“Two-thirty.”
Mooner flopped onto the couch.
“What are you doing?” I asked him.
“Waiting.”
I decided some time ago that Mooner fell into the pet category. He was like a stray cat that showed up on your doorstep and stayed for a few days and then wandered off. He was amusing in small doses, fairly harmless, and for the most part, housebroken.
I left Mooner on the couch and went to the kitchen to check out the contents of Morelli's refrigerator. It was noon, and as long as I was there, I figured I might as well eat. If I'd been in my house, I would have made a peanut butter sandwich, but this was Morelli's house and he was a meat guy, so I found deli-sliced ham and roast beef and Swiss cheese. I made a sandwich for me and a sandwich for Mooner, and I dragged a big bag of potato chips out of the cupboard. I put it all on the small kitchen table and called Mooner in.
“Thanks, Mom,” Mooner said, sitting down, dumping some chips onto his plate.
“This is, like, excellent.”
I ate half a sandwich, and I realized Bob was at the table, and he was holding a man's shoe in his mouth. It was a scuffed brown lace-up shoe, and I didn't recognize it as Morelli's. I looked under the table at Mooner's feet. Both of them were stuffed into beat-up sneakers.
“Where'd Bob get the shoe?” I asked.
“He brought it up from the basement,” Mooner said. “The door's open.”
I turned and looked behind me and, sure enough, the basement door was open. I got up and cautiously peeked down the stairs. “Hello?” I called. No one answered. I took the carving knife out of the butcher-block knife caddy, switched the light on in the basement, and carefully crept down the stairs and looked around.
“What's down there?” Mooner wanted to know.
“Furnace, water heater, and a dead guy.”
“Bad juju,” Mooner said.
The dead guy was spread-eagle on his back, eyes wide open, hole in the middle of his forehead, lots of blood pooling under him, wearing only one shoe. I didn't recognize him. He looked like he came out of central casting for a Sopranos episode.
I took a moment to decide if I was going to throw up or faint or evacuate my bowels. None of those things seemed to be going on, so I stumbled up to the kitchen, closed the basement door behind me, and dialed Morelli.
“There's a d-d-dead guy in your b-b-basement,” I told him.
Silence.
“Did you hear me?” I asked, working hard to control the shaking in my voice.
“I know this is stupid, but it sounded like you said there was a dead guy in my basement.”
“Shot in the f-f-forehead. Bob took his shoe and won't give it b-b-back.”
“Have you called the police?”
“Just you.”
“You know what would be good?” Mooner said when I hung up. “Coleslaw. I don't suppose you have any coleslaw?”
“No.”
“Just thought I'd ask.”
“Aren't you bothered by the fact that someone was killed in Morelli's basement?” I asked Mooner.
“Do I know him?”
“I don't know. Do you want to take a look?”