I gave Herb a quick rundown of the events last night, ending with my argument with Latham.

“So I didn’t get laid last night, because he was acting like a jerk.”

“Wanting to move in with the woman he loves is him acting like a jerk?”

“I… uh…”

“He’s told you he loves you, right?”

“Yeah, but…”

“Have you said it back?”

“I… uh…”

“You called him today?”

This I could answer.

“Three times. He hasn’t called me back.”

“When you called him, did you apologize for acting like a horse’s ass?”

“Why should I apologize? He wants to stick my mother in a nursing home.”

“He wants to figure out how to share his life with you, and you told him he was tooting his own horn.”

Oops.

“Jack.” Herb turned a shade of red usually reserved for apples. “I don’t mean to cut out on you, but I have to run, and you might want to avert your eyes.”

“Why? Oh – the Viagra’s kicking in?”

“I just pitched a tent in my pants.”

Herb picked up a manila folder and held it out well in front of his lap.

“That stuff really works,” I said, for lack of anything better.

“Good night, Jack. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

“Good night, Herb. Give Bernice my best. Er, I mean, your best. Have a nice evening. Have fun. I’ll shut up now.”

Herb slunk out the door while I counted the ceiling tiles.

After he made his embarrassing exit, I picked up the phone, swallowed pride, and called Latham. His machine picked up.

“Hi, Latham. Look, I…”

Say you’re sorry, I told myself. Say it.

But nothing came out.

“… I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Why the hell had I choked? Why was apologizing such a big deal? I could admit to myself I’d made a mistake, why couldn’t I admit it to Latham?

“Lieutenant?”

I looked up, saw Fuller standing in my doorway.

“Come in.”

He set a computer printout on my desk.

“I finished the database. There weren’t any connections between your previous cases and County’s sign-in book.”

“Thanks. I’ll go over it later.”

I’d intended that to be a dismissal, but he stayed put.

“Anything else?” I asked.

“Look, Lieut, I… I’d just like to help.”

I considered it. The only person I really trusted was Herb. But Fuller had been extremely helpful to many of my investigations, going above and beyond his normal duties. I didn’t know very much about him, personally, but as a cop he was smart, efficient, and always 100 percent professional.

I made a judgment call, and decided to let him in.

“Okay, there is something you can do. I want you to add some names to the database.”

“Sure. What names?”

“Start with this district, then the surrounding districts, until you get all twenty-six.”

Fuller furrowed his brow. “Cops? You think this might be a cop?”

I had to play this carefully, lest the rumor mill begin to turn.

“No. But if I find out which cops visited the morgue during the past week, I’ll be able to start questioning them to see if they noticed anything strange.”

“Got it.”

“There’s no rush. You can get started tomorrow.”

He nodded, offered a grin, and left my office.

I finished typing the report of the interview with Colin Andrews (leaving out the powdered sugar fiasco), and then decided to head home. Perhaps Latham had left a message on my answering machine.

He hadn’t. Neither had Mom. But Mr. Friskers, the lovable ball of fluff, had shredded both of the living room curtains.

“Tomorrow,” I promised, “you get declawed.”

I changed into an oversized T-shirt and wandered into the kitchen, cat litter sticking to the bottoms of my feet. I swept it all up, dumped it back into the litter box, and was surprised to find that Mr. Friskers had made several deposits of his own.

“Good kitty,” I called to him, wherever he was hiding.

I went to the fridge to get him some milk, and stepped barefoot into another deposit he’d made, on the floor.

This required a shower. After the shower, I finished cleaning the kitchen, gave the cat some milk and food, and searched my cabinets for dinner. I found a can of soup. I wasn’t in the mood for soup, especially mushroom, but it was expiring next month, so I ate it before I had to throw it out.

Halfway through, Mr. Friskers wandered in.

“I like the curtains,” I told him. “Very feng shui. The whole room flows much better.”

He ignored me, sticking his face in the milk.

I didn’t finish the soup, so I set that on the floor for him as well, then I went into the bedroom and stared at my nemesis, the bed.

My sheets were in the dryer. I put them back on, climbed in, and closed my eyes.

It took all of five seconds for me to realize that I had a better chance of winning lotto than falling asleep. So instead, I flipped on the television.

Reruns. Sports. Crap. Movie that I’ve seen before. Crap. Crap. Reruns. Crap. Home Shopping Network.

I finally let it rest on an infomercial about the antiaging effects of juicing. A tiny ninety-year-old man did dozens of push-ups and exclaimed how celery shakes were life’s elixir.

Did anyone buy that?

I did, and sprung for the rush delivery.

I also bought a Speedy Iron, guaranteed to do the job in half the time, a Bacon Magic, since the show proved beyond any scientific doubt that bacon was a health food, and a new home waxing system that promised it wouldn’t hurt as much as the four other new home waxing systems gathering dust in my bathroom closet.

The only thing that saved me from plunking down serious cash for a countertop rotisserie oven was the fact that my counter space was barely large enough for a toaster. I toyed with the idea of buying one anyway, and keeping it in the bedroom. Even though I’m a single woman and rarely home, the novelty of roasting two entire chickens at the same time more than made up for that.

I drifted off sometime in the middle of a seminar on how to improve your memory, and slept on and off until seven A.M., when the phone rang.

I bolted up in bed, hoping it was Latham or Mom.

“Lieutenant? This is Officer Sue Petersen on the Osco stakeout. I just followed a man who bought a twenty-dollar phone card. ID’ed him as one Derrick Rushlo, thirty-six years of age. He’s the owner of the Rushlo Funeral Home on Grand Avenue.”

“Hold on a second.”

I’d left Fuller’s report in the kitchen. Rushlo’s name was on the second page. He’d been to the county morgue last week.

“Are you still watching him?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Stay on him. Call if he moves. I’ll be there within the hour.”

The Rushlo Funeral Home faced the busy street of Grand Avenue, its storefront only ten yards wide. It was book-ended by a thrift shop on the left and a dental office on the right, all three of them done in the same cream-colored brick. On either side of the ornate front door were matching bushes in large concrete pots, carefully pruned to resemble corkscrews.

Herb and I entered. It looked like the inside of any funeral home; tasteful, somewhat opulent, with deep rugs and fancy lighting fixtures. The air-conditioning smelled faintly of lilacs.

“You okay, Herb?” Benedict had been walking funny.

“I strained a muscle in my back.”

“Working out?”

“Making nookie. Viagra ought to come with a warning label.”

We passed two parlors, and located the arrangement office at the end of the hall. Empty.

“May I help you?”

He’d come from a side door, next to the office. A squat man with a carefully trimmed beard that accentuated his double chin. He wore black slacks, a solid blue dress shirt, and a paisley tie, which hugged his expansive stomach.

“Derrick Rushlo?” Herb asked.

The man nodded, shaking Herb’s hand.