“Easy one,” I said. “Please nuke the pasta.”
Martha lowered her snout into the tub and lapped at the bathwater until, laughing, Joe pulled her away.
I wanted to savor these last few hours of the weekend, just soak them up. When the phone rang, I didn’t answer it.
Whoever was calling could darn well wait until morning. But Joe looked at the caller ID, picked up, and said, “Hey, Richie.”
I said, “Tell him I’ll call him back.”
“He said he’ll wait,” Joe told me.
I stepped out of my luxurious bath, threw on a robe, and took the phone from Joe.
“I’m off duty, Richie.”
“You want to hear this.”
There was something in his voice that told me not to blow him off. He sounded bone-tired, or in shock, or simply at the end of his rope. Whatever the reason for his call, it was damned important to my partner.
“Then you’d better tell me,” I said.
He said, “It’s … it’s …”
His voice cracked, as though he were going to cry.
“Rich. What’s wrong?”
“It’s Morales,” he said. “She got herself out of the hospital. She escaped.”