Page 85 of Now or Never

Morelli looked into the living room. There was music playing. “Stayin’ Alive” by the Bee Gees. The old folks were trying to dance to it.

Morelli grinned and did the classic “Stayin’ Alive” move, channeling his inner Travolta.

“If you want to give up being a cop, you could have a career with Chippendales,” I said to him.

“Get your purse,” he said. “Jimmy’s waiting.”

The crime scene was about a quarter mile from my apartment building. It was a residential area of single-family houses with yards that were large enough for swing sets and grills. There were lots of mature trees and shrubs. The cop cars, an EMT truck, and a clump of gawkers were clustered around a wooded area between two houses. Morelli angle parked next to a cop car.

He’d said it wasn’t necessary for me to tag along, but from my point of view, it was necessary. This wasn’t something I could walk away from. Even if the memory of the laundromat made me sick, I had to keep working to find the killer. He had to be stopped. It was necessary for me to know that I was doing my best to help stop him.

Jimmy was standing a short distance from the body. He waved when he saw us.

“What have you got?” Morelli asked him.

“She’s wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and running shoes. She was probably out getting exercise. No ID on her. She has a gash on the back of her head. He might have come at her from behind and knocked her down. There’s some blood on the road by thecurb. Then it looks like he dragged her into the wooded area. It’s a utility easement. A dog found her. He kept pulling on his leash and barking. The owner finally came to investigate and stumbled onto the woman. He was pretty shook up. He’s with the paramedic.”

“Is there a weapon?”

“No. There are bite marks on her neck. Similar to what we saw in the laundromat. Actually, fang punctures.”

I gagged and Morelli turned to look at me. I waved him away.

“I’m good,” I said.

“The interesting part is that the fang punctures weren’t enough to cause death,” Jimmy said. “Her throat was slit. Again, like the laundromat murder.”

Morelli walked over and looked down at the woman. I kept my distance. Searching for clues by examining the newly dead wasn’t now, and never would be, part of my skill set. The ME and a forensic photographer arrived and went to the body. Everyone stood around, talking, gesturing. The ME and the photographer went to work. Jimmy stayed by the body. Morelli came back to me.

“I’m having a problem with my serial killer hypothesis,” I said to him. “There are four women who had ties to Zoran and disappeared. One left drops of blood. Three just disappeared. Now there are two women dead who were bitten, had their neck slashed, and were not made to disappear. I’m comfortable saying Zoran killed these last two women. I don’t know if I’m comfortable tying him to the four disappearances.”

“You don’t have to be sure with a hypothesis,” Morelli said. “A hypothesis is an idea that needs further investigation. I’ve watched you bumble your way through your bail bonds job with no skills and a partner who wears five-inch stiletto heels to work and is the worst shot in the entire state. I have no idea how you do it, but you manage to track people down and drag their sorry asses backto jail. I think you do it on luck, grit, and instinct. So, if your gut tells you that Zoran is responsible for two murders, maybe more, I’ll go with your gut.”

Wow. That was unexpected. I felt like I had a tennis ball in my throat and there were tears collecting behind my eyes. I choked it all back because Morelli had just told me I was a hard-ass, and I didn’t want to ruin the moment.

“Oh jeez,” he said. “You aren’t going to cry, are you?”

“No.”

He grinned, wrapped an arm around me, and kissed me on the top of my head. “You’re such a cupcake.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Are we done here?”

“Yeah. I’ll get together with Jimmy tomorrow. Do you want to go back to the party?”

“No!”

“I’m starving,” Morelli said, “I need food. And beer. Not necessarily in that order.”

“I’m in the mood for a Pino’s pizza burger.”

“Not only do you have gut instincts, but you can read minds,” Morelli said. “Do you know what else I’m thinking?”

“I have a pretty good idea. We can discuss it at Pino’s.”

Pino’s was packed but we scored a booth. The candle was fake, and the menu was stained with spaghetti sauce. I would have been disappointed if it was any different. I knew the two guys behind the bar, and I knew three of the waitresses. They were all related to Pino. The original Pino had gone to the big pizzeria in the sky ten years ago, and now Pino’s was owned and managed by Little Pino and his extended family. I have a hard time imagining my life without Pino’s. I might eventually learn how toroast a chicken, but there’s no hope that I would ever be able to replicate a Pino’s pizza.

Morelli ordered beer and I asked for a Coke.

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