“Excuse me?”
“This one moron had a giant meat cleaver. And the other moron had a hold of this man in a suit. And whack! No head. The head popped off its neck and bounced down the street.”
“And then what happened?” Connie said.
“Then they saw me,” Lula said. “They looked real surprised. And I know I looked real surprised. And then I laid down about two feet of rubber and took off.”
“Do you know who they were?”
“No.”
“Did you know the guy in the suit?”
“No, but it was a real nice suit. And he had a nice striped tie, too.”
“Did you go to the police?” Connie asked.
“No. I came straight here. It’s not like the police were gonna put Humpty Dumpty back together again,” Lula said. “Didn’t seem like there was a big rush, and I needed a doughnut. Holy cow. Holy shit. I really need a doughnut.”
“You need to call the police,” Connie told Lula.
“I hate the police. They give me the willies. Except for Stephanie’s Morelli. He’s a hottie.”
Joe Morelli is a Trenton plainclothes cop, and Lula is right about Morelli being a hottie, but Lula is wrong about Morelli belonging to me. Morelli and I have had an off-and-on relationship for as long as I can remember, and we are currently off. Two weeks ago, we had a disagreement over peanut butter that turned into a disagreement over everything under the sun, and we haven’t seen each other since.
Connie dialed into the police band, and we listened for a couple minutes to see if we could pick up anything to do with decapitation.
“Where did this happen?” Connie asked.
“The three hundred block of Ramsey Street. It was right in front of the Sunshine Hotel.”
The Sunshine Hotel is a roach farm that rents rooms by the hour. No one coming or going from the Sunshine Hotel would ever report anything to anyone.
“I seen lots of stuff,” Lula said, “but this was disgustin’. Blood shot out like one of them oil gushers. And when the head hit the ground, I swear the eyes were lookin’ at me. I guess I need to tell the police, but I only want Morelli.” Lula fixed on me. “You gotta call Morelli.”