I walked around for a couple minutes on shaky legs. I was feeling really crappy, but I didn’t want to broadcast it. I didn’t want to overnight in the hospital. They take your clothes away and hide them and make you sleep in one of those cotton gowns that your ass hangs out of. “Jeez,” I said. “What was I shot with, an elephant gun?”

Morelli had the dart in a plastic evidence bag in his pocket. He held the bag out for me to see. “Looks to me to be more large dog size.”

“Oh great. I was shot with a dog dart. That doesn’t even make good bar conversation.”

Morelli eased me into his truck. “We’ll leave your car here. I don’t think we want to put you behind the wheel yet.”

I wasn’t going to argue. I was developing a monster headache.

There was a single red rose on the dash. A square white card in a plastic evidence bag had been placed beside the rose.

Morelli gestured at the rose. “That was left on your windshield.” He reached across and took the card and turned it so I could read the message. You should be more careful. If you make it too easy, the fun will be gone.

“This is creepy,” I said. “This is definitely psycho.”

“It started right after you became involved with Singh,” Morelli said.

“Do you think it’s Bart Cone?”

“He’d be on the list, but I’m not convinced he’s the one. I can’t see him leaving roses. Bart Cone doesn’t strike me as a man who has a flare for the dramatic.”

I wanted it to be Bart Cone. He was an easy mark. I had a fantasy scenario going in my head. Stephanie and Lula break into Bart’s home, find the tranquilizer gun stashed beside the gun that killed Howie, and call the police. The police immediately arrest Bart. And Stephanie lives happily ever after. Needless to say, the fantasy scenario didn’t include Stephanie doing time for illegal entry. “This has moved way beyond my comfort zone,” I said to Morelli. “If I wasn’t shot full of tranquilizer you’d be seeing some first-rate hysteria.”

Morelli left-turned out of the lot. “What were you doing here, anyway?”

“I was returning to my apartment because you liked looking at Gilman in her thong.”

“Shit,” Morelli said. “You’re such a girl.”

I closed my eyes and rested my head on the seat back. “You’re lucky I’m drugged.”

“Did you notice anything unusual when you parked? A strange car? A paranoid schizophrenic lurking in the shadows?”

“Nothing. I wasn’t looking. I was making the most of my indignation.”

By the time we reached Morelli’s house the sun was low in the sky and the night insects were singing. I looked down the street, more from comfort than fear. Hard to believe anything bad could happen on Morelli’s street. Mrs. Brodsky was sitting on her porch and Aunt Rose’s second-story curtains, filmy behind the glass, floated like a protective charm. Morelli’s neighborhood felt benign. Of course, none of that stopped Morelli from doing his cop thing. He’d been checking his tail all the way over, making sure we weren’t followed. He parked and helped me out of the truck, hustling me into the house, partially shielding me with his body.