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“Your choice, but it might not be a bad idea.”
Morelli looked at me. “Who do you think is in there?”
“Could be most anyone, the way things are going. Could be Razzle Dazzle.”
“What’s a razzle dazzle?”
“According to Berger, he’s a killer nutcase.”
Morelli pulled his gun out, unlocked my door, and pushed it open. He did a walk-through and came back to me. “No Razzle Dazzle.” He pulled me into the apartment, closed and locked the door behind me, and holstered his gun.
“What kind of pizza is that?” he asked.
“Pepperoni with extra cheese.” I put the box on the counter and flipped the lid. “Sorry, I don’t have any beer.”
“Just as well,” Morelli said, folding a piece and biting in. “There’s a chance I’ll have to go back to work tonight.”
“You’re always working.”
“If people would stop shooting, stabbing, and compacting each other, my hours would cut back.”
“Speaking of compacting …”
“No other bodies at the junkyard. Connie’s relatives make sure there’s a fast turnover of cars. Smash ’em, and ship ’em out.”
“There’s a rumor that Joyce was doing the jeweler.”
“Joyce did everyone.”
“Did Joyce ever do you?” I asked Morelli.
“No,” he said. “She’s scary. Just so you know, you aren’t the only one looking for her. She’s wanted for questioning regarding the Korda murder.”
“Any leads?”
“No. How about you?”
“Nothing.”
Morelli took a second piece of pizza, and the doorbell rang. He moved to the door and looked out the peephole.
“It’s a woman,” Morelli said. “She’s holding a cake box.”
I sidled up next to him and looked out. It was Brenda Schwartz.
“You remember the guy who got killed and stuffed into a garbage can at LAX?”
“Richard Crick.”
“Yeah. And you know about the photograph?”
“Un-hunh.”
“And you know how there are fake FBI guys and real FBI guys and Razzle Dazzle, who all want the photograph?”
Morelli didn’t say anything, but the line of his mouth tightened ever so slightly.
“Well, this is Brenda Schwartz,” I said. “She says she’s Crick’s fiancée, and she’s another photograph hunter.”
