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I left the back of the house and carefully avoided the side window in the front room. Butchy was watching television. I didn’t want him catching movement on the other side of the glass.
Ten minutes later I parked in front of Morelli’s house. Bob rushed at me when I walked in and knocked me against the wall. I held the food bag over my head. Morelli gave me a fast kiss and took the bag off my hands.
“You don’t usually stay this long at your parents’,” he said, taking the bag to the kitchen.
“A guy that I worked with on the Bogart loading dock rents a house in the Burg. I wanted to look around a little.”
Morelli set the cake on the counter and put the rest of the bag in the fridge. “And? Did you look around?”
“Yes. He doesn’t make a lot of money, but he has an expensive truck. He parks it in the driveway, not in the garage, and the garage is locked with the window barred and painted black.”
“You’re talking about half the Burg. None of that is criminally unusual.”
I got two forks, and we attacked the cake.
“I guess that’s true, but he feels off,” I said. “He’s too dumb. And he’s too much in the right place. And he has unexplained money.”
“He could be in debt up to his eyeballs.”
“I ran him through the system. He’s debt free.”
“So you think he’s do
ing wet work? Connie’s uncle won’t be happy to learn there’s a competitor.”
I carved out a piece with maximum frosting. “I think it would be more like industrial sabotage.”
“I’ll pass this along. In the meantime I want you to promise me you’ll keep your distance.”
“Sure,” I said.
Morelli looked at me. “That’s a fib, isn’t it?”
“Pretty much.” I watched him shoveling in cake. “Aren’t you supposed to be avoiding gluten?”
“I’m taking probiotics, and I’m better as long as I don’t get carried away.”
“What about your mom’s lasagna?”
“If my mother makes it, the gluten doesn’t count.”
“And what about this cake?”
“Your mom made it. Close enough.”
I didn’t want to burst his bubble, but I didn’t think he was close enough at all. It seemed to me that being engaged to be engaged wouldn’t count for much in the gluten protection plan.
“Okay, so if it wasn’t Butchy, who do you think killed the two Bogart men?” I asked him.
“I don’t know, but I think this killer is psycho. Killing someone and running away from the crime is normal. Killing someone and trying to hide the crime is normal. Killing someone and making him into a Bogart Bar isn’t normal.”
“He only did that once.”
“Yeah,” Morelli said. “He probably ran out of chocolate.”
SEVENTEEN
IT WAS SATURDAY, and I woke up next to Morelli. This was a luxury that didn’t often happen. Even when he didn’t have to be at an early briefing, he was still up before the sun. He made coffee. He showered. He walked Bob. He surfed the news. This morning he was in bed and the sun was outside, shining without him. That meant Morelli wanted something.
