Janet Evanovich - Finger Lickin’ Fifteen

“What have you got on your desk these days?” I asked him, thinking it best to get off the Ranger topic.

“A couple gang slayings and the Chipotle thing.”

“Are you making any progress with Chipotle?”

We paused while the waitress set two glasses of beer on the table.

Morelli sipped his beer. “Originally, I thought it felt like a couple professionals had come in from out of town, but that didn’t make sense after they went for Lula. These guys are afraid Lula will finger them.”

“She gave you a description. Have you had any luck with that?”

“Lula’s description fit half the men in this country. Average height, one shorter than the other, brown hair, average build, late forties to early fifties, she wasn’t close enough to see eye color. No distinguishing features, and she said they dressed like white men. What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“So you have nothing?”

“Worse than that, we have more than we can manage. The million-dollar reward brought out every crackpot in the state. We had to pull Margie Slater off traffic duty and sit her in a room with a phone so she could field the calls coming in. They were clogging the system.”

“Lula’s convinced Chipotle was killed over barbecue sauce, and she figures the killers will be at the cook-off. She’s entered the contest so she’ll have the inside track at identifying them.”

“That’ll make sense if she lives that long.”

“Do you have someone watching her house?”

“That kind of surveillance only happens in the movies. We’re so underbudgeted we’re one step away from holding bake sales to pay for toilet paper.”

“Have you considered the barbecue sauce connection?”

“I’ve considered a lot of connections. Chipotle had so much bad juju going it’s a wonder he wasn’t killed sooner. He has three ex-wives who hated him. Everyone on his television show hated him. His sister hated him. He was suing his manager. And the tenants in his New York co-op signed a petition to get him evicted.”

“Who would have thought? He was all smiley on the jar of barbecue sauce.”

“It’s not that easy to slice off someone’s head,” Morelli said.

“The way Lula tells it, there wasn’t any struggle.”

“Yeah. That bothers me. Would you stand there and let someone decapitate you? And what about the guy who did it? Why would he choose decapitation? There are so many easier, cleaner ways to kill someone. And this was done in broad daylight in front of the Sunshine Hotel. It was almost like it wasn’t planned.”

“A spontaneous decapitation?”

Morelli grinned. “Yeah.”

“And he just happened to be carrying a meat cleaver around with him?”

“Maybe he was a butcher.”

“So all we have to do is look for an impulsive butcher.”

Morelli signaled for another beer. “I’m having fun.”

“Me, too.”

“Do you want to go home and go to bed?”

“Jeez,” I said. “Is that all you ever think about?”

“No, but I think about it a lot. Especially when I’m with you.”

“I thought we were supposed to be mad at each other.”

Morelli shrugged. “I don’t feel mad anymore. I can’t even remember what we were fighting about.”

“Peanut butter.”

“It was about more than peanut butter.”

“So you do remember?”

“You called me an insensitive clod,” Morelli said.

“And?”

“I’m not a clod.”

“But you admit to being insensitive?”

“I’m a guy. I’m supposed to be insensitive. It’s my birthright.”

I was pretty sure he was kidding. But then, maybe not. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll take half of it back. You’re not a clod.”

The waitress brought our food and Morelli took out his credit card. “We’ll take the check now, and we’d like a to-go box.”

“Since when?” I said.

“I thought we decided to go home.”

“I can’t go home. I have to go back to work.”

“Doing what?”

“Doing what I do. I’m working at Rangeman.”

“At night?”

“It’s complicated,” I said.

“I bet.”

I felt my eyebrows squinch together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I don’t trust him. He’s a total loose cannon. And he looks at you like you’re lunch.”

“It’s a job. I need the money.”

“You could move in with me,” Morelli said. “You wouldn’t have to pay rent.”

“Living with you doesn’t work. Last time we tried to cohabitate, you threw my peanut butter away.”

“It was disgusting. It had grape jelly and potato chips in it. And something green.”

“Olives. It was just a little cross-contamination. Sometimes I’m in a hurry and stuff gets mixed into the peanut butter. Anyway, when did you get so fussy?”

“I’m not fussy,” Morelli said. “I just try to avoid food poisoning.”

“I have never poisoned you with my food.”

“Only because you don’t cook.”

I blew out a sigh because he was right, and this was going to lead to another contentious topic. Cooking. I’m not sure why I don’t cook. In my mind, I cooked a lot. I made whole mental turkey dinners, baked pies, roasted tenderloins, and whipped up rice pudding. I even owned a mental waffle maker. So to some extent, I understood Lula’s delusional belief that she could barbecue. The difference between Lula and me being that I knew fact from fiction. I knew I was no kind of cook.

The waitress came back with a couple plastic take-out boxes and the check.

“Well?” Morelli asked me.

“Well what?”

“Are we eating here or are we taking these subs back to my house?”

“I’d rather eat here. I have to go back to work tonight, and this is closer to Rangeman.”

“So you’re choosing Ranger over me?”

“Rangeman. Not Ranger. I have a project I can only do in the evening. You should understand that. You choose your job over me all the time.”

“I’m a cop.”

“And?”

“And that’s different,” Morelli said. “I’m serving the public, investigating murders, and you’re working for… Batman.”

“Gotham City would have been a mess without Batman.”

“Batman was a nutcase. He was a vigilante.”

“Well, Ranger isn’t a nutcase. He’s a legitimate businessman.”

“He’s a loose cannon hiding behind a veneer of legitimacy.”

We’d had this conversation about a hundred times before, and it never had a happy ending. Problem was, there was an element of truth to what Morelli said. Ranger played by his own rules.

“I don’t want to get into a shouting match,” I said to Morelli. “I’m going to pack up this sandwich and go back to work. We can try this again when I’m done working for Ranger.”

THE RHYTHM OF Rangeman was always the same. As a security facility, it worked around the clock. The fifth-floor control room, the dining area, and most of the satellite offices were interior to the building and without windows. If you worked in these areas, it was difficult to tell if it was night or day.

The evening shift was in place when I came on the floor. Sybo Diaz was kicked back in his chair, watching several monitors. The code computer was to his right; the screen was blank. I’d never spoken to Diaz, but I’d seen him around. He wasn’t the friendliest guy in the building. Mostly, he stayed to himself, eating alone, not making eye contact that would encourage conversation. According to his work profile, he was five foot nine inches tall and thirty-six years old. His complexion was dark. His face was scarred from acne he probably had as a teenager. He was built chunky, but he didn’t look like he had an ounce of fat. He walked like his shorts were starched.