One for the Money (19 page)

“Don't like this,” Jackie said. “Don't like being cooped up in institutions. Whole fucking place smells like canned green beans.”

“Spend much time in institutions, have you?”

“My share.”

She didn't seem inclined to elaborate, and I didn't actually want to know anyway. I fidgeted in my chair, looked around the room, and spotted Dorsey talking to the clerk. He was nodding, getting answers to questions. The clerk pointed to Jackie and me, and Dorsey ambled over.

“How's Lula?” he asked. “Any news?”

“She's in surgery.”

He settled himself into the seat next to me. “We haven't been able to pick up Ramirez yet. You have any idea where he might be? He say anything interesting before you started recording?”

“He said he was watching me pull Lula through the window. And he knew the police were in my apartment. He must have been close.”

“Probably on a car phone.”

I agreed.

“Here's my card.” He wrote a number on the back. “This is my home phone. You see Ramirez, or you get another call, get in touch right away.”

“It'll be hard for him to hide,” I said. “He's a local celebrity. He's easy to recognize.”

Dorsey returned his pen to an inside jacket pocket, and I got a glimpse of his hip holster. “There are a lot of people in this city who'll go out of their way to hide and protect Benito Ramirez. We've been this route with him before.”

“Yes, but you've never had a tape.”

“True. The tape might make a difference.”

“Won't make no difference,” Jackie said when Dorsey left. “Ramirez do what he want. Nobody cares about him beating on a whore.”

“We care,” I said to Jackie. “We can stop him. We can get Lula to testify against him.”

“Hunh,” Jackie said. “You don't know much.”

It was three before we were allowed to see Lula. She hadn't regained consciousness and was in ICU. Our visit was restricted to ten minutes each. I squeezed her hand and promised her she'd be okay. When my time was up, I told Jackie I had an appointment I needed to keep. She said she was staying until Lula opened her eyes.

I got to Sunny's a half hour before Gazarra. I paid my fee, bought a box of shells, and went back to the range. I shot a few with the hammer pulled back, and then settled in for serious practice. I envisioned Ramirez in front of the target. I aimed for his heart, his balls, his nose.

Gazarra came on the range at four-thirty. He dropped a new box of shells on my loading table and took the booth next to me. By the time I was done with both boxes I was pleasantly relaxed and feeling comfortable with my gun. I loaded five rounds and slid the gun back into my bag. I tapped Gazarra on the shoulder and motioned that I was done.

He holstered his Glock and followed me out. We waited until we were in the parking lot to talk.

“I heard the call come in,” he said. “Sorry I couldn't get to you. I was in the middle of something. I saw Dorsey at the station. He said you were cool. Said you switched on the recorder when Ramirez came on the line.”

“You should have seen me five minutes before. I couldn't remember 911.”

“I don't suppose you'd consider taking a vacation?”

“It's crossed my mind.”

“You got your gun in your pocketbook?”

“Hell no, that would be breaking the law.”

Gazarra sighed. “Just don't let anyone see it, okay? And call me if you get spooked. You're welcome to stay with Shirley and me for as long as you want.”

“I appreciate it.”

“I checked on the plate number you gave me. The plates belong to a vehicle seized for a parking violation, impounded, and never retrieved.”

“I saw Morelli driving said vehicle.”

“He probably borrowed it.”

We both smiled at the thought of Morelli driving a vehicle stolen from the impound yard.

“What about Carmen Sanchez? Does she have a car?”

Gazarra dug a piece of paper out of his pocket. "This is the make and her license number. It hasn't been impounded.

“You want me to follow you home? Make sure your apartment's safe?”

“Not necessary. Half the building's population is probably still camped out in my hall.”

What I really dreaded was facing the blood. I was going to have to walk into my apartment and face the grisly aftermath of Ramirez's handiwork. Lula's blood would still be on the phone, the walls, the countertops, and the floor. If the sight of that blood triggered a renewed rush of hysteria, I wanted to deal with it alone, in my own way.

I parked in the lot and slipped into the building unnoticed. Good timing, I thought. The halls were clear. Everyone was eating dinner. I had my defense spray in my hand and my gun wedged under my waistband. I turned the key in the lock and felt my stomach lurch. Just get it over with, I told myself. Barge right in, check under the bed for rapists, pull on some rubber gloves, and clean up the mess.

I took a tentative step into my foyer, and realized someone was in my apartment. Someone was cooking in the kitchen, making cozy cooking sounds, clanking pots and running water. Under the clanking I could hear food sizzling in a frying pan.

“Hello,” I called, gun now in hand, barely able to hear myself over the pounding of my heart. “Who's here?”

Morelli sauntered out of the kitchen. “Just me. Put the gun away. We need to talk.”

“Jesus! You are so fucking arrogant. Did it ever occur to you I might shoot you with this gun?”

“No. It never occurred to me.”

“I've been practicing. I'm a pretty good shot.”

He moved behind me, closed and locked the door. “Yeah, I'll bet you're hell on wheels blasting the shit out of those paper men.”

“What are you doing in my apartment?”

“I'm cooking dinner.” He went back to his sautéing. “Rumor has it you've had a tough day.”

My mind was spinning. I'd been wracking my brain, trying to find Morelli, and here he was in my apartment. He even had his back turned to me. I could shoot him in the butt.

“You don't want to shoot an unarmed man,” he said, reading my thoughts. “The state of New Jersey frowns on that sort of thing. Take it from someone who knows.”

All right, so I wouldn't shoot him. I'd zap him with the Sure Guard. His neurotransmitters wouldn't know what hit them.

Morelli added some fresh sliced mushrooms to the pan and continued to cook, sending heavenly food smells wafting my way. He was stirring red and green peppers, onions, and mushrooms, and my killer instincts were weakening in direct proportion to the amount of saliva pooling in my mouth.

I found myself rationalizing a decision to hold off on the spray, telling myself I needed to hear him out, but the ugly truth was my motives weren't nearly so worthy. I was hungry and depressed, and I was a lot more frightened of Ramirez than I was of Joe Morelli. In fact, I suppose in a bizarre way, I felt safe with Morelli in my apartment.

One crisis at a time, I decided. Have some dinner. Gas him for dessert.

He turned and looked at me. “You want to talk about it?”

“Ramirez almost killed Lula and hung her on my fire escape.”

“Ramirez is like a fungus that feeds on fear. You ever see him in the ring? His fans love him because he goes the distance unless the referee calls the fight. He plays with his opponent. Loves to draw blood. Loves to punish. And all the time he's punishing, he's talking to his victim in that soothing voice of his, telling them how much worse it's going to get, telling them he'll only stop when they beg to get knocked out. He's like that with women. Likes to see them squirm in fear and pain. Likes to leave his mark.”

I dumped my pocketbook on the counter. “I know. He's very large on mutilation and begging. In fact, you might say he's obsessed with it.”

Morelli turned the heat down. “I'm trying to scare you, but I don't think it's working.”

“I'm all scared out. I don't have any more scare left in me. Maybe tomorrow.” I looked around and realized someone had cleaned up the blood. “Did you scrub the kitchen?”

“The kitchen and the bedroom. You're going to have to have your carpet professionally cleaned.”

“Thank you. I wasn't looking forward to seeing more blood today.”

“Was it bad?”

“Yeah. Her face is battered almost beyond recognition, and she was bleeding . . . everywhere.” My voice broke and hitched in my throat. I looked down at the floor. “Shit.”

“I have wine in the refrigerator. Why don't you trade in that gun for a couple glasses?”

“Why are you being nice to me?”

“I need you.”

“Oh boy.”

“Not that way.”

“I wasn't thinking 'that way.' All I said was oh boy. What are you making?”

“Steak. I put it in when you pulled into the parking lot.” He poured the wine and gave me a glass. “You're living a little Spartan here.”

“I lost my job and couldn't get another. I sold off my furniture to keep going.”

“That's when you decided to work for Vinnie?”

“I didn't have a lot of options.”

“So you're after me for the money. It's nothing personal.”

“In the beginning it wasn't.”

He was moving around my kitchen like he'd lived there all his life, setting plates on the counter, pulling a bowl of salad from the refrigerator. It should have seemed invasive and pushy, but it was actually very comfortable.

He flipped a rib steak onto each plate, covered them with the peppers and onions, and added a foil-wrapped baked potato. He set out salad dressing, sour cream, and steak sauce, shut the broiler off, and wiped his hands on a kitchen towel. “Why is it personal now?”

“You chained me to the shower rod! Then you made me go rooting around in a Dumpster to get my keys! Every time I catch up to you, you do everything possible to humiliate me.”

“They weren't your keys. They were my keys.” He took a sip of wine, and our eyes locked. “You stole my car.”

“I had a plan.”

“You were going to snag me when I came after my car?”

“Something like that.”

He carried his plate to the table. “I hear Macy's has openings for make-over ladies.”

“You sound like my mother.”

Morelli grinned and dug into his steak.

The day had been exhausting, and the wine and good food were mellowing me out. We were eating at the table, sitting across from each other, absorbed in the meal like an old married couple. I cleaned my plate and pushed back in my chair. “What do you need from me?”

“Cooperation. And in return for that cooperation, I'll see to it that you collect your bounty money.”

“You've got my attention.”