He shook his head, waved his hands, and I saw him mouth, “Take her away.” A paramedic rolled the gurney out of the lobby into the night air. We clattered over the sidewalk, and then I felt myself lifted into the ambulance, the flashing strobes blinding against the black sky.
“Hey, wait a minute,” I said. “I'm fine. Let me up. Untie these straps.”
IT WAS MIDMORNING when I was released from the hospital. I was dressed and pacing when Morelli strode into my room with my discharge papers.
“They're letting you go,” he said. “If I had my way, I'd move you upstairs to psychiatric.”
I stuck my tongue out at him bec
ause I was feeling exceptionally mature. I grabbed my bag, and we fled the room before the nurse arrived with the mandatory wheelchair.
“I have a lot of questions,” I said to Morelli.
He steered me toward the elevator. “I have a few of my own. Like, what the hell happened?”
“Me first. I need to know about Tank. No one will tell me anything. Is he, um, you know—?”
“Dead? No. Unfortunately. He was wearing a flak vest. The impact of the bullet knocked him back and stunned him. He hit his head when he fell and was out for a while, but he's fine. And by the way, where were you when he was shot?”
“I was stretched out on the floor. It was past my bedtime.”
Morelli grinned. “Let me get this straight. You didn't get shot because you fell asleep on the job?”
“Something like that. It sounded better the way I phrased it. What about the guy with the bomb?”
“So far they've found a shoe and a belt buckle in the vicinity of what's left of the apartment—which, by the way, isn't much—and some teeth on Stark Street.”
The elevator door opened, and we both stepped in.
“You're kidding about the teeth, right?”
Morelli grimaced and pushed the button.
“Nobody else hurt?”
“No. The old lady got knocked on her ass just like you. Can you corroborate her story that it was self-?defense?”
“Yeah. The drug guy got a round off before she blew him up. It should be embedded in the wall . . . if the wall's still there.”
We exited the downstairs lobby and crossed the street to Morelli's truck.
“Now what?” Morelli asked. “Your place? Your mother's house? My place? You're welcome to stay with me if you're feeling shaky.”
“Thanks, but I need to go home. I want to take a shower and change my clothes.” Then I wanted to go look for Fred. I was antsy to retrace Fred's steps. I wanted to stand in the parking lot where he'd disappeared and get psychic vibes. Not that I'd ever gotten psychic vibes from anything before, but hey, there's always a first time. “By the way, do you know a bookie named Bunchy?”
“No. What's he look like?”
“Average short Italian guy. Forty, maybe.”
“Doesn't do anything for me. How do you know him?”
“He visited Mabel, and then he visited me. He claims Fred owes him money.”
“Fred?”
“If Fred wanted to play the horses, why wouldn't he place his bets with his son?”
“Because he doesn't want anyone to know he's gambling?”