"He's a hard man."

"Tell me about it," Silvio said. "He scares the crap out of me."

I took a turkey sandwich and a bottle of water and returned to my cubicle. Hal, Woody, and Vince were watching their screens. Silvio went off to clean out his locker. So I was now officially Miz Computer Wiz. Three requests for security searches were sitting in my in-box. Mental note. Never leave cubby. Work appears when cubby is left unattended. I looked at the name requesting the search requests. Frederick Rodriguez. Didn't know him. Didn't see him out and about in the control room. There was another floor of offices. I guessed Frederick Rodriguez was in one of those offices.

I called my mom on my new cell phone and gave her the number. I could hear my grandmother yelling in the background.

"Is that Stephanie?" Grandma Mazur hollered. "Tell her the Macaroni funeral is tomorrow morning, and I need a ride."

"You're not going to the funeral," my mother said to Grandma Mazur.

"It's gonna be the big event of the year," Grandma said. "I have to go."

"Joseph let you see the mole before he gave it over to the police," my mother said. "You're going to have to be satisfied with that." My mother's attention swung back to me. "If you take her to that funeral there's no more pineapple upside-down cake for the rest of your life."

I disconnected from my mother, ate my sandwich, and ran the first name. It was close to three by the time I was done running the second name. I set the third request aside and paged through the Gorman file. Then I did as Ranger suggested and ran Gorman through all the searches again. I called Morelli to make sure he was okay and to tell him I might be late. There was a stretch of silence while he wrestled with trust, and then he put in a request for a six-pack of Bud and two chili dogs.

"And by the way," Morelli said. "The lab guy called and told me the mole was made out of mortician's putty."

"Don't tell Grandma," I said. "It'll ruin everything for her."

CHAPTER TEN

I PRINTED THE Gorman search, and then I searched Louis Lazar. Both men yielded volumes of information. Date of birth, medical history, history of employment, military history, credit history, history of residence, class standings through high school. Neither man attended college. Personal history included photos, wives, kids, assorted relatives.

I printed Lazar and moved to Michael Barroni. Most of this information I already knew. Some was new and felt embarrassingly intrusive. His wife had miscarried two children. He'd gotten psychiatric counseling a year ago for anxiety. He'd had a hernia operation when he was thirty-six. He'd been asked to repeat the third grade.

I'd just started a credit check on Barroni when my cell rang.

"I'm hungry," Morelli said. "It's seven o'clock. When are you coming home?"

"Sorry. I lost track of the time."

"Bob is standing by the door."

"Okay! I'll be right there."

I put the Barroni search on hold and dropped the Lazar file and the Gorman file into my top desk drawer. I grabbed my bag and my jacket and dashed out of my cubby. There was an entirely new crew in the control room. Ranger ran the control room in eight-hour shifts around the clock. A guy named Ram was at one of the monitor banks. Two other men were at large.

I crossed the room at a run, barreled through the door to take the stairs, and crashed into Ranger. We lost balance and rolled tangled together to the fourth-floor landing. We lay there for a moment, stunned and breathless. Ranger was flat on his back, and I was on top of him.

"Oh my God," I said. "I'm so sorry! Are you okay?"

"Yeah, but next time it's my turn to have the top."

The door opened above us and Ram stuck his head out. "I heard a crash... oh, excuse me," he said. And he pulled his head back and closed the door.

"I wish this was as bad as it looks," Ranger said. He got to his feet, scooping me up with him. He held me at arm's length and looked me over. "You're a wreck. Did I do all this damage?"

I had some scratches on my arm, the knee had gotten torn on my jeans, and there was a rip in my T-shirt. Ranger was perfect. Ranger was like Big Blue. Nothing ever touched Ranger.

"Don't worry about it," I said. "I'm fine. I'm late. Gotta go." And I took off, down the rest of the stairs and out the door to the garage.

I crossed town and stopped at Mike the Greek's deli for the hot dogs and beer. Five minutes later, I had the SUV locked up in Morelli's garage. I took his back porch steps two at a time, opened the back door, and Bob rushed past me and tinkled in the middle of Morelli's backyard.

The instant the last drop hit grass, Bob bolted off into the night. I rustled the hot dog bag, pulled out a hot dog, and waved it in Bob's direction. I heard Bob stop galloping two houses down, there was a moment of silence, and then Bob came thundering back. Bob can smell a hot dog a mile away.

I lured him into the house with the hot dog and locked up. Morelli was still on the couch with his foot on the coffee table. The room was trashed around him. Empty soda cans, newspapers, a crumpled fast-food bag, a half-empty potato chip bag, an empty doughnut box, a sock (probably Bob ate the mate), assorted sports and girlie magazines.

"This room is a Dumpster," I said to him. "Where'd all this stuff come from?"

"Some of the guys visited me."

I doled out the hot dogs. Two to Morelli, two to Bob, two to me. Morelli and I got a Bud. Bob got a bowl of water. I kicked through the clutter, brushed potato chip crumbs off a chair, and sat down. "You need to clean up."

"I can't clean up. I'm supposed to stay off my leg."

"You weren't worrying about your leg last night."

"That was different. That was an emergency. And anyway, I wasn't on my leg. I was on my back. And what's with the scratches on your arm and the torn clothes?

What the hell were you doing? I thought you were supposed to be working in the office."

"I fell down the stairs."

"At Rangeman?"

"Yep. Do you want another beer? Ice cream?"

"I want to know how you managed to fall down the stairs."

"I was rushing to leave, and I sort of crashed into Ranger, and we fell down the stairs."

Morelli stared at me with his unreadable cop face. I was ready for him to morph into the jealous Italian boyfriend with a lot of arm flapping and yelling, but he gave his head a small shake and took another pull on his Bud. "Poor dumb bastard," he said. "I hope he's got insurance on that building."

I was pretty sure I'd just been insulted, but I thought it was best to let it slide.

Morelli leaned back into the couch and smiled at me. "And before I forget, your cello is in the front hall."

"My cello?"

"Yeah, every great cello player needs a cello, right?"

I ran to the hall and gaped at the big bulbous black case leaning against the wall. I dragged the case into the living room and opened it. There was a large violin sort of thing in it. I supposed it was a cello.

"How did this get here?" I asked Morelli.

"Your mother rented it for you. She said you gave yours away, and she knew how much you were looking forward to playing at Valerie's wedding, so she rented a cello for you. I swear to God, those were her exact words."

I guess the panic showed on my face because Morelli stopped smiling.

"Maybe you should fill me in on your musical accomplishments," Morelli said.

I plunked down on the couch beside him. "I don't have any musical accomplishments. I don't have any accomplishments of any kind. I'm stupid and boring.

I don't have any hobbies. I don't play sports. I don't write poetry. I don't travel to interesting places. I don't even have a good job."

"That doesn't make you stupid and boring," Morelli said.

"Well, I feel stupid and boring. And I wanted to feel interesting. And somehow, someone told my mother and grandmother that I played the cello. I guess it was me... only it was like some foreign entity took possession of my body. I heard the words coming out of my mouth, but I'm sure they originated in some other brain. And it was so simple at first. One small mention. And then it took on a life of its own. And next thing, everyone knew."

"And you can't play the cello."

"I'm not even sure this is a cello."

Morelli went back to smiling. "And you think you're boring? No way, Cupcake."

"What about the stupid part?"

Morelli threw his arm around me. "Sometimes that's a tough call."

"My mother expects me to play at Valerie's wedding."

"You can fake it," Morelli said. "How hard can it be? You just make a couple passes with the bow and then you faint or pretend you broke your finger or something."

"That might work," I said. "I'm good at faking it."

This led to a couple moments of uncomfortable silence from both of us.

"You didn't mean... ?" Morelli asked.

"No. Of course not."

"Never?"

"Maybe once."

His eyes narrowed. "Once?"

"It's all that comes to mind. It was the time we were late for your Uncle Spud's birthday party."

"I remember that. That was great. You're telling me you faked it?"

"We were late! I couldn't concentrate. It seemed like the best way to go."

Morelli took his arm away and started flipping through channels with the remote.

"You're mad," I said.

"I'm working on it. Don't push me."

I got up and closed the cello case and kicked it to the side of the room. "Men!"

"At least we don't fake it."

"Listen, it was your uncle. And we were late, remember? So I made the sacrifice and got us there in time for dessert. You should be thanking me."

Morelli's mouth was open slightly and his face was registering a mixture of astonished disbelief and wounded, pissed-off male pride.

Okay, it wasn't that much of a sacrifice at the time, and I knew he shouldn't be thanking me, but give me a break here... this wasn't famine in Ethiopia.

And it wasn't as if I hadn't tried to have an orgasm. And it wasn't as if we didn't fib to each other from time to time.

"I should be thanking you," Morelli repeated, sounding like he was making a gigantic but futile effort to understand the female mind.

"All right, I'll concede the thanking thing. How about if you're just happy I got you to the party in time for dessert?"

Morelli cut me a sideways look. He wasn't having any of it. He returned his attention to the television and settled on a ball game.

This is the reason I live with a hamster, I thought.

Morelli was still on the couch watching television when I went downstairs to take Bob for his morning walk. I was wearing sweats that I'd found in Morelli's dresser, and I'd borrowed his Mets hat. I clipped the leash on Bob, and Morelli glanced over at me. "What's with the clothes? Trying to fake being me?"

"Get a grip," I said to Morelli.

Bob was dancing around, looking desperate, so I hurried him out the front door. He took a big tinkle on Morelli's sidewalk and then he got all smiley and ready to walk. I like walking Bob at night when it's dark and no one can see where he poops. At night Bob and I are the phantom poopers, leaving it where it falls. By day, I have to carry plastic pooper bags. I don't actually mind scooping the poop. It's carrying it around for the rest of the walk that I hate. It's hard to look hot when you're carrying a bag of dog poop.

I walked Bob for almost an hour. We returned to the house. I fed Bob. I made coffee. I brought Morelli coffee, juice, his paper, and a bowl of raisin bran.

I ran upstairs, took a shower, did some makeup and hair magic, got dressed in my black clothes, and came downstairs ready for work.

"Is there anything you need before I leave?" I asked Morelli.

Morelli gave me a full body scan. "Dressing sexy for Ranger?"

I was wearing black jeans, black Chucks, and a stretchy V-neck black T-shirt that didn't show any cleavage. "Is that sarcasm?" I asked.

"No. It's an observation."

"This is not sexy."