One for the Money Page 0,64

the impound yard.

"What about Carmen Sanchez? Does she have a car?"

Gazarra dug a piece of paper out of his pocket. "This is the make and her license number. It hasn't been impounded.

"You want me to follow you home? Make sure your apartment's safe?"

"Not necessary. Half the building's population is probably still camped out in my hall."

What I really dreaded was facing the blood. I was going to have to walk into my apartment and face the grisly aftermath of Ramirez's handiwork. Lula's blood would still be on the phone, the walls, the countertops, and the floor. If the sight of that blood triggered a renewed rush of hysteria, I wanted to deal with it alone, in my own way.

I parked in the lot and slipped into the building unnoticed. Good timing, I thought. The halls were clear. Everyone was eating dinner. I had my defense spray in my hand and my gun wedged under my waistband. I turned the key in the lock and felt my stomach lurch. Just get it over with, I told myself. Barge right in, check under the bed for rapists, pull on some rubber gloves, and clean up the mess.

I took a tentative step into my foyer, and realized someone was in my apartment. Someone was cooking in the kitchen, making cozy cooking sounds, clanking pots and running water. Under the clanking I could hear food sizzling in a frying pan.

"Hello," I called, gun now in hand, barely able to hear myself over the pounding of my heart. "Who's here?"

Morelli sauntered out of the kitchen. "Just me. Put the gun away. We need to talk."

"Jesus! You are so fucking arrogant. Did it ever occur to you I might shoot you with this gun?"

"No. It never occurred to me."

"I've been practicing. I'm a pretty good shot."

He moved behind me, closed and locked the door. "Yeah, I'll bet you're hell on wheels blasting the shit out of those paper men."

"What are you doing in my apartment?"

"I'm cooking dinner." He went back to his sautéing. "Rumor has it you've had a tough day."

My mind was spinning. I'd been wracking my brain, trying to find Morelli, and here he was in my apartment. He even had his back turned to me. I could shoot him in the butt.

"You don't want to shoot an unarmed man," he said, reading my thoughts. "The state of New Jersey frowns on that sort of thing. Take it from someone who knows."

All right, so I wouldn't shoot him. I'd zap him with the Sure Guard. His neurotransmitters wouldn't know what hit them.

Morelli added some fresh sliced mushrooms to the pan and continued to cook, sending heavenly food smells wafting my way. He was stirring red and green peppers, onions, and mushrooms, and my killer instincts were weakening in direct proportion to the amount of saliva pooling in my mouth.

I found myself rationalizing a decision to hold off on the spray, telling myself I needed to hear him out, but the ugly truth was my motives weren't nearly so worthy. I was hungry and depressed, and I was a lot more frightened of Ramirez than I was of Joe Morelli. In fact, I suppose in a bizarre way, I felt safe with Morelli in my apartment.

One crisis at a time, I decided. Have some dinner. Gas him for dessert.

He turned and looked at me. "You want to talk about it?"

"Ramirez almost killed Lula and hung her on my fire escape."

"Ramirez is like a fungus that feeds on fear. You ever see him in the ring? His fans love him because he goes the distance unless the referee calls the fight. He plays with his opponent. Loves to draw blood. Loves to punish. And all the time he's punishing, he's talking to his victim in that soothing voice of his, telling them how much worse it's going to get, telling them he'll only stop when they beg to get knocked out. He's like that with women. Likes to see them squirm in fear and pain. Likes to leave his mark."

I dumped my pocketbook on the counter. "I know. He's very large on mutilation and begging. In fact, you might say he's obsessed with it."

Morelli turned the heat down. "I'm trying to scare you, but I don't think it's working."

"I'm all scared out. I don't have any more scare left in me. Maybe tomorrow." I looked around and realized someone had cleaned up the blood. "Did you scrub the kitchen?"

"The kitchen and the bedroom. You're going to