“It's Mrs. Delgado's cat,” I said. “She lives directly above me, and the cat lives on the fire escape.”
Morelli went into the kitchen and returned with scissors. He cut the duct tape, lifted the mesh lid, and the cat jumped out and bolted for the bedroom. Morelli followed after the cat, opened the window, and the cat scurried on home.
I looked into the cage, but I didn't see any hamster remains. No fur. No little bones. No yellow fangs. Nothing.
Morelli looked too. “Pretty thorough job,” he said.
This drew another sob.
We stayed like that for a minute, squatting in front of the cage, numbly staring at pine shavings and the back of Rex's soup can.
“What's the soup can for?” Morelli wanted to know.
“He slept in the soup can.”
Morelli tapped on the can, and Rex rushed out.
I almost fainted with relief, caught midway between laughing and crying, too choked to speak.
Rex was clearly in the same state of emotional overload. He rushed from one end of his cage to the other, nose twitching, beady black eyes bugging out of his head.
“Poor guy,” I said, reaching into the aquarium, taking Rex in my hand, raising him up to my face for a closer look.
“Maybe you should let him relax a while,” Morelli said. “He seems pretty agitated.”
I stroked his back. “Hear that, Rex . . . are you agitated?”
Rex responded by sinking his fangs into the tip of my thumb. I let out a shriek and jerked my hand away, flipping Rex off into space like a Frisbee. He sailed halfway across the room, landed with a soft thunk, lay stunned for five seconds, and then scrambled behind a bookcase.
Morelli looked at the two puncture wounds in my thumb, then he looked at the bookcase. “You want me to shoot him?”
“No, I don't want you to shoot him. I want you to go into the kitchen, get the big strainer, and trap Rex in it while I wash my hands and get a Band-Aid.”
When I came out of the bathroom five minutes later, Rex was crouched still as stone under the strainer, and Morelli was at the dining room table eating the spice cake. He'd set out a wedge for me and poured glasses of milk.
“I think we can hazard a pretty good guess at the identity of the villain here,” Morelli said, glancing at my business card impaled on my carving knife, which was sunk into the middle of my square wood table. “Nice centerpiece,” he offered. “Did you say you left your calling card with one of Sandeman's neighbors?”
“Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Morelli finished his milk and cake and rocked back in his chair. “How spooked are you about all of this?”
“On a scale of one to ten, I guess I'm at six.”
“Do you want me to stay until you can get your door fixed?”
I took a minute to consider. I'd been in worrisome situations before, and I knew it was no fun being alone and scared. Problem was, I didn't want to admit any of this to Morelli. “You think he'll be back?”
“Not tonight. Probably not ever unless you push him again.”
I nodded. “I'll be okay. But thanks for the offer.”
He stood. “You've got my number if you need me.”
I wasn't about to touch that one.
He looked at Rex. “You need any help getting Dracula settled in?”
I knelt down, lifted the strainer, scooped Rex up, and gently set him back in his cage. “He doesn't usually bite,” I said. “He was just excited.”