Usually when people die their bodies evacuate and the smell gets bad fast. Mrs. Nowicki didn't smell dead. Mrs. Nowicki smelled like Jim Beam.
Carl and I were both registering this oddity, looking at each other sideways when Mrs. Nowicki opened one eye and fixed it on Lula.
“YOW!” Lula yelled, jumping back a foot, knocking into Sally. “Her eye popped open!”
“The better to see you with,” Mrs. Nowicki rasped out, alto voiced, one pack short of lung cancer.
Carl stepped into Mrs. Nowicki's line of sight. “We thought you were dead.”
“Not yet, honey,” Mrs. Nowicki said. “But I'll tell you, I have one hell of a headache.” She raised a shaky hand and felt the towel. “Oh, yeah, now I remember.”
“What happened?”
“It was an accident. I was trying to cut my hair, and my hand slipped, and I gave myself a little nick. It was bleeding some, so I wrapped my head in a towel and took a few medicinal hits from the bottle.” She struggled to sit. “Don't exactly know what happened after that.”
Lula had her hand on her hip. “Looks to me like you drained the bottle and passed out. Think you took one too many of them medicinal hits.”
“Looks to me like she didn't take enough,” Sally murmured. “I liked her better dead.”
“I need a cigarette,” Mrs. Nowicki said. “Anybody got a cigarette?”
I could hear cars pulling up outside and footsteps in the front room. The second uniform came in, followed by a suit.
“She isn't dead,” Carl explained.
“Maybe she used to be,” Lula said. “Maybe she's one of them living dead.”
“Maybe you're one of them nut cases,” Mrs. Nowicki said.
Lights from an EMS truck flashed outside, and two paramedics wandered into the kitchen.
I eased my way out the door, to the porch and onto the lawn. I didn't especially want to be there when they unwound the towel.
“I don't know about you,” Lula said, “but I'm ready to leave this party.”
I didn't have a problem with that. Carl knew where to find me if there were questions. Didn't look like there was anything criminal here, anyway. Drunken lush slices scalp with a paring knife and passes out. Probably happens all the time.
We piled into the Firebird and hauled ass back to the office. I said good-bye to Lula and Sally, slid behind the wheel of my CRX and motored home. When things calmed down I'd go back with some sort of long-handled mechanism for retrieving the bottle. I didn't want to explain to the cops about the clues.
In the meantime, there were a few phone calls I could make. I'd only gotten partially through Eddie Kuntz's list. It wouldn't hurt to run through the rest of the names.
Mrs. Williams, one of my neighbors, was in the lobby when I swung through the doors. “I've got a terrible ringing in my ears,” she said. “And I'm having a dizzy spell.”
Another neighbor, Mrs. Balog, was standing next to Mrs. Williams, checking her mailbox. “It's the hardening of the arteries. Evelyn Krutchka on the third floor has it something awful. I heard her arteries are just about turned to stone.”
Most of the people in my building were seniors. There were a couple of single mothers with babies, Ernie Wall and his girlfriend, May, and one other woman my age, who only spoke Spanish. We were the segment of society on fixed incomes or incomes of dubious reliability. We weren't interested in tennis or sitting at poolside. For the most part we were a quiet, peaceful group, armed to the teeth for no good reason, violent only when a premium parking slot was at stake.
I took the stairs to the second floor, hoping they'd have some effect on the pie I'd had for breakfast. I let myself into my apartment and made an instant left turn into the kitchen. I stuck my head in the refrigerator and pushed things around some, searching for the perfect lunch. After a few minutes of this I decided on a hard-boiled egg and a banana.
I sat at my dining room table, which is actually in a little alcove off my living room, and I ate my egg and started on the list of names and businesses Kuntz had given me. I dialed Maxine's cleaner first. No, they hadn't seen her lately. No, she didn't have any clothes to pick up. I called my cousin Marion, who worked at Maxine's bank, and asked about recent transactions. No new postings, Marion said. The most recent transaction was two weeks ago when she withdrew three hundred dollars from the outside ATM.
Last name on the list was a 7-Eleven in north Trenton, a quarter mile from Eddie Kuntz and Mama Nowicki. The night manager had just come on when I called. She said a woman meeting Maxine's description had been in the night before. She remembered the woman because she was a regular. It had been late at night and store traffic had been slow. The woman had been chatty and had relieved the tedium.
I stuffed Maxine's photo into my shoulder bag and took off for the 7-Eleven to confirm the identification. I parked nose-in to the curb at the front of the store and stared beyond the plate glass windows to the register. There were four men in line. Three still in suits, looking rumpled from the heat and the workday. By the time I made my way through the door, there were two men left. I waited for them to complete their business before introducing myself to the woman behind the counter.
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.
Stephanie Plum 4 - Four To Score
Stephanie Plum 4 - Four To Score
Stephanie Plum 4 - Four To Score
4
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 mad
e 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.