over there?”
“No television cameras,” Morelli said. “And the photographer is the department’s forensics guy.”
“Hunh,” Lula said. “Let’s get this over with then. It’s not like I was sitting around thinking I’d like to go look at a dead guy with no head. I got sensibilities, you know. The thing is, I hate dead guys.”
“It’s just a fast look,” Morelli said. “And then you can go home.”
“After I talk to the television people.”
“Yeah,” Morelli said. “Whatever. Follow me. We have the body in one of the freezers downstairs.”
“Say what? I’m not going downstairs to no freezer compartments. That’s too creepy. How many bodies does this guy have in his freezer?”
“I don’t know,” Morelli said. “I didn’t ask, and I didn’t look. Would you rather see this body in the morgue?”
“Hell no. Only way you’re getting me in a morgue is toes up.”
“Can we get on with it?” Morelli said. “I’ve had a long day and my intestines are a mess.”
“I hear you,” Lula said. “I got issues, too. I think there must be something going around.”
“I’ll wait here,” I said. “No reason for me to tag along.”
“The hell,” Lula said. “I’m needing moral support. I wasn’t even gonna come until Morelli told me you’d do this with me.”
I cut a look at Morelli. “You said that?”
“More or less.”
“You’re scum.”
“I know,” Morelli said. “Can we please go downstairs now?”
The funeral home had originally been a large Victorian house. It had been renovated, and rooms and garages had been added, but it still had the bones of the original structure. We followed Eli Morton down a hallway off the lobby. To our right was the kitchen. To our left was the door to the basement.
A couple years ago, the basement had been destroyed in a fire. It had all been rebuilt and was now nicely finished off and divided into rooms that opened off a center hall. Morton led us to the room farthest from the stairs.
“I have three cold-storage drawers and three freezer drawers in here,” Morton said. “I almost never use the freezer drawers. They were put in by the previous owner.”
The floor was white tile, and the walls were painted white. The fronts to the freezer drawers were stainless steel. Gazarra pulled a freezer drawer out, and it was filled with tubs of ice cream.
“Costco had a sale,” Morton said. “Your guy is in drawer number three.”
He rolled number three out, Lula gaped at the body without the head, and Lula fainted. Crash. Onto the white tile floor. I didn’t faint because I didn’t look. I walked in staring at my feet, and I never raised my eyes.
“Crap,” Morelli said. “Get her out of here. Someone take her feet. I’ve got the top half.”
Gazarra and Morelli lugged Lula into the hall and stepped back. Lula’s eyes snapped open, and we all stared down at her.
“You fainted,” I told her.
“Did not.”
“You’re on the floor.”
“Well, anybody would have fainted. That was disgusting. People aren’t supposed to be going around without their head,” Lula said. “It’s not right.”
“Was that Chipotle?” Morelli asked.
“Might have been,” Lula said. “Hard to tell with the frost on him, but it looked like the same clothes. I don’t know where they been keeping him, but he got freezer burn.”
Morelli and Gazarra helped Lula to her feet.
“Are you going to be okay?” Morelli asked her.
“I could use a drink,” Lula said. “A big one.”
“I have some whiskey,” Morton said, leading the way up the stairs and into the kitchen.
Morton poured out a tumbler of whiskey for Lula and took a shot for himself. The rest of us settled for a rain check.
“Does that count as an ID?” I asked Morelli.
“Good enough for me.”
“Where do you suppose Marco the Maniac has been keeping the body? It was frozen straight out. That means it was kept in a commercial freezer.”
“There are commercial freezers all over the place.”
“Still, it’s not like Marco and his partner are just hanging out around the house here. They know someone well enough to let them store a dead guy in the freezer.”
“There are probably dead guys in half the commercial freezers in Trenton,” Morelli said.
Lula chugged the whiskey. “This is good stuff,” she said. “I’m feeling much better. Maybe I need just a teensy bit more.”
Morelli got the bottle off the counter and poured out more for Lula. He draped an arm across my shoulders and brought me into the hallway.
“She’s going to be in no shape to talk to the reporters,” he said. “You’re going to have to drive her directly home.”
“Gotcha.”
He leaned in to me. “I could have whispered that in your ear in the kitchen, but I thought this was more romantic.”
“You think this is romantic?”
“No, but it’s all I’ve got,” Morelli said. “This is the highlight of my week.”
“I thought you were dating Joyce.”
“If I was dating Joyce, I’d have fang marks in my neck and I’d be down a couple quarts of blood.”
“Not to change the subject, but why would Marco take a chance by coming out and dropping the body off on the porch? Why not throw it in the river, or bury it, or make it into hamburger? He’s a butcher, right?”
“Good question. Of course, he’s known as Marco the Maniac, so this might not have been a rational act.” Morelli kissed me just above the collar of my T-shirt. “Do you think we can overlook the fact that we’re in a funeral home for a moment?”
“No. For one thing, Gazarra is trying to get your attention.”
Gazarra was waving from the front door. “Can the ME take over?” Gazarra hollered.
“Yes,” Morelli said. “I’m done with Chipotle for now.”
“I’m going to get the cab,” I told Morelli. “I’ll bring it around to the front door, and you can hustle Lula into it.”
I got the key from Lula’s purse and jogged to the lot. My father’s cab was white with CAB printed in red all over it. CAB was an acronym for a small company named Capitol Area Buslettes.
I got into the cab, cranked it over, and drove out of the lot. I stopped in front of the funeral home, and an elderly man got in the backseat.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m off duty.”
“Two Hundred Eldridge Road,” he said. “It’s one of the new high-rises down by the river.”
“This is a private cab. You have to get out.”
“But I called for a cab. And now here you are.”
“You didn’t call for my cab.”
Morelli and Gazarra had their arms locked across Lula’s back. They whisked her down the stairs and across the sidewalk without her feet touching once. They came up to the cab parked at the curb and looked inside.
“What’s going on?” Morelli wanted to know.
“He thinks I’m driving a cab.”
“Cupcake,” Morelli said, “you are driving a cab.”
“Yes, but… oh hell, just dump Lula in with him.” Morelli stuffed Lula into the backseat with the man, leaned through the driver’s side window and kissed me, and waved me away.
“Who’s this?” Lula asked.
