Explosive Eighteen (Stephanie Plum 18)

“And?” I asked.

“And I’m glad I tangled with Ranger and not you. You’re an animal. You kicked the crap out of that poor bastard.”

“I felt threatened.”

“No doubt.” His gaze traveled from my face to my enhanced cleavage, and his expression softened. “I like this sweater.”

Now this is the Morelli I know and love. “Does this sweater fixation mean things are returning to normal?”

“No, this means I’m trying not to focus on your face. You look worse than I do, and I have a broken nose.” He very gently touched a fingertip to my nose and the corner of my mouth. “Does it hurt?”

“Not a lot, but you could kiss it and make it better.”

He brushed a whisper of a kiss across my nose and my mouth. “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

“You like me?” I asked him.

“No, but I’m working on it.”

I guess I could live with that. “I was attacked by Razzle Dazzle. Did you recognize him on the tape?”

Morelli shook his head. “No. But Berger seemed to know him.”

“I talked to Brenda earlier today. Not much came of it. I still have no idea why everyone’s interested in the photograph.”

“Berger’s briefed me on the major players, and he called me in to see the tape, but he isn’t talking beyond that. I don’t think he knows the whole story. Someone above him wants that photograph. This isn’t trivial.”

“Why is Berger playing nice with you?”

“You’re the only one who’s seen the photograph, and I’m a connection to you.”

“But I don’t have the photograph, and I don’t know anything. I described Tom Cruise and Ashton Kutcher to the FBI sketch artists.”

Morelli did a palms up. “No one believes you.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. You have nothing to gain by lying. And you look really sexy tonight from your neck down.”

“I thought you didn’t like me.”

“Cupcake, that sweater transcends like or not like.”

I punched him in the chest. “I’m going to find Grandma.”

Grandma had scored a folding chair in the third row and had saved the one next to her for me.

“This here’s a real disappointing viewing,” Grandma said. “I expected better, what with Frank Korda being packed off to the junkyard. I don’t think there’s even a reporter for the paper. And so far I haven’t seen any killers pass by. Only Connie’s Uncle Gino, and he’s pretty much retired. He’s just here for the refreshments. I was hoping to see Joyce Barnhardt. Now, that would be something.” Grandma stared at the casket for a long moment. “Do you think they got him dressed up in there?” she asked. “What kind of tie do you suppose he’s wearing? I bet it’s hard to dress someone after they’ve been compacted. He probably looks like a waffle.” She sighed with longing. “I sure would like to take a look.”

I didn’t want to look. Not even a little. Like Morelli, I’d come here on the odd chance Barnhardt would show. Now that I’d made contact with her, I was anxious to leave.

“How long do you want to stay?” I asked Grandma. “Are you ready to go?”

“Maybe another ten minutes,” Grandma said. “I’m waiting to see if the widow Korda’s gonna cry.”

I thought chances of that were zero to nothing. The widow Korda was tight-lipped and dry-eyed, looking like she’d rather be home watching Cheers reruns. It was hard to see jewelry details from the third row, but it looked to me like she was wearing small gold hoop earrings and a simple gold necklace.

“I’m going to wander around,” I told Grandma. “I’ll meet you by the refreshments.”