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“I liked that serial killer,” Lula said. “He could make a damn good pork chop.”
“Is there a point to this?” I asked Morelli.
“No,” he said. “I’m venting. It scares the crap out of me that I’m in love with you.”
“Aw, that’s sweet,” Lula said.
I thought so too. It was kind of a backhanded admission, but it made my heart get fluttery. The sight of Barrel lying on the ground oozing body fluids snapped me back to the moment. I took my phone out of my bag. “You don’t mind if I take a picture of this guy with my cellphone, do you? I need to prove he’s dead.”
“Knock yourself out,” Morelli said. “Last time an FTA of yours went dead you asked the EMTs to drive him to the courthouse.”
“There’s a lot of paperwork when the FTA is dead,” I said. “It’s easier when you can have him show up in court.”
I took my pictures and gave Morelli a detailed description of the Mercedes driver. The medical examiner was on the scene, and the crime scene photographer was at work. Lula was looking like she was ready to break out in hives.
“I’m moving on,” I said to Morelli. “Things to do. Will I see you tonight?”
“Dinner at seven. My house. I’ll get Chinese.”
NINE
LULA AND I climbed into the Buick, I rolled the engine over and pulled into traffic.
“I almost forgot about Tiki back there,” Lula said. “You don’t suppose he really talks, do you?” She swiveled in her seat. “Hey, Tiki, how’s it goin’?”
I stopped for a light and glanced at Lula. “Well? Is he saying anything to you?”
“No, but I think he might be smiling. Hold on here. Something’s coming through. He’s telling me it’s lunchtime and he wants a bucket of chicken.”
“Tiki said that?”
“Well, someone said it. It was in my head.”
“It might have been you thinking it.”
“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure it had a Hawaiian accent.”
Cluck-in-a-Bucket was all the way across town. I took Broad to Hamilton, and we made a fast stop for chicken. Lula got a bucket of extra crispy, a side of fries, and a side of slaw. I got a biscuit. My stomach wasn’t in top form after last night’s poisoning. We took the food to the office, and I lugged Tiki in, along with my biscuit.
“We had a good day,” Lula said to Connie. “We had all kinds of success. Do you want a piece of chicken? I got the big bucket in case I had to share.”
Connie passed on the chicken, and Vinnie popped out of his office.
“What kind of success? Did you get Cubbin?”
“Not yet,” Lula said. “But we got Melvin Barrel.”
“Melvin Barrel is good,” Vinnie said. “Does he want to get rebonded?”
“Probably not,” Lula said. “He’s dead.”
I showed Vinnie the picture on my cellphone.
“Are those tire tracks on his chest?” Vinnie asked. “And bullet holes? Christ, how many times did you shoot him?”
“I didn’t shoot him,” I said. “He got hit by a car, and the driver got out and shot him . . . five times.”
“And we went after Brody Logan too,” Lula said, digging into the bucket of chicken. “Except he got away.”
