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“Nice. What are you waiting for?”
“Inspiration,” Morelli said. “The headless bodies are stacking up like cordwood, and I’m not making any progress.”
“Have you identified the guy in the bushes?”
“Yes. He was stolen from the funeral home on Stark Street.”
“Do you have . . . all of him?”
“No. The state guys are talking about bringing in a clairvoyant.”
“Do you think that will help?”
“I stopped thinking a couple hours ago.”
The zombie chapter had a boom box going. They were playing the “Monster Mash” and marching around stiff-legged with their arms stretched out in front of them.
“This is a little carny,” I said to Morelli.
“This is nothing. There are food trucks and T-shirt vendors on the next block.”
Lula approached us. She had changed into a short purple metallic wig, a black low-cut sweater that barely contained the girls, and black Pilates pants that fit her like skin.
“Just look at this,” Lula said, spreading her arms wide, taking the scene in. “This is what I’m talking about. Here’s people changing something bad into something rad. It’s like a wake with a lot of liquor and meatballs. This could set Trenton back on the map. Not everywhere you got a zombie fest going on.”
“This is a murder scene,” I said.
“Technically it’s not a murder scene,” Morelli said.
“Yeah, and technically these aren’t real zombies,” Lula said. “These here are fun zombies.”
I didn’t think they looked all that much fun. I thought they were creepy.
“Maybe these fun zombies are all actually nuts and like to eat brains,” I said.
Morelli looked over at them. “We thought of that. We have them all on record. Names, addresses, photos and video.”
I followed Morelli’s line of sight and studied the zombies. “I don’t suppose Zero Slick happens to be with them?”
“No. For what it’s worth we don’t have him in the zombie registry.”
“You got a zombie registry?” Lula asked. “That sounds wrong. You better be careful or you’ll get accused of zombie harassment.”
“Been there, done that,” Morelli said.
“Gotta go,” I said. “Stuff to do.”
TWELVE
LULA AND I walked to the back of her apartment building and got into the Lexus.
“I wouldn’t mind taking a look at the street with the food trucks and T-shirts,” Lula said. “I might want a commemorative T-shirt.”
I drove around the block, found the food truck street, and cruised the length of it. It was slow going because it was packed with people. They were buying ice cream in waffle cones, cotton candy, sausage sandwiches, zombie glow sticks, zombie T-shirts, and zombie ball caps. A guy dressed in zombie rags was playing the accordion. A sign advertised valet parking.
“I’m thinking if you use valet parking here you’re not likely to get your car back,” Lula said.
“Do you need to buy something?” I asked her.
