Oh boy. "I don't suppose you know what kind of car he was driving?"
"Silver Porsche. Cynthia Lotte's car."
I guess that could explain Cynthia's death.
"What was that face you just made?" Morelli asked.
"It was a guilt grimace. I sort of helped Cynthia steal that car back from Homer."
I told Morelli about Cynthia walking in on Lula and me, and how Cynthia wanted her car back, and how that entailed getting the dead guy out of it. When I was done Morelli just sat there, looking dazed.
"You know, when you're a cop you get to a point where you think you've heard it all," he finally said. "You think there's nothing left that could surprise you. And then you come along, and it's a whole new ball game."
I selected another piece of pizza and thought the conversation was probably going to deteriorate now.
"Probably I don't have to point out that you destroyed a crime scene," Morelli said.
Yep. I was right. It was definitely deteriorating.
"And probably I don't have to point out that you withheld evidence in a homicide investigation."
I nodded affirmative.
"Jesus Christ on a crutch, what the hell were you thinking?" he yelled.
Everyone turned and looked at us.
"It wasn't like I could stop her," I said. "So it seemed like the expedient thing to do was to help her."
"You could have left. You could have walked away. You didn't have to help! I thought you just picked him up off the cement floor. I didn't know you dragged him out of a car, for crissake!"
People were staring again.
"They're going to find your prints all over that car," Morelli said.
"Lula and I wore gloves." Lucy and Ethel get clever.
"It used to be I didn't want to get married because I didn't want you sitting home worrying about me. Now I don't want to get married because I don't know if I can handle the stress of being married to you."
"This would never have happened if you or Ranger had confided in me. First I get asked to help in the investigation, and then I get shoved aside. This is all your fault."
Morelli narrowed his eyes.
"Well, maybe not all your fault."
"I have to get back to work," Morelli said, calling for the check. "Promise me you'll go home and stay there. Promise me you'll go home and lock your door and not leave until this gets settled. Alexander is scheduled to fly back to Greece tomorrow. We think that means Homer is leaving tonight, and we think we know how he's going to do it."
"By boat."
"Yeah. There's a container ship sailing out of Newark, headed for Greece. And Homer is a weak link. If we can bring him in on a homicide there's a chance he'll plea-bargain and give us Alexander and Stolle."
"Gee, I kind of like Alexander."
Now Morelli grimaced.
"Okay," I said, "I'll go home and stay there. Yeesh."
I didn't have anything to do that afternoon, anyway. And I couldn't get excited about giving Habib and Mitchell another crack at kidnapping me and chopping off my fingers, one by one. Locking myself into my apartment was actually appealing. I could clean up some more, and watch some junky television, and take a nap.
"I have your shoulder bag at my house," Morelli said. "I didn't think to bring it to work with me. Do you need a key to your apartment?"
I nodded. "Yes."
He took a key off his key ring and gave it to me.
THE LOT T O my building was relatively empty. At this time of day the seniors were either off shopping or making maximum use of the Medicare system, which was fine by me because it got me a good parking space. There were no strange cars in the lot. And as far as I could tell, no one was lurking in the bushes. I parked close to the door and got the Glock out of my jacket pocket. I quickly went into the building and took the stairs. The second-floor hall was empty and quiet. My door was locked. Both good signs. I unlocked my door with the Glock still in hand and stepped into the foyer. The apartment looked just as I'd left it. I closed the door behind me but didn't slide the bolt, in case I had to make a fast exit. Then I went room to room, making sure all was secure.
I went from the living room to the bathroom. And when I was in the bathroom a man stepped out of the bedroom and leveled a gun at me. He was average height and build, slimmer and younger than Hannibal Ramos, but the family resemblance was obvious. He was a good-looking man, but the good looks were ruined by lines of dissolution. A month at Betty Ford wouldn't make a dent in this man's problems.
"Homer Ramos?"
"In the flesh."
We both had guns drawn, standing about ten feet apart. "Drop the gun," I said.
He gave me a humorless smile. "Make me."