TWELVE
IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON by the time I swapped out the RAV for a four-door Chevy Colorado pickup. I don’t usually buy trucks, but the price was right, and I didn’t have a lot of choices. Apparently, a couple kids had been driving it, smoking weed, and the seat had caught fire. There wasn’t much mechanical damage, but the interior was trashed. New seats had been installed, but the smell of seriously smoked cannabis remained.
I’d removed the Rangeman tracking device from the RAV undercarriage, slipped it into the Chevy’s glove box, and called the vehicle change in to the control room. I called Morelli to tell him about the change, but he wasn’t picking up his cell. Probably, the electromagnet at the junkyard was interfering. Or maybe he saw the call was from me, and he threw his phone into the Delaware River.
I was in a bad place with Morelli. Technically, I hadn’t done anything wrong, since I wasn’t in a committed relationship with him. That fact didn’t stop my stomach from frequently turning queasy, because I had an ongoing relationship with two men I really cared about. And it was obvious Morelli was the more vulnerable of the two. Ranger accepted the limitations, took full advantage when he had the opportunity, and rolled with the rest. Morelli was capable of none of that. Morelli’s temper and libido ran in the red zone. And the truth is, while Morelli was sometimes more difficult to live with, I preferred the transparency of his emotions.
My dilemma was that I wanted Morelli to know Ranger had come to Hawaii on legitimate business, but I was afraid the conversation would lead to an ugly discussion about sleeping arrangements. And it was becoming obvious Morelli didn’t want to have that discussion any more than I did.
I drove my truck off the lot and headed for Hamilton Township. If there was anything that could partially push thoughts of Morelli aside, it was thoughts of Joyce Barnhardt.
Barnhardt was unfinished business. I’d hated her in grade school and high school, and I’d found her naked and woman-on-top on my brand-new husband on my brand-new dining room table. In the end, it had turned out she’d done me a favor, because the man was a philandering jerk. Still, her behavior hadn’t gotten better after that, so I really shouldn’t care if she was dead or alive, but it turns out I did care. Go figure.
I cruised through Joyce’s neighborhood, which was empty as usual. I idled in front of her town house. No sign of life inside. I left Mercado Mews and returned to the Burg.
The Barnhardts live on Liberty Street. Joyce’s mom teaches third grade, and her father installs air-conditioning units for Ruger Air. The Barnhardts keep their house and lawn tidy, and their lives private. Grandma says Joyce’s father is an odd duck, but I wouldn’t know personally. I’ve never had any interactions with Joyce’s father, and I learned early on to avoid Joyce’s mother. Her mother turned a blind eye to Joyce’s many shortcomings. Pleasant for Joyce, I suppose, but difficult for the kid who got Joyce boogers on her sandwich.
I checked out the Barnhardts’ house, made a U-turn, and crept past a second time. The house felt benign. At least as benign as was possible, considering Joyce had lived there. If circumstances had been different, I might have knocked on the door and questioned the Barnhardts.
Because I was in the neighborhood, I stopped to see if my mother was sober and making dinner.
“She’s sleeping it off,” Grandma said, meeting me at the door. “I ordered pizza. You’re welcome to stay. I got three extra-large pies from Pino’s, and they just got delivered.”
My father was in the living room watching television, one of the pizza boxes on his lap, a beer bottle stuck between his legs. I sat in the kitchen with Grandma and pulled off a piece with pepperoni, extra cheese.
“What’s the word on Joyce Barnhardt?” I asked.
“No one’s seen her. Grace Rizzo thinks Joyce was having an affair with the jeweler. Grace’s daughter works across the street at the nail salon, and she said Joyce would go into the jewelry store and wouldn’t come out for a long time. And once the closed sign got put up on the front door when Joyce was there.”
“Frank Korda was married. Hard to believe he’d press charges against Joyce and create controversy if he was sleeping with her.”
“I don’t know. Anyway, they released his body already,” Grandma said. “There’s a viewing scheduled at the funeral parlor for tomorrow night. It’s gonna be a full house. Not everyone gets compacted at the junkyard. I heard the TV people might even be there.”
I felt a twitch run the length of my spine. I didn’t share Grandma’s enthusiasm for viewings.
“I got an appointment to get my hair and nails done tomorrow morning, so I look good,” Grandma said.
I sat in the parking lot to my apartment building with half a pizza on the seat next to me and my motor running. I didn’t see any Scions or Town Cars, so I felt safe from two-thirds of the people who wanted to kill me. I didn’t know what kind of car Razzle Dazzle drove, and that worried me. I had a stun gun that was low on juice, and a full can of hair spray. That was pretty much my whole bag of tricks for self-defense.
I dialed Morelli, and this time he answered.
“Are you hungry?” I asked him. “I have half an extra-large Pino’s pizza.”
“Do I have to talk to you?”
“No.”
“Good, because I’m not ready to talk to you.”
“Understood. Are you still working?”
“I’m home,” Morelli said. “I had to walk Bob and give him dinner.”
“So can you come over now?”
“Yeah.”
I was going to rot in hell. Did I love Morelli? Yes. Did I miss him? Yes. Was that why I was inviting him over for pizza? No. I was inviting him over because I was afraid to go into my apartment alone. Morelli was big and strong and carried a gun that actually had bullets in it. Jeez, I was such a loser!
I cut the engine and made my way across the lot with the pizza box. I waited in the foyer until I saw Morelli’s SUV. I took the stairs and waited in the hall in front of my door. The elevator doors opened, Morelli walked out, and I smiled at him.
“Did you just get here?” he asked.
I bit into my lower lip. I couldn’t do it.
“No,” I said. “I’ve been waiting for you. I was afraid to go into my apartment.”
“So you lured me here with pizza?”
“No. I brought the pizza home for you. I just had a sort of panic attack when I drove into the lot.”
“Should I go in with gun drawn?”
“Your choice, but it might not be a bad idea.”
Morelli looked at me. “Who do you think is in there?”
“Could be most anyone, the way things are going. Could be Razzle Dazzle.”
“What’s a razzle dazzle?”
“According to Berger, he’s a killer nutcase.”
Morelli pulled his gun out, unlocked my door, and pushed it open. He did a walk-through and came back to me. “No Razzle Dazzle.” He pulled me into the apartment, closed and locked the door behind me, and holstered his gun.
“What kind of pizza is that?” he asked.
“Pepperoni with extra cheese.” I put the box on the counter and flipped the lid. “Sorry, I don’t have any beer.”
“Just as well,” Morelli said, folding a piece and biting in. “There’s a chance I’ll have to go back to work tonight.”
“You’re always working.”
“If people would stop shooting, stabbing, and compacting each other, my hours would cut back.”
