“What about Spiro?”

“Wasn’t ready to give me a confession.” He flipped the light off. “You should go home and take a shower and get dressed for dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“Pot roast at six.”

“You aren’t serious.”

The grin was back. “I’ll pick you up at quarter to six.”

“No! I’ll drive myself.”

Morelli was wearing a brown leather bomber jacket and a red wool scarf. He took the scarf off and wrapped it around my neck. “You look frozen,” he said. “Go home and warm up.” Then he sauntered off to the motel office.

It was still drizzling. The sky was gunmetal gray, and my mood was equally grim. I’d had a good line on Kenny Mancuso, and I’d blown it. I smacked the heel of my hand against my forehead. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I’d sat out there in this big dumb Buick. What was I thinking?

The motel was twelve miles from my apartment building, and I berated myself all the way home. I made a quick stop at the supermarket, fed Big Blue more gas, and by the time I pulled into my lot, I was thoroughly disgusted and demoralized. I’d had three chances to nail Kenny: at Julia’s house, at the mall, and now at the motel, and I’d screwed up every time.

Probably at this stage in my career I should stick to the low-level criminals, like shoplifters and drunk drivers. Unfortunately, the payout on those criminals wasn’t sufficient to keep me afloat.

I did more self-flagellation while I rode the elevator and made my way down the hall. A sticky note from Dillon was taped to my door. Got a package for you, the note said.

I went back to the elevator and hit the button for basement. The elevator opened to a small vestibule with four closed, locked doors freshly painted battleship gray. One door led to storage cages for the use of the residents, the second door opened into the boiler room with its ominous rumblings and gurglings, the third door gave way to a long corridor and rooms dedicated to building maintenance, and Dillon lived in rent-free contentment behind the fourth door.

I always felt claustrophobic when I came down here, but Dillon said that it suited him fine and that he found the boiler noises soothing. He’d stuck a note to his door, saying that he’d be home at five.

I returned to my apartment, gave Rex some raisins and a corn chip, and took a long, hot shower. I staggered out red as a boiled lobster and foggy-brained from the chlorine gas. I flopped on the bed and contemplated my future. It was a short contemplation. When I woke up it was quarter to six, and someone was pounding on my door.

I wrapped myself in a robe and padded into the foyer. I put my eye to the peephole. It was Joe Morelli. I cracked the door and looked at him over the security chain. “I just got out of the shower.”