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“This never happened,” Morelli finally said.
“I didn’t see anything,” Ranger said.
I agreed. “Me either.”
Morelli turned to Ranger. “If anything happens to her, I’m holding you responsible.”
“Understood,” Ranger said.
“Excuse me?” I said. “I’m an adult. I make my own decisions. And I’m responsible for my well-being. Is that clear?”
“No,” both men said in unison.
“I have to get back to Anthony before he wrenches his own thumb off,” Morelli said. “He’s no Mr. Fix-It.”
Bob slunk down the stairs and stared up at Morelli with soulful eyes. He was sorry he’d eaten the evidence.
“That was bad,” Morelli said to Bob. “You know you’re not supposed to eat off the counter.”
A shoestring of drool hung from the side of Bob’s mouth, his eyes got glassy, he planted his four feet, and GAK … he barfed up the heart.
“Maybe you can still test it for DNA or something,” I said to Morelli.
Ranger grinned. “You’re going to need a snow shovel to get that up.”
Morelli and I were snuggled together on the couch, watching television, when Lula called.
“We just got out of the movie,” she said. “He’s getting one last tub of popcorn for the ride home, and then we’re going to start to waddle out to his car.”
“He has a car?”
“It’s his dad’s. I wouldn’t put him in my Firebird on account of he’d ruin my suspension system. Anyway, I thought I’ll get him to take me home, and I’ll get him out of the car with the promise of sex. And if that don’t work, I’ll tell him I got pot roast and gravy upstairs. Soon as I get him out of the car, you can jump out from the bushes in my front yard and snap the cuffs on him.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I said, and disconnected.
“What’s a plan?” Morelli asked.
“Stanley Kulicky is FTA, and Lula just had a date with him. She’s going to hold him over at her house until I can get there.”
“Have you seen him lately? He must weigh three hundred pounds.”
“Yep, he’s a big boy.”
“Bring the extra large flexi-cuffs.”
“Check.”
Lula lives in a low-to-no-income neighborhood that has a lot less crime than Stark Street. There’s some gang and drug activity and a bunch of fourteen-year-old pregnant girls, but Lula is happy with the rent, and the commute to the office is manageable. She lives on the second floor of a small lavender house with elaborate trim that was just recently painted pink. For the most part the house is graffiti free.
I parked the Buick one house down and waited with the engine running, the windows up, and Morelli’s Glock on my lap. The neighborhood didn’t worry me, but Vlatko had my intestines in knots. I’d picked up two Rangeman tails when I left Morelli’s house. One was now parked directly behind me, and another drove past me, made a U-turn, and parked across the street.
A big SUV rolled past me and parked in front of Lula’s house. I grabbed the cuffs from my bag, cut the engine, and got out of the car. I shoved the Glock under the waistband of my jeans at the small of my back and crouched behind the car in front of me. Stanley got out of the SUV and opened the door for Lula. Lula got out and fumbled with her purse.
“Oh my,” Lula said. “I hope I have my house keys.”
I rushed Stanley, cuffed him, and asked Lula about the movie.
“The movie was excellent,” Lula said. “RoboGod saved the world, but not before a lot of awesome shit went down.”
