TWENTY-SEVEN
I WAS STIFF and sore when I woke up. It was eight o’clock Wednesday morning. The sun was shining. Crazy Pooka was locked away. All I had to worry about was bubonic plague. I didn’t have a fever. No swollen lymph nodes. All positive signs. I looked out my bedroom window into the parking lot. More happy news. Ranger’s SUV was still there. I was on a roll. The dumpster forklift hadn’t carted it away. It didn’t look like it was full of geese. It had all its tires.
I limped into the kitchen and put a frozen waffle into the toaster. I started coffee brewing and I made a mental list of things I needed to do. Get a driver’s license, buy a phone and a messenger bag, replace stun gun, handcuffs, and pepper spray, find more Pilates pants, check on Becker.
I called Connie and told her I was taking a day off to organize myself. She said she’d gotten a call from Susan Gower saying that Becker was looking good and going home with his parents today. That was a relief. I was happy for him and even happier for myself. If his fingers and toes hadn’t fallen off yet maybe I’d get to keep mine awhile longer.
I spent three hours in line, waiting to get a replacement driver’s license. I would have cut out after two hours and gone to Otis but I didn’t know where to find him and I didn’t have a phone so I couldn’t call anybody. By five o’clock I’d gotten the license, bought a new messenger bag and four pairs of black Pilates pants, and had my new phone activated. I’d swapped out my jeans for one of the Pilates pants, and my knee was feeling much better.
It was close to six when I finally drove into my apartment building’s parking lot and saw Morelli’s green SUV with Morelli lounging against it. He looked over and smiled when he saw me.
“I’ve been calling you all day,” he said.
“I didn’t have a phone. It burned up in the Porsche. I just got a new one, and I had to get a new number.”
He pulled me close and kissed me. Lots of tongue and some groping in broad daylight in my parking lot. His hand moved over the stretchy Pilates pants, feeling up my ass.
“No underwear,” he said.
“Jeez Louise! We’re in the parking lot. I can see Mr. Zajak hanging out of his window.”
“Don’t care. What’s with the no underwear?”
“They’re Pilates pants. You’re not supposed to wear underwear with them.”
“I like it.”
“I can tell. Holy cow, Morelli.”
“Let’s get married. Do you want to get married?”
“Omigod,” I said. “You’re going to die. You only have two days left.”
“Do I look like a man who’s going to die?”
“No. You look really healthy. Maybe too healthy.”
“So what do you think? Do you want to go upstairs and consummate our impending marriage, or would you rather go to dinner?”
“What kind of dinner? The diner? Pino’s? The Grille?”
“Anywhere you want.”
“I’ll take the Grille. I should change into something nicer.”
“Cupcake, those pants aren’t coming off until I take them off.”
“Okay, then, I guess I’m ready to go. Your car or mine?”
“We’ll take my car. Your cars have a twenty-four-hour expiration date.”
•••
The Grille is a relatively new restaurant on Hamilton. Previously too expensive for me, but apparently Morelli wasn’t watching his budget tonight. It’s cozy inside with dark brick walls and polished wood floors. White linen tablecloths and candles on the tables. Morelli ordered a steak and baked potato and a glass of red wine. I did the same.
“It looks like your stomach is feeling better,” I said.
“Yeah, I’ll tell you about that later. I have lots of other news for you. Stanley Pooka hasn’t stopped talking since we took him into custody. Some of it is nonsensical babbling, but a lot of it is good. As you know, his research was rejected for funding, and he was passed over for tenure. I think he didn’t have a good grip on things before that and that helped push him over the edge. He talked a lot about his obligation to cleanse the ground Kiltman was built on. He said the amulet told him to contaminate it with plague.”
“Did the amulet tell him to shoot Getz?”
“No. He thought of that all by himself. Getz went into the cellar to check on some extermination work and he went nuts over the fireworks. At that point in time Pooka didn’t have any other place to work. His apartment was filled with flea cages. So he shot Getz.”
“Makes sense to me,” I said. “What about Linken?”
“Basically the same thing. Linken was at Zeta the day of the Getz viewing to discuss a fraternity scholarship program. Someone mentioned the flea problem in the cellar, and Linken wanted to check on it. Pooka was incensed because he was forced to walk across campus and let Linken into the cellar. Linken took one look at the fireworks and threatened to bring endangerment charges against Pooka.”