One for the Money Page 0,87

him being dead."

"I'll be evicted."

"Listen, Stephanie, your apartment isn't all that great. Besides, this is wasted talk. We both know you aren't capable of bringing me in by force. The only way you're going to collect your money is by my permission. You're just going to have to sit tight."

"I don't like your attitude, Morelli."

The light whirled, and he lunged toward the door. "I don't much care what you think of my attitude. I'm not in a good mood. My witness is dead, and I can't find the damn murder weapon. Probably Ramirez will squeal like a pig, and I'll be exonerated, but until that happens I'm staying hidden."

"The hell you are. I can't believe it's in your best interest. Suppose some cop sees you and shoots you? Besides, I have a job to do, and I'm going to do it. I should never have made this deal with you."

"It was a good deal," he said.

"Would you have made it?"

"No. But I'm not you. I have skills you could only dream about. And I'm a hell of a lot meaner than you'll ever be."

"You underestimate me. I'm pretty fucking mean."

Morelli grinned. "You're a marshmallow. Soft and sweet and when you get heated up you go all gooey and delicious."

I was rendered speechless. I couldn't believe just seconds before I'd been thinking friendly, protective thoughts about this oaf.

"I'm a fast learner, Morelli. I made a few mistakes in the beginning, but I'm capable of bringing you in now."

"Yeah, right. What are you going to do, shoot me?"

I wasn't soothed by his sarcasm. "The thought isn't without appeal, but shooting isn't necessary. All I have to do is close the door on you, you arrogant jerk."

In the dim light I saw his eyes widen as understanding dawned a nanosecond before I swung the heavy, insulated door shut. I heard the muffled thud of his body slam against the interior, but he was too late. The bolt was already in place.

I adjusted the refrigeration temperature to forty. I figured that would be cold enough to keep the corpses from defrosting, but not so cold I'd turn Morelli into a popsicle on the ride back to Trenton. I climbed into the cab and cranked the motor over—compliments of Louis' keys. I lumbered out of the lot and onto the road and headed for the highway.

Halfway home I found a pay phone and called Dorsey. I told him I was bringing Morelli in, but I didn't provide any details. I told him I'd be rolling into the station's back lot in about forty-five minutes and it'd be nice if he was waiting for me.

I swung the truck into the driveway on North Clinton right on time and caught Dorsey and two uniforms in my headlights. I cut the engine, did some deep breathing to still my nervous stomach, and levered myself out of the cab.

"Maybe you should have more than two uniforms," I said. "I think Morelli might be mad."

Dorsey's eyebrows were up around his hairline. "You've got him in the back of the truck?"

"Yeah. And he isn't alone."

One of the uniforms slid the bolt, the door flew open, and Morelli catapulted himself out at me. He caught me midbody, and we both went down onto the asphalt, thrashing and rolling and swearing at each other.

Dorsey and the uniforms hauled Morelli off me, but he was still swearing and flailing his arms. "I'm gonna get you!" he was yelling at me. "When I get outta here I'm gonna get your ass. You're a goddamn lunatic. You're a menace!"

Two more patrolmen appeared, and the four uniforms wrestled Morelli through the back door. Dorsey lagged behind with me. "Maybe you should wait out here until he calms down," he said.

I picked some cinders out of my knee. "That might take a while."

I gave Dorsey the keys to the truck and explained about the drugs and Ramirez. By the time I was done explaining, Morelli had been moved upstairs, and the coast was clear for me to get my body receipt from the docket lieutenant.

It was close to twelve when I finally let myself into my apartment, and my one real regret for the evening was that I'd left my blender at the marina. I truly needed a daiquiri. I locked my front door and tossed my shoulder bag onto the kitchen counter.

I had mixed feelings about Morelli . . . not sure if I'd done the right thing. In the end, it hadn't been the retrieval money