Morelli and Gazarra helped Lula to her feet.
“Are you going to be okay?” Morelli asked her.
“I could use a drink,” Lula said. “A big one.”
“I have some whiskey,” Morton said, leading the way up the stairs and into the kitchen.
Morton poured out a tumbler of whiskey for Lula and took a shot for himself. The rest of us settled for a rain check.
“Does that count as an ID?” I asked Morelli.
“Good enough for me.”
“Where do you suppose Marco the Maniac has been keeping the body? It was frozen straight out. That means it was kept in a commercial freezer.”
“There are commercial freezers all over the place.”
“Still, it’s not like Marco and his partner are just hanging out around the house here. They know someone well enough to let them store a dead guy in the freezer.”
“There are probably dead guys in half the commercial freezers in Trenton,” Morelli said.
Lula chugged the whiskey. “This is good stuff,” she said. “I’m feeling much better. Maybe I need just a teensy bit more.”
Morelli got the bottle off the counter and poured out more for Lula. He draped an arm across my shoulders and brought me into the hallway.
“She’s going to be in no shape to talk to the reporters,” he said. “You’re going to have to drive her directly home.”
“Gotcha.”
He leaned in to me. “I could have whispered that in your ear in the kitchen, but I thought this was more romantic.”
“You think this is romantic?”
“No, but it’s all I’ve got,” Morelli said. “This is the highlight of my week.”
“I thought you were dating Joyce.”
“If I was dating Joyce, I’d have fang marks in my neck and I’d be down a couple quarts of blood.”
“Not to change the subject, but why would Marco take a chance by coming out and dropping the body off on the porch? Why not throw it in the river, or bury it, or make it into hamburger? He’s a butcher, right?”
“Good question. Of course, he’s known as Marco the Maniac, so this might not have been a rational act.” Morelli kissed me just above the collar of my T-shirt. “Do you think we can overlook the fact that we’re in a funeral home for a moment?”
“No. For one thing, Gazarra is trying to get your attention.”
Gazarra was waving from the front door. “Can the ME take over?” Gazarra hollered.
“Yes,” Morelli said. “I’m done with Chipotle for now.”
“I’m going to get the cab,” I told Morelli. “I’ll bring it around to the front door, and you can hustle Lula into it.”
I got the key from Lula’s purse and jogged to the lot. My father’s cab was white with CAB printed in red all over it. CAB was an acronym for a small company named Capitol Area Buslettes.
I got into the cab, cranked it over, and drove out of the lot. I stopped in front of the funeral home, and an elderly man got in the backseat.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m off duty.”
“Two Hundred Eldridge Road,” he said. “It’s one of the new high-rises down by the river.”