“I’m sure Fred will be grateful,” Connie said. “One more thing. Vinnie is flying into Newark with an FTA at eight o’clock, and he needs a ride. I can’t pick him up because I’m taking my mother to a baby shower at the firehouse. Can you get him? It’s not like we can put someone in shackles in an Uber car.”
“No problem. Text me the flight information.”
I called Morelli. “Oswald just blew up my car,” I said. “I wasn’t in it.”
Morelli went silent and I imagined him staring down at his shoe, trying to compose himself.
“Okay,” he finally said. “Is there more?”
“Yes. Diesel and I decided to check out Oswald’s rental house. We did a walk-through and saw signs that he’d recently used the house. We went outside and found the blue car in the garage. I had Connie check the plate. Turns out it’s stolen.”
“Good to know,” Morelli said. “I’ll send someone to collect it.”
“And that’s when we heard an explosion on Dugan Street, and it turned out to be my car,” I said. “We’re thinking it was Oswald.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
“No, but he can’t have gone too far. He’s probably on foot.”
“I hear sirens,” Morelli said.
“The second fire truck and an EMT truck just arrived.”
“I’m at my desk. Give me ten minutes to get to you.”
“Do you have the address?”
“Don’t need it. I’ll go to Dugan Street and follow the smell of burning rubber.”
I disconnected and blew out a sigh. There was a good possibility that my moons were not in alignment.
Diesel joined me. “There’s a Rangeman car in the alley, and two men who look like the Hulk in Rangeman clothes. The blue car is secure without me.”
“Connie ran the plate. The car’s stolen.”
“Not much of a surprise,” Diesel said.
“Morelli is on his way. I need to stay here to dispose of what’s left of my car, but you could wander around and look for Oswald.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
It was late afternoon by the time my car was towed and the last fire truck drove off. Morelli had been called away for a homicide on Stark Street, and Diesel had given up on the Oswald search. I waved at the Rangeman SUV, they drove over to me, and Diesel and I got in.
I gave them my parents’ address. Grandma’s brother had bequeathed his 1953 Buick to Grandma. It was a nightmare to drive but it was free and available to me when I needed it.
My mother was knitting when I stopped in to tell her I was borrowing the Buick.
“How long is your thing?” I asked.
“As of three o’clock this afternoon it was twenty-three feet long,” she said. “Are you staying for dinner?”
“No,” I said. “I have to pick Vinnie up at the airport.”
“I have leftover meat loaf.”
“I’ll take it,” I said.
My mom stopped knitting and packed a bag filled with leftovers. “Here’s something of everything,” she said. “There’s enough for two if Diesel is still with you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “He’s waiting outside. He had some phone calls to make.”
I backed the Buick out of the garage and Diesel hopped in.
“I feel like I’m in a Travolta movie,” he said. “We could make babies on this front seat.”
“You know nothing,” I said. “The backseat is the baby maker.”
I chugged home in the bulbous, baby blue and white gas guzzler and parked next to Diesel’s Bronco.
“I have to pick Vinnie up at the airport tonight,” I said. “Can I borrow your car?”
“Are you sure you want my car? It doesn’t have portholes in its hood like your car.”
“If I drive the Buick to Newark, I’ll have to stop six times for gas.”
I let us into my apartment and unpacked the food bag. Meat loaf, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, a couple of apples, an orange, a bunch of bananas, homemade chocolate chip cookies, a tub of vanilla ice cream.
“Your family never disappoints,” Diesel said. “They always rise to expectations.”
We fixed plates and ate in the kitchen.
“Vinnie comes in at eight o’clock, so I’m leaving here at six,” I said. “You never know what traffic is going to be like on the turnpike, and Vinnie isn’t going to want to sit around in the terminal with a guy in cuffs.”