Free Two for the Dough by Janet Evanovich Page A

car.”
    “I thought we were partners.”
    Yeah, right. I put the Jeep into reverse and K-turned. I parked at the office and swung out of the Jeep, with Morelli following close on my heels.
    I stopped and turned, facing him, hand to his chest to keep him at arm’s length. “Halt. This is not a group project.”
    “I could be helpful,” Morelli said. “I could lend authority and credibility to your questions.”
    “Why would you want to do that?”
    “I’m a nice guy.”
    I felt my fingers begin to clutch at his shirt and made an effort to relax. “Try again.”
    “Kenny, Moogey, and Spiro were practically joined at the hip in high school. Moogey’s dead. I’ve got a feeling Julia, the girlfriend, is out of the picture. Maybe Kenny’s turned to Spiro.”
    “And I’m working for Spiro, and you’re not sure you believe the coffin story.”
    “I don’t know what to think of the coffin story. You have any more information on these coffins? Where they were originally purchased? What they look like?”
    “They’re made of wood. About six foot long …”
    “If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a wise-ass bounty hunter.”
    I showed him the picture.
    “You’re right,” he said. “They’re made of wood, and they’re about six foot long.”
    “And they’re ugly.”
    “Yeah.”
    “And very plain,” I added.
    “Grandma Mazur wouldn’t be caught dead in one of these,” Morelli said.
    “Not everyone is as discerning as Grandma Mazur. I’m sure Stiva keeps a wide range of caskets on hand.”
    “You should let me question the manager,” Morelli said. “I’m better at this than you are.”
    “That does it. Go sit in the car.”
    In spite of all the sparring that went on between us, I sort of liked Morelli. Good judgment told me to stand clear of him, but then I’ve never been a slave to good judgment. I liked his dedication to the job, and the way he’d risen above his wild teen years. He’d been a street-smart kid, and now he was a street-smart cop. True, he was sort of a chauvinist, but it wasn’t entirely his fault. After all, he was from New Jersey, and on top of that he was a Morelli. All things considered, I thought he was coping pretty well.
    The office consisted of a small room divided in half by a service counter. A woman wearing a white T-shirt sporting a blue R and J Storage logo stood behind the counter. She was in her late forties—early fifties, with a pleasant face and a body that had comfortably gone to plump. She gave me a perfunctory nod before focusing on Morelli, who had paid no attention to my order and was standing close behind me.
    Morelli was wearing washed-out jeans that had suggestively molded to an impressive package in front and the state’s best buns in back. His brown leather jacket hid only his gun. The R and J lady swallowed visibly and dragged her eyes upward from Morelli’s crotch.
    I told her I was checking on some stored items for a friend of mine and that I was concerned with security.
    “Who was this friend?” she asked.
    “Spiro Stiva.”
    “No offense,” she said, fighting back a grimace, “but he’s got that locker filled with coffins. He said they were empty, but I don’t care. I wouldn’t come within fifty feet of that place. And I don’t think you have to worry about security. Who on earth would steal a coffin?”
    “How do you know he has coffins in there?”
    “Saw them come in. He had so many they had to come in a semi and get off loaded with a forklift.”
    “Do you work here full-time?” I asked.
    “I work here all the time,” she said. “My husband and I own it. I’m the R in the R and J. Roberta.”
    “You have any other big trucks come in here in the last couple of months?”
    “A few real big U-Hauls. Is there a problem?”
    Spiro had sworn me to secrecy, but I didn’t see any way I could get the information I needed without bringing Roberta into the investigation. Besides, she undoubtedly had a master key, and coffins