Two for the dough

Chapter Nine

I dragged myself out of bed, pulled the curtain aside, and looked down into the lot. Sure enough, the tan Fairlane was parked next to Uncle Sandor's Buick. I could see the bumper still in Morelli's backseat, and someone had spray-painted PIG on his driver's-side door. I opened my bedroom window and stuck my head out. "Go away."

"I have a staff meeting in fifteen minutes," Morelli yelled up. "Shouldn't take more than an hour, and then I'll be free for the rest of the day. I want you to wait for me to get back before you go to Stiva's."

"No problem."

By the time Morelli got back to me it was nine-thirty, and I was feeling restless. I was watching at the window when he pulled into the lot, and I was out of the building like a flash with the finger rolling around in my pocketbook. I was wearing my Doc Martens in case I had to kick someone, and I'd attached the pepper spray to my belt for instant access. I had my stun gun fully charged and stuffed into my jacket pocket.

"In a hurry?" Morelli asked.

"George Mayer's finger is making me nervous. I'll feel a lot better when it's back home with George."

"If you need to talk to me just give me a call," Morelli said. "You have my car phone number?"

"Committed to memory."

"My pager?"

"Yes."

I powered up the Buick and rumbled out of the lot. I could see Morelli keeping a respectable distance behind me. Half a block from Stiva's I caught sight of the flashing lights of a motorcycle escort. Great. A funeral. I pulled to the side and watched the hearse roll by, followed by the flower car, followed by the limo with the immediate family. I glanced in the limo window and recognized Mrs. Mayer.

I checked my rearview mirror and saw Morelli parked directly behind me, shaking his head as if to say don't even think about it .

I punched his number into my phone. "They're burying George without his finger!"

"Trust me. George doesn't care about his finger. You can give it back to me. I'll save it for evidence."

"Evidence of what?"

"Tampering with a dead body."

"I don't believe you. You'll probably toss it into a Dumpster."

"Actually, I was thinking of putting it in Goldstein's locker." The cemetery was a mile and a half from Stiva's. There were maybe seven or eight cars in front of me, crawling along in the somber procession. Outside, the air was mid-thirties and the sky was a wintery blue, and it felt more like I was in traffic to go to a football game than a funeral. We pulled through the cemetery gates and wound our way to the middle of the cemetery where the grave had been prepared and chairs set up. By the time I parked, Spiro had the widow Mayer already seated.

I sidled up to Spiro and leaned close. "I have George's finger." No response.

"George's finger," I repeated in my mommy-to-three-year-old voice. "The real one. The one he's missing. I've got it in my pocketbook."

"What the hel is George's finger doing in your pocketbook?"

"It's sort of along story. What we have to do now is get George put back together again."

"What, are you crazy? I'm not going to open that casket to give George his finger back! No one gives a shit about George's finger."

"I do!"

"Why don't you do something useful like find my damn caskets? Why are you wasting your time finding things I don't want? You don't expect to get paid for finding the finger, do you?"

"Jesus, Spiro, you're such a slime sucker."

"Yeah, so what's your point?"

"My point is that you better figure out how to get old George his finger, or I'm going to make a scene."

Spiro didn't look convinced.

"I'll tell Grandma Mazur," I added.

"Shit, don't do that."

"What about the finger?"

"We don't drop the casket until everyone's in the cars with motors running. We can pitch the finger in then. Will that work for you?"

"Pitch the finger?"

"I'm not opening the casket. You're gonna have to settle for having it buried in the same hole."

"I feel a scream coming on."

"Christ." He pressed his lips together, but his lips weren't ever able to entirely close over his overbite. "Al right. I'll open the casket. Anyone ever tell you you're a pain in the ass?" I moved away from Spiro to the edge of the gathering, where Morelli stood watching.

"Everyone tells me I'm a pain in the ass."

"Then it must be true," Morelli said, throwing an arm around my shoulders. "Have any luck getting rid of the finger?"

"Spiro's going to give it back to George after the ceremony, after the cars have cleared out."

"Are you going to stay?"

"Yes. It'll give me a chance to talk to Spiro."

"I'm going to leave with the rest of the warm bodies. I'l be in the area if you need me." I tilted my face to the sun and let my mind float through the short prayer. When the temperature dropped below fifty Stiva didn't waste time at graveside. No widow in the burg ever wore sensible shoes to a funeral, and it was the funeral director's responsibility to keep old feet warm. The entire service took less than ten minutes, not even enough time to turn Mrs. Mayer's nose red. I watched the old folks beating their retreat over the blighted grass and hard ground. In a half-hour they'd all be at the Mayer house, eating pencil points and drinking highballs. And by one o'clock Mrs. Mayer would be alone, wondering what she was going to do rattling around in the family house all by herself for the rest of her life.

Car doors slammed closed and engines revved. The cars drove away. Spiro stood hands on hips, a study of the long-suffering undertaker. "Well?" he said to me. I pulled the bag out of my pocketbook and handed it over.

Two cemetery employees stood on either side of the casket. Spiro gave the baggie to one of them with instructions to open the casket and lay the bag inside. Neither man blinked an eye. I guess when you make a living dropping lead-lined boxes into the ground you aren't necessarily the inquisitive type.

"So," Spiro said, turning to me. "How'd you get the finger?" I gave him the rundown on Kenny in the shoe department and how I found the finger when I got home.

"You see," Spiro said, "this is the difference between Kenny and me. Kenny always has to grandstand. Likes to set things up and then see how they play. Everything's a game to Kenny. When we were kids, I'd step on a bug and squash it dead, and Kenny'd stick it with a pin to see how long it'd take the bug to die. Guess Kenny likes to see things squirm, and I like to get the job done. If it was me I'd have gotten you in a dark, empty parking lot, and I'd have shoved the finger up your butt."

I felt my head go light.

"Just talking theoretically, of course," Spiro said. "I wouldn't ever do that to you on account of you're such a fox. Not unless you wanted me to."

"I have to go now."

"Maybe we could see each other later. Like for dinner or something. Just because you're a pain in the ass, and I'm a slime sucker, doesn't mean we can't get together."

"I'd rather stick a needle in my eye."

"You'll come around," Spiro said. "I got what you want." I was afraid to ask. "Apparently you've got what Kenny wants, too."

"Kenny's a jerk."

"He used to be your friend."

"Things happen."

"Like what?" I asked.

"Like nothing."

"I got the impression Kenny thought we were partners in some sort of plot against him."

"Kenny's nuts. Next time you see him you should shoot him. You can do that, can't you?

You got a gun?"

"I really do have to go."

"Later," Spiro said, making a gun with his hand and pulling the trigger. I practically ran back to the Buick. I slid behind the wheel, locked the door, and called Morelli.

"Maybe you're right about my going into cosmetology."

"You'd love it," Morelli said. "You'd get to draw eyebrows on a bunch of old babes."

"Spiro wouldn't tell me anything. At least not anything I wanted to hear."

"I picked up something interesting on the radio while I was waiting for you. There was a fire on Low Street last night. It was in one of the buildings belonging to the old pipe factory. Clearly arson. The pipe factory's been boarded up for years, but it seems someone was using the building to store caskets."

"Are you telling me someone torched my caskets?"

"Did Spiro put any contingencies on casket condition, or do you get paid dead or alive?"

"I'll meet you over there."

The pipe factory was on a mean piece of land caught between Low Street and the train tracks. It had been shut down in the seventies and left to decay. On either side were flat fields of no value. Beyond the fields were surviving industries: an auto graveyard, a plumbing supply house, Jackson Moving and Storage.

The gate leading to the pipe factory lot was rusted open, the blacktop cracked and pocked, littered with glass and weathered refuse. A leaden sky reflected in pools of sooty water. A fire truck idled in the lot. An official-type car had been parked next to the truck. A blue-and-white and a fire marshal's car were angled closer to the loading dock, where the fire had obviously taken place.

Morelli and I parked side by side and walked toward a group of men who were talking and writing on clipboards.

They looked up when we approached and nodded acknowledgment to Morelli.

"What's the story?" Morelli said.

I recognized the man who answered. John Petrucci. When my father worked in the post office Petrucci was his supervisor. Now Petrucci was the fire marshal. Go figure.

"Arson," Petrucci said. "Pretty much confined to the one bay. Somebody soaked a bunch of caskets in gasoline and set a fuse. The fire trail is clear."

"Any suspects?" Morelli asked.

They looked at him like he was crazy.

Morelli grinned. "Just thought I'd ask. Mind if we look around?"

"Help yourself. We're done here. The insurance investigator's already gone through. There wasn't much structural damage. Everything's cement. Someone's coming over to board things up."

Morelli and I scrambled up to the loading dock. I pulled my flashlight out of my pocketbook and flicked it on a heap of charred, waterlogged trash sitting in the middle of the bay. Only at the far perimeter of the sodden mess were remains that could be recognized as a casket. An outer wood box and an inner wood box. Nothing fancy. Both blackened from fire. I reached out to touch a corner, and the casket and packaging collapsed in on itself, settling with a sigh.

"If you wanted to be real diligent about this, you could tell how many caskets were here by collecting the hardware," Morelli said. "Then you could take the hardware back to Spiro and see if he could identify it."

"How many caskets do you think were here?"

"A bunch."

"Good enough for me." I selected a clasp, wrapped it in Kleenex, and slid it into my jacket pocket. "Why would someone steal caskets and then burn them?"

"A lark? A grudge? Maybe ripping off caskets seemed like a good idea at the time, but whoever took them couldn't get rid of them."

"Spiro isn't going to be happy."

"Yeah," Morelli said. "Kind of warms your heart, doesn't it?"

"I needed that money."

"What were you going to do with it?"

"Pay off my Jeep."

"Honey, you don't have a Jeep."

The casket clasp felt heavy in my pocket. Not in terms of ounces and pounds, but in measurements of dread. I didn't want to go knocking on Spiro's door. When in dread, my rule was always to procrastinate.

"I thought maybe I'd go home for lunch," I said to Morelli. "And then I could bring Grandma Mazur back to Stiva's with me. There'll be someone new in George Mayer's room, and Grandma really likes to get out to afternoon viewings."

"Very thoughtful of you," Morelli said. "Am I invited for lunch?"

"No. You already had pudding. If I bring you home for a meal they'll never let up. Two meals are as good as engaged."

I stopped for gas on the way to my parents' and was relieved not to see Morelli anywhere. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad, I thought. I probably wouldn't get the finder's fee, but at least I'd be done with Spiro. I turned at Hamilton and drove past Delio's Exxon. My heart dropped when I hit High Street and saw Morelli's Fairlane parked in front of my parents' house. I attempted to park behind him, misjudged, and took out his right taillight. Morelli got out of his car and examined the damage. "You did that on purpose," he said.

"I didn't! It's this Buick. You can't tell where it ends." I gave him the evil eye. "What are you doing here? I told you no lunch."

"I'm protecting you. I'll wait in the car."

"Fine."

"Fine," Morelli said.

"Stephanie," my mother called from the door. "What are you doing standing out there with your boyfriend?"

"You see?" I said to Morelli. "What did I tell you? Now you're my boyfriend."

"Lucky you."

My mother was waving us forward. "Come in. What a nice surprise. Good thing I have extra soup. And we have some fresh bread your father just got from the bakery."

"I like soup," Morelli said.

"No. No soup," I told him.

Grandma Mazur appeared at the door. "What are you doing with him?" she asked. "I thought you said he wasn't your type."

"He followed me home."

"If I'd known I'd have put on some lipstick."

"He's not coming in."

"Of course he's coming in," my mother said. "I have plenty of soup. What would people think if he didn't come in?"

"Yeah," Morelli said to me. "What would people think?" My father was in the kitchen putting a new washer in the kitchen faucet. He looked relieved to see Morelli standing in the hallway. He'd probably prefer I bring home someone useful, like a butcher or a car mechanic, but I guess cops are a step up from undertakers.

"Sit at the table," my mother said. "Have some bread with cheese. Have some cold cuts. I got the cold cuts at Giovichinni's. He's always got the best cold cuts." While everyone was ladling out soup and scarfing up cold cuts I pulled the paper with the casket photo out of my pocketbook. The detail in the photo wasn't especially good, but the hardware looked similar to what I'd seen at the fire site.

"What's that?" Grandma Mazur wanted to know. "Looks like a picture of a casket." She took a closer look. "You aren't thinking of buying that for me, are you? I want one with some carving. I don't want one of them military caskets."

Morelli's head came up. "Military?"

"Only place they got caskets this ugly is the military. I saw on TV about how they got all these caskets left over from Desert Storm. Not enough Americans died over there and now they have acres of caskets to get rid of, so the army's been auctioning them off. They're—what do you call it—surplus."

Morelli and I looked at each other. Duh.

Morelli put his napkin on the table and slid his chair back. "I need to make a phone call," he said to my mother. "Is it okay if I use your phone?" It seemed pretty far-fetched to think Kenny had smuggled the guns and ammo off the base in caskets. Still, crazier things have been known to happen. And it would explain Spiro's casket anxiety.

"How'd it go?" I asked when Morelli returned to the table.

"Marie's checking for me."

Grandma Mazur paused with a spoonful of soup halfway to her mouth. "Is this police business? Are we working on a case?"

"Trying to get a dental appointment," Morelli said. "I've got a loose filling."

"You need teeth like mine," Grandma told him. "I can mail them to the dentist." I was having second thoughts about dragging Grandma off to Stiva's. I figured she could hold her own with a disgusting undertaker. I didn't want her involved with a dangerous one.

I finished my soup and bread and helped myself to a handful of cookies from the cookie jar, glancing at Morelli, wondering at his lean body. He'd eaten two bowls of soup, half a loaf of bread slathered in butter, and seven cookies. I'd counted. He saw me staring and raised his eyebrows in silent question.

"I suppose you work out," I said, more statement than question.

"I run when I can. Do some weights." He grinned. "Morelli men have good metabolism." Life was a bitch.

Morelli's beeper went off, and he returned the call from the kitchen phone. When he came back to the table he looked like the cat that swallowed the canary. "My dentist," he said.

"Good news."

I stacked all the soup bowls and plates and hustled them into the kitchen. "Got to go," I said to my mother. "Got work to do."

"Work," my mother said. "Hah! Some work."

"It was wonderful," Morelli said to my mother. "The soup was terrific."

"You should come again," she told him. "We're having pot roast tomorrow. Stephanie, why don't you bring him back tomorrow?"

"No."

"That's not polite," my mother said. "How is that to treat a boyfriend?" When my mother was willing to accept a Morelli as a boyfriend, this only went to show how desperate my mother was to get me married, or at least for me to have a social life.

"He's not my boyfriend."

My mother gave me a bag of cookies. "I'll make cream puffs tomorrow. I haven't made cream puffs in a long time."

When we got outside I stood straight and tall and looked Morelli square in the eye. "You are not coming to dinner."

"Sure," Morelli said.

"What about the phone call?"

"Braddock had a shitload of surplus caskets. The DRMO conducted a sale six months ago. That was two months before Kenny was discharged. Stiva's Mortuary bought twentyfour. The caskets were stored in the same general area as the munitions, but we're talking about a lot of ground. A couple warehouses and an acre or two of open yard, all behind fence."

"Of course the fence was no problem for Kenny, because he worked in the compound."

"Yep. And when bids were accepted the caskets were marked for pickup. So Kenny knew which caskets were assigned to Spiro." Morelli snitched a cookie from my bag. "My uncle Vito would have been proud."

"Vito stole a few caskets in his day?"

"Mostly Vito filled caskets. Hijacking was a sideline."

"So you think it's possible Kenny used the caskets to smuggle the guns off the base?"

"Seems risky and unnecessarily melodramatic, but yeah, I think it's possible."

"Okay, so Spiro, Kenny, and probably Moogey maybe stole all this stuff from Braddock, and stored it at R and J. Then all of a sudden the stuff is missing. Someone pulled a double cross, and we know it wasn't Spiro because Spiro hired me to find the caskets."

"Doesn't seem like it was Kenny either," Morelli said. "When he said Spiro had something that belonged to him, my guess is he was talking about the stolen guns."

"So who does that leave? Moogey?"

"Dead men don't set up late-night sales meetings with the Long brothers." I didn't want to run over the jagged remnants of Morelli's taillight, so I picked the major pieces out of the gutter, and for lack of something better to do with them, handed the chunks of plastic to Morelli. "Probably you're insured for this," I said. Morelli looked pained.

"Are you still following me?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"Then watch out for my tires when I go into Stiva's."

Stiva's little side lot was totally filled with the matinee crowd, forcing me to park on the street. I got out of the Buick and tried to be cool about looking for Morelli. I couldn't find him, but I knew he was close because my stomach felt hot and squishy. Spiro was in the lobby doing his best impersonation of God directing traffic.

"How's it going?" I said.

"Busy. Joe Loosey came in last night. Aneurysm. And Stan Radiewski is here. He was an Elk. The Elks always get a big turnout."

"I have some good news and some bad news," I said. "The good news is . . . I think I found your caskets."

"And the bad news?"

I took the blackened clasp out of my pocket. "The bad news is . . . this is all that's left." Spiro looked at the clasp. "I don't get it."

"Someone barbecued a bunch of caskets last night. Had them all stacked up in one of the loading bays at the pipe factory, soaked the caskets in gasoline, and lit a fuse. They were pretty badly burned, but there was enough of one to identify as a casket in a crate."

"And you saw this? What else got burned? Was there anything else?" Like a few LAWS? "From what I could see there were just caskets. You might want to check for yourself."

"Christ," Spiro said. "I can't go now. Who's gonna baby-sit all these fucking Elks?"

"Louie?"

"Jesus. Not Louie. It's going to have to be you."

"Oh no. Not me."

"All you have to do is make sure there's hot tea and say a lot of crapola like . . . the Lord moves in mysterious ways. I'll only be gone a half-hour." He dug his keys out of his pocket. "Who was there when you got to the pipe factory?"

"The fire marshal, a uniform, some guy I didn't know, Joe Morelli, a bunch of firemen packing up."

"They say anything worth remembering?"

"Nope."

"You tell them the caskets belonged to me?"

"No. And I'm not staying. I want my finder's fee, and then I'm out of here."

"I'm not handing over any money until I see this for myself. For all I know they could be someone else's caskets. Or maybe you're making all this up."

"Half-hour," I yelled to his back. "That's all you get!" I checked the tea table. Nothing to do there. Lots of hot water and cookies set out. I sat down in a side chair and contemplated some nearby cut flowers. The Elks were all in the new addition with Radiewski, and the lobby was uncomfortably quiet. No magazines to read. No television. Music to die by softly filtered over the sound system. After what seemed like four days, Eddie Ragucci ambled in. Eddie was a CPA and a big magoo in the Elks.

"Where's the weasel?" Eddie asked.

"Had to go out. He said he wouldn't be long."

"It's too hot in Stan's room. The thermostat must be broken. We can't get it to cut off. Stan's makeup is starting to run. Things like this never happened when Con was here. It's a damn shame Stan had to go when Con was in the hospital. Talk about the lousy breaks."

"The Lord moves in mysterious ways."

"Ain't that the truth."

"I'll see if I can find Spiro's assistant."

I pushed a few buttons on the intercom, yelling Louie's name into the thing, telling him to come to the lobby.

Louie appeared just as I got to the last button. "I was in the workrooms," he said.

"Anybody else in there?"

"Mr. Loosey."

"I mean, are there any other employees? Like Clara from the beauty parlor?"

"No. Just me."

I told him about the thermostat and sent him to take a look.

Five minutes later he trundled back. "The little thing was bent," he said. "It happens all the time. People lean on it, and the little thing gets bent."

"You like working in a funeral home?"

"I used to work in a nursing home. This is a lot easier on account of you can just hose people down here. And once you get them on the table they don't move around."

"Did you know Moogey Bues?"

"Not until after he was shot. Took about a pound of putty to fill in his head."

"How about Kenny Mancuso?"

"Spiro said it was Kenny Mancuso that shot Moogey Bues."

"You know what Kenny looks like? He ever come around here?"

"I know what he looks like, but I haven't seen him in a while. I hear people say how you're a bounty hunter, and that you're looking for Kenny."

"He failed to appear in court."

"If I see him I'll tell you."

I gave him a card. "Here are some numbers where I can be reached." The back door banged open and was slammed closed. A moment later Spiro stalked into the room. His black dress shoes and the cuffs of his slacks were powdered with ash. His cheeks were an unhealthy red, and his little rodent eyes were dilated black.

"Well?" I asked.

His eyes fixed over my shoulder. I turned and saw Morelli cross the lobby.

"You looking for someone?" Spiro said to Morelli. "Radiewski's in the addition." Morelli flashed his badge.

"I know who you are," Spiro said. "There a problem here? I leave for a half-hour, and I come back to a problem."

"Not a problem," Morelli told him. "Just trying to find the owner of some caskets that burned."

"You found him. And I didn't set the fire. The caskets were stolen from me."

"Did you report the theft to the police?"

"I didn't want the publicity. I hired Ms. Marvel here to find the damn things."

"The one casket that was left looked a little plain for a burg casket," Morelli said.

"I got them on sale from the army. Surplus. I was thinking maybe I'd franchise out into other neighborhoods. Maybe take them down to Philly. Lot of poor people in Philly."

"I'm curious about this army surplus stuff," Morelli said. "How does this work?"

"You submit a bid to the DRMO. If the bid gets picked up, you've got a week to haul your shit off the base."

"Which base are we talking about?"

"Braddock."

Morelli was a study of calm. "Wasn't Kenny Mancuso stationed at Braddock?"

"Yeah. A lot of people are stationed at Braddock."

"Okay," Morelli said, "so they accept your bid. How do you get the caskets back here?"

"Me and Moogey went down with a U-Haul."

"One last question," Morelli said. "You have any idea why someone would steal your caskets and then set a match to them?"

"Yeah. They were stolen by a nut. I've got things to do," Spiro said. "You're done here, right?"

"For now."

They locked eyes, a muscle worked in Spiro's jaw, and he wheeled off to his office.

"See you back at the ranch," Morelli said to me, and he was off, too. The door to Spiro's office was closed. I knocked and waited. No answer. I knocked louder.

"Spiro," I yelled, "I know you're in there!"

Spiro ripped the door open. "Now what?"

"My money."

"Christ, I have more things to think about than your chickenshit money."

"Like what?"

"Like crazy Kenny Mancuso setting fire to my goddamn caskets."

"How do you know it was Kenny?"

"Who else could it be? He's looney tunes, and he's threatening me."

"You should have told Morelli."

"Yeah, right. That's all I need. Like I haven't got enough problems, I should have the cops looking up my butt."

"I've noticed you're not fond of cops."

"Cops suck."

I felt breath on the back of my neck and turned to find Louie Moon standing almost on top of me.

"Excuse me," he said, "I've got to talk to Spiro."

"Talk," Spiro said.

"It's about Mr. Loosey. There's been an accident."

Spiro didn't say a word, but his eyes bore like drill bits into Louie's forehead.

"I had Mr. Loosey on the table," Louie said, "and I was gonna get him dressed, and then I had to go fix the thermostat, and when I got back to Mr. Loosey I noticed he was missing his . . . um, private part. I don't know how this could happen. One minute it was there, and then the next minute it was gone."

Spiro knocked Louie aside with a sweep of his hand and charged out, yelling, "Jesus H. Christ and mother fucker."

Minutes later, Spiro was back in his office, his face mottled, his hands clenched. "I don't fucking believe this," he roared through clenched teeth. "I leave for half an hour, and someone comes in and hacks off Loosey's dick. You know who that someone was?

Kenny, that's who. I leave you in charge, and you let Kenny come in and hack off a dick." The phone rang and Spiro snatched at it. "Stiva."

His lips narrowed, and I knew it was Kenny.

"You're nuts," Spiro said. "Too much nose candy. Too many of those little tattoos." Kenny did some talking, and Spiro cut in.

"Shut up," Spiro said. "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about. And you don't know what the fuck you're doing when you mess with me. I see you around here, and I'll kill you. And if I don't kill you I'l have Cookie here kill you." Cookie? Was he talking about me? "Excuse me," I said to Spiro, "what was that last part?" Spiro slammed the phone down. "Fucking jerk."

I put palms flat on his desk and leaned forward. "I am not a cookie. And I am not a hired gun. And if I was in the protection business I would not protect your slimy body. You are a mold spore, a boil, a dog turd. If you ever tell anyone I will kill them on your behalf again, I'll make sure you sing soprano for the rest of your life."

Stephanie Plum, master of the empty threat.

"Let me guess . . . you're on the rag, right?"

Good thing I didn't have my gun with me, because I might have shot him.

"There are a lot of people who wouldn't pay you anything for finding burned-up stuff," Spiro said, "but because I'm such a good guy I'm going to write you a check. We could consider it like a retainer. I could see where it'd be handy to have a chick like you around." I took the check and left. I didn't see the value in talking any further since there clearly wasn't anyone home. I stopped to get gas and Morelli pulled in behind me.

"This is getting strange," I said to Morelli. "I think Kenny's gone over the edge."

"Now what?"

I told him about Mr. Loosey and his mishap, and about the phone call.

"You should be giving this car high-test," Morelli said. "You're going to get engine knock."

"God forbid I'd get engine knock."

Morelli looked disgusted. "Shit," he said.

I thought this seemed like a strong reaction to my lack of automotive maintenance. "Is engine knock that bad?"

He leaned against the fender. "A cop was killed in New Brunswick last night. Took two hits through his vest."

"Army ammo?"

"Yeah." He raised his eyes to me. "I have to find this stuff. It's right under my nose."

"You think Kenny could be right about Spiro? You think Spiro could have emptied the caskets and hired me to cover his ass?"

"I don't know. Doesn't feel right. My gut instinct is that this started off with Kenny, Moogey, and Spiro, and somehow a fourth player came in and screwed everything up. I think someone snatched the stuff out from under Kenny, Moogey, and Spiro and started them fighting among themselves. And it's probably not someone from Braddock, because it's being sold piecemeal in Jersey and Philly."

"It would have to be someone close to one of those three. A confidant . . . like a girlfriend."

"It could be someone who found out by accident," Morelli said. "Someone who overheard a conversation."

"Like Louie Moon."

"Yeah. Like Louie Moon," Morelli said.

"And it would have to be someone who had access to the locker key. Like Louie Moon."

"There are probably lots of people Spiro could have talked to and who would have had access to his key. Everyone from his cleaning lady to Clara. Same with Moogey. Just because Spiro told you no one but him had a key doesn't mean it's true. Probably all three of them had keys."

"If that's the case, then what about Moogey's key? Has that been accounted for? Was it on his key chain when he was killed?"

"His key chain was never found. It was assumed that he left his keys somewhere in the garage and sooner or later they'd turn up. It didn't seem like an important issue at the time. His parents came with an extra key and drove his car home.

"Now that the caskets have surfaced I have some cause to harass Spiro. I think I'll go back and lean on him. And I want to talk to Louie Moon. Can you keep out of trouble for a while?"

"Don't worry about me. I'm fine. I thought maybe I'd go shopping. See if I could find a dress to go with the purple shoes."

The line of Morelli's mouth tightened. "You're lying. You're going to do something stupid, aren't you?"

"Boy, that really hurts. I thought you'd be excited about a purple dress with the purple shoes. I was going to look for spandex, too. A short spandex dress with bugle beads and sequins."

"I know you, and I know you're not going shopping."

"Cross my heart and hope to die. I'm going shopping. I swear to you." One corner of Morelli's mouth hitched up a fraction of an inch. "You'd lie to the pope." I caught myself halfway through the sign of the cross. "I almost never lie." Only when it's absolutely necessary. And on those occasions when the truth doesn't seem appropriate. I watched Morelli drive away, and then I headed over to Vinnie's office to get some addresses.