My mother’s eyes got wide. “Broke up? Why?”
I shrugged. “He dumped me.”
“What did you do?” my mother asked. “You must have done something.”
I made a show of looking at my watch. “Oh gosh, look at the time. I have to go. I was wondering if I could borrow Uncle Sandor’s car.”
“What happened to your car?” my mother asked.
“It’s having some problems.”
“Like what? Do you need new tires? A battery?”
“It got filled with geese,” I said. “It wasn’t my fault.”
No point trying to hide it. It was probably going to be on the evening news. At the very least I was sure it would make YouTube. Everyone in the parking lot had had their cellphones out, recording the fiasco.
My mother looked dazed. As if someone had just smacked her in the face with a frying pan. “Geese,” she murmured.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Lula let them out, and the geese were fine.”
“Dang it. I miss all the good stuff,” Grandma said.
I grabbed a couple more cookies, stood, and lifted my messenger bag onto my shoulder. “Gotta get back to work.”
Grandma got the Buick’s key out of the junk drawer and handed it to me. “I got bullets and an extra gun if you need it,” she whispered. “Don’t tell your mother.”
•••
I always felt like a failure when I drove Big Blue, because I only drove it when I had no other option. Big Blue represented rock bottom in the automotive department. Jay Leno would have thought it was ultra cool, but I just thought it was ultra hard to drive. And a ’53 Buick wasn’t in keeping with my self-image. Truth is, the Mercedes SUV wasn’t compatible with my self-image, either. I was more a bright yellow Jeep Wrangler, or maybe a zippy red Hyundai.
I eased the blue behemoth out of the garage and onto the road. I put it in gear, fed it gas, and the car oozed forward. It picked up speed and rolled along like a tank. I turned out of the Burg onto Hamilton Avenue and noticed a red light flashing in my rearview mirror. It was Morelli in his green SUV with a Kojak light stuck onto his roof. I pulled into the small Tasty Pastry parking lot, and he pulled in after me. I got out of the Buick and held my hands up.
“Funny,” he said. “Put your hands down before someone calls your mother and tells her you’ve been busted.”
“What’s up?”
“I saw you drive by, and I thought you would be interested in a ballistics report I just got back. The bullets extracted from Doug Linken and his partner, Harry Getz, are a match. They were fired from the same gun.”
“So we’ve got one shooter. Do you have the gun?”
“No.”
“Have you locked on to a motive?”
“The obvious is a disgruntled investor, but I’m having a hard time buying it.”
“There are the wives.”
“Do you think they’re capable of murder?” Morelli asked.
“I wouldn’t discount them, given the right circumstances.”
“I agree, but I’m not sold on them, either.”
“What are you sold on?”
“Nothing right now. The autopsy didn’t tell me anything interesting. I’m waiting on some crime scene lab reports. I’m telling you this because it’s my understanding that Ranger has been retained to provide security for the widow Linken. I’m assuming you’ll be part of that party.”