“Sort of. I can’t tell you the details.”

“Don’t worry about me. My mouth is zipped and locked.”

I had a fleeting view of Ducky’s casket and even from this distance I knew his family had spared no expense. I knew I should look into it further, but I was tired of doing the bogus pricing out a funeral routine. “I’ve seen enough,” I told Grandma. “I think it’s time to go home.”

“Fine by me. I could use to get these shoes off. This manhunting stuff takes it out of a body.”

We swung through the front door and stood squinting under the overhead light.

“That’s funny,” Grandma said. “I could have swore we parked the car here.”

I heaved a sigh. “We did park the car here.”

“It isn’t here anymore.”

It sure as hell wasn’t. The car was gone, gone, gone. I pulled my phone out of my pocketbook and called Morelli. There was no answer at his home number, so I tried his car phone.

There was a short crackle of static and Morelli came on.

“It’s Stephanie,” I said. “I’m at The House of Eternal Slumber on Stark Street and my car’s been stolen.”

There was no immediate response, but I thought I heard some muffled laughter. “Have you called it in?” he finally asked.

“I’m calling it in to you.”

“I’m honored.”

“Grandma Mazur is with me, and her feet hurt.”

“Ten-four, Keemo Sabe.”

I dropped my phone back into my pocketbook. “Morelli’s on his way.”

“Nice of him to come get us.”

At the risk of sounding cynical, I suspected Morelli had been camped out in my parking lot, waiting for me to come home so he could get briefed on Perry Sandeman.

Grandma Mazur and I huddled close to the door, ever on the alert should my car cruise by. It was an uneventful, tedious wait, and Grandma seemed disappointed not to have been approached by drug dealers or pimps looking for fresh blood.

“Don’t know what all the to-do is about,” she said. “Here it is a perfectly good night, and we haven’t seen any crime. Stark Street isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.”

“Some slimeball stole my car!”

“That’s true. I guess this evening wasn’t a complete bust. Still, I didn’t see it happen. It just isn’t the same if you don’t see it happen.”

Morelli’s truck turned at the corner and made its way up Stark Street. He double-parked, set his flasher, and sauntered around to us. “What happened?”

“The Jeep was parked and locked in this empty space here. We were in the funeral home for less than ten minutes. When we came out, the Jeep was gone.”

“Any witnesses?”

“None that I know of. I didn’t canvass the neighborhood.” If there was one thing I’d learned in my short career as a bounty hunter, it was that no one saw anything on Stark Street. Asking questions was an exercise in futility.

“I had the dispatcher notify all cars as soon as I got your call,” Morelli said. “You should come down to the station tomorrow and fill out a report.”