me to my apartment building. He’d delivered me to my door, and I think he said good night before the nightshirt crawling-into.
I shuffled into the kitchen, got some coffee going and used it to wash down aspirin. I took a shower, drank a glass of orange juice, brushed my teeth three times. I took a peek at myself in the mirror and groaned. Black circles under bloodshot eyes, pasty hungover skin. Not a nice picture. “Stephanie,” I said, “you’re no good at drinking.”
The headache disappeared at midmorning. By noon I was feeling almost human. I took myself into the kitchen and was standing in front of the refrigerator, staring at the crisper drawer, contemplating the creation of the universe, when the phone rang.
My first thought was that it might be Morelli. My second thought was that I definitely didn’t want to talk to him. Let the machine take the message, I decided.
“I know you’re there,” Morelli said. “You might as well answer. You’re going to have to talk to me sooner or later.”
Better later.
“I have news on Mo’s lawyer.”
I snatched at the phone. “Hello?”
“You’re going to love this one,” Morelli said.
I closed my eyes. I was having a bad premonition on the identity of the lawyer. “Don’t tell me.”
I could feel Morelli smiling at the other end of the line. “Dickie Orr.”
Dickie Orr. My ex-husband. The horse’s ass. This was a harpoon to the brain on a day when there was already impaired activity.
Dickie was a graduate of Newark Law. He was with the firm Kreiner and Kreiner in the old Shuman Building, and what he lacked in talent, he compensated for in creative overbilling. He was acquiring a reputation for being a hotshot attorney. I was convinced this was due to his inflated pay schedule rather than his court record. People wanted to believe they got what they paid for.
“When did you learn this?”
“About ten minutes ago.”
“Is Mo turning himself in?”
“Thinking about it. Guess he’s hired himself a dealmaker.”
“He’s suspected of murdering eight men. What kind of a deal does he want? Lobster every Friday while he’s on death row?”
I got a box of Frosted Flakes from the kitchen cupboard and shoved some into my mouth.
“What are you eating?” Morelli wanted to know.
“Frosted Flakes.”
“That’s kid cereal.”
“So what does Mo want?”
“I don’t know. I’m going over to talk to Dickie. Maybe you’d like to tag along.”
I ate another fistful of cereal. “Is there a price?”
“There’s always a price. Meet you at the coffee shop in the Shuman Building in half an hour.”
I considered the state of my hair. “I might be a few minutes late.”
“I’ll wait,” Morelli said.
I could make the Shuman Building in ten minutes if I got all the lights right. It would take at least twenty
