It was almost nine o’clock and I was slumping around in a ratty T-shirt that used to be Morelli’s, navy sweats, and fuzzy pink slippers. I’d cleaned Rex’s cage and given him fresh food and water. I was on my second cup of coffee. I’d eaten the left-over lamb chop. I was debating between scrubbing the toilet or going back to bed. And my phone rang.
“I just got a call from Emma Brewer,” my mother said. “She’s so excited about you and Dave.”
“Emma?”
“His mother. She said you’ve been seeing each other.”
“I let him use my kitchen.”
“Two days in a row! Did he make you lamb chops? Emma said his specialty is lamb chops.”
“Yeah, he makes great lamb chops. Morelli was here, and he loved them.”
“You let Joseph Morelli interfere with your date?”
“It wasn’t a date.”
“Stephanie, you have a chance with this nice young man. You should get your hair done. Get a manicure. I think he’s interested. It’s going nowhere with Morelli. You’ll never get him to marry you. I thought it would be nice if I invited the Brewers to dinner,” my mother said. “You and Dave, and Emma and Herb, and …”
“No! Do not do that. Dave and I are just friends. In fact we’re
“That’s not what I hear from Emma. I think he’s taken with you.”
“Gosh, I’d really like to talk more, but I was in the middle of scrubbing my toilet. I’ve got to go. Things to do.”
And I hung up. And then as penance for all the lusting I’d been doing, and for hanging up on my mother, and for not liking Dave more, I scrubbed the entire bathroom.
An hour later I was showered and dressed in my usual jeans, sneakers, and T-shirt, and I was standing just outside my apartment building’s back door. I did a quick scan for Regina Bugle’s Lexus, and when I didn’t see it I crossed to my borrowed Jeep.
I got within a couple feet of the Jeep and realized someone was behind the wheel. My first reaction was confusion. My second was that this was not good. The man behind the wheel was in his early sixties. He was wearing a collared knit shirt, his eyes were open and fixed, his head was twisted at an odd angle, and there were rope burns on his neck. The note pinned to his shirt read FOR STEPHANIE.
THIRTY-ONE
I PUT MY HAND OUT to steady myself and immediately pulled it back, not wanting to touch the Jeep. I stumbled back, my heart knocking around in my chest, and I walked on unsteady legs to the security of the lobby. I called Morelli and Ranger, and I stayed in the lobby until a Rangeman security car arrived three minutes later. A Trenton police car arrived two minutes after that.
Ranger and Morelli rolled in a couple minutes after the squad car. They parked, glanced over at me, and went directly to the car with the murder victim. They stood hands on hips, talking to the two men who were the first on the scene.
Ranger and Morelli were professionals and they had a professional relationship. I wouldn’t go so far as to say they liked each other, but they’d worked together before and almost always managed to be civil. Morelli thought Ranger was a wild card. And he was right. Ranger thought Morelli was a good cop. And he was right.
A uniform cordoned off the area with crime scene tape. The M.E. pulled in and parked. There were two EMT trucks idling at the edge of the lot. I’d stayed close to the back door, and one of the Rangeman guys had taken a position two feet from me, standing at parade rest. No doubt in my mind he’d take a bullet for me rather than face Ranger over a dead Stephanie. I waited at the door until Ranger and Morelli walked back to me. My teeth had stopped chattering, and I was moving from scared to angry. I had enough going on in my life without this.
“It’s Gordon Kulicki,” Morelli said to me. “By our best guess this happened somewhere around two in the morning. You’ve seen the note. Did you know Kulicki?”
“No. Did he have ties to Dugan?”
“He was Dugan’s banker. And they played poker together every Thursday night. Dugan, Lucarelli, Kulicki, Sam Grip, and a couple floaters.”
I watched the forensic photographer work around the Jeep. “Sam Grip should take a vacation far, far away.”
“Sam Grip hasn’t been seen in weeks,” Morelli said.
“Strangling someone and then breaking their neck seems like a lot of work,” I said. “Why doesn’t this guy just shoot his victims?”
“He could be leaving a calling card,” Morelli said. “Or Dave could have the answer. Shooting is messy. If your victim doesn’t bleed there’s not as much cleanup. Either way, these aren’t crimes of passion. These are planned executions.”
“And I’m involved.”
The line of Morelli’s mouth was tight. “Yeah.”
I looked over at Ranger. “Sorry about your Jeep. Who won the pool?”
“Technically you didn’t destroy it,” Ranger said. “One of my men will bring you a replacement.”
Ranger left to go back to Rangeman, and Morelli was silent until Ranger was in his car.
“Before Nick Alpha got sent to prison he was in business with Lou Dugan,” Morelli finally said. “Mostly prostitution and running numbers. Nick was paroled the week before Dugan disappeared. I spoke to someone who knows Nick, and he said Nick never got over his brother’s death. He said Nick came out of prison a wack job.”
“So now what?”
