There was a rustling sound behind the couch, and a six-foot alligator padded out, focused on Lula, and lunged.

“Yow!” Lula said, stumbling back, knocking into me. “Help! Watch out. Get outta my way!”

I was across the room like a shot with Lula on my heels, pushing me through the door, slamming the door behind us.

“I think I wet myself,” Lula said. “Do I look like I wet myself?”

I was beyond noticing if she wet herself. I had my hand over my heart, and my mouth open sucking air, and my heart was knocking around so hard in my chest my vision was blurred.

“I think we’re done here,” I said to Lula.

“Fuckin’ A,” Lula said. “Don’t forget to put the key back, or Chopper won’t be able to get in to feed Mr. Jingles if he locks himself out.”

I returned the key to its hiding place, and the gator slammed against the door on the inside of Chopper’s apartment and Lula and I flew down the stairs, missing a couple, both of us sliding halfway on our asses. We got to our feet, the gator banged against the door again, and Lula and I ran screaming for the Jeep.

Ten minutes later, I parked behind Lula’s Firebird in front of the bonds office.

“I guess that’s why Chopper doesn’t need an alarm system,” I said, finally finding my voice.

“What kind of man keeps a alligator in his house? That’s just wrong. Where does he poop? You ever think of that? And he got a lot of nerve naming him something cute like Mr. Jingles. That’s a deceptive name. And it was all your fault anyway, because you left your bottle home.”

My phone rang, and I picked it up to Morelli.

“I need to talk to you,” Morelli said. “I caught the McCuddle fiasco. I’m sure the autopsy will show natural causes, but I need you to fill out some paperwork. If you meet me at Pino’s in ten minutes, I’ll buy you lunch.”

“Deal.”

“What was that about?” Lula asked.

“Lunch with Morelli. He got assigned to McCuddle, and he’s got my paperwork.”

PINO’S SERVES ITALIAN food Burg-style. Greasy pizza you have to fold to eat, meatball subs, sausage sandwiches, spaghetti with red sauce, worthless uninteresting salad with iceberg lettuce and pale tomatoes, Bud on tap, and red table wine. It has a dark, carved, mahogany bar and a side room with tables for families and couples who don’t want to watch hockey on the television hanging over the liquor collection.

Morelli was waiting for me at a table, choosing not to be distracted by ESPN recaps on the bar television. He had a Coke in front of him and a breadbasket.

I ordered a chicken Parmesan sandwich and a Coke, and Morelli ordered a sausage sandwich. When the waitress left, Morelli handed me a stack of papers.

“I don’t need these in a rush,” he said, “but I know you have to hand them in to get your capture fee.”

I shoved the papers into my messenger bag. “It was a shock to find McCurdle dead like that.”

“Yeah, but he actually looked kind of happy.”

“He liked being married.”

Morelli smiled. “He liked being married too much.”

“I have a hypothetical question for you. If Bobby Sunflower was mixed up with someone more scary than him, who would it be?”

“A couple people come to mind. Can you be more specific?”

“Suppose Vinnie was also mixed up in it.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down a lot. Vinnie was into a lot of illegal stuff. Prostitution, gambling, recreational drugs. In his defense, I have to say to my knowledge he always only bought and never sold.”

“Let’s narrow it down to gambling.”

“That’s tough. I’d think Sunflower kept that to himself.” Morelli picked a breadstick out of the basket. “I’m guessing this isn’t all that hypothetical. Do you want to tell me about it?”

“You’d have police issues.”

Morelli leaned back in his chair and locked eyes with me. Serious. “If you were in danger, I’d expect you to tell me.”

“I’m okay. Aside from an alligator encounter this morning, everything’s under control.”

“Were you at the zoo?”

“ Cotter Street.”

“I imagine you’re talking about Chopper’s alligator. How big is he now?”

“Has to be six foot.”

“I’ve never seen him, but I’ve heard stories.”

I buttered a piece of bread. “He’s prehistoric. Scared the bejeezus out of me. He came out from behind Chopper’s couch and snapped at Lula. Lula and I took off and fell halfway down the stairs, and then screamed all the way to the car. Now that I think about it, it was sort of embarrassing.”

“Did you apprehend Chopper?”

“No. He wasn’t home.”

“But he left his door open and unlocked?”

“Something like that,” I said.

Morelli looked around for the waitress. “Maybe I should have ordered a drink.”

“Feeling the need for alcohol?”

“Yeah, you have that effect on me. My biggest fear is that someday I’m going to show up to arrest someone and it’s going to be you.”

“Would you do that?”

Morelli gave up on the waitress and slouched down a little. “I’d put the cuffs on you.”

“And then what?” I asked.

His mouth curved into a small smile, and his eyes darkened. “Do you want to know the details?”

My turn to smile. “Not here.”

“You’re teasing me,” Morelli said. “I like it.”

That led to a long silence while we both considered the next move. It would be easy to fall back into an intimate relationship with Morelli. He was fun, and sexy, and easy to live with. And I liked his dog. He could also be difficult to live with. He hated my job. And he insisted on controlling the television remote. We had a history of breaking up and eventually getting back together. I suppose it suited our current lifestyle, but it was probably establishing bad habits.

“Do you remember why we broke up?” Morelli asked. “You needed space.”

“I needed toast. You ate the last piece of bread, and you didn’t get more.”

“I was busy. I forgot.”

“You’re supposed to remember those things. You’re a woman.”

“I’m supposed to remember toast?”

“Yes.”

“What about you? What are you supposed to remember?”

“Condoms.”

Here’s the scary part. It sort of made sense.

“So what’s new with you, other than McCurdle?” I asked. “Any interesting murders?”

“McCurdle’s about as good as it gets. After him, it’s same ol’, same ol’. Gang executions, vehicular homicide, accidental death with a blunt instrument.”

The waitress brought our sandwiches, and we dug in.

“What can you tell me about Chopper?” I said to Morelli.

“He’s middle-management drugs. He used to do enforcement for Ari Santini. If you fell behind on your protection payments, Chopper would shorten your finger. That’s how he got his name. One day, he shortened the wrong finger and got his hand smashed with a baseball bat. Had a hard time getting a good grip on fingerchopping tools after that, so he got bumped over to sales.”

Oh great. Lula was right.

“Any ideas on how I can catch Chopper?” I asked Morelli.

“I’d avoid his apartment.”

A glob of red sauce slipped out of my sandwich and landed on my T-shirt. “Crap,” I said, looking down at the sauce.

Morelli’s eyes darkened a little, and for a moment I thought he was going to lick the sauce off. And then I wasn’t sure if it was because he wanted the sauce or because it was on my breast.

“I already figured out the apartment avoidance,” I said, dabbing at my shirt with my napkin. “What else?”

“I don’t know. He’s not in my circle of friends.” Morelli tapped a number into his phone and asked about Chopper. He got off the phone, wrote a bunch of addresses on a napkin, and gave me the napkin.

“Midmorning, he’ll be downtown,” Morelli said. “He moves around, but he’s usually on lower Stark. Drives a black Lexus. He has a lunch trade going at a couple fast-food places around the arena. Then he goes home to stash money and package up more stuff. He’s somewhere around the food court at Quakerbridge Mall early in the evening, and then he moves to a multiplex parking lot. Usually in Hamilton Township.”