'Are you with the police?'
I usually try to avoid answering that question directly. 'Bond enforcement,' I said, leaving Helen to believe whatever. Not that I would lie about police affiliation. Imitating a police officer isn't smart. Still, if someone misunderstood because they weren't paying attention . . . that wasn't my problem.
Helen looked at Maxine's photo and nodded her head. 'Yep, that's her. Only she's a lot more tan now.'
So I knew two things. Maxine was alive, and she had time to sit in the sun.
'She bought a couple packs of cigarettes,' Helen said. 'Menthol. And a large Coke. Said she had a long drive ahead of her. I asked her if she was going to buy a lottery ticket because that's what she always did . . . bought a ticket every week. She said no. Said she didn't need to win the lottery anymore.'
'Anything else?'
'That was it.'
'You notice the car she was driving?'
'Sorry. I didn't notice.'
I left my card and asked Helen to call if Maxine returned. I expected the card would go in the trash the moment I pulled out of the lot, but I left one anyway. For the most part, people would talk to me when confronted face-to- face but were unwilling to take a more aggressive step like initiating a phone call. Initiating a phone call felt like snitching, and snitching wasn't cool.
I rolled out of the lot and drove past the hot spots . . . Margie's house, Maxine's apartment, Kuntz's house, Mama Nowicki's house and the diner. Nothing seemed suspicious. I was itching to get the next clue, but there were people out on Howser Street. Mrs. Nowicki's neighbor was watering his lawn. A couple of kids were doing curb jumps on skateboards. Better to wait until dark, I thought. Two more hours and the sun would go down and everyone would move inside. Then I could skulk around in the shadows and, I hoped, not have to answer any questions.
I returned to my apartment and found Joe Morelli sitting on the floor in my hall, back to the wall, long legs stretched in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He had a brown paper bag next to him, and the entire hall smelled like meatballs and marinara.
I gave him the silent question look.
'Stopped by to say hello,' Morelli said, getting to his feet.
My gaze dropped to the bag.
Morelli grinned. 'Dinner.'
'Smells good.'
'Meatball subs from Pino's. They're still hot. I just got here.'
Ordinarily I wouldn't let Morelli into my apartment, but it would be a sin against everything holy to turn away Pino's meatballs.
I unlocked the door, and Morelli followed me in. I dumped my shoulder bag on the small hall table and swung into the kitchen. I took two plates from the wall cabinet and set them on the counter. 'I'm having a hard time believing this is entirely social.'
'Maybe not entirely,' Morelli said, close enough for me to feel his breath on the back of my neck. 'I thought you might want a medical update on Maxine Nowicki's mother.'
I put the subs on plates and divided up the tub of coleslaw. 'Is it going to ruin my appetite?'
Morelli moved off to the fridge in search of beer. 'She was scalped. Like in the old cowboy and Indian movies. Only in this case, not enough was removed to kill her.'
'That's sick! Who would do such a thing?'
'Good question. Nowicki isn't saying.'
I took the plates to the table. 'What about prints on the knife?'
'None.'
'Not even Mrs. Nowicki's?'
'Correct. Not even Mrs. Nowicki's.'
I ate my sub and thought about this latest turn of events. Scalped. Yuk.
'You're looking for her daughter,' Morelli said. Statement, not question.
'Yep.'
'Think there could be a tie-in?'
'Two days ago I interviewed one of Maxine's friends from the diner. She had a big bandage on her hand. Said she'd whacked her finger off in a kitchen accident.'
'What's this friend's name?'
'Margie something. Lives on Barnet. Works the dinner shift at the Silver Dollar.'
'Any other mutilations I should know about?'
I tried some of the coleslaw. 'Nope. That's it. It's been a slow week.'
Morelli watched me. 'You're holding something back.'
'What makes you say that?'
