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“What the heck happened here?” Lula shouted.
“Tank was investigating a break-in and he got shot,” I told her.
Lula turned on Ranger. She was in his face, hands on hips, eyes looking like a raging bulls. “Did you send that man out all by hisself? What the Sam Hill were you thinking? You got him shot. And I'm here telling you, he better be okay with all his parts in working order, or you're gonna answer to me. I don't fucking believe this.” She looked around, searching the room for someone who looked official. “What's happening here? I want to see the doctor. I want to get some answers. He better not be fucking dead is all I'm saying. I'm holding all you accountable.”
Ranger was showing nothing. He was in his zone, listening and thinking. Only his eyes moved and focused on Lula. She finished her tirade and Ranger redirected his attention to Morelli and me.
“Hey!” Lula yelled, back in Ranger's face. “You look at me when I'm having a breakdown. And don't you pull that mysterio silent shit on me. I don't take that bus, you see what I'm saying? You're just a little pipsqueak compared to that man you got shot. And nobody even called me. I had to hear it on the police band. What s with that? Holy shit. Holy fuck. Goddamn.”
And then it was like she was a big balloon and someone let all the air out. Lula sat down hard on the floor, eyes unfocused.
Jean Newman was the nurse working the desk. She came over and eyeballed Lula. “Looks to me like she hyperventilated,” Jean said, getting Lula on her feet. “I'll take her in the back and put a pressure cuff on her and give her some juice.”
We sat there for a moment, absorbing the silence that filled the void left by Lula.
Rangers mouth wasn't smiling much, but his eyes were flat-out laughing. “It's been a long time since I was called a pipsqueak,” he said.
Morelli grinned. “That wasn't even the best part. She called you on the mysterio silent shit. You're hanging out there naked.”
“Not the first time,” Ranger said.
“Where do we go from here?” I asked.
“Maybe not far,” Morelli said. “You told me the guy who grabbed Dickie had a broken nose and heavily bandaged finger. He might have come here to get patched. And if he did, he would leave a paper trail. Medical insurance, address, whatever. Plus, you just bounced him off your fender. If he was hurt, he'd have to go somewhere for an X-ray. If not here, Helen Fuld.”
“You are so smart,” I said to Morelli. “I guess that's why they pay you the big bucks.”
Morelli stood. “You two stay here and worry about Tank, and I'll go do my cop thing.”
He didn't have to badge Jean. She was from the neighborhood. She knew Morelli and his entire family. She knew he was a cop. And even if Morelli hadn't been a cop, she probably would have answered his questions because the Burg doesn't have a sense of secret. The Burg is gossip central. And more important, women seldom said no to Morelli… for anything.
“Do you have any idea why Dickie went to your apartment?” Ranger asked me.
“No. It's not like we're friends.”
“He was looking for something.”
“Money? A gun?”
“If I was Dickie, I'd be looking for the forty million,” Ranger said.
“I can guarantee you, I haven't got it in my apartment.”
“Still, someone broke into your apartment right after Dickie went missing. And now Dickie walked out of his safe house and went straight to your apartment. It feels like there should be a connection. Maybe Dickie was the first intruder, and maybe he wasn't looking for something. Maybe he was hiding something. And maybe he came back to get it.”
“Why would he hide something in my apartment?”
“You'd just had a confrontation. You would be on his mind. And you weren't someone anyone would think he'd go to with his treasure. You would feel safe.”
“If he hid something, wouldn't he know exactly where it was? Wouldn't he have gone directly to that spot when he broke into my apartment?”
“Maybe it was originally in plain sight, and it got moved. I don't know. I'm just thinking out loud. I'm sure there are other possibilities.”
Morelli returned with his notepad in hand. “His full name is Dave Mueller. He didn't use insurance. Paid in cash. He came in on Jean's shift for his pinkie, and she copied his address from his driver's license. According to his license, he's living in the same apartment complex where Smullen and Gorvich kept apartments.”
“I'll check it out,” Ranger said.
Morelli tore a page out of his notepad and handed it to Ranger. “This is the address. Jean called around. None of the clinics have a record for Mueller, so I'm guessing either Stephanie killed him, or else he has no broken bones or internal bleeding.”
