“Yeah.”
“He was in the Jeep.”
“No shit. Are you sure?”
“I was talking to him when it blew.”
“I guess that explains your missing eyebrows. What were you talking about?”
“Vinnie had only given me a week to bring Morelli in. My week was up, and Morty took up the hunt. We were sort of talking about Morelli.”
“You couldn't have been talking too close or you'd be hamburger.”
“Actually I was right about where we're standing now, and we were yelling at each other. We were sort of . . . disagreeing.”
A uniform came over with a twisted license plate. “We found this over by the Dumpster,” he said. “You want me to run an ID?”
I took the plate. “Don't bother. The car belongs to Morelli.”
“Oh
boy,” Dorsey said. “I can hardly wait to hear this.”
I figured I'd embellish the truth a little, since the police might not be up on the finer points of bounty hunterism and might not understand about commandeering. “It's like this,” I said. “I went to see Morelli's mother, and she was very upset that no one was running Joe's car. You know how bad it is for the battery to let a car sit. Well one thing led to another and next thing I'd agreed to drive the car around for her.”
“So you've been driving Morelli's car as a favor to his mother?”
“Yes. He'd asked her to take care of it, but she didn't have time.”
“Very noble of you.”
“I'm a noble person.”
“Go on.”
So I did. I explained about Beyers's wife leaving him, and about how he tried to steal the car, and how he made the mistake of saying “fuck God,” and then the car blew up.
“You think God got pissed off and fried Beyers?”
“That would be one theory.”
“When you come to the station to complete the report on Ramirez, we might want to talk further on this.”
I watched for a few more minutes and then went back to my apartment. I didn't especially want to be around when they scooped up the ashes that had been Morty Beyers.
I sat in front of the television until noon, keeping my windows closed and my curtains drawn to the crime scene below. Every once in a while I'd wander into the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror to see if my eyebrows had grown back yet.
At twelve o'clock I parted my curtains and braved a peek at the lot. The Cherokee had been removed, and only two patrolmen remained. From my window it appeared they were filling out property damage forms for the handful of cars that had been pelted with debris from the explosion.
A morning of television had anesthetized me sufficiently that I felt ready to cope, so I took a shower and got dressed, being careful not to dwell on thoughts of death and bombings.
I needed to go down to the police station, but I didn't have a car. I had a few dollars in my pocket. Nothing in my checking account. My credit cards were in collection. I had to make another apprehension.
I called Connie and told her about Morty Beyers.
“This is going to make a serious hole in Vinnie's dike,” Connie said. “Ranger's recovering from gunshot and now Morty Beyers is out of the picture. They were our two best agents.”
“Yeah. It sure is a shame. I guess Vinnie's left with me.”