I could feel Morelli smiling at the other end of the line. “Dickie Orr.”
Dickie Orr. My ex-husband. The horse's ass. This was a harpoon to the brain on a day when there was already impaired activity.
Dickie was a graduate of Newark Law. He was with the firm Kreiner and Kreiner in the old Shuman Building, and what he lacked in talent, he compensated for in creative overbilling. He was acquiring a reputation for being a hotshot attorney. I was convinced this was due to his inflated pay schedule rather than his court record. People wanted to believe they got what they paid for.
“When did you learn this?”
“About ten minutes ago.”
“Is Mo turning himself in?”
“Thinking about it. Guess he's hired himself a dealmaker.”
“He's suspected of murdering eight men. What kind of a deal does he want? Lobster every Friday while he's on death row?”
I got a box of Frosted Flakes from the kitchen cupboard and shoved some into my mouth.
“What are you eating?” Morelli wanted to know.
“Frosted Flakes.”
“That's kid cereal.”
“So what does Mo want?”
“I don't know. I'm going over to talk to Dickie. Maybe you'd like to tag along.”
I ate another fistful of cereal. “Is there a price?”
“There's always a price. Meet you at the coffee shop in the Shuman Building in half an hour.”
I considered the state of my hair. “I might be a few minutes late.”
“I'll wait,” Morelli said.
I could make the Shuman Building in ten minutes if I got all the lights right. It would take at least twenty minutes to do hair and makeup. If I wore a hat I could forgo hair, and that would cut the time in half. I decided the hat was the way to go.
I hit the back door running with a few minutes to spare. I'd gone with taupe eyeliner, a bronze-tone blusher, natural lip gloss and lots of black mascara. The key ingredient to hangover makeup is green concealer for the under-eye bags, covered over with quality liquid foundation. I was wearing my Rangers ball cap, and a fringe of orange frizz framed my face. Orphan Annie, eat your heart out.
I paused for a light at Hamilton and Twelfth and noticed the Nissan was running rough at idle. Two blocks later it backfired and stalled. I coaxed it into the center of the city. Ffft, ffft, ffft, KAPOW! Ffft, ffft, ffft, KAPOW!
A Trans Am pulled up next to me at a light. The Trans Am was filled with high school kids. One of them stuck his head out the passenger-side window.
“Hey lady,” he said. “Sounds like you got a fartmobile.”
I flipped him an Italian goodwill gesture and pulled the ball cap low on my forehead. When I found a parking space in front of the Shuman Building, I revved the engine, popped the clutch and backed into the parking slot at close to warp speed. The Nissan jumped the curb and rammed a meter. I gnashed my teeth together. Stephanie Plum, rabid woman. I got out and took a look. The meter was fine. The truck had a big dent in the rear bumper. Good. Now the back matched the front. The truck looked like someone had taken a giant pincers to it.
I stormed into the coffee shop, spotted Morelli and stomped over to him. I must have still looked rabid, because Morelli stiffened when he saw me and made one of those unconscious security gestures cops often acquire, surreptitiously feeling to see if their gun is in place.
I tossed my shoulder bag onto the floor and th
rew myself into the chair across from him.
“I swear I didn't intentionally try to get you drunk,” Morelli said.
I squeezed my eyes shut. “Unh.”
“Well, okay, so I did,” he admitted. “But I didn't mean to get you that drunk.”