“Babe,” Ranger said when I slipped into the Porsche.
It was more question than greeting.
“Ernest Blatzo didn’t feel like going back to jail,” I said.
“And?”
“And so, he didn’t go.”
“Would you like help?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll do it tomorrow morning,” Ranger said. “I don’t want to walk through his snake-infested yard at night.”
No kidding.
We parked in the lot and waited at the side entrance of the funeral home for Monica to arrive.
“Do you think she’s in any danger?” I asked Ranger.
“Without a motive for the two killings, it’s hard to say who’s in danger.”
The front doors hadn’t yet opened for mourners, but the parking lot was nearly full, and a large crowd was gathered on the porch, spilling down the stairs and onto the sidewalk in front of the building.
A black Rangeman SUV stopped in front of us and Monica Linken got out. The short skirt on her skin-tight fuchsia dress rode up high on her thigh, and her boobs almost jiggled out of the low scoop neck. She tugged her skirt down and leaned toward Ranger and me.
“I’m not wearing any underwear,” she said.
“You’re in good company,” I told her. “Neither is Ranger.”
This got a smile out of Ranger.
We took our places at the head of the casket, and Monica hauled out her electronic cigarette and powered up. The funeral home director asked her if she’d like a few moments alone with her husband, and Monica said she’d already had too many, thank you.
The double doors to slumber room number one opened, and people poured in. Grandma Mazur was at the front of the crush. She half ran the length of the room and was third in line to see the deceased. She would have been second but Myra Campbell elbowed her out of the way at the last minute.
“So sorry for your loss,” Grandma said to Monica. “My condolences.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Monica said.
Grandma leaned into the casket for a close look.
“What are you gonna do, kiss him?” Monica asked.
“I was trying to see where they cut him up when they took his brain out,” Grandma said.
Monica sucked in some fake smoke. “You’d have to unzip his pants for that one.”
Forty-five minutes later Monica was fidgeting and looking around.
“I need a drink,” Monica said.
“Water, coffee, tea?” I asked her.
“Vodka straight up. How long is this creep show going to last?”
“The viewings usually go to nine or ten o’clock,” I said.
“They don’t expect me to stay the whole time, do they?”
“It’s customary.”
“I don’t even know any of these people. Like that scary old lady in the first row. Who the hell is she?”
“That’s my grandmother.”
“Oh yeah, now I remember.”
Grandma looked at me and winked and patted her purse.
At 8:15 P.M. Monica announced that she was leaving. “Tell the undertaker guy to keep this thing going as long as he wants,” Monica said. “I’m going to slip out. It’s not like I’m essential here. This is Doug’s party, right?”
Morelli was standing at the back of the room a couple feet from the door. Our eyes met and I shrugged. The shrug said I had nothing. I hadn’t been able to talk to Monica.
I saw him take out his cellphone, and a moment later a text message buzzed on my phone.
How did you get the bruise and cut lip? Morelli texted.
Ernest Blatzo, I texted back. I’m fine.
Even from this distance I could see a muscle clench in Morelli’s jaw. I expected it went hand in hand with acid reflux.
“Where are you going?” I asked Monica.
“I’m gonna find a bar that’s got lots of vodka.”
“I could go with you.”
“Really?”
“Sure. I like vodka. And you might need security.”
Not to mention I needed to snitch for Morelli.
“Babe,” Ranger said to me. “You working for a bonus?”
“I live to serve.”
“I’ll remind you of that when we drop her off and I take you home.”
Whoa. I got a rush that went from the pit of my stomach straight to my doodah. Best to ignore it, I told myself. Serving Ranger would come to no good. He was an amazing lover and friend but his journey was ultimately solitary. He had things in his past that were shaping his future. I didn’t know what they were but I knew they couldn’t be ignored.
We called the funeral director over and explained that Monica needed to leave.
“Is she sick?” he asked.
“Yes,” we said. “The emotional strain was just too much.”