Janet Evanovich - Finger Lickin’ Fifteen

“She’s not answering her cell.”

“Do you want to talk to her?”

“I need to show her a photograph. Where are you?”

“We’re in my apartment.”

“Stay there. I’m a couple minutes away.”

“That was Morelli,” I said to Lula. “He’s coming here with a photograph he wants you to look at. He said you’re not answering your cell phone.”

“It’s out of juice. I forgot to plug it in.”

Five minutes later, I opened my door to Morelli. He looked at me in my Rangeman clothes, and the line of his mouth tightened. “Why don’t I just lie down in the parking lot and let you run over me a couple times. It would be less painful.”

“Been there, done that,” I said.

The bright red splotches in my kitchen caught his attention. “Remodeling?” he asked.

“Pressure cooker full of barbecue sauce.”

That got a smile. “Where’s Lula?”

“Eating lunch in the dining room.”

The smile widened when Morelli walked into the dining room and eyeballed Lula in her flak vest and Larry in his cocktail dress.

“This here’s Larry,” Lula said to Morelli. “He’s Mister Clucky.”

“I’m a fireman full-time,” Larry said. “Being Mister Clucky is my part-time job.”

Morelli extended his hand. “Joe Morelli. Isn’t it early in the day for a cocktail dress?”

“I guess,” Larry said, “but I stayed over, and this was all I had to wear.”

Morelli cut his eyes to me. “He stayed over?”

“It’s complicated.”

“I bet.”

“Are those pictures you’re holding for me?” Lula asked. “You need to be figuring this out, because I’m gettin’ tired of this kill Lula bullshit.”

Morelli gave her the photos, and Lula flipped through them.

“This one,” Lula said. “This guy with the bad haircut and a nose like Captain Hook. He’s one of the killers. He’s the one with the meat cleaver.”

“That’s Marco the Maniac,” Morelli said.

“Oh shit,” Lula said. “I got a killer named Maniac. Where’s my helmet? I need my helmet. I think I left it at the office.”

“His profile finally popped out of the system,” Morelli said. “He’s from Chicago. Works as a butcher, but he makes spare change by chopping off fingers and toes of people who annoy the Chicago Mob. Mostly gets off on insufficient evidence, but did some time a couple years ago. I don’t know how he’s connected to Chipotle. I’m assuming it was a contract hit, but we don’t really know.”

“You’re gonna arrest him, right?” Lula said.

“As soon as we find him.”

“Well, what are you doing standing here!” Lula said. “You gotta mobilize or something. Put out one of them APB things. I need all my fingers and toes. I got some Via Spiga sandals that aren’t gonna look right if I only got nine toes. And what about the guy with the gun? Why don’t you got a picture of him?”

“We’re working on it,” Morelli said.

“Working on it, my ass,” Lula said. “I’m gettin’ the runs. I need a doughnut.”

Morelli grabbed my wrist and tugged me to the door. “I need to talk to you alone,” he said, moving me into the hall and down toward the elevator.

“I don’t want to argue about Rangeman,” I told him.

“I don’t care about Rangeman,” Morelli said, his voice cracking with laughter. “I want to know about the guy in the dress. What the heck is that about?”

“Lula exploded the barbecue sauce in my kitchen and didn’t want to clean it up, so she told this cross-dresser he could wear her dress if he scrubbed the sauce off the walls and ceiling.”

“And he spent the night?”

“Lula’s guest.”

“The crime lab got to her apartment first thing this morning. She can change out that door anytime she wants.”

“I’m not sure she’ll go back there. She’s really freaked.”

“From what I can tell, Marco is an animal with a very small brain. He’s dangerous and disgusting but not smart. At the risk of sounding insensitive, Lula is a large target, and anyone else would have killed her by now.”

“So you think she shouldn’t be worried?”

“I think she should be terrified. If this goes on long enough, Marco is going to get lucky, and Lula is going to lose a lot more than a toe.” He punched the elevator button. “Is that Ranger’s Cayenne in your parking lot?”

A small sigh escaped before I could squelch it. “I tried to capture Ernie Dell, but he torched my car and got away. Ranger gave me a loaner.”

The elevator doors opened, and Morelli stepped inside.

“How close are you to catching Marco?” I asked him.

“Not close enough.”

I returned to the apartment and finished my lunch.

“We should have got dessert,” Lula said. “I don’t know what we were thinking about, not getting dessert.”

“You have to stop obsessing about food,” I told her. “You’re going to weigh four hundred pounds.”

“Are you sayin’ I’m fat? Because I think I’m just a big and beautiful woman.”

“You’re still beautiful,” I said. “But I think the big is getting a little bigger.”

“That’s a valid point,” Lula said. She locked on to Larry. “Do you think I’m fat?”

Larry was deer in headlights. He’d already traveled this road. “Well, you’re not too fat,” he said.

“Not too fat for what?” Lula wanted to know.

“For me. For this dress. I’m sure you look much better in this dress than I do.”

“Damn right,” Lula said. “Take that dress off and I’ll show you. This dress fits me perfect.”

Larry stood and reached for the zipper, and I clapped my hands over my eyes.

“It’s okay,” Larry said to me. “I’m wearing boxers. I didn’t have any nice lingerie with me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I don’t want to see Lula, either. Tell me when it’s over.”

“Well, what the heck is wrong with this dress?” Lula said a couple minutes later. “I can’t get this thing together.”

I opened my eyes, and Lula had the dress on, but it wasn’t zipped. There was fat bulging out everywhere, and Larry had his knee against Lula’s back and was two-handing the zipper, trying to pull it up.

“Suck it in,” Larry said. “I have this problem sometimes, too.”

“I’m all sucked,” Lula said. “I can’t suck no more.”

Veins were standing out in Larry’s temples and bulging in his neck. “I’m getting it,” he said. “I can press two hundred pounds, and there’s no reason why I can’t get this zipper closed.”

The heck there wasn’t. The dress wasn’t made out of spandex. And even spandex had limits.

“I’ve almost got it,” Larry said, sweat dripping off his flushed face, running in rivers down his chest. “I’ve got an inch to go. One lousy, motherfucking, cocksucking inch.”

Lula was standing tall, not moving a muscle.

“Yeah, baby!” Larry said. “I got it! Woohoo! Yeah!” He stepped back and pumped his fist and did a white boy shuf; e in his boxers.

Lula still wasn’t moving. Her eyes were all wide and bulging, and she was looking not so brown as usual.

“Can’t breathe,” Lula whispered. “Feel faint.”

And then POW, the zipper let loose, and Lula flopped onto the floor, gasping for air.

Larry and I peered down at her.

“Maybe I could use to lose a pound or two,” Lula said.

We got Lula out of the dress and back into her marigold yellow stretch slacks, matching scoop-neck sweater, and black flak vest. And neither of us mentioned that she looked like a giant bumblebee.

“Are you okay?” Larry asked her.

“Pretty much, but I need a doughnut.”

“No doughnuts!” Larry and I said in unison.