Morelli bolted from his chair and ran for the front room. I was close behind, almost slamming into him when he stopped short.
A bottle lay in the middle of his living room floor, and there was a fire-blackened rag stuck into the mouth of the bottle. A Molotov cocktail that had burned itself out because the bottle hadn't broken on impact.
Morelli skirted the bottle, rushed into the hall and out the door.
I got to the door in time to see Morelli aim and fire at a retreating car. Only the gun didn't fire. It went click, click, click. Morelli looked at the gun in disbelief.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"This is your gun. I got it out of the sideboard when I ran through the hall. It hasn't got any bullets in it!"
"Bullets are creepy."
Morelli looked dazed. "What good is a gun without bullets?"
"It's good for scaring people. Or you can hit people with it. Or you can use it to break windows . . . or crack walnuts."
"You recognize that car?"
"No. You get a look at the driver?"
Morelli shook his head. "No." He stalked through the house, took his gun and pager off the kitchen counter and clipped them to his belt. He called the dispatcher and gave him the car description. Then he called someone else with the plate number. He took an extra clip out of a kitchen drawer and put it in his pocket while he waited on the plate.
I was standing behind him, and I was trying hard to stay calm, but I was shaking inside, and I was having flashbacks of my ruined apartment. If I'd been home, in bed, when the bottle had exploded, I'd have been killed, charred beyond recognition. As it was I'd lost just about everything I owned. Not that it was much . . . but it was all I had. And now it had almost happened again.
"That was for me," I said, relieved that my voice didn't tremble and give me away.
"Probably," Morelli said. He murmured something into the phone and hung up. "The car was reported stolen a couple hours ago."
He gingerly picked up the bottle with a kitchen towel and put it in a paper bag. Then he set the bag on the kitchen counter. "Fortunately, this guy didn't chose his bottle wisely, and when he threw it, it landed on carpet."
The phone rang, and Morelli snatched at it.
"It's for you," he said. "It's Sally."
"I need help," Sally said. "I have a gig tonight, and I can't figure out this makeup shit."
"Where's Sugar?"
"We had another fight, and he took off."
"Okay," I said, reacting more than thinking, still feeling numbed by the second attempt to end my life. "I'll be right over."
"Now what?" Morelli asked.
"I need to help Sally with his makeup."
"I'll go with you."
"Not necessary."
"I think it is."
"I don't need a bodyguard." What I really meant was I don't want to get you killed, too.
"Then consider this to be a date."
WE KNOCKED twice, and Sally just about ripped the door off its hinges when he yanked it open. "Shit," he said, "it's you."
"Who'd you think it would be?"
"I guess I was hoping it was Sugar. Look at me. I'm a wreck. I don't know how to do any of this shit. Sugar always gets me dressed. Christ, I haven't got the right hormones for this fucking shit, you know what I mean?"
"Where'd Sugar go?"
"I don't know. We had another fight. I don't even know how it started. Something about me not appreciating his coffee cake."
I looked around. The house was beyond immaculate. Not a speck of dust anywhere. Nothing out of place. Through the kitchen door I could see the kitchen counters neatly lined with cakes, pies, loaves of bread, glass jars filled with cookies and homemade fudge.
"I didn't even realize he was all that upset," Sally said. "He got dressed and left when I was in my bubble bath."
Morelli arched an eyebrow. "Bubble bath?"
"Hey, give me a break here. RuPaul says you're supposed to take a goddamn bubble bath, so that's what I do. Gets you in touch with your fuckin' female side."
Morelli grinned.
Sally was wearing black bikini Calvins and panty hose, and he was holding a contraption that looked like a corset with breasts. "You gotta help me," he said. "I can't get into this by myself."
Morelli held up a hand. "You're on your own."
Sally looked over at him. "What, are you homophobic?"
"Nope," Morelli said. "I'm Italian. There's a difference."