“Cops don't stalk. Cops pursue.”
“Okay. Why are you pursuing me?”
“We nee
d to talk,” Morelli said.
“That's it? Just talk?”
“You had something else in mind?”
“Nope.”
We were both silent for a moment, contemplating the something else.
“Well,” I said, “what do you want to talk about?”
“I want to talk about Mo, and I don't want to do it on the phone.”
“I heard some people might want to arrest me.”
“That's true,” Morelli said. “But I'm not one of them.”
“I have your word?”
“I won't arrest you tonight. I'd rather not make a blanket statement that covers eternity.”
He was waiting with the door open when I got off the elevator.
“You look cold and tired,” he said.
“Dodging bullets is exhausting. I don't know how you cops do it day after day.”
“I assume you're talking about Mr. Weinstein.”
I hung my jacket and my shoulder bag on a wall hook.
“I'm talking about everyone. People keep shooting at me.” I sliced myself off a big chunk of spice cake and told Morelli about Snake.
“So what do you think?” I asked.
“I think bounty hunters should be tested and licensed. And I think you'd flunk the test.”
“I'm learning.”
“Yeah,” Morelli said. “Let's hope you don't get dead in the process.”
Ordinarily I'd consider a remark like that to be an insult, but I'd actually been thinking along the same lines myself. “What's the deal with Uncle Mo?”
“I don't know,” Morelli said. “At first I was worried he was dead. Now I don't t know what to think.”
“What kind of prints did you get from his store?”
“Yours, Mo's and Anders's from the doorknobs in the rear. We didn't bother with the public areas. Two-thirds of the burg would have showed up.”
“The neighbors see anything?”
“Only the lady across the street who reported the flashlight.” Morelli was slouched against my kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest. “Any other questions?”