driving. And he handed me one of them post office mailing envelopes, and he said I should give the envelope to you. It all happened so fast. And as soon as he drove away I remembered that it was a rabbit that set fire to your car. Do you think it could be the same rabbit?”
Ordinarily I would have asked questions. What kind of car and did you get the plate? In this case the questions were useless. The cars were always different. And they were always stolen.
I took the sealed envelope from her, carefully opened it, and looked inside. Photos. Snapshots of me, sleeping on my parents’ couch. They were taken last night. Someone had let themselves into the house and stood there, watching me sleep. And then photographed me. All without my knowledge. Whoever it was had picked a good night. I’d slept like the dead thanks to the giant margarita and the sleepless night before.
“What’s in the envelope?” Grandma wanted to know. “Looks like photographs.”
“Nothing very interesting,” I said. “I think it was a prank rabbit.”
My mother looked like she knew better, but she didn’t say anything. By the end of the night we’ll have a fresh batch of cookies, and she’ll have done all the ironing. That’s my mother’s form of stress management.
I borrowed the Buick, and I drove to Morelli’s house. He lived just outside the Burg, in a neighborhood closely resembling the Burg, less than a quarter mile from my parents‘. He’d inherited the house from his aunt, and it turned out to be a good fit. Life is surprising. Joe Morelli, the scourge of Trenton High, biker, babe magnet, barroom brawler, now a semirespectable property owner. Somehow, over the years, Morelli had grown up. No small feat for a male member of that family.
Bob rushed at me when he saw me at the door. His eyes were happy, and he pranced around and wagged his tail. Morelli was more contained.
“What’s up?” Morelli said, checking out my T-shirt.
“Something very creepy just happened to me.”
“Boy, that’s a surprise.”
“Creepier than normal.”
“Do I need a drink before you tell me this?”
I handed him the photos.
“Nice,” he said, “but I’ve seen you sleep on several occasions.”
“These were taken last night without my knowledge. A big rabbit stopped Grandma on the street today and told her to give these to me.”
He raised his eyes to look at me. “Are you telling me someone let themselves into your parents’ house and took these pictures while you were asleep?”
“Yes.” I’d been trying to stay calm, but deep inside I was ruined. The idea that someone, Abruzzi himself, or one of his men, had stood over me and watched me sleep had me completely unnerved. I felt violated and vulnerable.
“This guy has a lot of balls,” Morelli said. His voice was calm enough when he said it, but the line of his mouth tightened, and I knew he was struggling to control his anger. A younger Morelli would have thrown a chair through a window.
“I don’t mean to be critical of the Trenton police,” I said, “but wouldn’t you think someone could catch this goddamn rabbit? He’s riding around, handing out photos.”
“Were the doors locked last night?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of lock?”
“A dead bolt.”
“It doesn’t take an expert long to open a dead bolt. Can you get your parents to put a security chain on?”
“I can try. I don’t want to scare them with these photos. They love their house, and they feel safe there. I don’t want to take that away from them.”
“Yes, but you’re being stalked by a crazy person.”
