It was my mother. “I heard you shot someone,” she said. “You've got to stop shooting people. Elaine Minardi's daughter never shoots anyone. Lucille Rice's daughter never shoots anyone. Why do I have to be the one to have a daughter who shoots people?”
“I didn't shoot anyone.”
“Then you can come to dinner.”
“Sure.”
“That was too easy,” my mother said. “Somethings wrong. Omigod, you really did shoot someone, didn't you?”
“I didn't shoot anyone,” I yelled at her. And I disconnected.
Morelli opened the driver's side door and angled himself behind the wheel. “Your mother?”
I sagged in the seat. “This is turning into a really long day. I told my mother I'd show up for dinner.”
“Let's go over this one more time,” Morelli said.
“One of Singh's coworkers told me Singh tried to make a phone call to Howie the day before he disappeared. I questioned Howie just now and he denied knowing Singh. I'm pretty sure he was lying. And when I told him Singh was missing I could swear he looked relieved. He ended the interview by telling me Americans are crazy. He stood to go inside and pop pop ... he was dead.”
“Only two shots.”
“That's all I heard.”
“Anything else?”
“Off the record?”
“Oh boy,” Joe said. “I hate when a conversation with you starts like that.”
“I happened to accidentally wander into Howie's apartment this morning.”
“I don't want to hear this,” Morelli said. “They're going to go to Howie's apartment and dust for prints and you're going to be all over the place.”
I chewed on my lower lip. Unfortunate timing. Who knew Howie would get killed?
Morelli raised eyebrows in question. “So?”
“The apartment is clean,” I told him. “No sign that Singh's been there. No diary detailing secret activities. No hastily scribbled notes that someone wanted him dead. No evidence of drugs. No weapons.”
“It could have been a random shooting,” Morelli said. “This isn't a great neighborhood.”
“He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Yeah.”
Not for a single second did either of us believe that to be true. Deep inside I knew Howie's death was tied to Singh and to me. That he was killed in my presence wasn't a good thing.
Morelli's eyes softened and he ran a fingertip along my jaw line. “Are you sure you're okay?”
“Yeah. I'm okay.” And I was . . . sort of. My hands had stopped shaking and the pain in my chest was subsiding. But I knew that somewhere hiding in my head were sad thoughts of Howie. The sadness would creep forward and I would cram it back into crevices thick with brain gunk. I'm a firm believer in the value of denial. Anger, passion, and fear spill out of me in real time. Sadness I save until the edge dulls. Someday three months from now I'll stroll down the cereal aisle of a supermarket and burst into tears for Howie, a man I didn't even know, for crissake. I'll stand in front of the cereal boxes and blow my nose and blink the tears out of my eyes so no one realizes I'm an emotional idiot. I mean, what about Howie's life? What was it like? Then I'll think about Howie's death and I'll go hollow inside. And then I'll go to the freezer section and get a tub of coffee-?flavored Haagen-?Dazs ice cream and eat it all.
Morelli turned the engine over and chugged out of the lot. “I'll take you back to the office so you can get your car. I have paperwork to do at the station. If I'm not home by five-?thirty, go to dinner without me. I'll catch up with you as soon as I can.”
Lula and Connie weren't looking happy when I got to the office.
“We only have a couple days left before everyone finds out Singh's skipped,” Connie said. “Vinnie's freaking. He's locked in his office with a bottle of gin and the real estate section from the Scottsdale paper.”
“I don't need this cranky shit he's pulling, either,” Lula said. “I had a bad day. I didn't lose any weight and the guy we wanted to talk to got dead. And every time I think about poor ol' Howie I get hungry on account of I'm a comfort eater. I relieve my stress with comfort food.”