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At a little before six I went downstairs to wait for Morelli. I stood in the lobby, where I felt relatively safe, and I called Ranger.
“Just checking in,” I said. “I got another note tacked to my door this morning. Anything new with you?”
“More messages. This freak has a lot of anger.”
“Me too,” I said. “I tried my bridesmaid dress on today. It’s pink. And it has a big bow over my ass.”
I could sense Ranger’s smile over the phone. “Looking forward to seeing it.”
And he hung up.
After a couple minutes Morelli rolled into the lot, and I ran out to his SUV.
“Do you want to eat first or talk to Zigler first?” Morelli asked me.
“Let’s get Zigler out of the way.”
Morelli pulled out of the lot and drove toward Hamilton Avenue. “That would be my choice too.”
“How did it go with the nurses?” I asked him.
“Julie Marconni is a zombie. She’s a single mother who works the night shift and then goes home to take care of her three kids.”
“Who’s with the kids at night?”
“She has a roommate who teaches eighth grade. On the surface it sounds like a good arrangement, but Julie Marconni is a burnout. She was cleaning the house when I got there and she was dead on her feet. I suspect she sleeps a lot on the job. She’s responsible for half the patients on the fourth floor, and none of her patients have gone missing.”
“All the missing patients were Kruger’s?”
“Yeah. Three years’ worth of missing patients.” Morelli stopped for a light. “I asked Kruger if she worked other jobs, and she said once in a while she took on a private client. I asked her if she worked at The Clinic and she said she spent a couple hours there five days a week but she really didn’t do anything. She said if The Clinic ever got up and running she would be guaranteed a supervisory position.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Yes, but I also think there’s something bad going on, and Kruger’s up to her armpits in it. She has a defensive posture when she’s questioned, and things aren’t adding up in her favor.”
“Did she offer to give you a back rub?”
“No. She wasn’t friendly. It was a short conversation.”
“I would have given you a back rub,” I said to Morelli. “I like the way your jeans fit. And I like your shirt when it’s open at the neck a little like this.”
I leaned in and kissed him just below his ear and above the shirt collar.
Morelli dragged me across the console and kissed me. Lots of tongue. His hand under my shirt. The driver behind us leaned on his horn, and Morelli broke from the kiss and moved forward.
“We could turn around and go back to your apartment,” he said.
I retreated to my seat and stuffed myself back into my bra. “Is Zigler expecting you?”
“Yeah,” he said on a sigh. “And Briggs is waiting for us.”
“Then let’s get the job done.”
“My jeans aren’t fitting all that great right now,” Morelli said.
I noticed.
Briggs was in his office waiting for us with Mickey Zigler. Zigler was in his fifties. Gray hair in a buzz cut, barrel-chested, bloodshot eyes.
