FOURTEEN
MY LAUNDRY WAS all neatly folded in the laundry basket. My black suit had been aired and pressed and was on a hanger. My red dress was at the cleaners. My mother and grandmother were the queens of clean and organized.
“Did you hear about Emilio Gardi?” Grandma asked. “Marjorie Barstock called and said he just died.”
“Are you sure?”
“Marjorie’s daughter works at the hospital, and she said there was a big to-do over it. The FBI was hoping he’d stay alive long enough for them to get more information out of him. Marjorie said her daughter thinks it was his heart that went kaput. That radiation stuff is bad. That’s why you never stand in front of the microwave.”
“Is there any dessert?” I asked Grandma.
“Your mother made vanilla pudding. I think there’s one left in the fridge. And there’s whipped cream to go with it.”
I found the pudding, added a big glob of whipped cream, and ate standing in front of the sink.
“Where do you suppose they’ll bury him?” Grandma asked. “Do they have to put him in one of them toxic-waste dumps out in Nevada?”
It seemed unlikely to me, but I didn’t know for sure.
“Marjorie said the youngest Poletti boy was in the emergency room today too. Her daughter said he was high as a kite, and I guess he was smoking some weed, and he set his shirt on fire, and he got some burns on his hands trying to rip his shirt off. Here’s the perfect example why weed is more dangerous than alcohol. Most of the time people don’t set themselves on fire when they’re drinking alcohol.”
“I have to get back to Morelli,” I said. “I left Briggs there.”
Grandma helped me carry the laundry out to the car. “If you hear anything about the burial, let me know. And we need to be at the church tomorrow at eight in the morning. I don’t need to get there early on account of I don’t care where I sit for that.”
I drove back to Morelli’s house, parked at the curb, and lugged the laundry basket into the living room. Briggs, Morelli, and Bob were watching the ball game. No one was bleeding, so I took that as a good sign.
“You know what I could use?” Briggs said. “Ice cream.”
Morelli cut him a sideways glance. “I don’t have any ice cream.”
“Somebody could go get some,” Briggs said.
All three heads swiveled and looked at me.
“Okay, fine,” I said. “Do you need anything besides ice cream?”
“Cookies,” Briggs said.
I went to the convenience store a mile away on Hamilton. I got three tubs of ice cream, two bags of cookies, and Twizzlers. I now had zero money and a maxed-out credit card. I parked in front of Morelli’s house and called Ranger.
“I need money,” I said. “I need to catch Poletti. He wasn’t at his mother’s viewing, but he might try to attend the funeral tomorrow morning. Maybe he’ll show up in disguise or he’ll watch from a distance. I could use some help.”
“How much help do you want?”
“Another set of eyes.”
“Done.”
I fished a Twizzler out of its packaging and bit off a piece. “Gardi died.”
“I heard,” Ranger said. “I have two men searching through data for Vlatko, but we’re not turning anything up.”
“How hard could it be to find a one-eyed guy with a skull and a flower tattooed on his neck?”
“There wasn’t anyone with that description on Facebook or Match.com,” Ranger said.
“What’s next?”
“Field trip to New York.”
I disconnected with Ranger, then called Lula and asked for her help as well. I needed someone to look after Briggs while I watched for Poletti.
Morelli gave up on the ball game at ten o’clock.
“I have an early meeting tomorrow and my team’s losing,” he said.
Briggs was settled in on the couch. “I’m going to stay to see the end.”
Morelli’s house wasn’t big, but it was comfortable for a single guy. Living room, dining room, kitchen, and half bath downstairs. Three bedrooms and bath upstairs. It would also have been comfortable for a married couple or a young family. It was uncomfortable with Briggs in it.
I was in Morelli’s bed wearing panties and a T-shirt with the covers pulled up to my chin. Morelli was naked next to me.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
“Briggs.”
“He’s downstairs watching television.”
“I’m worried he’ll just walk in on us to ask if we have organic taro chips or to tell us he needs to borrow a credit card to rent a porno film.”
“He’s watching the ball game.”
“You don’t know that for sure. He’s little and sneaky. He could have crept up the stairs. Did you lock the bedroom door?”
“Yes.”
“You’re fibbing. It doesn’t have a lock on it.”
“Would you feel better if I pushed the dresser in front of the door?”
“Maybe. But he could still be listening.”
Morelli was inching my panties down.
“Don’t you care if he’s listening?” I asked him.
“No.” He kissed my bare shoulder and did some exploration under the T-shirt.
“I can’t stop thinking about him,” I said.
Although, I had to admit, Morelli had wonderful hands. And he was an amazing kisser. And I was liking what his hands were doing.
“Do you like this?” Morelli asked, and he ran a finger across my nipple.
“Mmmm,” I said.
And then a vision of Briggs, listening to us on the other side of the door, popped into my head.
“I’m having a hard time focusing,” I told Morelli.
“As you can tell, I’m not having that problem.”
“I noticed. And there’s a part of me that really would like to do this. And I mean really would like to do this. But I can’t shake the feeling that Briggs is out there. I mean, what if the game suddenly ends?”
“There were two innings left.”
“That’s true,” I said. “So maybe if we’re super fast we can get it done before the game ends.”
“There’s no problem on my end,” Morelli said.
There might be a problem on my end. “What if everyone gets struck out and the innings are over in record time? In fact, for all we know, they could be on the last inning now. It could be the bottom of the last inning!”
“Okay,” Morelli said. “I was saving this for a special occasion, but maybe this is a good time to try it out.”
He fumbled around in the nightstand drawer and brought out a neon blue and silver box. “I busted Ziggy Shestok last week. He was selling stuff out of the trunk of his Cadillac again, and I got this baby for two bucks. If you bought it on one of those shopping channels, you’d pay twenty dollars for it.”
“Wait. You arrested Ziggy for selling hot appliances and then you bought one?”
“No. I arrested him for selling drugs. The appliances were just a sideline for him. He had toasters too, but I already have one of those.” Morelli peeled the cellophane wrapper off the box, took the gizmo out, and held it up for inspection. “Batteries included,” he said.
“Holy Toledo. What are all those nubby little things on it?”
“It says on the box that they’re pleasure stimulators.”
“Pleasure is good,” I said.
“Damn straight.”
Morelli turned it on. BZZZZZZZZZZZ!
“Whoa. It sounds … powerful.”
“It’s called the One-Second Wonder Tool.”
He hit the go button again, the thing bzzzzed in his hand, and I felt the vibration run through his body and into the mattress.
I jumped to the other side of the bed. “That sounds like too much pleasure.”
Morelli pulled me back to his side, threw a leg over me, and kissed me. “Be brave,” he said. “It’s got a money-back guarantee.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and clenched my teeth. “Do it!”
BZZZZZZZZZZ! BZZZZZZZZZ!
“Yow!” I yelled.
Morelli rolled off me. “What? Are you okay?”
“Better than okay,” I gasped. “That might have been the best second of my life.”
BAM, BAM, BAM! “Hey,” Briggs shouted from the other side of the door, “are you all right in there? I heard this weird buzzing. It sounded like a bunch of angry bees.”
“Power surge,” Morelli said. “It happens all the time. Go back to the game.”