“Easier to use a semiautomatic after you've had hip replacement and you walk with a cane,” she said.
One of those useful pieces of information to file away and resurrect when I turn eighty-?three.
Traffic was light at this time of night. A few cars on Olden. No cars on Muffet. I parked around the corner on Cherry Street, a block down from Kuntz, and walked to his house. Downstairs lights were on in both halves. Shades were up. I stood on the sidewalk and snooped. Leo and Betty were feet up in side-?by-?side recliners watching Bruce Willis bleed on TV.
Next door, Eddie was talking on the phone. It was a portable, and I could see him pacing in his kitchen in the back of the house.
Neighboring houses were dark. Lights were on across the street, but there was no activity. I slipped between the houses, avoiding the squares of light thrown onto the grass from open windows, and crept in shadow to the back of Kuntz's house. Snatches of conversation drifted out to me. Yes, he loved her, Kuntz said. And yes, he thought she was sexy. I stood in deep shade and looked through the window. His back was to me. He was alone, and there were no whacked-?off body parts lying on his kitchen table. No Helen chained to the stove. No unearthly screams coming from his cellar. The whole thing was damn disappointing.
Of course, Jeffrey Dahmer kept his trophies in his refrigerator. Maybe what I should do is go around front, knock on the door, tell Kuntz I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop in for that drink. Then I could look in his refrigerator when he went for ice.
I was debating this plan when a hand clamped over my mouth and I was dragged backward and pressed hard into the side of the house. I kicked out with my feet, and my heart was pounding in my chest. I got a hand loose and went for the pepper spray, and I heard a familiar voice whisper in my ear.
“If you're looking to grab something
, I can do better than pepper spray.”
“Morelli!”
“What the hell do you think you're doing?”
“I'm investigating. What does it look like I'm doing?”
“It looks like you're invading Eddie Kuntz's privacy.” He pushed my jacket aside and stared down at my gun belt. “No grenades?”
“Very funny.”
“You need to get out of here.”
“I' m not done.”
“Yes, you are,” Morelli said. “You're done. I found Helen.”
“Tell me.”
“Not here.” He took my hand and tugged me forward, toward the street.
The light over Eddie's back stoop went on, and the back screen door creaked open. “Somebody out here?”
Morelli and I froze against the side of the house.
A second door opened. “What is it?” Leo said. “What's going on?”
“Somebody's creeping around the house. I heard voices.”
“Betty,” Leo yelled, “bring the flashlight. Turn on the porch light.”
Morelli gave me a shove. “Go for your car.”
Keeping to the shadows, I ran around the neighboring duplex, cut back through the driveway and scuttled across yards, heading for Cherry. I scrambled over a four-?foot-?high chain-?link fence, caught my foot on the cross section and sprawled facedown on the grass.
Morelli hoisted me up by my gun belt and set me in motion.
His pickup was directly behind my CRX. We both jumped in our cars and sped away. I didn't stop until I was safely in my own parking lot.
I slid from behind the wheel, locked my car and assumed what I hoped was a casual pose, leaning against the CRX, ignoring the fact that my knees were scraped and I had grass stains the entire length of my body.
Morelli sauntered over and stood back on his heels, hands in his pockets. “People like you give cops nightmares,” he said.