The noise blasted out and then the man’s voice. Morelli’s face showed no expression while he listened to the message. Cop face, I thought. He ran the tape through a second time before shutting the machine off.
“Not Mickey Maglio,” he said.
“No.” A cop would know better than to have his voice recorded.
“You have any clue you were being followed?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Did you pick up a tail tonight?”
“No.”
“There’s a record store, grunge shop across from the Shuman Building. It’s got some video machines in it. It’s a kid hangout. The call probably originated from there. I’ll send someone over to ask a few questions.”
“Guess the crashing and scuffling we heard didn’t come from your neighbor’s dog.”
“Whoever was out there must have knocked the garbage can over trying to get a better look.”
“You don’t seem very upset by this.”
There were dishes drying in a drainer on the sink. A dinner plate, a cereal bowl, a couple glasses. Morelli grabbed the dinner plate and threw it hard against the opposite wall, where it smashed into a million pieces.
“Okay,” I said. “So I was wrong.”
“You want to stay for dinner?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Morelli made chicken sounds.
“Very adult,” I said. “Very attractive.”
Morelli grinned.
I paused with my hand on the door handle. “I don’t suppose you want to tell me more about your conversation with Dickie.”
“No more to tell,” Morelli said.
Yeah, right.
“And don’t follow me home,” I said. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“Who said I was going to follow you home?”
“You have your car keys in your hand, and I know the body language. You look like my mother.”
The grin widened. “You sure you don’t want an escort?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” The only thing worse than being scared out of my wits was having Morelli know it.
Morelli opened the door and glanced at the Mazda. “Looks like you’ve got one of Bucky’s loaners.”
“Bucky remembered me from high school. Said you gave me quite a recommendation on the men’s room wall at Mario’s.”
“That was during my reckless youth,” Morelli said. “These days I’m the soul of discretion.”
It was still early, and I couldn’t get excited about going home and fixing dinner for one. The alternatives were Cluck in a Bucket or mooching a meal from my parents. I was afraid I might be recognized and remembered at Cluck in a Bucket, so I opted for family.
My mother looked flustered when she came to the door. “Whose car is that?” she asked.
“It’s a loaner from a garage. My car is broken again.”
“Hah!” my father said from the dining room.
“We were just sitting down,” my mother said. “Roast leg of lamb with mashed potatoes and asparagus.”
“Is that Stephanie?” Grandma Mazur hollered from the table. “Have you got your gun? I want to show it around.”
“I’ve got my gun, but you can’t see it,” I said.
There was a man sitting next to Grandma Mazur.
“This here’s Fred,” Grandma said. “He’s my boyfriend.”
Fred nodded to me. “Howdy-do.”
Fred looked to be about three hundred years old. Gravity had pulled the skin from the top of his head down to his neck, and Fred had tucked it into his shirt collar.
I took my seat across from Grandma and noticed a set of false teeth neatly placed beside Fred’s salad fork.
“Those are my choppers,” Fred said. “Got them for free from the VA, but they don’t fit right. Can’t eat with them in.”
“Had to put his lamb through the meat grinder,” Grandma said. “That’s what the lump of gray stuff is on his plate.”
