“Any chance I’ll get my car back?”

“There’s always a chance.”

“I saw a TV show about stolen cars,” Grandma Mazur said. “It was on these chop shops that take cars apart. Probably by now there’s nothing left of that Jeep but a grease spot on some garage floor.”

Morelli opened the passenger-side door to his pickup and hoisted Grandma onto the seat. I scootched up beside her and told myself to think positive. Not all stolen cars ended up as spare parts, right? My car was so cute that probably someone couldn’t resist taking it for a short joyride. Think positive, Stephanie. Think positive.

Morelli made a U-turn and retraced back to the burg. We made a perfunctory stop at my parents’ house, only staying long enough to deposit Grandma Mazur in the Lay-Z-Boy rocker and reassure my mother that nothing terrible had happened to us on Stark Street … aside from having my car grand-thefted.

On the way out my mother handed me the traditional bag of food. “A little something for a snack,” she said. “Some spice cake.”

“I love spice cake,” Morelli told me when we were back in his truck, heading for my apartment.

“Forget it. You’re not getting any.”

“Of course I am,” Morelli said. “I went out of my way to help you tonight. The least you can do is give me some spice cake.”

“You don’t really want spice cake, anyway. You just want to come up to my apartment so you can find out about Perry Sandeman.”

“That’s not the only reason.”

“Sandeman wasn’t in a talky mood.”

Morelli stopped for a light. “Learn anything at all?”

“He hates cops. He hates me. I hate him. He lives in a walkup on Morton Street, and he’s a mean drunk.”

“How do you know about him being a mean drunk?”

“Went to his home address and talked to one of his neighbors.”

Morelli slid a glance at me. “That was pretty ballsy.”

“It was nothing,” I said, making the most of the lie. “All in a day’s work.”

“I hope you had the sense not to give out your name. Sandeman won’t be happy to find you snooping around his crib.”

“I think I might have left my card.” No need to tell him about getting caught on the fire escape. Wouldn’t want to weigh him down with unnecessary details.

Morelli gave me a boy, are you stupid or what look. “I understand they have positions available for makeover ladies at Macy’s.”

“Don’t start with that makeover stuff again. So I made a mistake.”

“Cookie, you’re making a career out of making mistakes.”

“It’s my style. And don’t call me Cookie.”

Some people learn from books, some listen to the advice of others, some learn from mistakes. I fit into the last category. So sue me. At least I rarely made the same mistake twice … with the possible exception of Morelli. Morelli had this habit of periodically screwing up my life. And I had a habit of letting him do it.