My mother gave me a bag of cookies. “I’ll make cream puffs tomorrow. I haven’t made cream puffs in a long time.”

When we got outside I stood straight and tall and looked Morelli square in the eye. “You are not coming to dinner.”

“Sure,” Morelli said.

“What about the phone call?”

“Braddock had a shitload of surplus caskets. The DRMO conducted a sale six months ago. That was two months before Kenny was discharged. Stiva’s Mortuary bought twenty-four. The caskets were stored in the same general area as the munitions, but we’re talking about a lot of ground. A couple warehouses and an acre or two of open yard, all behind fence.”

“Of course the fence was no problem for Kenny, because he worked in the compound.”

“Yep. And when bids were accepted the caskets were marked for pickup. So Kenny knew which caskets were assigned to Spiro.” Morelli snitched a cookie from my bag. “My uncle Vito would have been proud.”

“Vito stole a few caskets in his day?”

“Mostly Vito filled caskets. Hijacking was a sideline.”

“So you think it’s possible Kenny used the caskets to smuggle the guns off the base?”

“Seems risky and unnecessarily melodramatic, but yeah, I think it’s possible.”

“Okay, so Spiro, Kenny, and probably Moogey maybe stole all this stuff from Braddock, and stored it at R and J. Then all of a sudden the stuff is missing. Someone pulled a double cross, and we know it wasn’t Spiro because Spiro hired me to find the caskets.”

“Doesn’t seem like it was Kenny either,” Morelli said. “When he said Spiro had something that belonged to him, my guess is he was talking about the stolen guns.”

“So who does that leave? Moogey?”

“Dead men don’t set up late-night sales meetings with the Long brothers.”

I didn’t want to run over the jagged remnants of Morelli’s taillight, so I picked the major pieces out of the gutter, and for lack of something better to do with them, handed the chunks of plastic to Morelli. “Probably you’re insured for this,” I said.

Morelli looked pained.

“Are you still following me?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Then watch out for my tires when I go into Stiva’s.”

Stiva’s little side lot was totally filled with the matinee crowd, forcing me to park on the street. I got out of the Buick and tried to be cool about looking for Morelli. I couldn’t find him, but I knew he was close because my stomach felt hot and squishy.

Spiro was in the lobby doing his best impersonation of God directing traffic.

“How’s it going?” I said.

“Busy. Joe Loosey came in last night. Aneurysm. And Stan Radiewski is here. He was an Elk. The Elks always get a big turnout.”

“I have some good news and some bad news,” I said. “The good news is … I think I found your caskets.”

“And the bad news?”

I took the blackened clasp out of my pocket. “The bad news is … this is all that’s left.”