I took a couple fries from the box. She was right. They were great fries. We finished the fries, Lula broke the cheese burger in half, and we ate the cheeseburger. Then we each ate half of the apple pie.

“Would have been nice to have some nuggets,” Lula said.

“You’re a nut.”

“It’s not my fault. That was a bogus diet. I can’t go around eating plain-ass vegetables all day. I’ll get weak and die.”

“Wouldn’t want that to happen.”

“Hell no,” Lula said.

We went back to the car and I called Ranger. “Having any luck?” I asked him.

“I found someone who saw Singh with the dog the day after it disappeared. It looks like Singh ran as opposed to getting himself whacked. And you were right, he took the dog with him.”

“Any idea why he might want to disappear?”

“The future mother-in-law would do it for me.”

“Anything else?”

“No. Have you got something?”

“I have a guy who says he doesn’t know Singh, but I don’t believe him.” And I have horrific photos of a dead woman. Best to wait until I’m alone with Ranger to tell him about the horrific photos. Lula isn’t always great at keeping a secret and Morelli asked me not to share the details.

“Later,” Ranger said.

I called Connie next. “I need an address for a guy named Howie P. He works at the McDonald’s on Lincoln Avenue. See if you can get his address out of the manager.”

Five minutes later Connie got back to me with the address.

“This is the deal,” I said to Lula. “We’re going to check out Howie’s apartment. We are not going to break in. You accidentally smash a window or bust down a door, and I swear I’ll never take you on a case with me again.”

“Hunh,” Lula said. “When did I ever bust down a door?”

“Two days ago. And it was the wrong door.”

“I didn’t bust that door. I just tapped it open.”

HOWIE LIVED IN a hard times neighborhood a short distance from his job. He rented two rooms in a house that was originally designed to contain one family and now was home to seven. Paint peeled off the clapboard siding, and window ledges rotted in the sun. The small yard was hard-packed dirt, the perimeter marked by chain-link fencing. A fringe of weed clung to life at the base of the fence.

Lula and I stood in the dark, musty foyer and ran through the names on the mailboxes. Howie was 3B. Sonji Kluchari was 3A.

“Hey, I know her,” Lula said. “Back when I was a ho. She worked the corner across from me. If she’s living in three A you can bet there’s eight other people in there with her. She’s a scabby ol’ crackhead, doing whatever she has to so she can get her next fix.”

“How old is she?”

“She’s my age,” Lula said. “And I’m not saying how old I am, but it’s twenty-something.”