It looked to me like his “gotcha” smile. Like the cat that just caught the canary. Like I'd been had . . . again.
Then he closed the space between us, took my face in his hands and kissed me.
The kisses got hotter, and I got hotter and Morelli got hotter. And pretty soon we were all so hot that we needed to get rid of some clothes.
We were half undressed when Morelli suggested we go upstairs.
“Hmmm,” I said with lowered eyelids. “What sort of a girl do you think I am?”
Morelli murmured his thoughts on the subject and removed my bra. His hand covered my bare breast, and his fingers played with the tip. “Do you like this?” he asked, gently rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger.
I pressed my lips together to keep from sinking my teeth into his shoulder.
He tried another variation of the nipple roll. “How about this?”
Oh yeah. That too.
Morelli kissed me again, and next thing we were down on the linoleum floor fumbling with zippers and panty hose.
His finger traced a tiny circle on my silk-and-lace panties, directly over ground zero. My brain went numb, and my body said, YES!
Morelli moved lower and performed the same maneuver with the tip of his tongue, once again finding the perfect spot without benefit of treasure map or detailed instructions.
Now this was a superhero.
I was on the verge of singing the Hallelujah Chorus when something crashed outside the kitchen window. Morelli picked his head up and listened. There were some scuffling sounds, and Morelli was on his feet, pulling his jeans on. He had his gun in his hand when he opened the back door.
I was right behind him, my shirt held together by a single button, my panty hose draped over a kitchen chair, my gun drawn. “What is it?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I don't see anything.”
“Cats?”
“Maybe. The garbage is tipped over. Maybe it was my neighbor's dog.”
I put a hand to the wall to steady myself. “Uh-oh,” I said.
“What uh-oh?”
“I don't know how to break this to you, but the floor is moving. Either we're having an earthquake, or else I'm drunk.”
“You only had three schnapps!”
“I'm not much of a drinker. And I didn't have supper.”
My voice sounded like it was resonating from a tin can, far far away.
“Oh boy,” Morelli said. “How drunk are you?”
I blinked and squinted at him. He had four eyes. I hated when that happened. “You have four eyes.”
“That's not a good sign.”
“Maybe I should go home now,” I said. Then I threw up.
I woke up with a blinding headache and my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I was wearing a flannel nightshirt, which I dimly remembered crawling into. I was pretty sure I was alone at the time, although the evening was fuzzy from the third schnapps on.
What I clearly remembered was that a Morelli-induced orgasm had once again eluded me. And I was fairly certain Morelli hadn't fared any better.
He'd done the responsible thing and had insisted I sober up some before I went home. We'd logged a couple miles in the cold air. He'd poured coffee into me, force-fed me scrambled eggs and toast, and then he'd driven me to my apartment building. He'd delivered me to my door, and I think he said good night before the nightshirt crawling-into.
I shuffled into the kitchen, got some coffee going and used it to wash down aspirin. I took a shower, drank a glass of orange juice, brushed my teeth three times. I took a peek at myself in the mirror and groaned. Black circles under bloodshot eyes, pasty hungover skin. Not a nice picture. “Stephanie,” I said, “you're no good at drinking.”
The headache disappeared at midmorning. By noon I was feeling almost human. I took myself into the kitchen and was standing in front of the refrigerator, staring at the crisper drawer, contemplating the creation of the universe, when the phone rang.
My first thought was that it might be Morelli. My second thought was that I definitely didn't want to talk to him. Let the machine take the message, I decided.
“I know you're there,” Morelli said. “You might as well answer. You're going to have to talk to me sooner or later.”
Better later.
“I have news on Mo's lawyer.”
I snatched at the phone. “Hello?”
“You're going to love this one,” Morelli said.
I closed my eyes. I was having a bad premonition on the identity of the lawyer. “Don't tell me.”
I could feel Morelli smiling at the other end of the line. “Dickie Orr.”
Dickie Orr. My ex-husband. The horse's ass. This was a harpoon to the brain on a day when there was already impaired activity.
Dickie was a graduate of Newark Law. He was with the firm Kreiner and Kreiner in the old Shuman Building, and what he lacked in talent, he compensated for in creative overbilling. He was acquiring a reputation for being a hotshot attorney. I was convinced this was due to his inflated pay schedule rather than his court record. People wanted to believe they got what they paid for.
“When did you learn this?”
“About ten minutes ago.”
“Is Mo turning himself in?”
“Thinking about it. Guess he's hired himself a dealmaker.”
“He's suspected of murdering eight men. What kind of a deal does he want? Lobster every Friday while he's on death row?”
I got a box of Frosted Flakes from the kitchen cupboard and shoved some into my mouth.
“What are you eating?” Morelli wanted to know.
“Frosted Flakes.”
“That's kid cereal.”
“So what does Mo want?”
“I don't know. I'm going over to talk to Dickie. Maybe you'd like to tag along.”
I ate another fistful of cereal. “Is there a price?”
“There's always a price. Meet you at the coffee shop in the Shuman Building in half an hour.”
I considered the state of my hair. “I might be a few minutes late.”
“I'll wait,” Morelli said.
I could make the Shuman Building in ten minutes if I got all the lights right. It would take at least twenty minutes to do hair and makeup. If I wore a hat I could forgo hair, and that would cut the time in half. I decided the hat was the way to go.
I hit the back door running with a few minutes to spare. I'd gone with taupe eyeliner, a bronze-tone blusher, natural lip gloss and lots of black mascara. The key ingredient to hangover makeup is green concealer for the under-eye bags, covered over with quality liquid foundation. I was wearing my Rangers ball cap, and a fringe of orange frizz framed my face. Orphan Annie, eat your heart out.
I paused for a light at Hamilton and Twelfth and noticed the Nissan was running rough at idle. Two blocks later it backfired and stalled. I coaxed it into the center of the city. Ffft, ffft, ffft, KAPOW! Ffft, ffft, ffft, KAPOW!
A Trans Am pulled up next to me at a light. The Trans Am was filled with high school kids. One of them stuck his head out the passenger-side window.
“Hey lady,” he said. “Sounds like you got a fartmobile.”
I flipped him an Italian goodwill gesture and pulled the ball cap low on my forehead. When I found a parking space in front of the Shuman Building, I revved the engine, popped the clutch and backed into the parking slot at close to warp speed. The Nissan jumped the curb and rammed a meter. I gnashed my teeth together. Stephanie Plum, rabid woman. I got out and took a look. The meter was fine. The truck had a big dent in the rear bumper. Good. Now the back matched the front. The truck looked like someone had taken a giant pincers to it.
I stormed into the coffee shop, spotted Morelli and stomped over to him. I must have still looked rabid, because Morelli stiffened when he saw me and made one of those unconscious security gestures cops often acquire, surreptitiously feeling to see if their gun is in place.
I tossed my shoulder bag onto the floor and th
rew myself into the chair across from him.
“I swear I didn't intentionally try to get you drunk,” Morelli said.
I squeezed my eyes shut. “Unh.”
“Well, okay, so I did,” he admitted. “But I didn't mean to get you that drunk.”
“Take a number.”
He smiled. “You have other problems?”
“My car is possessed by the devil.”
“You should try my mechanic.”
“You have a good mechanic?”
“The best. Bucky Seidler. You remember him from high school?”
“He got suspended for letting a bunch of rats loose in the girls' locker room.”
“Yeah. That's Bucky.”
“He calm down any?”
“No. But he's a hell of a mechanic.”
“I'll think about it.”
Morelli thumbed through a stack of cards he kept in his wallet. “Here it is,” he said, passing the card over to me. “Mr. Fix It. You can keep the card.”
“Bucky Seidler, proprietor.”
“Yeah,” Morelli said. “And resident crazy man.”
I ordered a Coke and French fries. Morelli ordered a Coke and a cheeseburger.
When the waitress left I leaned my elbows on the table. “Do you think Mo could actually have something to bargain?”
“The rumor going around is that Mo is claiming he didn't kill anybody.”
“Being an accomplice to murder is the same as pulling the trigger in Jersey.”
“If he was cooperative and had something vital to give us . . .” He made a palms-up “who knows” gesture with his hands.
The waitress set the plates on the Formica-topped table and returned with the drinks.
Morelli snitched one of my French fries. “What did you ever see in Dickie Orr?”
I'd asked myself that same question many times and never found a satisfactory answer. “He had a nice car,” I said.
Morelli's mouth curved. “Seems like a sound basis for marriage.”
I poured ketchup on the fries and started working my way through them. “You ever think about getting married?”
“Sure.”
“Well?”
“It's been my sad observation that cops don't make wonderful husbands. In all good conscience, I'd have to marry someone I didn't especially like, so I wouldn't feel crummy about ruining her life.”
“So you'd marry someone like me?”
Morelli's face creased into a broad smile. “I hate to admit this, but I actually like you. You're out of the race.”
“Jeez,” I said. “What a relief.”
“Tell me about Dickie.”
I drank half the Coke. “Is this the price?”
He nodded. “I've seen Orr in court. Don't know him personally.”
“And what's your opinion?”
“Gets a good haircut. Has lousy taste in ties. Big ego. Little dick.”
“You're wrong about the dick.”
This earned me another smile.
“He cheats on everything from his taxes to his clients to his girlfriends,” I told Morelli.
“Anything else?”
“Probably doesn't pay his parking tickets. Used to do some recreational coke. Not sure if he's still into that. Did the deed with Mallory's wife.”
Mallory was a uniform who was known for having a higher-than-normal incidence of accidental injuries on his arrest sheets. Uncooperative arrests had a habit of falling down entire flights of stairs while in Mallory's care.
“You sure about Mallory's wife?” Morelli asked.
“Heard it from Mary Lou, who heard it at the beauty parlor.”
“Then it must be true.”
“I suppose that's the sort of stuff you were looking for?”
“It'll do.”
Morelli finished his cheeseburger and Coke and threw a ten onto the table. “Order yourself a piece of pie. I'll come back when I'm done with Dickie.”
I jumped from my seat. “You said you'd take me with you!”
“I lied.”
“Creep.”
“Sticks and stones . . .”
Stephanie Plum 3 - Three To Get Deadly
14
My indignation at being left behind had been mostly show. I hadn't really expected to drag after Morelli when he talked to Dickie. Dickie wouldn't t have said anything in front of me.
I ordered coconut cake and decaf coffee. The room was emptying out from the lunch trade. I nursed the cake and the coffee for twenty minutes and paid the bill. There was no sign of Morelli, and I couldn't imagine the confrontation with Dickie as being lengthy, so I thought Morelli might have left me hanging. Wouldn't be the first time. I shrugged into my jacket, hitched my shoulder bag onto my shoulder and was going out the door to the coffee shop when Morelli rounded the corner.
“Thought maybe I got stood up,” I said to Morelli.
“Had to wait for Dickie to get off a conference call.”
Wind gusted down the street, and we both ducked our heads against it.
“Learn anything?”
“Not much. No address or phone number for Mo. Says Mo calls him.”
“You find out what Mo has to trade?”
“Information.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“That's all I can tell you,” Morelli said.
Morelli was screwing me over again. “Thanks for nothing.”
“It's the best I can do.”
“Your best isn't very good, is it?”
“Depends.” His eyes darkened. Bedroom eyes. “You thought I was pretty hot last night.”
“I was drunk.”
Morelli curled his fingers into my jacket collar and dragged me closer. “You wanted me bad.”
“It was a low point in my life.”
His lips skimmed mine. “How about now? Are you at a low point now?”
“I will never again be that low,” I said haughtily.
Morelli kissed me like he meant it and released my collar. “Got to get back to work,” he said. He crossed the street, angled into his 4x4 and drove off without looking back.
After a moment I realized my mouth was hanging open. I snapped my mouth shut, whipped out my cell phone and called Connie. I told her about Mo and Dickie, and I asked to talk to Lula.
“Hey girlfriend,” Lula said.
“Hey yourself. How's it going?”
“It's a little slow. It's more than halfway through the day, and the body count is zip.”
“Got a job for you.”
“Oh boy. Here it comes.”
“Not to worry. It's very tame. I want you to meet me at the entrance to the Shuman Building.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
Twenty minutes later we were in the elevator.
“What's going on?” Lula wanted to know. “What are we doing here?”
I pushed the button for the third floor. “Mo's hired himself an attorney. The attorney's name is Dickie Orr, and we're on our way to talk to him.”
“Okay, but why do you need me? Is this guy dangerous?”
“No. Dickie Orr isn't dangerous. I'm the one who's dangerous. Dickie Orr is my ex-husband, and your job is to keep me from strangling him.”
Lula made a low whistle. “This day's just getting better and better.”
The offices of Kreiner and Kreiner were at the end of the hall. There were four names lettered in gold on the office door: Harvey Kreiner, Harvey Kreiner Jr., Steven Owen, Richard Orr.
“So why'd you part ways with this Dickie Orr person?” Lula asked.
“He's a jerk.”
“Good enough for me,” she said. “I hate him already.”
When I was married to Dickie he worked for the district attorney. His career with them was only slightly longer than his career with me. Not enough money came out of either of us, I guess. And after I found him on the dining room table with Joyce Barnhardt I made enough noise to ruin whatever political aspirations he might have had. Our d
ivorce was everything a divorce should be . . . reeking of outrage, filled with loud and lurid accusations. The marriage had lasted less than a year, but the divorce would live on as legend in the burg. After the divorce, when lips loosened in my presence, I learned Dickie's infidelity had stretched far beyond Joyce Barnhardt. During the short tenure of our marriage Dickie had managed to boff half the women in my high school yearbook.
Three to Get Deadly Page 25