04 Four to Score (15 page)

“Shit!” I shrieked. “Shit, shit, shit, shit!”

Everyone on the floor stopped what they were doing and stared at me.

“Okay,” I said. “I feel better now.” It was a lie, of course, but it felt good to say.

Petrucci walked over. “You got any idea who did this?”

“No. Do you?” Another lie. I had a few ideas.

“Somebody with a pretty good arm.”

That could be Maxine. The softball star. But it still felt wrong. It felt more like mob . . . like Joe's pal, Terry.

I gingerly stepped into the kitchen. The brown bear cookie jar was untouched. The phone looked okay. The soot and water were pervasive and depressing. I bit down hard on my lip. I wasn't going to cry. Rex was safe. Everything else was replaceable, I told myself.

We went room by room, and not much was salvageable. A few cosmetics that had been in the bathroom and a hair dryer. I put them in a bag from the kitchen.

“Well, this isn't so bad,” I said to Petrucci. “I've been wanting to redecorate. I just wish the bathroom had gone.”

“What, you don't like orange and brown?”

“Do you think it's too late to burn the bathroom?”

Petrucci looked pained. Like I'd asked him to fart in public “You have insurance for all your stuff?”

“Yes.” Maybe.

Mrs. Karwatt was waiting in the hall with Rex. “Are you okay? Do you have some place to stay? You could sleep on my couch tonight.”

I took the cage from her. “That's nice of you to offer, but I'll probably go home to my parents. They have a spare bedroom.”

Old Mrs. Bestler was in the elevator. “Going down,” she said, leaning on her walker. “First floor, ladies' handbags.”

The doors opened to the lobby, and the first person I saw was Dillon in his superintendent coveralls.

“I was just going up to take a look,” he said. “Guess I'll have to get the paintbrush out.”

“Gonna take a lot of paint.” My lip was trembling again.

“Hey, don't worry about it. Remember when Mrs. Baumgarten set fire to her Christmas tree? The whole apartment was burned to a crisp. Nothing left but ashes. And now look . . . good as new.”

“It's worth a case of Guinness for you to take a sledgehammer to the bathroom.”

“What, you don't like orange and brown?”

*    *    *    *    *

I WAS GLAD I'd parked the Buick on the street, out of sight of the fire-blackened building. Out of sight, out of mind. Sort of. The Buick was quiet and womblike. Nice and insulating against the outside world. The doors were locked, and the activity was all in front of me, half a block away.

Rex and I sat in the car and tried to collect our thoughts. After a while Rex started running on his wheel, and I assumed his thoughts were all collected. My thoughts were taking longer to come together. My thoughts were running in frightening directions. Someone wanted me scared and maybe dead. There was a remote possibility it was the same someone who was chopping off fingers and whacking off scalps, and I didn't like the idea that this was in my future.

I rested my head on the steering wheel. I was exhausted, and I was on the brink of tears. And I was afraid if I started crying I wouldn't stop for a long, long time.

I looked at my watch. It was two A.M. I needed to get some sleep. Where? The most obvious solution was to go home to my parents, but I didn't want to put their lives in jeopardy. I didn't want the next target for a firebomb to be their house on High Street. So where could I go? A hotel? There are no hotels in Trenton. There are some in Princeton, but they were forty minutes away, and I was reluctant to spend the money. I could call Ranger, but no one knows where Ranger lives. If Ranger took me in for the night, he'd probably have to kill me in the morning to make sure his secret was safe. Lula? That was sort of a scary idea. Better to face the scalper than sleep with Lula. There was my best friend, Mary Lou, and there was my sister, Valerie, but I didn't want to endanger them, either. I needed someone who was expendable. Someone I didn't have to worry about. Someone who had extra room.

“Oh boy,” I said to Rex. “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

I sat for another five minutes, but I couldn't come up with a better solution to my problem, so I turned the key in the ignition and slowly drove past the lone fire truck at the end of the street. I tried not to look at my apartment, but I caught a glance of the fire escape from the corner of my eye. My chest gave a painful constriction. My poor apartment.

I took a deep breath. I didn't want to die. And I didn't want someone to hate me. And I absolutely did not want to cry.

“Don't worry about a thing,” I said to Rex. “This will all work out. We've had bad times before, right?”

I took Hamilton to Chambers and followed Chambers to Slater. Two blocks down Slater I found the house I was looking for. It was a modest brown-shingled row house. All lights were off. I closed my eyes. I was dog tired, and I didn't want to do this.

“Maybe we should sleep in the car tonight,” I said to Rex. “Then tomorrow we can get something more permanent.”

Rex was doing a four-minute mile on the wheel. He blinked at me once, and that was it. The mental message was, You're on your own, kid.

Truth is, I didn't want to stay in my car. The crazy person could come and get me while I slept. He could jimmy the window, and he could cut off all my fingers. I looked at the house again. This was the one place I could feel safe and not be completely freaked out if the house was destroyed. This house belonged to Joe Morelli.

I hauled my cell phone out of my bag and dialed.

The phone rang six times before Joe answered with a mumbled hello.

“Joe?” I said. “It's Stephanie.”

“Does this involve death?”

“Not yet.”

“Does it involve sex?”

“Not yet.”

“I can't imagine why else you'd be calling me.”

“Someone firebombed my apartment tonight, and I need a place to stay.”

“Where are you?”

“In front of your house.”

An upstairs curtain was pulled aside.

“I'll be right down,” Joe said. “Don't get out of your car until I open my door.”

I HAULED Rex's cage off the front seat. “Now remember,” I said, “no sniveling over the fact that our life is sucky. And no getting all mushy because Morelli is so hot. And no crying. We don't want Morelli thinking we're losers.”

Morelli was on his small cement front porch. The door was open behind him, and I could see light from the upstairs hall. He was barefoot, dressed in cut-offs that rode his hips. His hair was tousled from sleep, and he had a gun in his hand, hanging loose at his side. “You talking to someone?”

“Rex. He's a little nervous about all this.”

Morelli took the cage from me, kicked his door shut and carried Rex into the kitchen. He put the cage on the counter and flipped the overhead light on. It was an old-fashioned kitchen with dated appliances and Formica counters. Cupboards had been recently painted with cream enamel, and there was new linoleum on the floor. A pot sat soaking in the sink. Looked like Morelli'd had spaghetti for supper.

Morelli put a quart of cold milk and a bag of Oreos on the small wood table that pressed against one kitchen wall. He took two glasses from the dish drain, sat down at the table and poured out two glasses of milk.

“So,” he said, “you want to talk about it?”

“I was in Atlantic City looking for Maxine tonight, and while I was gone someone pitched a firebomb through my bedroom window. The whole apartment went up. Fortunately, Mrs. Karwatt had a key and managed to rescue Rex.”

Morelli stared at me for a beat with his unreadable cop face. “Remember those purple shoes you bought last year?”

“Reduced to ashes.”

“Damn. I had plans for those shoes. I've spent a few sleepless nights thinking about you wearing those shoes and nothing else.”

I helped myself to a cookie. “You need a life.”

“Tell me about it. I spent last weekend laying linoleum.” He took a second cookie. “I notice you're driving the Buick. What happened to the CRX?”

“Remember I told you about how someone soaked it with gasoline? Well, it sort of exploded.”

“It exploded?”

“Actually, it caught fire first. Then it exploded.”

“Hmm,” Morelli said, eating the top half of the Oreo.

A tear slid down my cheek.

Morelli stopped eating. “Wait a minute. Is this for real? You aren't making this up?”

“Of course this is for real. Why else do you think I'm here?”

“Well, I thought . . .”

I jumped up, and my chair crashed to the floor. “You thought I made this up so I could come over here in the middle of the night and crawl into your bed!”

The line to Morelli's mouth tightened. “Let me get this straight. Yesterday, someone actually blew up your car and your apartment. And now you want to move in with me? What, do you hate me? You're a walking disaster! You're Calamity Jane in fucking spandex!”

“I am not a walking disaster!” But he was right. I was a walking disaster. I was an accident waiting to happen. And I was going to cry. My chest ached and my throat felt like I'd swallowed a baseball and tears gushed out of my eyes. “Shit,” I said, swiping the tears away.

Morelli grimaced and reached out to me. “Listen, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—”

“Don't touch me!” I shrieked. “You're right. I'm a disaster. Look at me. I'm homeless. I'm carless. And I'm hysterical. What kind of a bounty hunter gets hysterical? A loser bounty hunter, that's what kind. A l-l-loser.”

“Maybe milk wasn't the right choice here,” Morelli said. “Maybe you could use some brandy.”

“And there's more,” I sobbed. “I lost forty bucks on craps, and I was the only one who didn't have a gun tonight!”

Morelli pulled me into his arms and held me close to him.

“That's okay, Steph. Forty dollars isn't so much. And lots of people don't have guns.”

“Not in New Jersey. Not bounty hunters.”

“There are some people in Jersey who don't have a gun.”

“Oh yeah? Name one.”

He held me at arm's length and grinned. “I think we should get you up to bed. You'll feel better in the morning.”

“About the bed . . .”

He pushed me toward the stairs. “I have a spare bedroom made up.”

“Thanks.”

“And I'll leave my door open in case you get lonely.”

And I'd lock my door in case I got weak.

*    *    *    *    *

I AWOKE DISORIENTED, staring at a ceiling that wasn't mine. The walls were covered with faded green paper patterned with barely discernible viney flowers. Comforting in an old-fashioned way. Morelli had inherited this house from his Aunt Rose and hadn't changed much. My guess was the simple white curtains that hung on the windows had been chosen by Rose. It was a small room with a queen-size bed and a single chest of drawers. The floors were wood, and Morelli had placed a rag throw rug beside the bed. It was a sunny room and much quieter than my own bedroom, which faced out to the parking lot. I was sleeping in one of Morelli's T-shirts, and I was now faced with grim reality. I had no clothes. No clean underwear, no shorts, no shoes, no nothing. First thing would be a trip to Macy's for an emergency wardrobe.

There was a clock radio on the chest of drawers. It was nine o'clock. The day had started without me. I opened my door and peeked into the hall. All was silent. No sign of Morelli. A piece of paper had been taped to my door. It said Morelli had gone off to work and I should make myself at home. It said there was an extra key for me on the kitchen table and towels laid out in the bathroom.

I showered and dressed and went downstairs in search of breakfast. I poured myself a glass of orange juice and looked in at Rex.

“No doubt about it, I made an idiot out of myself last night,” I said.

Rex was sleeping in his soup can and didn't show a lot of concern. Rex had seen me in my idiot state before.

I ate a bowl of cereal and took a look at the house. It was clean and orderly. The food in the cupboard was basic, the pots were second generation. Six glasses. Six dishes. Six bowls. Shelf paper left from Aunt Rose. He had a coffeemaker, but he hadn't made coffee, nor had he made breakfast. No dirty dishes. No new dishes in the dish drain. Morelli would stop on the way to work for coffee and whatever. Cops weren't known for their excellent diets.

I remembered Morelli's living room furniture from his apartment. Utilitarian. Comfort without style. It seemed off in the row house. The row house needed overstuffed with magazines on the coffee table and pictures on the walls.

Rooms were shotgunned. Living room, dining room, kitchen. Because Morelli lived in the middle of the block, there were no windows in the dining room. Not that it mattered. I couldn't see Morelli using the dining room. In the beginning, when Morelli had first moved here, I couldn't see him in the house at all. Now it suited him. Not that Morelli had turned domestic. It was more that the house had assumed independence. As if Morelli and the house had reached an agreement to coexist and leave it at that.

I called my mother and told her there'd been a fire and I was staying with Morelli.

“What do you mean, you're staying with Morelli? Ommigod, you're married!”

“It's not like that. Morelli has an extra bedroom. I'm going to pay him rent.”

“We have an extra bedroom. You could stay here.”

“I've tried that before, and it doesn't work. Too many people using one bathroom.” Too many homicidal maniacs wanting to kill me.

“Angie Morelli is gonna have a fit.”

Angie Morelli is Joe's mother. A woman both revered and feared in the burg.

“Angie Morelli's a good Catholic woman, and she's not as open-minded as I am,” my mother said.

The Morelli women were good Catholics. The men broke every commandment. The men played Monday night poker with the Antichrist.

“I have to go,” I said. “I just wanted you to know I was okay.”

“Why don't you and Joe come over for dinner tonight? I'm making meat loaf.”

“We're not a couple! And I have things to do.”

“What things?”

“Things.”

My next phone call was to the office. “My apartment got firebombed,” I told Connie. “I'm staying with Morelli for a while.”