04 Four to Score (7 page)

She extended her hand. “Helen Badijian. I'm the night manager. We spoke on the phone.”

Her brown hair was plaited in a single braid that reached to her shoulder blades, and her face was devoid of makeup with the exception of eyes lined in smudgy black liner. “I didn't get it straight on the phone,” Helen said. “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?”

“I can tell.”

“You can tell nothing.”

“You're still mad at me for not calling.”

“I am not mad!” I slammed my fist down on the table, making my beer bottle jump in place.

“I meant to call,” Morelli said.

I stood and gathered the empty plates and the silverware. CRASH, clang, clang! “You are a dysfunctional human being.”

“Oh yeah? Well, you're fucking frightening.”

“Are you saying you're afraid of me?”

“Any man in his right mind would be afraid of you. You know that scarlet letter thing? You should have a tattoo on your forehead that says 'Dangerous Woman. Stand Back!' ”

I stormed into the kitchen and slapped the dishes onto the countertop. “I happen to be a very nice person.” I turned on him and narrowed my eyes. “What's so dangerous about me?”

“Lots of things. You have that look. Like you want to pick out kitchen curtains.”

“I do not have that look!” I shouted. “And if I did it would not be for your kitchen curtains!”

Morelli backed me into the refrigerator. “And then there's the way you make my heart beat fast when you get excited like this.” He leaned into me and kissed the curve of my ear. “And your hair . . . I love your hair.” He kissed me again. “Dangerous hair, babe.”

Oh boy.

His hands were at my waist and his knee slid between mine. “Dangerous body.” His lips skimmed my mouth. “Dangerous lips.”

This wasn't supposed to be happening. I had decided against this. “Listen, Morelli, I appreciate the meatball sub and all, but . . .”

“Shut-up, Stephanie.”

And then he kissed me. His tongue touched mine, and I thought, Well, what the hell, maybe I am dangerous. Maybe this isn't such a bad idea. After all, there was a time when I'd wanted nothing more than a Morelli-induced orgasm. Well, here was my chance. It wasn't as if we were strangers. It wasn't as if I didn't deserve it.

“Maybe we should go into the bedroom,” I said. Get away from sharp knives in case something goes wrong and I'm tempted to stab him.

Morelli was wearing jeans with a navy T-shirt. Under the drape of the T-shirt he was wearing a pager and a .38. He unclipped his pager and put it in the refrigerator. He threw the bolt on the front door and kicked his shoes off in the hall.

“What about the gun?” I asked.

“The gun stays. Nothing's stopping me this time. You change your mind, and I'll shoot you.”

“Um, there's the issue of safety.”

He had his hand on his zipper. “Okay, I'll leave it on the nightstand.”

“I wasn't talking about the gun.”

Morelli stopped the progress of the zipper. “You're not on the pill?”

“No.” I didn't think sex once a millennium warranted it.

“What about . . .”

“I haven't got any of them, either.”

“Shit,” Morelli said.

“Nothing in your wallet?”

“You're going to find this hard to believe, but cops aren't required to carry emergency condoms.”

“Yes, but . . .”

“I'm not eighteen years old. I no longer score with nine out of ten women I meet.”

That was encouraging. “I don't suppose you'd want to tell me the current ratio?”

“Right now, it's zero for zero.”

“We could try a plastic sandwich bag.”

Morelli grinned. “You want me bad.”

“Temporary insanity.”

The grin widened. “I don't think so. You've wanted me for years. You've never gotten over having me touch you when you were six.”

I felt my mouth drop open and instantly closed it with a snap, leaning forward, hands fisted to keep from strangling him. “You are such a jerk!”

“I know,” Morelli said. “It's genetic. Good thing I'm so cute.” Morelli was many things. Cute wasn't one of them. Cocker spaniels were cute. Baby shoes were cute. Morelli wasn't cute. Morelli could look at water and make it boil. Cute was much too mild an adjective to describe Morelli.

He reached out and tugged at my hair. “I'd run to the store, but I'm guessing your door would be locked when I got back.”

“It's a good possibility.”

“Well, then I guess there's only one thing to do.”

I braced myself.

MORELLI PADDED into the living room and picked up the channel changer. “We can watch the ball game. The Yankees are playing. You got any ice cream?”

It took me a full sixty seconds to find my voice. “Raspberry Popsicles.”

“Perfect.”

I'd been replaced by a raspberry Popsicle, and Morelli didn't look all that unhappy. I, on the other hand, wanted to smash something. Morelli was right . . . I wanted him bad. He might have been right about the curtains too, but I didn't want to dwell on the curtains. Lust I could manage, but the very thought of wanting a relationship with Morelli made my blood run cold.

I handed him his Popsicle and sat in the overstuffed armchair, not trusting myself to share the couch, half afraid I'd go after his leg like a dog in heat.

Around nine-thirty I started looking at my watch. I was thinking about the clue under Mrs. Nowicki's porch, and I was wondering how I was going to get it. I could borrow a rake from my parents. Then I could extend the handle with something. I'd probably have to use a flashlight, and I'd have to work fast because people were bound to see the light. If I waited until two in the morning the chances of someone being up to see me were greatly reduced. On the other hand, a flashlight beam at two in the morning was much more suspicious than a flashlight beam at ten at night.

“Okay,” Morelli said, “what's going on? Why do you keep looking at your watch?”

I yawned and stretched. “Getting late.”

“It's nine-thirty.”

“I go to bed early.”

Morelli made tsk, tsk, tsk sounds. “You shouldn't fib to a cop.”

“I have things to do.”

“What sort of things?”

“Nothing special. Just . . . things.”

There was a knock at the door, and we both glanced in the direction of the sound.

Morelli looked at me speculatively. “You expecting someone?”

“It's probably old Mrs. Bestler from the third floor. Sometimes she forgets where she lives.” I put my eye to the security peephole. “Nope. Not Mrs. Bestler.” Mrs. Bestler didn't have big red hair like Little Orphan Annie. Mrs. Bestler didn't wear skin-tight black leather. Mrs. Bestler's breasts weren't in the shape of icecream cones.

I turned back to Morelli. “I don't suppose I could get you to wait in the bedroom for a moment or two . . .”

“Not on your life,” Morelli said. “I wouldn't miss this for anything.”

I threw the bolt and opened the door.

“I don't know why I'm doing this,” Sally said. “I'm like sucked into this bounty hunter trip.”

“The excitement of the chase,” I said.

“Yeah. That's it. It's the fucking chase.” He held a jar out to me. “I went back and got the clue. Borrowed one of those longhandled duster things. I decoded the note, but I don't know what it means.”

“Weren't there people around, wondering what you were doing?”

“When you look like this nobody asks. They're all happy as shit I'm not close-dancing on their front lawn with Uncle Fred.” He lifted his chin a fraction of an inch and gave Joe the once-over. “Who's this?”

“This is Joe Morelli. He was just leaving.”

“No I wasn't,” Morelli said.

Sally stepped forward. “If she says you're leaving then I think you're leaving.”

Morelli rocked back on his heels and grinned. “You gonna make me?”

“You think I can't?”

“I think somebody should help you pick out a bra. This year the rounded look is in.”

Sally looked down at his ice-cream cones. “They're my trademark. I'm making a fucking fortune off these babies.” He looked up and sucker-punched Morelli in the gut.

“Oof,” Morelli said. Then he narrowed his eyes and lunged at Sally.

“No!” I yelped, jumping between them.

There was some close-in scuffling. I got clipped on the chin and went down like a sack of sand. Both men stooped to pick me up.

“Back off,” I yelled, slapping them away. “Don't either of you touch me. I don't need help from you two infantile morons.”

“He insulted my breasts,” Sally said.

“That's what happens when you have breasts,” I shouted. “People insult them. Get used to it.”

Joe glared at Sally. “Who are you? And what's with this jar?”

Sally extended his hand. “Sally Sweet.”

Joe took the offered hand. “Joe Morelli.”

They stood like that for a moment or two, and I saw a red flush begin to creep into Sally's cheeks. The cords in Morelli's neck grew prominent. Their hands remained clasped and their bodies jerked in rigid struggle. The morons were arm wrestling.

“That does it,” I said. “I'm getting my gun. And I'm going to shoot the winner.”

Eyes slid in my direction.

“Actually, I've gotta run,” Sally said. “I've got a gig at the shore tonight, and Sugar's waiting in the car.”

“He's a musician,” I told Morelli.

Morelli took a step backward. “It's always a treat to meet Stephanie's friends.”

“Yeah,” Sally said, “my fucking pleasure.”

Morelli was grinning when I closed and locked the door. “You never disappoint me,” he said.

“What was that wrestling match about?”

“We were playing.” He glanced down at the jar. “Tell me about this.”

“Maxine Nowicki has been leaving clues for Eddie Kuntz. Sort of a revenge-driven scavenger hunt. The clues are always in code. That's where Sally comes in. He's good at cracking codes.” I opened the jar, removed the paper and read the message. “ 'Our spot. Wednesday at three.' ”

“They have a spot,” Morelli said. “Makes me feel all romantic again. Maybe I should make a fast run to the drugstore.”