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“It’s the exit wound,” Morelli said. “Whoever killed him flipped him over. Half his brain is splattered on the silver Honda over there.”
A wave of nausea rolled through me, and I felt myself break out in a cold sweat.
“You’re kind of white,” Morelli said. “You’re not going to do the girl thing and faint, are you?”
“ ‘The girl thing’? Excuse me?”
Morelli grinned. “You’re such a cupcake.”
I sucked in some air and made an effort to settle my stomach. So big deal if I am a cupcake. Seemed to me it was a lot better than being a bagel.
“Who is he?” I asked.
“Tommy Ritt.”
“Oh boy. He’s one of Poletti’s poker buddies.”
“And you’re after Poletti,” Morelli said.
“Yes. That’s why I’m here. Poletti owns this property. I was hoping to find him holed up here in a Winnebago.”
“Sorry, I haven’t seen any Winnebagos.” He turned his attention to me. “Mike Kelly said he saw you with Ranger last night.”
“It was business.”
Morelli continued to look at me with what I call his cop eyes. They’re hard and unwavering. An emotionless stare he uses to extract confessions from killers in the interrogation room.
“Not going to work,” I told him. “I have nothing to confess.”
That got another grin. “You know all my tricks.”
I raised an eyebrow, and his grin widened.
“Randy Briggs showed up on my doorstep this morning,” I said. “He claims Poletti tried to run him down with his Mustang and took a shot at him. And then someone shot a firebomb into his apartment.”
“I heard about the apartment. I didn’t know it belonged to Briggs. What’s his connection to Poletti?”
“He was Poletti’s accountant.”
“Ow. Not a healthy job choice. Did Briggs stop by to tell you he was on his way to Argentina?”
“Something like that. I don’t suppose you have any idea where I might find Poletti?”
“Not at the moment,” Morelli said, “but I’ll let you know if something turns up. We’ll be looking for him too. He’s a person of interest in this shooting.”
“He’s driving a tricked-out black and silver Mustang. And he’s probably packing a rocket launcher.”
Morelli ducked under the tape with me and walked me to the stairs. “Bob misses you,” he said.
Bob is Morelli’s big orange, floppy-eared, shaggy-haired dog.
“I miss him too.”
Morelli pulled me behind a van and wrapped his arms around me. “How about me? Do you miss me?”
“Maybe a little.”
“The Yankees are playing Boston tonight. You could come over, catch the game, and spend the night.”
