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“It’s temporary. He needed someone to fill in on the search desk, and I needed the money.”
Back when we were a couple, Morelli hated when I associated with Ranger. He thought Ranger was a dangerous guy from multiple points of view, and of course Morelli was right. From the set of his jaw, I suspected he still hated that I was associating with Ranger.
“What have you got on your desk these days?” I asked him, thinking it best to get off the Ranger topic.
“A couple gang slayings and the Chipotle thing.”
“Are you making any progress with Chipotle?”
We paused while the waitress set two glasses of beer on the table.
Morelli sipped his beer. “Originally, I thought it felt like a couple professionals had come in from out of town, but that didn’t make sense after they went for Lula. These guys are afraid Lula will finger them.”
“She gave you a description. Have you had any luck with that?”
“Lula’s description fit half the men in this country. Average height, one shorter than the other, brown hair, average build, late forties to early fifties, she wasn’t close enough to see eye color. No distinguishing features, and she said they dressed like white men. What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“So you have nothing?”
“Worse than that, we have more than we can manage. The million-dollar reward brought out every crackpot in the state. We had to pull Margie Slater off traffic duty and sit her in a room with a phone so she could field the calls coming in. They were clogging the system.”
“Lula’s convinced Chipotle was killed over barbecue sauce, and she figures the killers will be at the cook-off. She’s entered the contest so she’ll have the inside track at identifying them.”
“That’ll make sense if she lives that long.”
“Do you have someone watching her house?”
“That kind of surveillance only happens in the movies. We’re so underbudgeted we’re one step away from holding bake sales to pay for toilet paper.”
“Have you considered the barbecue sauce connection?”
“I’ve considered a lot of connections. Chipotle had so much bad juju going it’s a wonder he wasn’t killed sooner. He has three ex-wives who hated him. Everyone on his television show hated him. His sister hated him. He was suing his manager. And the tenants in his New York co-op signed a petition to get him evicted.”
“Who would have thought? He was all smiley on the jar of barbecue sauce.”
“It’s not that easy to slice off someone’s head,” Morelli said.
“The way Lula tells it, there wasn’t any struggle.”
“Yeah. That bothers me. Would you stand there and let someone decapitate you? And what about the guy who did it? Why would he choose decapitation? There are so many easier, cleaner ways to kill someone. And this was done in broad daylight in front of the Sunshine Hotel. It was almost like it wasn’t planned.”
“A spontaneous decapitation?”
Morelli grinned. “Yeah.”
“And he just happened to be carrying a meat cleaver around with him?”
“Maybe he was a butcher.”
“So all we have to do is look for an impulsive butcher.”
Morelli signaled for another beer. “I’m having fun.”
“Me, too.”
“Do you want to go home and go to bed?”
“Jeez,” I said. “Is that all you ever think about?”
