“Fuckin’ bitch,” Manfred said.

I hauled back to swing again, and Ranger lifted the can from my hand.

“I’m on it,” Ranger said, cuffing Manfred.

“Jail’s better than another three minutes with her,” Manfred said. “She’s a fuckin’ animal. I’m lucky if I can ever use my nuts again. Keep her away from me.”

“I didn’t see you come down the stairs,” I said to Ranger. “It was a whiteout.”

“Any special reason you grabbed the flour?”

“I wasn’t thinking.”

Manfred and I were head-to-toe flour. The flour sifted off us when we moved and floated in the air like pixie dust. Ranger hadn’t so much as a smudge. By the time we got to the Rangeman SUV, some of the flour had been left behind as ghostly white footprints, but a lot of it remained.

“I honestly don’t know how you manage to do this,” Ranger said. “Paint, barbecue sauce, flour. It boggles the mind.”

“This was all your fault,” I said.

Ranger glanced over at me and his eyebrows raised a fraction of an inch.

“You could have taken him down in the apartment if you hadn’t spent so much time staring at his naked girlfriend.”

Ranger grinned. “She wasn’t naked. She was wearing a shirt.”

“You deserved to fall off that fire escape.”

“That’s harsh,” Ranger said.

“Did you hurt yourself?” I asked him.

“Do you care?”

“No,” I said.

“Liar,” Ranger said. He ruffled my hair and flour sprang out in all directions.

Manfred said something to Ranger in Spanish. Ranger answered him as he assisted him into the backseat of the Explorer.

“What did he say?” I asked Ranger. “He said if I let him go, I could have his girl.”

“And your answer?”

“I declined.”

“You’ll probably regret that as the night goes on,” I said to him.

“No doubt,” Ranger said.

RANGER AND I had Manfred in front of the docket lieutenant. It was a little after ten, and things were heating up. Drunk drivers, abusive drunk husbands, and a couple drug busts were making their way through the system. I was waiting for my body receipt when Morelli walked in. He nodded to Ranger and grinned at me in my whiteness.

“I was at my desk, and Mickey told me I had to come out to take a look,” Morelli said.

“It’s flour,” I told him.

“I can see that. If we add some milk and eggs, we can turn you into a cake.”

“What are you doing here? I thought you were off nights.”

“I came in to cover a shooting. Fred was supposed to be on, but he got overexcited at his kid’s ball game and pulled a groin muscle. I was just finishing up some paperwork.”

Mickey Bolan joined us. Bolan worked Crimes Against Persons with Morelli. He was ten years older than Morelli and counting down to his pension.

“I wasn’t exaggerating, right?” Bolan said to Morelli. “They’re both covered with flour.”

“I’d tell you about it,” I said to Bolan, “but it’s not as good as it looks.”

“That’s okay,” Bolan said. “I got something better, anyway. The rest of Stanley Chipotle just turned up at the funeral home on Hamilton.”

We all stood there for a couple beats, trying to pro cess what we’d just heard.

“He turned up?” Morelli finally said.

“Yeah,” Bolan said. “Someone apparently dumped him on the doorstep. So I guess someone should talk to the funeral guy.”

“I guess that someone would be me,” Morelli said. He looked at his watch. “What the hell, the game’s over now, anyway.”

“I need to get back to Rangeman,” Ranger said to me. “If you have an interest in Chipotle, I can send someone with a car for you.”

“Thanks. I don’t usually get excited about seeing headless dead men, but I wouldn’t mind knowing more.”

“I can give her a ride,” Morelli said. “I don’t imagine this will take long.”

EDDIE GAZARRA WAS standing in the funeral home parking lot, waiting for Morelli. Eddie is married to my cousin Shirley-the-Whiner. Eddie is a patrolman by choice. He could have moved up, but he likes being on the street. He says it’s the uniform. No choices to make in the morning. I think it’s the free doughnuts at Tasty Pastry.

“I was the first on the scene,” Gazarra said when we got out of Morelli’s SUV. “The drop was made right after viewing hours. Morton shut the lights off, and ten minutes later, someone rang the doorbell. When Morton came to the door, he found Chipotle stretched out and frozen solid.”

Eli Morton is the current owner of the funeral home. For years, Constantine Stiva owned the place. The business has changed hands a couple times since Stiva left, but everyone still thinks of this as Stiva’s Funeral Home.

“Where is he now?” Morelli asked.

“On the porch. We didn’t move him.”

“Are you sure it’s Chipotle?”

“He didn’t have a head,” Gazarra said. “We sort of put two and two together.”

“No ID?”

“None we could find. Hard to get into his pockets, what with him being a big Popsicle.”

We’d been walking while we were talking, and we’d gotten to the stairs that led to the funeral home’s wide front porch. I recognized Eli Morton at the top of the stairs. He was talking to a couple uniformed cops and an older man in slacks and a dress shirt. A couple guys from the EMT truck were up there, too. The body wasn’t visible.

“Maybe I’ll wait here,” I said. “It’s not so bad,” Gazarra told me. “He’s frozen stiff as a board. All the blood’s frozen, too. And the head was cut off nice and clean.”

I sat down on the bottom step. “I’ll definitely wait here.”

“I’ll get back to you,” Morelli said, walking the rest of the way with Gazarra.

The medical examiner’s truck rolled past and pulled into the lot. It was followed by a TV news truck with a dish. I saw Morelli glance over at the news truck and move a couple of the uniformed guys from the porch to the lot to contain the media.

I sat on the step for about a half hour, watching people come and go. Finally, Morelli came back and sat along-side me.

“How’s it going?” I asked him.

“The forensic photographer just finished, and the ME is doing his thing, and then we’re moving the body inside to a meat locker. He’s starting to defrost.”

“Is he staying here for the funeral?”

“Eventually. The body will have to go to the morgue for an autopsy first, and then it’ll get released for burial. Right now, I need someone to identify the body.”

“Do you think it might not be Chipotle?”

“This is a high-profile case, and there was no identification on the body.”

“Aren’t there tests for that sort of thing?”

“Yeah, and they’ll do them when they do the autopsy. I just need someone to eyeball this guy for a preliminary ID.”

“His sister?”

“We haven’t been able to reach her.”

“One of his ex-wives? His agent?”

“They’re all over the place. Aspen, New York, L.A., Sante Fe.”

“So who are you going to get?”

“Lula.”

“You’re kidding.”

“She saw him get murdered,” Morelli said. “I’m hoping she remembers his clothes and enough of his build to give me an ID. I’ve got two television trucks and a bunch of reporters sitting in the lot. If I don’t give them something, they’ll make something up, so I’m going to have to talk to them. Before I do that, my chief wants an ID.”

“Have you called Lula?”

“Yeah. She’s on her way over.”

There was activity at the top of the porch, and Morelli stood.

“Looks like they’re getting ready to move the body,” he said. “I’m keeping it on ice here for Lula. I thought it was easier than trying to get her to go to the morgue. I’d appreciate it if you could wait here for her and bring her in when she arrives.”

“Sure.”

Twenty minutes later, I saw my father’s cab drive into the lot. The cab parked, and Lula got out and waved to the knot of newsmen standing by one of the trucks.