Four to Score

11

MORELLI OPENED THE DOOR, and we carefully picked our way around the broken glass. He looked under the sink, found a pair of rubber gloves, put them on and wiped his prints off the doorknob. "You don't need to worry about prints," he said. "You were here legitimately two days ago."

We did a fast walk-through just to make sure there were no bodies, dead or alive. Then we methodically worked our way through the rooms. Closets, drawers, hidden places, garbage bags.

All of their clothes were gone, and as far as I could tell, so were the prizes they'd won. They'd been in a hurry. Beds were unmade. Food had been left in the fridge. There'd been a struggle in the living room, and no one had bothered to make repairs. We didn't find anything that might hint at a new address. No sign of drugs. No bullets embedded in woodwork. No bloodstains.

My only conclusion was that they weren't great housekeepers and were probably going to end up with diverticulitis. They ate a lot of bologna and white bread, smoked a lot of cigarettes, drank a lot of beer and didn't recycle.

"Gone," Morelli said, snapping the gloves off, returning them to the sink.

"Any ideas?"

"Yeah. Let's get out of here."

We ran to the truck, and Morelli drove to the boardwalk. "There's a pay phone at the top of the ramp," he said. "Call the police and tell them you're a neighbor, and you noticed a back window was broken in the house next door. I don't want to leave that house open for vandalism or robbery."

I took stock of myself and decided I couldn't get much wetter, so I sloshed through the rain to the phone, made the call and sloshed back.

"Everything go okay?" he asked.

"They didn't like that I wouldn't tell them my name."

"You're supposed to make something up. Cops expect it."

"Cops are weird," I said to Morelli.

"Yeah," he said, "cops scare the hell out of me."

I took my shoes off and buckled myself in. "You want to hazard a guess on what happened in the living room back there?"

"Someone came after Maxine, chased her around the living room and got hit from behind by a blunt instrument. When he woke up the three women were gone."

"Maybe that someone was Eddie Kuntz."

"Maybe. But that doesn't explain why he's still missing."

* * * * *

THE RAIN STOPPED halfway home, and Trenton showed no sign of relief from the heat. The hydrocarbon level was high enough to etch glass, and the highways hummed with road rage. Air conditioners were failing, dogs had diarrhea, laundry mildewed in hampers, and sinus cavities felt filled with cement. If the barometric pressure dropped any lower everyone's guts would be sucked through the soles of their feet into the bowels of the earth.

Morelli and I barely noticed any of this, of course, because we were born and raised in Jersey. Life is about survival of the fittest, and Jersey is producing the master race.

We stood dripping in Morelli's foyer, and I couldn't decide what I wanted to do first. I was starving, I was soaked, and I wanted to call and see if Eddie Kuntz had turned up. Morelli prioritized my actions by stripping in the hall.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

He'd removed his shoes and socks and shirt and had his thumbs stuck in his shorts. "I don't want to track water all through the house." A smile tugged at his mouth. "You have a problem with this?"

"No problem at all," I said. "I'm taking a shower. Does that give you any problems?"

"Only if you use all the hot water."

He was on the phone when I came downstairs. I was clean, but I couldn't get dry. Morelli didn't have air, and at this time of the day it was possible to work up a sweat doing nothing. I prowled through the refrigerator and decided on a ham-and-cheese sandwich. I slapped it together and ate standing at the counter. Morelli was writing on a pad. He looked up at me, and I decided this was cop business.

When he got off the phone he picked at the deli ham I'd left out. "That case I was working on has just been reopened. Something new turned up. I'm going to take a fast shower, and then I'm going to have to go out. I'm not sure when I'll be back."

"Today? Tomorrow?"

"Today. I just don't know when."

I finished my sandwich and straightened the kitchen. Rex had crawled out of his soup can and was looking neglected, so I gave him a small chunk of cheese and a crust of bread. "We're not doing too good here," I told him. "I keep losing people. Now I can't find the guy I'm working for."

I tried calling Eddie Kuntz. No answer. I looked up Glick in the phone book and called Betty.

"Have you seen Eddie yet?" I asked.

"No."

I hung up and did some pacing. Someone knocked on the front door.

It was a little Italian lady.

"I'm Joe's godmother, Tina Ragusto," she said. "You must be Stephanie. How are you, dear? I just heard. I think it's wonderful."

I didn't know what she was talking about, and I suspected it was better that way. I made a vague gesture toward the stairs. "Joe's in the shower."

"I can't stay. I'm on my way to a jewelry party." She handed me a white shirt box. "I just wanted to drop this off." She lifted the lid and spread the tissue paper, so I could see what lay beneath. Her round face smoothed with her smile. "You see?" she said. "Joseph's christening outfit."

Ulk.

She gave me a pat on the cheek. "You're a good Italian girl."

"Half Italian."

"And a good Catholic."

"Umm . . ."

I watched her walk to her car and drive away. She thought I was pregnant. She thought I was marrying Joe Morelli, the man voted "least trustworthy male to date my daughter" by mothers statewide. And she thought I was a good Catholic. How had this happened?

I was standing in the foyer, holding the box, when Joe came down. "Was someone here?"

"Your godmother. She brought me your christening outfit."

Morelli picked it out of the box and looked at it. "Good grief, it's a dress."

"What do you want me to do with it?"

"Put it in a closet somewhere, and I'd appreciate it if you kept the dress part quiet."

I waited until Morelli was out of sight, and then I looked down at my stomach. "No way," I said. I looked at the christening dress. It was kind of pretty. Old-fashioned. Very Italian. Damn, I was getting all choked up over Morelli's dress. I ran upstairs with the dress, put it on Morelli's bed, ran out of the room and slammed the door closed.

I went to the kitchen and called my best friend, Mary Lou, who had two kids and knew about pregnancy.

"Where are you?" Mary Lou wanted to know.

"I'm at Morelli's."

"Ommigod! It's true! You're living with Morelli! And you didn't tell me! I'm your best friend. How could you do this to me?"

"I've only been here for three days. And it's no big deal. My apartment burned up, and Morelli had an extra room."

"You did it with him! I can hear it in your voice! How was it? I want details!"

"I need a favor."

"Anything!"

"I need one of those pregnancy test things."

"Ommigod! You're pregnant! Ommigod. Ommigod!"

"Calm down. I'm not pregnant. I just want to make sure. You know, peace of mind. And I don't want to buy one myself, because if anybody sees me it'll be all over."

"I'll be right there. Don't move."

Mary Lou lived about a half mile away. Her husband, Lennie, was okay but he had to be careful not to drag his knuckles when he walked. Mary Lou never cared much about intelligence in a man. Mary Lou was more into packaging and stamina.

Mary Lou and I have been friends since the day we were born. I was always the flake, and Mary Lou was always the underachiever. Maybe underachiever isn't the right word. It was more that Mary Lou had simple goals. She wanted to get married and have a family. If she could marry the captain of the football team, even better. And that's exactly what she did. She married Lennie Stankovic, who was captain of the football team, graduated high school and went to work for his father. Stankovic and Sons Plumbing and Heating.

I wanted to marry Aladdin so I'd get to fly on his magic carpet. So you can see that we were coming from different places.

Ten minutes later Mary Lou was at the front door. Mary Lou is four inches shorter than me and five pounds heavier. None of her weight is fat. Mary Lou's solid. Mary Lou's built like a brick shithouse. If I ever do tag team wrestling, Mary Lou's going to be my partner.

"I've got it!" she said, barreling into the foyer, brandishing the test kit. She stopped short and looked around. "So this is Morelli's house!"

This was said in hushed tones of awe usually reserved for Catholic miracles like weeping statues of the Virgin.

"Oh man," she said. "I always wanted to see the inside of Morelli's house. He isn't home, right?" She took off up the stairs. "I want to see his bedroom!"

"It's the one to the left."

"This is it!" she shrieked, opening the door. "Ommigod! Did you do it on this bed?"

"Yeah." And on my bed. And on the couch, the hall floor, the kitchen table, in the shower . . .

"Holy shit," Mary Lou said, "he's got a carton of condoms. What is he . . . a fucking rabbit?"

I took the little brown bag from her hand and peeked inside. "So this is it?"

"It's simple. All you have to do is pee on the plastic strip and wait for it to change color. Good thing it's summer and you're wearing a T-shirt, because the hard part is not getting your sleeve wet."

"Darn," I said. "I don't have to go right now."

"You need beer," Mary Lou said. "Beer always works."

We went to the kitchen, and we each had two beers.

"You know what's missing in this kitchen?" Mary Lou said. "A cookie jar."

"Yeah, well, you know how it is with men."

"They don't know anything," Mary Lou said.

I opened the box and removed the foil packet. "I can't get this open. I'm too nervous."

Mary Lou took it from me. Mary Lou had nails like razor wire. "We gotta time this. And don't tip the plastic strip. You have to collect the pee in that little indentation."

"Ick."

We went upstairs, and Mary Lou waited outside the door while I did the test. Friendship among women does not include viewing each other's urine.

"What's happening?" Mary Lou yelled through the door. "Do you see a plus sign or a negative sign?"

My hand was shaking so badly I was lucky I didn't drop the whole thing in the toilet. "I don't see anything yet."

"I'm timing," Mary Lou said. "It takes three minutes max."

"Three minutes," Mary Lou yelled again, and she opened the door. "Well?"

Little black dots were dancing in front of my eyes and my lips felt numb. "I'm going to faint." I sat down hard on the floor and put my head between my knees.

Mary Lou took the test strip. "Negative. Yes!"

"God, that was close. I was really worried. We used condoms every single time, but Bella said—"

"Joe's Grandma Bella?" Mary Lou gasped. "Oh shit! Bella didn't give you the eye, did she? Remember when she put it on Raymond Cone and all his hair fell out?"

"Worse than that, she told me I was pregnant."

"Then that's it," Mary Lou said. "The test is wrong."

"What do you mean the test is wrong? The test isn't wrong. Johnson and Johnson doesn't make mistakes."

"Bella knows these things."

I got up off the floor and splashed water on my face. "Bella's a crackpot." Even as I said it I was mentally doing the sign of the cross.

"How far overdue are you?"

"I'm not actually overdue yet."

"Wait a minute. You can't take this test if you aren't overdue. I thought you knew that."

"What?"

"It takes time to develop the hormone. When's your period?"

"I don't know. In about a week, I guess. Are you telling me this test isn't valid?"

"That's what I'm telling you."

"Fuck!"

"I gotta go," Mary Lou said. "I told Lennie I'd bring pizza home for supper. You want to eat with us?"

"No. Thanks anyway."

After Mary Lou left I slouched in the chair in the living room and stared at the blank television screen. Taking the pregnancy test had exhausted me.

I heard a car pull up and footsteps on the pavement outside the house. It was another little Italian lady.

"I'm Joseph's Aunt Loretta," she said, handing me a foil-topped casserole. "I just heard. And don't worry, dear, these things happen. We don't talk about it, but Joseph's mother had sort of a hurry-up wedding, too, if you know what I mean."

"It's not what it seems."

"The important thing is that you eat good food. You aren't throwing up, are you?"

"Not yet."

"Don't worry about getting the dish back to me. You can give it to me at the shower."

My voice rose an octave. "The shower?"

"I gotta go," she said. "I gotta visit my neighbor in the hospital." She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "Cancer," she whispered. "Terrible. Terrible. She's rotting away. Her insides are rotted, and now she's got sores all over her body. I had a cousin once who rotted like that. She turned black and just before she died her fingers fell off."

"Eeeeeuw."

"Well," she said, "you enjoy the casserole."

I waved good-bye and carted the warm casserole off to the kitchen. I set it on the counter and banged my head against the cabinet door a couple of times. "Argh."

I lifted a corner of the foil and peeked inside. Lasagna. Smelled good. I cut a square for myself and scooped it onto a plate. I was thinking about seconds when Morelli came home.

He looked at the lasagna and sighed. "Aunt Loretta."

"Yep."

"This is out of control," he said. "This has to stop."

"I think they're planning a shower."

"Shit."

I got up and rinsed my plate, so I wouldn't be tempted to cut another wedge of lasagna. "How'd things go today?"

"Not that good."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Can't. I'm working with the Feds. It's not supposed to go public."

"You don't trust me."

He cut a slab of lasagna and joined me at the table. "Of course I trust you. It's Mary Lou I don't trust."

"I don't tell Mary Lou everything!"

"Look, it's not your fault. You're a woman, so you blab."

"That's disgusting! That's so sexist!"

He took a bite of lasagna. "I have sisters. I know women."

"You don't know all women."

Morelli considered me. "I know you."

I could feel my face get warm. "Yeah, well, we should talk about that."

He pushed back in his chair. "It's your nickel."

"I don't think I'm cut out for irresponsible sex."

He thought about that for a beat and gave an almost imperceptible nod. "We have a problem then, because I don't think I'm cut out for marriage. At least not now."

Wow. Big surprise. "I wasn't proposing marriage."

"What were you proposing?"

"I wasn't proposing anything. I guess I was just setting boundaries."

"You know, you're one of those women who drive men nuts. Men drive off bridges and drink too much because of women like you. And it was your fault in the bakery, too."

I narrowed my eyes. "You want to explain that to me?"

Morelli smiled. "You smelled like a jelly doughnut."

"You jerk! That's what you wrote on the bathroom wall in Mario's Sub Shop. You said I was warm and sweet and good to eat. And then you went on to describe how you did it! It got back to my parents, and I was grounded for three months. You have no scruples!"

His eyes darkened. "Don't confuse me with that eighteen-year-old kid."

We glared at each other for a couple of beats, and the silence was shattered by the sound of something smashing through Morelli's living room window.

Morelli bolted from his chair and ran for the front room. I was close behind, almost slamming into him when he stopped short.

A bottle lay in the middle of his living room floor, and there was a fire-blackened rag stuck into the mouth of the bottle. A Molotov cocktail that had burned itself out because the bottle hadn't broken on impact.

Morelli skirted the bottle, rushed into the hall and out the door.

I got to the door in time to see Morelli aim and fire at a retreating car. Only the gun didn't fire. It went click, click, click. Morelli looked at the gun in disbelief.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"This is your gun. I got it out of the sideboard when I ran through the hall. It hasn't got any bullets in it!"

"Bullets are creepy."

Morelli looked dazed. "What good is a gun without bullets?"

"It's good for scaring people. Or you can hit people with it. Or you can use it to break windows . . . or crack walnuts."

"You recognize that car?"

"No. You get a look at the driver?"

Morelli shook his head. "No." He stalked through the house, took his gun and pager off the kitchen counter and clipped them to his belt. He called the dispatcher and gave him the car description. Then he called someone else with the plate number. He took an extra clip out of a kitchen drawer and put it in his pocket while he waited on the plate.

I was standing behind him, and I was trying hard to stay calm, but I was shaking inside, and I was having flashbacks of my ruined apartment. If I'd been home, in bed, when the bottle had exploded, I'd have been killed, charred beyond recognition. As it was I'd lost just about everything I owned. Not that it was much . . . but it was all I had. And now it had almost happened again.

"That was for me," I said, relieved that my voice didn't tremble and give me away.

"Probably," Morelli said. He murmured something into the phone and hung up. "The car was reported stolen a couple hours ago."

He gingerly picked up the bottle with a kitchen towel and put it in a paper bag. Then he set the bag on the kitchen counter. "Fortunately, this guy didn't chose his bottle wisely, and when he threw it, it landed on carpet."

The phone rang, and Morelli snatched at it.

"It's for you," he said. "It's Sally."

"I need help," Sally said. "I have a gig tonight, and I can't figure out this makeup shit."

"Where's Sugar?"

"We had another fight, and he took off."

"Okay," I said, reacting more than thinking, still feeling numbed by the second attempt to end my life. "I'll be right over."

"Now what?" Morelli asked.

"I need to help Sally with his makeup."

"I'll go with you."

"Not necessary."

"I think it is."

"I don't need a bodyguard." What I really meant was I don't want to get you killed, too.

"Then consider this to be a date."

* * * * *

WE KNOCKED twice, and Sally just about ripped the door off its hinges when he yanked it open. "Shit," he said, "it's you."

"Who'd you think it would be?"

"I guess I was hoping it was Sugar. Look at me. I'm a wreck. I don't know how to do any of this shit. Sugar always gets me dressed. Christ, I haven't got the right hormones for this fucking shit, you know what I mean?"

"Where'd Sugar go?"

"I don't know. We had another fight. I don't even know how it started. Something about me not appreciating his coffee cake."

I looked around. The house was beyond immaculate. Not a speck of dust anywhere. Nothing out of place. Through the kitchen door I could see the kitchen counters neatly lined with cakes, pies, loaves of bread, glass jars filled with cookies and homemade fudge.

"I didn't even realize he was all that upset," Sally said. "He got dressed and left when I was in my bubble bath."

Morelli arched an eyebrow. "Bubble bath?"

"Hey, give me a break here. RuPaul says you're supposed to take a goddamn bubble bath, so that's what I do. Gets you in touch with your fuckin' female side."

Morelli grinned.

Sally was wearing black bikini Calvins and panty hose, and he was holding a contraption that looked like a corset with breasts. "You gotta help me," he said. "I can't get into this by myself."

Morelli held up a hand. "You're on your own."

Sally looked over at him. "What, are you homophobic?"

"Nope," Morelli said. "I'm Italian. There's a difference."

"Okay," I said. "What do I have to do?"

Sally wiggled into the corset and got it in place. "Tighten this fucker up," he said. "I need to get a waist."

I pulled at the strings, but I couldn't get them to go together. "I can't do this. I haven't got enough hand strength."

We both looked at Morelli.

Morelli gave a disgusted sigh. "Shit," he said, heaving himself off the couch. He took hold of the strings, put his foot to Sally's butt and yanked.

"Oof," Sally said. He looked over his shoulder at Morelli. "You've done this before."

"Dolan used to wear one of these when he went undercover."

"I don't suppose you did Dolan's makeup?"

"Sorry," Morelli said, "makeup's way out of my league."

Sally looked to me.

"No sweat," I said. "I'm from the burg. I was putting makeup on Barbie before I could walk."

Half an hour later I had him appropriately slutted up. We tugged on his wig and did some last-minute combing. Sally zipped himself into a short black leather skirt and a black leather top that looked like Madonna meets the Hell's Angels. He slipped his sizefourteen feet into a pair of platform heels, and he was ready to go.

"How are you doing on time?" I asked.

He grabbed his guitar case. "I'm cool. So how do I look? Am I pretty?"

"Well, uh . . . yeah." If you like almost-seven-feet-tall, slightly bowlegged, hook-nosed guys with hairy chests and arms dressed up like the bride of the Valkyries.

"You should come with me," Sally said. "I'll introduce you to the rest of the band, and you could stay and watch the show."

"Do I know how to take a girl on a date, or what?" Morelli said.

We took the elevator with Sally and followed him out of the lot. He looped around down by the river and got on Route 1 north.

"That was nice of you to help him with his corset," I said.

"Yeah," Morelli said. "I'm Mr. Sensitivity."

Sally went about fifteen miles and put his blinker on, so we'd know he was turning. The club was on the right side of the highway, all lit up in red and pink neon lights. Already there were a lot of cars in the lot. The sign on the rooftop advertised an all-girl revue. I guessed that was Sally.

Sally crawled out of the Porsche and straightened his skirt.

"We've played here for four weeks now," he said. "We're like fucking regulars."

Regular what I didn't know.

Morelli looked around the lot. "Where's Sugar's car?"

"The black Mercedes."

"Sugar does okay."

Sally grinned. "You ever see him in drag?"

We both shook our heads no.

"When you see him you'll understand."

We followed Sally in through the kitchen entrance.

"If I go through the front I'll get fucking mobbed," he said. "These people are animals."

We went down a dreary narrow hall to a back room. The room was filled with smoke and noise and the Lovelies. All five of them. All dressed in various forms of leather . . . with the exception of Sugar. Sugar was wearing a blood-red satin dress that fit him like his own skin. It was short and tight and so smooth in front I thought he must have been surgically altered. His makeup was flawless. His lips were full and pouty, painted in high gloss to match the dress. He wore the Marilyn wig, and on my best day I never looked that good. I slid a sideways glance at Morelli, and he obviously was caught in the same dumbstruck fascination that I was experiencing. I shifted my attention back to Sugar and realization suddenly hit me.

"The woman in the bar was Sugar," I whispered to Morelli. "It was a different blond wig, but I'm sure it was Sugar."

"Are you kidding me? He was right in front of you, and you didn't recognize him?"

"It happened so fast, and the room was dark and crowded. And besides, look at him! He's beautiful!"

Sugar saw the three of us come into the room, and he was on his feet, calling Sally an ungrateful slut.

"Christ," Sally said, "what's he talking about? Don't you have to be a chick to be a slut?"

"You are a chick, you dumb shit," one of the other drag queens said.

Sally grabbed his package and gave it a hike up.

"I'd like to talk to you in private," Morelli said to Sugar.

"You don't belong here, and I'm not talking to you," Sugar said. "This is the band's dressing room. Now get the hell out."

Morelli crossed the room in three strides, backing Sugar into a corner. They stood talking like that for a few minutes, and then Morelli eased off. "Nice meeting you," he said to the other band members, who were shuffling foot to foot in awkward silence. "Talk to you later," he said to Sally.

When we left Sugar was still in the corner, his eyes small and glittery, not a part of his baby doll face.

"Jeez," I said. "What did you say to him?"

"I asked him if he was involved in the firebombings."

"And what did he tell you?"

"Not much."

"He sure makes a beautiful woman."

Morelli gave his head a small shake of amazement. "Christ, for a minute there I didn't know whether I wanted to punch him in the face or ask him for a date."

"We going to stay to watch the band?"

"No," Morelli said. "We're going out to the lot to check out the Mercedes, and then we're going to run a check on Sugar."

* * * * *

THE MERCEDES was clean, and so was Sugar. No priors for Gregory Stern. When we got back to Morelli's house there were two cop cars parked in front and several people milling around on the sidewalk. Morelli parked the truck and got out and walked over to the nearest uniform, who happened to be Carl Costanza.

"Been waiting for you," Carl said. "Didn't know if you wanted us to board your window."

"No. It'll be okay for tonight, and tomorrow I'll get a glass guy over here."

"You coming in, or you gonna do the report in the morning?" Carl asked.

"I'll do it in the morning."

"Congratulations," Costanza said to me. "I hear you're preggers."

"I'm not preggers!"

Costanza draped an arm around me and leaned close. "Would you like to be?"

I rolled my eyes.

"Okay, but remember me in case you change your mind," Carl said.

An old man in a bathrobe came up to Morelli and gave him the elbow. "Just like old times, huh? I can remember when Ziggy Kozak's house got machine-gunned into Swiss cheese. Boy, I tell you, those were the days."

Morelli went into the house, got the firebomb and gave it to Carl. "Have this checked for prints and put it in the lockup. Anybody canvass the neighborhood for a witness?"

"No witnesses. We did every house."

"How about the car?"

"Hasn't turned up yet."

The cops got into their cars and drove off. The people dispersed. I followed Morelli into the living room, where we both stood looking at the glass shards scattered over the floor.

"I'm really sorry," I said. "This is my fault. I shouldn't have come here."

"Don't worry about it," Morelli said. "Life was getting dull."

"I could move out."

Morelli grabbed me by the front of my shirt and pulled me to him. "You're just afraid you're going to cave and have to pay me fifty dollars."

I felt a smile come on. "Thanks."

Morelli leaned in and kissed me. He had his knee between my legs and his tongue in my mouth, and I got a hot rush that dropped my stomach about six inches.

He backed off and grinned at me. "Good night."

I blinked. "G'nite."

The grin widened. "Gotcha."

I grit my teeth. "I'm going to bed."

"I'll be down here if you get lonely. I'm going to sleep on the couch tonight just to make sure no one crawls through my window and walks off with my television."