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“Yes. I’m coming back.”
FOURTEEN
MY LAUNDRY WAS all neatly folded in the laundry basket. My black suit had been aired and pressed and was on a hanger. My red dress was at the cleaners. My mother and grandmother were the queens of clean and organized.
“Did you hear about Emilio Gardi?” Grandma asked. “Marjorie Barstock called and said he just died.”
“Are you sure?”
“Marjorie’s daughter works at the hospital, and she said there was a big to-do over it. The FBI was hoping he’d stay alive long enough for them to get more information out of him. Marjorie said her daughter thinks it was his heart that went kaput. That radiation stuff is bad. That’s why you never stand in front of the microwave.”
“Is there any dessert?” I asked Grandma.
“Your mother made vanilla pudding. I think there’s one left in the fridge. And there’s whipped cream to go with it.”
I found the pudding, added a big glob of whipped cream, and ate standing in front of the sink.
“Where do you suppose they’ll bury him?” Grandma asked. “Do they have to put him in one of them toxic-waste dumps out in Nevada?”
It seemed unlikely to me, but I didn’t know for sure.
“Marjorie said the youngest Poletti boy was in the emergency room today too. Her daughter said he was high as a kite, and I guess he was smoking some weed, and he set his shirt on fire, and he got some burns on his hands trying to rip his shirt off. Here’s the perfect example why weed is more dangerous than alcohol. Most of the time people don’t set themselves on fire when they’re drinking alcohol.”
“I have to get back to Morelli,” I said. “I left Briggs there.”
Grandma helped me carry the laundry out to the car. “If you hear anything about the burial, let me know. And we need to be at the church tomorrow at eight in the morning. I don’t need to get there early on account of I don’t care where I sit for that.”
I drove back to Morelli’s house, parked at the curb, and lugged the laundry basket into the living room. Briggs, Morelli, and Bob were watching the ball game. No one was bleeding, so I took that as a good sign.
“You know what I could use?” Briggs said. “Ice cream.”
Morelli cut him a sideways glance. “I don’t have any ice cream.”
“Somebody could go get some,” Briggs said.
All three heads swiveled and looked at me.
“Okay, fine,” I said. “Do you need anything besides ice cream?”
“Cookies,” Briggs said.
I went to the convenience store a mile away on Hamilton. I got three tubs of ice cream, two bags of cookies, and Twizzlers. I now had zero money and a maxed-out credit card. I parked in front of Morelli’s house and called Ranger.
“I need money,” I said. “I need to catch Poletti. He wasn’t at his mother’s viewing, but he might try to attend the funeral tomorrow morning. Maybe he’ll show up in disguise or he’ll watch from a distance. I could use some help.”
“How much help do you want?”
“Another set of eyes.”
“Done.”
I fished a Twizzler out of its packaging and bit off a piece. “Gardi died.”
“I heard,” Ranger said. “I have two men searching through data for Vlatko, but we’re not turning anything up.”
“How hard could it be to find a one-eyed guy with a skull and a flower tattooed on his neck?”
/> “There wasn’t anyone with that description on Facebook or Match.com,” Ranger said.
