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“You could look for a job.”
“I don’t have a car. How am I going to get around?”
“Taxi. Skateboard. Drone pickup. Figure it out!”
TWENTY-FOUR
I DROVE AWAY feeling agitated. I hated that Forest was locked up in jail. I didn’t like leaving the dogs with Briggs. I was terrified that something horrible was going to happen to Ranger. And I had a sick feeling in my stomach that I was going to get disemboweled by Vlatko.
All morning I’d been fighting the urge to call Ranger. I wanted reassurance that he was okay, but I didn’t want to overstep the boundaries of our relationship. Ranger wasn’t a chatty person, and we didn’t make casual phone calls. Truth is, if I made a phone call every time I was worried Ranger’s life was in danger, I’d spend half my life on the phone. Still, this felt different. This was bigger and crazier and scarier.
Morelli’s green SUV wasn’t in front of his house when I pulled to the curb. He was still helping Anthony. I let myself in and realized there was no Bob. Bob was usually the first to greet me. I went to the kitchen in search of lunch, knowing there were good things waiting for me in Morelli’s refrigerator.
Morelli had started out as the bad kid in the neighborhood. He was every teenage girl’s dream and every mother’s nightmare. He’d done some time in the Navy, joined the Trenton police, set a record for barroom brawls and one-night stands, and miraculously emerged from the devastation as a disease-free, mostly mature and responsible adult. Go figure.
I’d had a less tumultuous transition from childhood to adulthood, but somewhere in my twenties I feel like I got stalled in the process and now I’m drifting, marking time without any great passion to move forward. It could be that I’m just liking where I’m at and want to stay there a while longer. Still, it would be helpful if I could get motivated enough to buy a toaster.
I pulled a half-eaten tray of lasagna out of the fridge, carved a chunk off for myself, and ate it cold. I called Morelli and got a progress report on the swing set. It sounded to me like there was more beer drinking going on than bolting and wrenching. I went upstairs, brushed my teeth, and dabbed at the lasagna stain on my T-shirt. I gave up on the shirt, changed into a new one, and went downstairs. For lack of anything better to do I thought I’d go back to my apartment and help Briggs with the dogs. I went to the kitchen to get my messenger bag and froze in the middle of the room, unable to move, unable to breathe, my thoughts momentarily scrambled.
My messenger bag was on the counter, and next to it in a smear of blood was what looked like a human heart. The little sticky note next to it said, I’ll have yours next.
I looked around. No broken or open windows. The back door was locked. With shaky hands I got the key from the red coffee mug in Morelli’s over-the-counter cupboard, unlocked the drawer next to the sink, and removed Morelli’s spare Glock 9.
I stood with my back to the kitchen wall and called Ranger.
“I’m alone in Morelli’s house and someone just left a bloody heart on the kitchen counter,” I said. “I have a gun, and I’m in the kitchen, and I’m not going to move until you get here.”
“I’m fifteen minutes away, but I’ll have one of my men in your backyard sooner than that.”
I hung up and called my parents’ house.
“Just checking in,” I said when Grandma Mazur answered. “How’s everything going there?”
“We just finished lunch, and now your father’s sleeping in front of the television.”
I called my sister. I called Briggs. I called Connie and Lula. No one was missing a heart. I looked outside and saw that two Rangeman guys were at attention in Morelli’s yard.
I debated calling Morelli. It was his house, and he should be told about this. Problem was, it would create a firestorm of unwanted activity. If I blurted out the whole story, it would get tied to the polonium and the feds would take over. There’d be CSI trucks and crime scene tape and hours of interrogation. If I didn’t blurt out the whole story, I’d be withholding information in a federal investigation. And my biggest reservation was that the feds wouldn’t be as efficient as Ranger when it came to solving the problem. In fact, they might only complicate things. I had confidence that Ranger would find Vlatko and eliminate him. The feds, not so much.
My cellphone rang, and Ranger told me he was at the front door and coming in. I heard the door open and close, and moments later Ranger walked into the kitchen. He glanced at me and then at the heart on the counter.
“Have you cleared the house?” he asked me.
“No.”
“Stay here while I do a walk-through.”
Minutes later he returned to the kitchen.
“All the doors and windows were locked,” I told him. “I went upstairs to brush my teeth and change my shirt, and when I came down the heart was on the counter.”
“Are you sure you locked the front door when you came in?”
“Absolutely.”
“It was unlocked when I arrived. Morelli could use a better locking system, although I suspect if Vlatko wants to get through a door he can find a way.”
Ranger went to the counter and looked down at the heart. He tapped a number into his phone and gave the person on the other end Morelli’s address and told him to use the back door.
