Notorious Nineteen

ran into the street and joined the men who were standing, staring down at Barrel. Barrel wasn’t moving, and he had tire tracks across his chest.
    “That’s Melvin Barrel,” the driver said.
    The other guy squatted down for a closer look. “Yep. It’s Barrel all right.”
    “Is he okay?” Lula asked.
    “Looks to me like he’s dead,” the guy said.
    “The idiot walked right in front of my car,” the driver said. “Who does that?”
    “He was texting,” Lula said.
    “Well, he’s not texting no more,” the driver said. He pulled out a gun and shot Barrel five times. “That’s for hitting my car, asshole.”
    Lula and I sucked in some air and stumbled back about ten feet. And the two guys got into the Mercedes and drove away.
    I punched 911 into my cellphone with a shaky finger and reported the accident. I called Morelli and reported the accident. And then Lula and I stood guard over the body so it didn’t get scooped up by God-knows-who like the last time we were on Stark. On a personal level, I didn’t actually care what happened to Barrel. As a professional, if the body disappeared my payday went with it. And as a woman, I was slightly nauseous.
    A patrol car was the first on the scene. It was followed by the EMT truck, Morelli, and two more cop cars.
    Morelli parked and sauntered over to me. “Your FTA has tire tracks on his chest.”
    I made a small grimace. “Two guys in a Mercedes drove over him.”
    “Technically it wasn’t a hit-and-run, though,” Lula told Morelli. “They stopped, but they just didn’t stay. They only stayed long enough to shoot him.”
    “He got run over by the Mercedes, and then he got shot?” Morelli asked.
    “That’s right,” Lula said. “But it was recreational shooting. Barrel was already dead from being run over.”
    One of the uniforms was cordoning off the area with yellow crime scene tape. The two EMTs were shuffling around, waiting for the medical examiner to show up and take over. A small crowd was gathering, gawking at Barrel.
    Morelli turned his attention to me. “You do understand that your life isn’t normal, right?”
    “Barrel was texting and he stepped off a curb without looking,” I said.
    “But you were here,” Morelli said. “How does it happen that you’re always right in the precise spot where disaster strikes? Your car’s been blown up how many times? And it’s never your fault. Remember when you fell off the fire escape into dog diarrhea? And the time you dated a serial killer?”
    “I liked that serial killer,” Lula said. “He could make a damn good pork chop.”
    “Is there a point to this?” I asked Morelli.
    “No,” he said. “I’m venting. It scares the crap out of me that I’m in love with you.”
    “Aw, that’s sweet,” Lula said.
    I thought so too. It was kind of a backhanded admission, but it made my heart get fluttery. The sight of Barrel lying on the ground oozing body fluids snapped me back to the moment. I took my phone out of my bag. “You don’t mind if I take a picture of this guy with my cellphone, do you? I need to prove he’s dead.”
    “Knock yourself out,” Morelli said. “Last time an FTA of yours went dead you asked the EMTs to drive him to the courthouse.”
    “There’s a lot of paperwork when the FTA is dead,” I said. “It’s easier when you can have him show up in court.”
    I took my pictures and gave Morelli a detailed description of the Mercedes driver. The medical examiner was on the scene, and the crime scene photographer was at work. Lula was looking like she was ready to break out in hives.
    “I’m moving on,” I said to Morelli. “Things to do. Will I see you tonight?”
    “Dinner at seven. My house. I’ll get Chinese.”

NINE
    LULA AND I climbed into the Buick, I rolled the engine over and pulled into traffic.
    “I almost forgot about Tiki back there,” Lula said. “You don’t suppose he really talks, do you?” She swiveled in her seat. “Hey, Tiki, how’s it goin’?”
    I stopped for a light and glanced at Lula. “Well? Is he saying anything to you?”
    “No, but I think he might be smiling. Hold on here. Something’s coming through. He’s telling me it’s lunchtime and he wants a bucket of chicken.”
    “Tiki said that?”
    “Well, someone said it. It was in my head.”
    “It might have been you thinking it.”
    “Yeah, but I’m pretty sure it had a Hawaiian accent.”
    Cluck-in-a-Bucket was all the way across town. I took Broad to