“And?”
“I shot him, and he left.”
“Nice. I was thinking we should put the frozen pizza in the oven. Is there any more wine?”
NINETEEN
ORDINARILY, I WAKE UP Sunday morning feeling glorious. I apologize to God for not attending Mass, and then I roll over and go back to sleep. This morning, I woke up worrying about the guy I’d shot. It hadn’t looked like a life-threatening wound, but he still would have to get the bullet dug out and make sure it didn’t get infected. The good news was he’d probably already gotten a tetanus shot from when I knifed him. And truth is, I’d be much better off if the infection killed him. He wasn’t a nice man.
Thoughts of Raz got pushed aside when I remembered Joyce Barnhardt was in my living room. I had to find a way to get her out, once and for all, the sooner the better. I pulled on sweatpants and a T-shirt and trudged into the kitchen. Joyce was already there, searching the cabinets, undoubtedly looking for smoked salmon and caviar and croissants.
“You went shopping, but I can’t find any food,” she said.
“Au contraire, I got all my favorite staples, plus my Sunday morning special treat. Strawberry Pop-Tarts.”
I got the coffee brewing, and I took a Pop-Tart out of the box.
“I’ve been thinking,” I said to Joyce. “You need to leave. You should go home. I’m sure the Pink Panthers have moved on to bigger and better projects. And besides, you have a gun, right? If they get irritating, just shoot them.”
“These guys are professionals,” Joyce said. “It’s not like they’re Burg stumblebums. And by the way, you look like crap. What have you got on?”
“Sweatpants. They’re comfy. And since we’re on the topic, have you looked in a mirror recently? You’re Fright Night in the orangutan house at the zoo.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been on the run. I hocked the necklace I was wearing and bought a few things, but it’s not like I have access to my closet.”
“How about combing your hair for starters.”
“My hair would look just fine if you hadn’t shot my piece. And you should talk about hair. Has yours ever looked good?”
“Morelli likes my hair. He says it has energy.”
“If he’s so in love with your hair, why isn’t he here? As far as I can tell, you never even see him.”
“He’s busy.”
“Yeah, he’s busy with Marianne Mikulski.”
I filled a mug with coffee and added milk. “He’s busy with his job.”
“Sure he is. You keep on believing that.”
“Marianne Mikulski is married.”
“Marianne Mikulski is separated from her loser husband, and she’s on the hunt. Rumor has it she’s bagged your ex-boyfriend.”
“Getting back to your departure from my apartment.”
“I need the chest. I don’t want to believe the Panthers have it. The only other possible place it could be is in Frank’s house.”
“Why would it be in his house?”
“Maybe he brought it home for safekeeping after I got arrested. Or his wife could have taken it after he disappeared.”
“Why would his wife take it?”
“I don’t know. He could have told her about the Panthers. Or it could hold sentimental value for her.”
“I can’t break into the house. The store was empty, and you knew the code. The house is too risky.”
“Go in when no one’s home.”
“When is that?”
“Tomorrow. When they bury Frank.”
“I’ll do it if you move out today,” I said.
“I’ll move out when you find the chest.”
I was back to the same three options. It was Sunday and highly unlikely I could get bars instantly installed on my windows. Though killing Joyce was by far the most appealing option, I knew I wasn’t capable of carrying it out. So I was stuck with getting the chest.
I finished my Pop-Tart and coffee, took a shower, got dressed, and left the apartment to Joyce. I drove out of the building’s parking lot and passed the Town Car parked on a side street. Lancer fell in line behind me and followed me to Morelli’s house.
I parked and had a moment of craziness, wondering if I should call before going to the door. What if Marianne Mikulski’s in there? What if I interrupt something I don’t want to know about?
I was sitting there debating what to do next when Morelli called on my cell phone.
“Are you just going to hang there or are you coming in?” he asked.
“Are you alone?”
“Does Bob count?”
I disconnected and went to the door. Bob came thundering across the living room and threw himself at me, almost knocking me over. I scratched his neck and made dog sounds at him.