Fuckin' A," Gazarra said.
“Do you have coffee too?”
He held a second bag aloft.
“God bless you,” I said. “God bless your children and their children.”
Gazarra got a couple plates from the kitchen, grabbed the roll of paper towels and took everything into the dining room. We divided up the doughnuts and coffee and ate in silence until all that was left was a splot of raspberry jelly on the front of Gazarra's uniform.
“So what is this?” I finally asked. “Social call, pity party, show of faith?”
“All of the above,” Gazarra said. “Plus a weather report, which you didn't get from me.”
“I hope it's warm and sunny.”
Gazarra flicked at the mess on his shirtfront with a wad of paper napkin. “There are members of the department who'd like to pin last night's homicide on you.”
“That's crazy! I had no motive. I didn't even know that guy.”
“Turns out his name is Ronald Anders. Arrested on the eleventh of November for possession and sale of a controlled substance and illegal possession of firearms. Failed to appear in court two weeks later. Recovery never made . . . until last night. Guess who his bondsman is?”
“Vinnie.”
“Yes.”
Direct hit to the brain. No one had said anything to me about the FTA, including Morelli.
The doughnuts were sitting heavy in my stomach. “How about Morelli? Does Morelli want to charge me?”
Gazarra stuffed the paper coffee cups and napkins into a bag and carted it all off to the kitchen. “I don't know. I'm short on details. What I know is that you might want to get your ducks in a row just in case.”
We faced each other at the door.
“You're a good friend,” I said to Gazarra.
“Yeah,” Gazarra said. “I know.”
I closed and locked the door behind him and leaned my forehead against the doorja
mb. The backs of my eyeballs hurt and the pain radiated out to the rest of my skull. If ever there was a time for clear thought, this was it, and here I was without a clear thought in my head. I stood a few minutes longer trying to think, but no wondrous revelations, no brilliant deductions burst into my consciousness. After a while I suspected I'd been dozing.
I was debating taking a shower when there was a loud rap on the door. I rolled my eye to the peephole and looked out. Joe Morelli.
Shit.
Stephanie Plum 3 - Three To Get Deadly
5
“Open the door,” Morelli said. “I know you're in there. I can hear you breathing.”
I figured that was a big fat lie because I'd stopped breathing with the first rap of his knuckles.
Morelli knocked on the door again. “Come on, Stephanie,” he said. “Your car's in the lot. I know you're home.”
Mr. Wolesky, across the hall, opened his door. “What, you never heard of people in the shower? People sleeping? People going for a walk? I'm trying to watch some TV here. You keep making noise I'm gonna call the cops.”
Morelli gave Mr. Wolesky a look that sent Mr. Wolesky scurrying back into his apartment. SLAM, click, click.