Hardcore Twenty-Four by Janet Evanovich Page B

one’s in charge,” Morelli said. “The state is here. The feds are here. Zombie National Chapter 103 is here.”
    â€œThose are the guys in rags?”
    â€œYeah, they’re waiting for the apocalypse.”
    â€œNice. What are
you
waiting for?”
    â€œInspiration,” Morelli said. “The headless bodies are stacking up like cordwood, and I’m not making any progress.”
    â€œHave you identified the guy in the bushes?”
    â€œYes. He was stolen from the funeral home on Stark Street.”
    â€œDo you have . . .
all
of him?”
    â€œNo. The state guys are talking about bringing in a clairvoyant.”
    â€œDo you think that will help?”
    â€œI stopped thinking a couple hours ago.”
    The zombie chapter had a boom box going. They were playing the “Monster Mash” and marching around stiff-legged with their arms stretched out in front of them.
    â€œThis is a little carny,” I said to Morelli.
    â€œThis is nothing. There are food trucks and T-shirt vendors on the next block.”
    Lula approached us. She had changed into a short purple metallic wig, a black low-cut sweater that barely contained
the girls,
and black Pilates pants that fit her like skin.
    â€œJust look at this,” Lula said, spreading her arms wide, taking the scene in. “This is what I’m talking about. Here’s people changing something bad into something rad. It’s like a wake with a lot of liquor and meatballs. This could set Trenton back on the map. Not everywhere you got a zombie fest going on.”
    â€œThis is a murder scene,” I said.
    â€œTechnically it’s not a murder scene,” Morelli said.
    â€œYeah, and technically these aren’t real zombies,” Lula said. “These here are
fun
zombies.”
    I didn’t think they looked all that much fun. I thought they were creepy.
    â€œMaybe these
fun
zombies are all actually nuts and like to eat brains,” I said.
    Morelli looked over at them. “We thought of that. We have them all on record. Names, addresses, photos and video.”
    I followed Morelli’s line of sight and studied the zombies. “I don’t suppose Zero Slick happens to be with them?”
    â€œNo. For what it’s worth we don’t have him in the zombie registry.”
    â€œYou got a zombie registry?” Lula asked. “That sounds wrong. You better be careful or you’ll get accused of zombie harassment.”
    â€œBeen there, done that,” Morelli said.
    â€œGotta go,” I said. “Stuff to do.”

TWELVE
    LULA AND I walked to the back of her apartment building and got into the Lexus.
    â€œI wouldn’t mind taking a look at the street with the food trucks and T-shirts,” Lula said. “I might want a commemorative T-shirt.”
    I drove around the block, found the food truck street, and cruised the length of it. It was slow going because it was packed with people. They were buying ice cream in waffle cones, cotton candy, sausage sandwiches, zombie glow sticks, zombie T-shirts, and zombie ball caps. A guy dressed in zombie rags was playing the accordion. A sign advertised valet parking.
    â€œI’m thinking if you use valet parking here you’re not likely to get your car back,” Lula said.
    â€œDo you need to buy something?” I asked her.
    â€œNot bad enough to stand in line for it. Where’d all these people come from? Why aren’t they working?”
    I cut across town and took Klockner to Majestic Mews. I parked a short distance from the Krakowski apartment and settled in.
    â€œHow long are we going to sit here?” Lula asked.
    â€œUntil lunch.”
    â€œIn that case, I’m putting my seat back and taking a nap. As you know, I didn’t have an ideal night.”
    A little after eleven o’clock, Marie Krakowski exited her apartment and walked to a silver Nissan Sentra. She was carrying a bulging