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“Monica said she didn’t pay attention to the gunshots because she was watching CSI and there was a lot of shooting. I find that hard to believe, but maybe it’s possible. She went to the kitchen during a commercial and noticed the door was open.”
“The first responders said it looked like Doug Linken went out to smoke.”
“Monica said the same thing. They were trying to quit, but Doug wasn’t having total luck with it.”
“So that problem’s solved for him,” Morelli said. “It’s too early for me to disturb the widow with questions. Would you like to go for coffee?”
“No! I think you’re a jerk.”
“I come by it honestly. It runs in my family.”
This is true. All the men in Morelli’s family have been losers. All except Morelli. Somewhere in his twenties he’d managed to grow up. He was a really good cop, and until two days ago he’d been an okay boyfriend.
“I can’t believe you’re thinking about a job change. I thought you loved being a cop.”
“I’ve got acid reflux.”
“I thought that was from me.”
“Yeah, you too.” His cellphone buzzed and he checked the text message. “I have to go. They’re doing the autopsy on Linken first thing this morning, and I want to attend.”
“Maybe that’s why you have acid reflux.”
“Dead people don’t bother me. I worry about the living. Lately I’m thinking this planet is just a videogame designed to amuse an alien race with a sick sense of humor.”
“Jeez.”
Morelli pulled me close and kissed me with a lot of tongue. “Stay safe,” he said, releasing me, heading for his green SUV.
He’d go
tten the car so he could haul his big orange dog Bob around. It wasn’t brand-new, but it ran okay, and it looked pretty good except where Bob had gnawed a hole in the backseat. Bob had an eating disorder. Bob ate everything.
“Looks like a good day in Plumville,” Lula said when I went back inside. “You got a Mercedes from one hot guy and a smokin’ hot kiss from another, and it’s not even nine o’clock yet. What’s Morelli up to this morning that he had to rush off?”
“Doug Linken’s autopsy is scheduled,” I said. “Morelli’s attending.”
“That’s a fast-track autopsy,” Connie said. “Business must be slow at the morgue.”
“I spotted Ken Globovic last night, but he got away,” I said to Connie. “He was at the corner of M Street and Hawthorne. I was hoping you could run his fraternity brothers through the system and see if anyone is living there.”
“There’s a bar on that corner that got excellent onion rings,” Lula said. “I wouldn’t mind taking a personal look around that neighborhood at lunchtime.”
“Works for me,” I said. “We can do a fast tour through Billy Bacon’s hood, hunt down Julie Ruley for a chat, and hopefully by that time Connie will have an address for me that’s close to the bar.”
Connie pulled a padded envelope off the corner of her desk and handed it to me. “This came in for you yesterday. No return address. Maybe you want to open it outside, just in case.”
“That’s not funny,” Lula said to Connie. “There’s crazy people out there that Stephanie put in jail, and now some of them are getting out on parole. Fortunately most of them aren’t smart enough to get hold of anthrax or build a bomb. Still, you never know, right?”
I opened the envelope and pulled out a picture of a naked guy. He was in a bathtub and his Mr. Happy was floating peacefully in the water.
Lula looked over my shoulder at the picture. “That’s a real nice bath caddy he got,” she said. “I bet he got that at Pottery Barn.”
Connie came around and looked at it. “That’s Daniel Craig. I’ve seen that picture before. It’s all over YouTube.”
“Get out,” Lula said. “Daniel Craig is James Bond. He wouldn’t have a limp little wiener floating around like that.”
“Is there a note?” Connie asked.
