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“My emotions are a little close to the surface,” I told him. I blew my nose in a paper napkin and took a doughnut. “Any word on the fire?”
“Yeah. First, some good news. Cluck-in-a-Bucket is closed indefinitely, so you don't have to go back to work there. Second, some mixed news. Big Blue is parked at the curb in front of my house. I'm assuming this is Rangers handiwork. Unfortunately, unless you have an extra key you're not going tobe driving it until you get a locksmith out here. And now for the interesting stuff. They were able to retrieve the gift box from the chicken fryer.”
I pulled the second doughnut out of the bag. “And?”
“It was a clock. No evidence that it was a bomb.”
“Is that for sure?”
“That's what the lab guys said. I also got a report back on the car bomb. It was detonated from an outside source.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means it didn't go off when Mama Macaroni stepped on the gas or turned the key in the ignition. Someone pushed the button on Mama Macaroni when they saw her get into the car. We'll assume it was Spiro since he gave you the box. Hard to believe he'd mistake Mama Macaroni for you, so I have to think he blew her away for giggles.”
“Yikes.”
Bob lumbered over and sniffed at the empty doughnut bag. Morelli crumpled the bag and threw it across the room, and Bob bounded after it and tore it to shreds.
“I'm guessing Spiro was waiting for you and when Mama Macaroni showed up he couldn't resist blowing her to smithereens. Hell, I'm not sure I could resist.”
Morelli took a sip of my coffee. “Anyway, it looks like he isn't trying to kill you... yet.”
I drank a second cup of coffee. I called Mr. Alexander and made an appointment for eleven o'clock. I stood to leave and realized I had nothing.
No key to the Buick. No key to my apartment. No credit cards. No money. No shoes. No underwear. We'd thrown all my clothes, including my shoes, into the trash last night.
“Help,” I said to Morelli.
Morelli smiled at me. “Barefoot and desperate. Just the way I like you.”
“Unless you also like me with a greasy head you'd better find a way to get me dressed and out to the mall.”
“No problemo. I have a key to your apartment. And I have the day off. I'm ready to roll anytime you are.”
“How did this happen?” Mr. Alexander asked, studying my hair. “No. On second thought, don't tell me. I'm sure it's something awful. It's always awful!”
He leaned over me and sniffed. “Have you been eating fried chicken?”
Morelli was slouched in a chair, hiding behind a copy of GQ. He was armed, he was hungry, and he was hoping for a nooner. From time to time, women walked in and checked Morelli out, starting with the hip work boots, going to the long legs in professionally faded jeans, pausing at the nicely packaged goods.
He didn't have a ring on his left hand. He didn't have a diamond stud in his ear. He didn't look civilized enough to be gay. He also didn't return the interest. If he looked beyond the magazine it was to assess the progress Mr. Alexander was making. If he locked eyes with an ogling woman his message wasn't friendly and the woman hurried on her way. I suspected the unfriendly disinterest was more a reflection of Morelli's impatience than of his single-minded love for me.
“I'm done!” Mr. Alexander said, whipping the cape off me. “This is the best I can do to cover up the bald spots. And we've gotten all the oil out.” He looked over at Morelli. “Do you want me to tame the barbarian?”
“Hey, Joe,” I yelled to him. “Do you need a haircut?”
Morelli always needed a haircut. Ten minutes after he got a haircut he still needed a haircut.
“I just got a haircut,” Morelli said, getting to his feet.
“It would look wonderful if we took a smidgeon more off the sides,” Mr. Alexander said to Morelli. “And we could put the tiniest bit of gel in the top.”
Morelli stood hands on hips, his jacket flared, his gun obvious on his hip.
“But then maybe not,” Mr. Alexander said. “Maybe it's perfect just as it is.”
Morelli's cell phone rang. He answered the phone and passed it over to me.
