“‘Well, looky here,’ he says, ‘it’s Grandma Mazur.’

“‘Yeah, and I know who you are, too,’ I said to him. ‘You’re that no-good Kenny Mancuso.’

“‘That’s right,’ he says. ‘And I’m gonna be your worst nightmare.’”

There was a pause, and I could hear her breathing, collecting herself.

“Mom said your hand was bandaged?” I asked, not wanting to push her but needing to know.

“Kenny stuck me. He took hold of my hand, and he stuck an ice pick into it,” Grandma said, her voice unnaturally shrill, her words thick with the pain of the experience.

I pushed the big bench seat all the way back and put my head between my knees.

“Hello,” Grandma said. “Are you still there?”

I took a deep breath. “So how are you now? Are you okay?”

“Sure I’m okay. They fixed me up good at the hospital. Gave me some of that Tylenol with codeine. You take some of that, and you could get run over by a truck and never feel a thing. And then on account of I was in a state, they gave me some relaxer pills.

“Doctors said I was lucky that the pick missed everything important. Just kind of slid between the bones and such. Went in real clean.”

More deep breathing. “What happened to Kenny?”

“Took off like the yellow-bellied dog that he is. Said he’d be coming back. That this was just the beginning.” Her voice broke. “Can you imagine?”

“Maybe it’d be best if you stay in the house for a while.”

“That’s what I think, too. I’m plain tired. I could use a cup of hot tea.”

My mother came back on the line. “What’s this world coming to?” she asked. “An old woman gets attacked in broad daylight, in her own neighborhood, coming out of a bakery!”

“I’m going to leave my cellular phone on. Keep Grandma in the house, and call me if anything else happens.”

“What else could happen? Isn’t this enough?”

I disconnected and plugged my cellular phone into the cigarette lighter. My heart was beating triple time, and my palms were slick with sweat. I told myself I had to think clearly, but my mind was clouded with emotion. I got out of the Buick and stood on the sidewalk, looking for Morelli. I waved my arms over my head in a here-I-am signal.

The cell phone chirped inside the Buick. It was Morelli, his voice laced with impatience or anxiety. Hard to tell which.

“What?” Morelli said.

I told him about Grandma Mazur and waited while the silence stretched taut between us. Finally there was an oath and a disgusted sigh. It had to be hard for him. Mancuso was family.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Is there anything I can do?”

“You can help me catch Mancuso.”

“We’ll catch him.”

What was left unsaid was the mutual fear that we wouldn’t catch him soon enough.

“You okay to follow the game plan?” Morelli asked.

“Until six. I’m going home for dinner tonight. I want to see Grandma Mazur.”