Page 12

“It’s the exit wound,” Morelli said. “Whoever killed him flipped him over. Half his brain is splattered on the silver Honda over there.”

A wave of nausea rolled through me, and I felt myself break out in a cold sweat.

“You’re kind of white,” Morelli said. “You’re not going to do the girl thing and faint, are you?”

“ ‘The girl thing’? Excuse me?”

Morelli grinned. “You’re such a cupcake.”

I sucked in some air and made an effort to settle my stomach. So big deal if I am a cupcake. Seemed to me it was a lot better than being a bagel.

“Who is he?” I asked.

“Tommy Ritt.”

“Oh boy. He’s one of Poletti’s poker buddies.”

“And you’re after Poletti,” Morelli said.

“Yes. That’s why I’m here. Poletti owns this property. I was hoping to find him holed up here in a Winnebago.”

“Sorry, I haven’t seen any Winnebagos.” He turned his attention to me. “Mike Kelly said he saw you with Ranger last night.”

“It was business.”

Morelli continued to look at me with what I call his cop eyes. They’re hard and unwavering. An emotionless stare he uses to extract confessions from killers in the interrogation room.

“Not going to work,” I told him. “I have nothing to confess.”

That got another grin. “You know all my tricks.”

I raised an eyebrow, and his grin widened.

“Randy Briggs showed up on my doorstep this morning,” I said. “He claims Poletti tried to run him down with his Mustang and took a shot at him. And then someone shot a firebomb into his apartment.”

“I heard about the apartment. I didn’t know it belonged to Briggs. What’s his connection to Poletti?”

“He was Poletti’s accountant.”

“Ow. Not a healthy job choice. Did Briggs stop by to tell you he was on his way to Argentina?”

“Something like that. I don’t suppose you have any idea where I might find Poletti?”

“Not at the moment,” Morelli said, “but I’ll let you know if something turns up. We’ll be looking for him too. He’s a person of interest in this shooting.”

“He’s driving a tricked-out black and silver Mustang. And he’s probably packing a rocket launcher.”

Morelli ducked under the tape with me and walked me to the stairs. “Bob misses you,” he said.

Bob is Morelli’s big orange, floppy-eared, shaggy-haired dog.

“I miss him too.”

Morelli pulled me behind a van and wrapped his arms around me. “How about me? Do you miss me?”

“Maybe a little.”

“The Yankees are playing Boston tonight. You could come over, catch the game, and spend the night.”