Finger Lickin' Fifteen

by Unknown

  I cautiously approached one of the shelves, and Manfred stepped out and grabbed me.

  “Give me your gun,” he said.

  My heart skipped a beat and went into terror tempo. Bang, bang, bang, bang, knocking against my rib cage.

  “I don’t have a gun,” I said.

  And then, without any help from my brain, my knee suddenly connected with Manfred’s gonads.

  Manfred doubled over, and I hit him on the head with a bag of flour. He staggered forward a little, but he didn’t go down, so I hit him again. The bag broke, and flour went everywhere. I was momentarily blinded, but I reached back to the shelf, grabbed a gallon can of oil, and swung blind. I connected with something that got a grunt out of Manfred.

  “Fuckin’ bitch,” Manfred said.

  I hauled back to swing again, and Ranger lifted the can from my hand.

  “I’m on it,” Ranger said, cuffing Manfred.

  “Jail’s better than another three minutes with her,” Manfred said. “She’s a fuckin’ animal. I’m lucky if I can ever use my nuts again. Keep her away from me.”

  “I didn’t see you come down the stairs,” I said to Ranger. “It was a whiteout.”

  “Any special reason you grabbed the flour?”

  “I wasn’t thinking.”

  Manfred and I were head-to-toe flour. The flour sifted off us when we moved and floated in the air like pixie dust. Ranger hadn’t so much as a smudge. By the time we got to the Rangeman SUV, some of the flour had been left behind as ghostly white footprints, but a lot of it remained.

  “I honestly don’t know how you manage to do this,” Ranger said. “Paint, barbecue sauce, flour. It boggles the mind.”

  “This was all your fault,” I said.

  Ranger glanced over at me and his eyebrows raised a fraction of an inch.

  “You could have taken him down in the apartment if you hadn’t spent so much time staring at his naked girlfriend.”

  Ranger grinned. “She wasn’t naked. She was wearing a shirt.”

  “You deserved to fall off that fire escape.”

  “That’s harsh,” Ranger said.

  “Did you hurt yourself?” I asked him.

  “Do you care?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Liar,” Ranger said. He ruffled my hair and flour sprang out in all directions.

  Manfred said something to Ranger in Spanish. Ranger answered him as he assisted him into the backseat of the Explorer.

  “What did he say?” I asked Ranger. “He said if I let him go, I could have his girl.”

  “And your answer?”

  “I declined.”

  “You’ll probably regret that as the night goes on,” I said to him.

  “No doubt,” Ranger said.

  RANGER AND I had Manfred in front of the docket lieutenant. It was a little after ten, and things were heating up. Drunk drivers, abusive drunk husbands, and a couple drug busts were making their way through the system. I was waiting for my body receipt when Morelli walked in. He nodded to Ranger and grinned at me in my whiteness.

  “I was at my desk, and Mickey told me I had to come out to take a look,” Morelli said.

  “It’s flour,” I told him.

  “I can see that. If we add some milk and eggs, we can turn you into a cake.”

  “What are you doing here? I thought you were off nights.”

  “I came in to cover a shooting. Fred was supposed to be on, but he got overexcited at his kid’s ball game and pulled a groin muscle. I was just finishing up some paperwork.”

  Mickey Bolan joined us. Bolan worked Crimes Against Persons with Morelli. He was ten years older than Morelli and counting down to his pension.

  “I wasn’t exaggerating, right?” Bolan said to Morelli. “They’re both covered with flour.”

  “I’d tell you about it,” I said to Bolan, “but it’s not as good as it looks.”

  “That’s okay,” Bolan said. “I got something better, anyway. The rest of Stanley Chipotle just turned up at the funeral home on Hamilton.”

  We all stood there for a couple beats, trying to pro cess what we’d just heard.

  “He turned up?” Morelli finally said.

  “Yeah,” Bolan said. “Someone apparently dumped him on the doorstep. So I guess someone should talk to the funeral guy.”

  “I guess that someone would be me,” Morelli said. He looked at his watch. “What the hell, the game’s over now, anyway.”

  “I need to get back to Rangeman,” Ranger said to me. “If you have an interest in Chipotle, I can send someone with a car for you.”

  “Thanks. I don’t usually get excited about seeing headless dead men, but I wouldn’t mind knowing more.”

  “I can give her a ride,” Morelli said. “I don’t imagine this will take long.”

  SEVENTEEN

  EDDIE GAZARRA WAS standing in the funeral home parking lot, waiting for Morelli. Eddie is married to my cousin Shirley-the-Whiner. Eddie is a patrolman by choice. He could have moved up, but he likes being on the street. He says it’s the uniform. No choices to make in the morning. I think it’s the free doughnuts at Tasty Pastry.

  “I was the first on the scene,” Gazarra said when we got out of Morelli’s SUV. “The drop was made right after viewing hours. Morton shut the lights off, and ten minutes later, someone rang the doorbell. When Morton came to the door, he found Chipotle stretched out and frozen solid.”

  Eli Morton is the current owner of the funeral home. For years, Constantine Stiva owned the place. The business has changed hands a couple times since Stiva left, but everyone still thinks of this as Stiva’s Funeral Home.

  “Where is he now?” Morelli asked.

  “On the porch. We didn’t move him.”

  “Are you sure it’s Chipotle?”

  “He didn’t have a head,” Gazarra said. “We sort of put two and two together.”

  “No ID?”

  “None we could find. Hard to get into his pockets, what with him being a big Popsicle.”

  We’d been walking while we were talking, and we’d gotten to the stairs that led to the funeral home’s wide front porch. I recognized Eli Morton at the top of the stairs. He was talking to a couple uniformed cops and an older man in slacks and a dress shirt. A couple guys from the EMT truck were up there, too. The body wasn’t visible.

  “Maybe I’ll wait here,” I said. “It’s not so bad,” Gazarra told me. “He’s frozen stiff as a board. All the blood’s frozen, too. And the head was cut off nice and clean.”

  I sat down on the bottom step. “I’ll definitely wait here.”

  “I’ll get back to you,” Morelli said, walking the rest of the way with Gazarra.

  The medical examiner’s truck rolled past and pulled into the lot. It was followed by a TV news truck with a dish. I saw Morelli glance over at the news truck and move a couple of the uniformed guys from the porch to the lot to contain the media.

  I sat on the step for about a half hour, watching people come and go. Finally, Morelli came back and sat along-side me.

  “How’s it going?” I asked him.

  “The forensic photographer just finished, and the ME is doing his thing, and then we’re moving the body inside to a meat locker. He’s starting to defrost.”

  “Is he staying here for the funeral?”

  “Eventually. The body will have to go to the morgue for an autopsy first, and then it’ll get released for burial. Right now, I need someone to identify the body.”

  “Do you think it might not be Chipotle?”

  “This is a high-profile case, and there was no identification on the body.”

  “Aren’t there tests for that sort of thing?”

  “Yeah, and they’ll do them when they do the autopsy. I just need someone to eyeball this guy for a preliminary ID.”

  “His sister?”

  “We haven’t been able to reach her.”

  “One of his ex-wives? His agent?”

  “They’re all o
ver the place. Aspen, New York, L.A., Sante Fe.”

  “So who are you going to get?”

  “Lula.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “She saw him get murdered,” Morelli said. “I’m hoping she remembers his clothes and enough of his build to give me an ID. I’ve got two television trucks and a bunch of reporters sitting in the lot. If I don’t give them something, they’ll make something up, so I’m going to have to talk to them. Before I do that, my chief wants an ID.”

  “Have you called Lula?”

  “Yeah. She’s on her way over.”

  There was activity at the top of the porch, and Morelli stood.

  “Looks like they’re getting ready to move the body,” he said. “I’m keeping it on ice here for Lula. I thought it was easier than trying to get her to go to the morgue. I’d appreciate it if you could wait here for her and bring her in when she arrives.”

  “Sure.”

  Twenty minutes later, I saw my father’s cab drive into the lot. The cab parked, and Lula got out and waved to the knot of newsmen standing by one of the trucks.

  “Yoohoo, I’m Lula,” she said to them. “I got called in to identify the body.”

  I jumped up and sprinted to the lot, intercepting the horde that rushed at her.

  “Lula will talk to you later,” I told them, herding Lula out of the lot. “She has to talk to the police first.”

  “Do I look okay?” Lula asked me. “I didn’t have a lot of time to fix my hair. And I didn’t have my full wardrobe at my disposal.”

  “You look fine,” I said. “The silver sequined top and matching skirt is just right for an evening decapitation identification.”

  “You don’t think it’s too dressy?”

  On everyone but Lula and Tina Turner, yes. On Lula and Tina Turner, no. It was perfect.

  “I thought there might be television here,” Lula said. “You know how television always likes a little bling.”

  “Does my father know you have his cab?”

  “Everyone was asleep, and I didn’t want to bother no one, so I helped myself to the cab. I would have rather taken your mother’s car, but I couldn’t find the key.”

  We went up the stairs and into the foyer. No problem for me now. I was real brave once the body was removed.

  Morelli ambled over. “Thanks for coming out to do this,” he said to Lula.

  “Anything to help the police,” Lula said. “Are the television cameras in here? Is that a tabloid photographer over there?”

  “No television cameras,” Morelli said. “And the photographer is the department’s forensics guy.”

  “Hunh,” Lula said. “Let’s get this over with then. It’s not like I was sitting around thinking I’d like to go look at a dead guy with no head. I got sensibilities, you know. The thing is, I hate dead guys.”

  “It’s just a fast look,” Morelli said. “And then you can go home.”

  “After I talk to the television people.”

  “Yeah,” Morelli said. “Whatever. Follow me. We have the body in one of the freezers downstairs.”

  “Say what? I’m not going downstairs to no freezer compartments. That’s too creepy. How many bodies does this guy have in his freezer?”

  “I don’t know,” Morelli said. “I didn’t ask, and I didn’t look. Would you rather see this body in the morgue?”

  “Hell no. Only way you’re getting me in a morgue is toes up.”

  “Can we get on with it?” Morelli said. “I’ve had a long day and my intestines are a mess.”

  “I hear you,” Lula said. “I got issues, too. I think there must be something going around.”

  “I’ll wait here,” I said. “No reason for me to tag along.”

  “The hell,” Lula said. “I’m needing moral support. I wasn’t even gonna come until Morelli told me you’d do this with me.”

  I cut a look at Morelli. “You said that?”

  “More or less.”

  “You’re scum.”

  “I know,” Morelli said. “Can we please go downstairs now?”

  The funeral home had originally been a large Victorian house. It had been renovated, and rooms and garages had been added, but it still had the bones of the original structure. We followed Eli Morton down a hallway off the lobby. To our right was the kitchen. To our left was the door to the basement.

  A couple years ago, the basement had been destroyed in a fire. It had all been rebuilt and was now nicely finished off and divided into rooms that opened off a center hall. Morton led us to the room farthest from the stairs.

  “I have three cold-storage drawers and three freezer drawers in here,” Morton said. “I almost never use the freezer drawers. They were put in by the previous owner.”

  The floor was white tile, and the walls were painted white. The fronts to the freezer drawers were stainless steel. Gazarra pulled a freezer drawer out, and it was filled with tubs of ice cream.

  “Costco had a sale,” Morton said. “Your guy is in drawer number three.”

  He rolled number three out, Lula gaped at the body without the head, and Lula fainted. Crash. Onto the white tile floor. I didn’t faint because I didn’t look. I walked in staring at my feet, and I never raised my eyes.

  “Crap,” Morelli said. “Get her out of here. Someone take her feet. I’ve got the top half.”

  Gazarra and Morelli lugged Lula into the hall and stepped back. Lula’s eyes snapped open, and we all stared down at her.

  “You fainted,” I told her.

  “Did not.”

  “You’re on the floor.”

  “Well, anybody would have fainted. That was disgusting. People aren’t supposed to be going around without their head,” Lula said. “It’s not right.”

  “Was that Chipotle?” Morelli asked.

  “Might have been,” Lula said. “Hard to tell with the frost on him, but it looked like the same clothes. I don’t know where they been keeping him, but he got freezer burn.”

  Morelli and Gazarra helped Lula to her feet.

  “Are you going to be okay?” Morelli asked her.

  “I could use a drink,” Lula said. “A big one.”

  “I have some whiskey,” Morton said, leading the way up the stairs and into the kitchen.

  Morton poured out a tumbler of whiskey for Lula and took a shot for himself. The rest of us settled for a rain check.

  “Does that count as an ID?” I asked Morelli.

  “Good enough for me.”

  “Where do you suppose Marco the Maniac has been keeping the body? It was frozen straight out. That means it was kept in a commercial freezer.”

  “There are commercial freezers all over the place.”

  “Still, it’s not like Marco and his partner are just hanging out around the house here. They know someone well enough to let them store a dead guy in the freezer.”

  “There are probably dead guys in half the commercial freezers in Trenton,” Morelli said.

  Lula chugged the whiskey. “This is good stuff,” she said. “I’m feeling much better. Maybe I need just a teensy bit more.”

  Morelli got the bottle off the counter and poured out more for Lula. He draped an arm across my shoulders and brought me into the hallway.

  “She’s going to be in no shape to talk to the reporters,” he said. “You’re going to have to drive her directly home.”

  “Gotcha.”

  He leaned in to me. “I could have whispered that in your ear in the kitchen, but I thought this was more romantic.”

  “You think this is romantic?”

  “No, but it’s all I’ve got,” Morelli said. “This is the highlight of my week.”

  “I thought you were dating Joyce.”

  “If I was dating Joyce, I’d have fang marks in my neck and I’d be down a couple quarts of blood.”

  “Not to change the subject, but why would Marco take a chance by coming out and dropping the body off on the porch? Why not throw it in the river, or bury it
, or make it into hamburger? He’s a butcher, right?”

  “Good question. Of course, he’s known as Marco the Maniac, so this might not have been a rational act.” Morelli kissed me just above the collar of my T-shirt. “Do you think we can overlook the fact that we’re in a funeral home for a moment?”

  “No. For one thing, Gazarra is trying to get your attention.”

  Gazarra was waving from the front door. “Can the ME take over?” Gazarra hollered.

  “Yes,” Morelli said. “I’m done with Chipotle for now.”

  “I’m going to get the cab,” I told Morelli. “I’ll bring it around to the front door, and you can hustle Lula into it.”

  I got the key from Lula’s purse and jogged to the lot. My father’s cab was white with CAB printed in red all over it. CAB was an acronym for a small company named Capitol Area Buslettes.

  I got into the cab, cranked it over, and drove out of the lot. I stopped in front of the funeral home, and an elderly man got in the backseat.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m off duty.”

  “Two Hundred Eldridge Road,” he said. “It’s one of the new high-rises down by the river.”

  “This is a private cab. You have to get out.”

  “But I called for a cab. And now here you are.”

  “You didn’t call for my cab.”

  Morelli and Gazarra had their arms locked across Lula’s back. They whisked her down the stairs and across the sidewalk without her feet touching once. They came up to the cab parked at the curb and looked inside.

  “What’s going on?” Morelli wanted to know.

  “He thinks I’m driving a cab.”

  “Cupcake,” Morelli said, “you are driving a cab.”

  “Yes, but . . . oh hell, just dump Lula in with him.” Morelli stuffed Lula into the backseat with the man, leaned through the driver’s side window and kissed me, and waved me away.

  “Who’s this?” Lula asked.

  “I’m Wesley,” the man said. “You can call me Wesley.”

  “How come I’m in a cab with you?”

  “I don’t know,” Wesley said. “This is a very strange cab company.”