“Yeah. From the tire tracks on him I’d say he was killed at least three times. Did you see him run into the road?”
“I was coming out of the store and I bumped into him. He panicked and ran. I don’t think there was any way the cars could have avoided hitting him.” I gave an involuntary shudder at the memory. “He was FTA.”
“He was more than FTA,” Manny said. “I heard he was driving the Bogart ice cream truck with the frozen Bogart Bar guy inside. At least, he was driving it until you and your sidekick got hold of it.”
“I think he must have come across the truck abandoned, or maybe it was a spur-of-the-moment hijacking. He for sure wasn’t a Bogart employee. It’s unfortunate that he’s dead, because he would have been able to fill in some blanks on the murder.”
Manny cracked a smile. “Did you really total Gazarra’s squad car?”
“Lula misjudged the brakes on the truck.”
Manny gave a bark of laughter. “Life is good.” He cut his eyes back to the road. “Sometimes. Sometimes not so good.”
“Anything else?”
“No. I’ll send you an accident report to verify.”
“And I’ll need a body receipt so Vinnie can collect his bond.”
“I’ll leave it at the back desk,” Manny said. “Give me a day. This is going to be a lot of paperwork.”
TEN
IT WAS A little after six o’clock when I got home. Morelli and Bob were already in my apartment. The table was set for two, and the kitchen smelled like Morelli’s mother had been cooking in it.
“Have you been here long?” I asked him.
“Nope. Just got here. I’ve got my mom’s lasagna in the oven, and there’s bread from the bakery.”
I was so relieved I almost burst into tears. I wrapped my arms around Morelli and relaxed into him. He was warm and solid and comforting. Bob jumped off the couch and nosed his way in between us.
“Bad day?” Morelli asked.
“The worst. The ice cream plant people are really nice, but I’m all wrong for the job. And then after work I stopped at 7-Eleven and ran into Larry Virgil.”
“I heard,” Morelli said. “Eddie called me. He said you were shook up.”
“I saw him get hit. I can still hear the sound. It was horrible. And then a bunch of cars ran over him.”
Morelli wrapped his arms around me. “It’s not your fault.”
“That’s what Eddie said.”
“In the interest of mental health I’m suggesting you move on to something more positive . . . like sex or lasagna.”
“Lasagna!”
“I knew I shouldn’t have given you a choice.”
I went to the fridge, grabbed two bottles of beer, and gave one to Morelli. “Anything new on the Bogart Bar man?”
“The truck was stolen at nine o’clock Monday night. It’s unlikely the human resources man was on the truck at that time. And it’s unlikely that the crime was committed at the plant. Everything indicates the HR man was killed, frozen, and coated in chocolate off-site.”
“Could Virgil have been the killer?”
“Hard to believe. Probably Virgil happened on the truck and hijacked it. Thought it was his lucky day.”
“Someone went to a lot of trouble to make Arnold Zigler into a Bogart Bar.”
“Yeah. It showed motivation.”
Morelli pulled the lasagna out of the oven and brought it to the table. I poured dog kibble into a bowl for Bob, and brought over the bread and two more bottles of beer.
“Do you guys have any persons of interest?” I asked Morelli.
“No.” He looked across the table at me. “Do you?”
“No.”
Morelli served the lasagna, and we all dug in. Morelli’s mom was an amazing cook. My mom was good, but Morelli’s mom was a pro. Her lasagna noodles were always perfect. Her red sauce was a family secret. She used just the right amount of ricotta, mozzarella, and Italian sausage.
“This is fantastic,” I said to Morelli.
He smiled. “You always say that.”
“I wish I could cook like your mom.”
“You have other talents.”
I wasn’t going to pursue this. If I asked about my other talents we’d never finish dinner. We’d be in the bedroom. Don’t get me wrong. I like sex. I like it a lot. I just don’t like it as much as I like Morelli’s mom’s lasagna.
“Do you have any lab reports back?” I asked.
“It looks like the chocolate and nuts came from the Bogart plant. Time of death seems to be late Friday. DNA will take longer.”
“Prints?”
“Nothing on the body. The truck was covered with them, including yours. Lots of people come in contact with that truck during a normal business day.”
My phone buzzed with a text message from Ranger.
“I’m working the loading dock tomorrow,” I told Morelli. “I’m supposed to report to the foreman at eight o’clock. And I’m supposed to wear sensible shoes.”
“Walk me through the purpose for this job one more time,” Morelli said.
“Ranger’s been hired by Harry Bogart to improve his security. Bogart thinks someone is trying to sabotage his business. So Ranger hired me to go inside and look around.”
“And the Bogart Bar guy?”
“It’s not clear if the two problems are related.”
“Did you learn anything from your first day?”
I helped myself to another chunk of lasagna. “Nothing useful. It’s a pretty bland group. Not a lot of gossip. And I only came in contact with a few people. It sounds like Mo Morris runs a more employee-friendly plant, but no one seemed especially unhappy to be working for Bogart. This could be because Bogart doesn’t do drug testing. He’s got a bunch of mellow ladies working for him.”
“Do I need to send someone in there?”
“Probably not necessary. Ranger will straighten it out when he takes over security.”
“That’ll be popular.”
“Yeah, I imagine they’ll have some employee turnover.” I looked toward the kitchen. “Is there dessert?”
Morelli grinned.
“Not that!” I said. “I know there’s that. Jeez Louise, don’t you ever think of anything else?”
“It’s on my mind a lot,” Morelli said.
“Even when you’re working?”
“Not so much when I’m working. I’m a homicide cop. I almost never get a hard-on when I’m looking at a body filled with bullet holes.”
“So is there dessert?”
“Yeah. There’s ice cream.”
I collected the plates, took them into the kitchen, and went to the freezer. It was filled with Bogart Bars.
“Are you kidding me?” I said. “You got Bogart Bars?”
“They were on sale.”
ELEVEN
AT 7:45 A.M. I parked in the employee lot at the ice cream plant and found the employee entrance. It opened up onto a hall that led to the locker rooms. Because I was working on the loading dock I didn’t need to get suited up, so I left my messenger bag and lunch in a locker and went in search of my foreman.
I was directed to a wide hallway with polished concrete floors and harsh overhead lighting. Double doors to the freezer were at one end of the hall and double doors to the loading dock were at the other. I pushed through the loading dock doors and looked around, happy to be outside. It was a cloudless blue-sky day. Perfect for September. Warm in the sun and chilly in the shade. Hardly any stench from the chemical plant in the neighboring industrial park and only a slight haze of air pollution.
A young guy slouched against one wall, and an older man was talking on his phone. A refrigerator truck was backed up to the high concrete platform. It was a box truck about half the size of the eighteen-wheeler Lula and I commandeered. A much smaller ice cream truck decorated with pictures of Bogart Bars and Kidz Kups was parked by the ramp leading down from the platform. It was the beloved Jolly Bogart truck. It was one of the few ice cream trucks that still drove through neighborhoods, rain or shine, summer or winter, selling ice cream to kids and their moms.
The older man put his phone away and stood hands on hips, looking me over. He blew out a sigh and shook his head. Not happy.
“What the hell am I supposed to do with you?” he said.
I didn’t know the answer to that. “I assume you’re the foreman.”
“Yeah. Gus. And you’re what?”
“Stephanie.”