“What kind of dog do you think it was?”
“A big dog.”
“What kind?”
“Rottweiler. Male. Old and overweight. Bad teeth. Ate a lot of tuna fish.”
I started to cry.
“Oh jeez,” Morelli said. “Don't cry. I hate when you cry.”
“I've got rottweiler shit in my hair.”
He used his thumb to wipe the tears from my cheeks. “It's okay, honey. It's really not so bad. I was kidding about the tuna.” He gave me a boost into the van. “Hold tight back here. I'll have you home before you know it.”
He brought me to my apartment.
“I thought this was best,” he said. “Didn't think you'd want your mother to see you in this condition.” He searched through my pocketbook for the key and opened the door.
The apartment felt cool and neglected. Too quiet. No Rex spinning in his wheel. No light left burning to welcome me home.
The kitchen beckoned to my left. “I need a beer,” I said to Morelli. I was in no rush for the shower. I'd lost my ability to smell. I'd accepted the condition of my hair.
I shuffled into the kitchen and tugged at the refrigerator door. The door swung wide, the fridge light went on, and I stared in dumb silence at a foot . . . a large, filthy, bloody foot, separated from the leg just above the ankle, placed next to a tub of margarine and a three-quarters-filled bottle of cranberry cocktail.
“There's a foot in my refrigerator,” I said to Morelli. Bells clanged, lights flashed, my mouth went numb, and I crashed to the floor.
I struggled up from unconscious muck and opened my eyes. “Mom?”
“Not exactly,” Morelli said.
“What happened?” I asked.
“You fainted.”
“It was just too much,” I said to Morelli. “The dog shit, the foot . . .”
“I understand,” Morelli said.
I pushed myself up onto shaky legs.
“Why don't you go stand in the shower while I take care of things here?” Morelli said. He handed me a beer. “You can take your beer with you.”
I looked at the beer. “Did this come from my refrigerator?”
“No,” Morelli said. “It came from someplace else.”
“Good. I couldn't drink it if it came from the refrigerator.”
“I know,” Morelli said, maneuvering me toward the bathroom. “Just go take a shower and drink your beer.”
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Two uniforms, a crime lab guy, and two guys in suits were in my kitchen when I got out of the shower.
“I've got an idea on the identity of that foot,” I said to Morelli.
He was writing on a clipboard. “I've got the same idea.” He turned the clipboard over to me. “'Sign at the dotted line.”