“Mom,” my mother called out, “how many pills have you taken?”
Grandma's head rotated in my mother's direction. “Pills?”
“It's a terrible thing that an old lady can't be safe on the streets,” my mother said. “You'd think we lived in Washington, D.C. Next thing we'll have drive-by shootings. The burg was never like this in the old days.”
I didn't want to burst her bubble about the old days, but in the old days the burg had a Mafia staff car parked in every third driveway. Men were walked out of their homes, still in pajamas, and taken at gunpoint to the Meadowlands or the Camden landfill for ceremonial dispatch. Usually families and neighbors weren't at risk, but there'd always been the possibility that a stray bullet would embed itself in the wrong body.
And the burg was never safe from the Mancuso and Morelli men. Kenny was crazier and more brazen than most, but I suspected he wasn't the first of the Mancusos to leave a scar on a woman's body. To my knowledge none of them had ever ice-picked an old woman, but the Mancusos and Morellis were notorious for their violent, alcohol-fueled tempers and for their ability to sweet-talk a woman into an abusive relationship.
I knew some of this firsthand. When Morelli had charmed the pants off me fourteen years ago, he hadn't been abusive, but he hadn't been kind, either.
Grandma was sound asleep by seven o'clock, snoring like a drunken lumberjack.
I slipped into my jacket and grabbed my pocketbook.
“Where are you going?” my mother wanted to know.
“To Stiva's. He's hired me to help him close.”
“Now that's a job,” my mother said. “You could do a lot worse than to work for Stiva.”
I closed the front door behind me, and took a deep, cleansing breath. The air felt cool on my face. My eye relaxed under the dark night sky.
I drove to Stiva's and parked in the lot. Inside, Andy Roche had reclaimed his position at the tea table.
“How's it going?” I asked.
“Some old lady just told me I looked like Harrison Ford.”
I selected a cookie from the plate behind him. “Shouldn't you be with your brother?”
“We weren't all that close.”
“Where's Morelli?”
Roche casually scanned the room. “No one ever knows the answer to that question.”
I returned to my car and had just settled in when the phone rang.
“How's Grandma Mazur?” Morelli asked.
“She's sleeping.”
“I hope this move to your parents' house is temporary. I had plans for those purple shoes.”
This caught me by surprise. I'd expected Morelli to keep watching Spiro, but he'd followed me instead. And I hadn't spotted him. I pressed my lips together. I was a dismal bounty hunter. “I didn't see any other good alternatives. I'm worried about Grandma Mazur.”
“You have a terrific family, but they'll have you on Valium in forty-eight hours.”
“Plums don't do Valium. We mainline cheesecake.”
“Whatever works,” Morelli said, and hung up.
At ten of ten I pulled into the mortuary driveway, and parked to one side, leaving room for Spiro to squeeze past. I locked the Buick and entered the funeral home through the side door.
Spiro was looking nervous, saying good-byes. Louie Moon was nowhere to be seen. And Andy had disappeared. I slipped into the kitchen and clipped a holster to my belt. I loaded the fifth round into my .38 and shoved the gun into the holster. I clipped on a second holster for my pepper spray, and a third for a flashlight. I figured at $100 a shot, Spiro deserved the full treatment. I'd have heart palpitations if I had to use the gun, but that was my little secret.
I was wearing a hip-length jacket that for the most part hid my paraphernalia. Technically this meant I was carrying concealed, which was a legal no-no. Unfortunately, the alternative would generate instant phone calls all over the burg that I was packing at Stiva's. The threat of arrest seemed pale by comparison.