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10/25/2002

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High fives all around! The New York Times
bestelling author of Four to Score puts Stephanie Plum, America's
favorite bounty hunter, back behind the wheel in her fifth high-octane
thriller.

What's Stephanie Plum up to now?

· Her uncle Fred has disappeared.

· A body turns up in a garbage bag.

· She's got a nasty bookie following her around town.

· Grandma Mazur has her hands on the stun gun.

· Stephanie can't keep a car for more than 48 hours.

· Two men are trying to get her into bed.

· She has nothing to wear to the Mafia wedding.

· And there's an angry little man (don't call him a dwarf!) who won't leave her apartment.

Bail jumping in Trenton is down to small potatoes. Stephanie's only open case is a small bond for a small violation, committed by a small person who raises Stephanie's frustration level in big ways. So, short of money and long on bills, Stephanie comes up with a plan—diversify! Signing on as an intern with entrepreneurial Super Bounty Hunter Ranger, Stephanie ventures into Ranger's mostly morally correct and marginally legal operations.

None of this makes vice cop Joe Morelli a happy man. The cop in him can't help but wonder as to the source of Stephanie's expensive new car. And the rest of him, the man who's been friend and lover to Stephanie, can't help but wonder if there's more to the partnership than meets the eye.

The internship is downgraded to second priority when Uncle Fred goes missing. Even though Grandma Mazur is sure he was abducted by aliens, Stephanie sets out to look for Fred. He's a perfectly average senior citizen, and he's disappeared without a trace while running errands. He's left his ten-year-old Pontiac station wagon locked up nice and neat in the Grand Union parking lot, the cleaning is carefully arranged in the backseat, and his wife is at home, waiting for him to return with the bread and milk and the olive-loaf bologna. Locked in the top drawer of his desk are photos of a body, dismembered and stuffed into a garbage bag. And locked away in the computer files of another average citizen are the clues that will lead Stephanie to Fred.

Criminally original and stone brilliant, this Intermediate Bounty Hunting Survival Manual is blockbuster entertainment.

WHEN
I WAS a little girl I used to dress Barbie up without underpants. On the
outside, she'd look like the perfect lady. Tasteful plastic heels, tailored
suit. But underneath, she was naked. I'm a bail enforcement agent now—also
known as a fugitive apprehension agent, also known as a bounty hunter. I bring
'em back dead or alive. At least I try. And being a bail enforcement agent is
sort of like being bare-bottom Barbie. It's about having a secret. And it's
about wearing a lot of bravado on the outside when you're really operating
without underpants. Okay, maybe it's not like that for all enforcement agents,
but I frequently feel like my privates are alfresco. Figuratively speaking, of
course.

At
the moment I wasn't feeling nearly so vulnerable. What I was feeling at the
moment was desperate. My rent was due, and Trenton had run out of scofflaws. I
had my hands palms down on Connie Rosolli's desk, my feet planted wide, and
hard as I tried, I couldn't keep my voice from sounding like it was coming out
of Minnie Mouse. What do you mean, there are no FTAs? There are always
FTAs.

Sorry,
Connie said. We've got lots of bonds posted, but nobody's jumping. Must
have something to do with the moon.

FTA
is short for failure to appear for a court date. Going FTA is a definite no-no
in the criminal justice system, but that doesn't usually stop people from doing
it.

Connie
slid a manila folder over to me. This is the only FTA I've got, and it's
not worth much.

Connie
is the office manager for Vincent Plum Bail Bonds. She's a couple of years
older than me, which puts her in her early thirties. She wears her hair teased
high. She takes grief from no one. And if breasts were money, Connie'd be Bill
Gates.

Vinnie's
overjoyed, Connie said. He's making money by the fistful. No bounty
hunters to pay. No forfeited bonds. Last time I saw Vinnie in a mood like this
was when Madame Zaretsky was arrested for pandering and sodomy and put her
trained dog up as collateral for her bond.

I
cringed at the mental image this produced because not only is Vincent Plum my
employer, he's also my cousin. I blackmailed him into taking me on as an
apprehension agent at a low moment in my life and have come to sort of like the
job . . . most of the time. That doesn't mean I have any illusions about
Vinnie. For the most part, Vinnie is an okay bondsman. But privately, Vinnie is
a boil on the backside of my family tree.

As
a bail bondsman Vinnie gives the court a cash bond as a securement that the
accused will return for trial. If the accused takes a hike, Vinnie forfeits his money. Since this isn't an appealing prospect to Vinnie, he sends me out to find the accused and drag him back into the system. My fee is 10 percent of the bond, and I only collect it if I'm successful.

I
flipped the folder open and read the bond agreement. Randy Briggs.
Arrested for carrying concealed. Failed to appear at his court hearing.
The bond amount was seven hundred dollars. That meant I'd get seventy. Not a
lot of money for risking my life by going after someone who was known to carry.

I
don't know, I said to Connie, this guy carries a knife.

Connie
looked at her copy of Briggs' arrest sheet. It says here it was a small
knife, and it wasn't sharp.

How
small?

Eight
inches.

That
isn't small!

Nobody
else will take this, Connie said. Ranger doesn't take anything
under ten grand.

Ranger
is my mentor and a world-class tracker. Ranger also never seems to be in dire
need of rent money. Ranger has other sources of income.

I
looked at the photo attached to Briggs' file. Briggs didn't look so bad. In his
forties, narrow-faced and balding, Caucasian. Job description was listed as
self-employed computer programmer.

I
gave a sigh of resignation and stuffed the folder into my shoulder bag.
I'll go talk to him.

Probably
he just forgot, Connie said. Probably this is a piece of
cake.

I
gave her my yeah, right look and left. It was Monday morning and traffic
was humming past Vinnie's storefront office. The October sky was as blue as sky
gets in New Jersey, and the air felt crisp and lacking in hydrocarbons. It was
nice for a change, but it kind of took all the sport out of breathing.

A
new red Firebird slid to curbside behind my '53 Buick. Lula got out of the car
and stood hands on hips, shaking her head. Girl, you still driving that
pimpmobile?

Lula
did filing for Vinnie and knew all about pimpmobiles firsthand since in a
former life she'd been a 'ho. She's what is gently referred to as a big woman,
weighing in at a little over two hundred pounds, standing five-foot-five,
looking like most of her weight's muscle. This week her hair was dyed orange
and came off very autumn with her dark brown skin.

This
is a classic car, I told Lula. Like we both knew I really gave a fig
about classic cars. I was driving The Beast because my Honda had caught fire
and burned to a cinder, and I didn't have any money to replace it. So here I
was, borrowing my uncle Sandor's gas-guzzling behemoth . . . again.

Problem
is, you aren't living up to your earning potential, Lula said. We
only got chickenshit cases these days. What you need is to have a serial killer
or a homicidal rapist jump bail. Those boys are worth something.

Yeah,
I'd sure like to get a case like that. Big fib. If Vinnie ever gave me a
homicidal rapist to chase down I'd quit and get a job selling shoes.

Lula
marched into the office, and I slid behind the wheel and reread the Briggs
file. Randy Briggs had given the same address for home and work. Cloverleaf
Apartments on Grand Avenue. It wasn't far from the office. Maybe a mile. I
pulled into traffic, made an illegal U-turn at the intersection, and followed
Hamilton to Grand.

The
Cloverleaf Apartments building was two blocks down Grand. It was redbrick-faced
and strictly utilitarian. Three stories. A front and a back entrance. Small lot
to the rear. No ornamentation. Aluminum-framed windows that were popular in the
fifties and looked cheesy now.

I
parked in the lot and walked into the small lobby. There was an elevator to one
side and stairs to the other. The elevator looked claustrophobic and unreliable,
so I took the stairs to the second floor. Briggs was 2B. I stood outside his
door for a moment, listening. Nothing drifted out. No television. No talking. I
pressed the doorbell and stood to the side, so I wasn't visible through the
security peephole.

Randy
Briggs opened his door and stuck his head out. Yeah?

He
looked exactly like his photo, with sandy blond hair that was neatly combed,
cut short. He was unbearded, unblemished. Dressed in clean khakis and a
button-down shirt. Just like I'd expected from his file . . . except he was
only three feet tall. Randy Briggs was vertically challenged.

Oh,
shit, I said, looking down at him.

What's
the matter? he said. You never see a short person before?

Only
on television.

Guess
this is your lucky day.

I
handed him my business card. I represent Vincent Plum Bail Bonds. You've
missed your court date, and we'd appreciate it if you'd reschedule.

No,
Briggs said.

Excuse
me?

No.
I'm not going to reschedule. No. I'm not going to court. It was a bogus
arrest.

The
way our system works is that you're supposed to tell that to the judge.

Fine.
Go get the judge.

The
judge doesn't do house calls.

Listen,
I got a lot of work to do, Briggs said, closing his door. I gotta
go.

Hold
it! I said. You can't just ignore an order to appear in
court.

Watch
me.

You
don't understand. I'm appointed by the court and Vincent Plum to bring you
in.

Oh,
yeah? How do you expect to do that? You going to shoot me? You can't shoot an
unarmed man. He stuck his hands out. You gonna cuff me? You think
you can drag me out of my apartment and down the hall without looking like an
idiot? Big bad bounty hunter picking on a little person. And that's what we're
called, Toots. Not midget, not dwarf, not a freaking Munchkin. Little person.
Get it?

My
pager went off at my waist. I looked down to check the read-out and slam.
Briggs closed and locked his door.

Loser,
he called from inside.

Well,
that didn't go as smoothly as I'd hoped. I had a choice now. I could break down
his door and beat the bejeezus out of him, or I could answer my mother's page.
Neither was especially appealing, but I decided on my mother.

My
parents live in a residential pocket of Trenton nicknamed the Burg. No one ever
really leaves the Burg. You can relocate in Antarctica, but if you were born
and raised in the Burg you're a Burger for life. Houses are small and
obsessively neat. Televisions are large and loud. Lots are narrow. Families are
extended. There are no pooper-scooper laws in the Burg. If your dog does his
business on someone else's lawn, the next morning the doodoo will be on your
front porch. Life is simple in the Burg.

I
put the Buick into gear, rolled out of the apartment building lot, headed for
Hamilton, and followed Hamilton to St. Francis Hospital. My parents live a
couple blocks behind St. Francis on Roosevelt Street. Their house is a duplex
built at a time when families needed only one bathroom and dishes were washed
by hand.

My
mother was at the door when I pulled to the curb. My grandmother Mazur stood
elbow to elbow with my mother. They were short, slim women with facial features
that suggested Mongol ancestors . . . probably in the form of crazed marauders.

Thank
goodness you're here, my mother said, eyeing me as I got out of the car
and walked toward her. What are those shoes? They look like work
boots.

Betty
Szajak and Emma Getz and me went to that male dancer place last week,
Grandma said, and they had some men parading around, looking like construction
workers, wearing boots just like those. Then next thing you knew they ripped
their clothes off and all they had left was those boots and these little silky
black baggie things that their dingdongs jiggled around in.

My
mother pressed her lips together and made the sign of the cross. You
didn't tell me about this, she said to my grandmother.

Guess
it slipped my mind. Betty and Emma and me were going to bingo at the church,
but it turned out there wasn't any bingo on account of the Knights of Columbus
was holding some to-do there. So we decided to check out the men at that new
club downtown. Grandma gave me an elbow. I put a fiver right in one
of those baggies!

Jesus
H. Christ, my father said, rattling his paper in the living room.

Grandma
Mazur came to live with my parents several years ago when my grandpa Mazur went
to the big poker game in the sky. My mother accepts this as a daughter's
obligation. My father has taken to reading Guns Ammo.

So
what's up? I asked. Why did you page me?

We
need a detective, Grandma said.

My
mother rolled her eyes and ushered me into the kitchen. Have a
cookie, she said, setting the cookie jar on the small Formica-topped
kitchen table. Can I get you a glass of milk? Some lunch?

I
lifted the lid on the cookie jar and looked inside. Chocolate chip. My
favorite.

Tell
her, Grandma said to my mother, giving her a poke in the side. Wait
until you hear this, she said to me. This is a good one.

I
raised my eyebrows at my mother.

We
have a family problem, my mother said. Your uncle Fred is missing.
He went out to the store and hasn't come home yet.

When
did he go out?

Friday.

I
paused with a cookie halfway to my mouth. It's Monday!

Isn't
this a pip? Grandma said. I bet he was beamed up by aliens.

Uncle
Fred is married to my grandma Mazur's first cousin Mabel. If I had to guess his
age I'd have to say somewhere between seventy and infinity. Once people start
to stoop and wrinkle they all look alike to me. Uncle Fred was someone I saw at
weddings and funerals and once in a while at Giovichinni's Meat Market,
ordering a quarter pound of olive loaf. Eddie Such, the butcher, would have the
olive loaf on the scale and Uncle Fred would say, You've got the olive
loaf on a piece of waxed paper. How much does that piece of waxed paper weigh?
You're not gonna charge me for that waxed paper, are you? I want some money off
for the waxed paper.

I
shoved the cookie into my mouth. Have you filed a missing persons report
with the police?

Mabel
did that first thing, my mother said.

And?

And
they haven't found him.

I
went to the refrigerator and poured out a glass of milk for myself. What
about the car? Did they find the car?

The
car was in the Grand Union parking lot. It was all locked up nice and neat.

He
was never right after that stroke he had in ninety-five, Grandma said.
I don't think his elevator went all the way to the top anymore, if you
know what I mean. He could have just wandered off like one of those Alzheimer's
people. Anybody think to check the cereal aisle in the supermarket? Maybe he's
just standing there 'cause he can't make up his mind.

My
father mumbled something from the living room about my grandmother's elevator,
and my mother slid my father a dirty look through the kitchen wall.

I
thought it was too weird. Uncle Fred was missing. This sort of thing just
didn't happen in our family. Did anybody go out to look for him?

Ronald
and Walter. They covered all the neighborhoods around the Grand Union, but
nobody's seen him.

Ronald
and Walter were Fred's sons. And probably they'd enlisted their kids to help,
too.

We
figure you're just the person to take a crack at this, Grandma said,
on account of that's what you do . . . you find people.

I
find criminals.

Your
aunt Mabel would be grateful if you'd look for Fred, my mother said.
Maybe you could just go over and talk to her and see what you
think.

She
needs a detective, I said. I'm not a detective.

Mabel
asked for you. She said she didn't want this going out of the family.

My
internal radar dish started to hum. Is there something you're not telling
me?

What's
to tell? my mother said. A man wandered off from his car.

I
drank my milk and rinsed the glass. Okay, I'll go talk to Aunt Mabel. But
I'm not promising anything.

UNCLE
FRED AND Aunt Mabel live on Baker Street, on the fringe of the Burg, three
blocks over from my parents. Their ten-year-old Pontiac station wagon was
parked at the curb and just about spanned the length of their rowhouse. They've
lived in the rowhouse for as long as I can remember, raising two children,
entertaining five grandchildren, and annoying the hell out of each other for
over fifty years.

Aunt
Mabel answered my knock on her door. She was a rounder, softer version of
Grandma Mazur. Her white hair was perfectly permed. She was dressed in yellow
polyester slacks and a matching floral blouse. Her earrings were large
clip-ons, her lipstick was a bright red, and her eyebrows were brown crayon.

Well,
isn't this nice, Aunt Mabel said. Come into the kitchen. I got a
coffee cake from Giovichinni today. It's the good kind, with the almonds.

Certain
proprieties were observed in the Burg. No matter that your husband was
kidnapped by aliens, visitors were offered coffee cake.

I
followed after Aunt Mabel and waited while she cut the cake. She poured out
coffee and sat opposite me at the kitchen table.

I
suppose your mother told you about your uncle Fred, she said.
Fifty-two years of marriage, and poof, he's gone.

Did
Uncle Fred have any medical problems?

The
man was healthy as a horse.

How
about his stroke?

Well,
yes, but everybody has a stroke once in a while. And that stroke didn't slow
him down any. Most of the time he remembered things no one else would remember.
Like that business with the garbage. Who would remember a thing like that? Who
would even care about it? Such a fuss over nothing.

I
knew I was going to regret asking, but I felt compelled. What about the
garbage?

Mabel
helped herself to a piece of coffee cake. Last month there was a new
driver on the garbage truck, and he skipped over our house. It only happened
once, but would my husband forget a thing like that? No. Fred never forgot
anything. Especially if it had to do with money. So at the end of the month
Fred wanted two dollars back on account of we pay quarterly, you see, and Fred
had already paid for the missed day.

I
nodded in understanding. This didn't surprise me at all. Some men played golf.
Some men did crossword puzzles. Uncle Fred's hobby was being cheap.

That
was one of the things Fred was supposed to do on Friday, Mabel said.
The garbage company was making him crazy. He went there in the morning,
but they wouldn't give him his money without proof that he'd paid. Something
about the computer messing up some of the accounts. So Fred was going back in
the afternoon.

For
two dollars. I did a mental head slap. If I'd been the clerk Fred had talked to
at the garbage company I'd have given Fred two dollars out of my own pocket
just to get rid of him. What garbage company is this?

RGC.
The police said Fred never got there. Fred had a whole list of errands he was
going to do. He was going to the cleaners, the bank, the supermarket, and
RGC.

And
you haven't heard from him.

Not
a word. Nobody's heard anything.

I
had a feeling there wasn't going to be a happy ending to this story.

Do
you have any idea where Fred might be?

Everyone
thinks he just wandered away, like a big dummy.

What
do you think?

Mabel
did an up-and-down thing with her shoulders. Like she didn't know what to
think. Whenever I did that, it meant I didn't want to say what I was
thinking.

If
I show you something, you have to promise not to tell anyone, Mabel said.

Oh
boy.

She
went to a kitchen drawer and took out a packet of pictures. I found these
in Fred's desk. I was looking for the checkbook this morning, and this is what
I found.

I
stared at the first picture for at least thirty seconds before I realized what
I was seeing. The print was taken in shadow and looked underexposed. The perimeter
was a black plastic trash bag, and in the center of the photo was a bloody hand
severed at the wrist. I thumbed through the rest of the pack. More of the same.
In some the bag was spread wider, revealing more body parts. What looked like a
shinbone, part of a torso maybe, something that might have been the back of the
head. Hard to tell if it was man or woman.

The
shock of the pictures had me holding my breath, and I was getting a buzzing
sensation in my head. I didn't want to ruin my bounty-hunter image and keel
over onto the floor, so I concentrated on quietly resuming breathing.

You
have to give these to the police, I said.

Mabel
gave her head a shake. I don't know what Fred was doing with these
pictures. Why would a person have pictures like this?

No
date on the front or the back. Do you know when they were taken?

No.
This is the first I saw them.

Do
you mind if I look through Fred's desk?

It's
in the cellar, Mabel said. Fred spent a lot of time down
there.

It
was a battered government-issue desk. Probably bought at a Fort Dix yard sale.
It was positioned against a wall opposite the washer and dryer. And it was set
on a stained piece of wall-to-wall carpet that I assumed had been saved when
new carpet was laid upstairs.

I
pawed through the drawers, finding the usual junk. Pencils and pens. A drawer
filled with instruction booklets and warranty cards for household appliances.
Another drawer devoted to old issues of National Geographic. The
magazines were dog-eared, and I could see Fred down here, escaping from Mabel,
reading about the vanishing rain forests of Borneo.

A
canceled RGC check had been carefully placed under a paperweight. Fred had
probably made a copy to take with him and had left the original here.

There
are parts of the country where people trust banks to keep their checks and to
simply forward computer-generated statements each month. The Burg isn't one of
those places. Residents of the Burg aren't that trusting of computers or banks.
Residents of the Burg like paper. My relatives hoard canceled checks like
Scrooge McDuck hoards quarters.

I
didn't see any more photos of dead bodies. And I couldn't find any notes or
sales receipts that might be connected to the pictures.

You
don't suppose Fred killed this person, do you? Mabel asked.

I
didn't know what I supposed. What I knew was that I was very creeped out.
Fred didn't seem like the sort of person to do something like this,
I told Mabel. Would you like me to pass these on to the police for
you?

If
you think that's the right thing to do.

Without
a shadow of a doubt.

I
had phone calls to make, and my parents' house was closer than my apartment and
less expensive than using my cell phone, so I rumbled back to Roosevelt Street.

How'd
it go? Grandma asked, rushing into the foyer to meet me.

It
went okay.

You
gonna take the case?

It's
not a case. It's a missing person. Sort of.

You're
gonna have a devil of a time finding him if it was aliens, Grandma said.

I
dialed the central dispatch number for the Trenton Police Department and asked
for Eddie Gazarra. Gazarra and I grew up together, and now he was married to my
cousin Shirley the Whiner. He was a good friend, a good cop, and a good source
for police information.

You
need something, Gazarra said.

Hello
to you, too.

Am
I wrong?

No.
I need some details on a recent investigation.

I
can't give you that kind of stuff.

Of
course you can, I said. Anyway, this is about Uncle Fred.

The
missing Uncle Fred?

That's
the one.

What
do you want to know?

Anything.

Hold
on.

He
was back on the line a couple minutes later, and I could hear him leafing
through papers. It says here Fred was reported missing on Friday, which
is technically too early for a missing person, but we always keep our eyes open
anyway. Especially with old folks. Sometimes they're out there wandering around
looking for the road to Oz.

You
think that's what Fred's doing? Looking for Oz?

Hard
to say. Fred's car was found in the Grand Union parking lot. The car was locked
up. No sign of forced entry. No sign of struggle. No sign of theft. There was
dry cleaning laid out on the backseat.

Anything
else in the car? Groceries?

Nope.
No groceries.

So
he got to the dry cleaner but not the supermarket.

I
have a chronology of events here, Gazarra said. Fred left his house
at one o'clock, right after he ate lunch. Next stop that we know of was the
bank, First Trenton Trust. Their records show he withdrew two hundred dollars
from the automatic teller in the lobby at two thirty-five. The cleaner, next to
Grand Union in the same strip mall, said Fred picked his cleaning up around two
forty-five. And that's all we have.

There's
an hour missing. It takes ten minutes to get from the Burg to Grand Union and
First Trenton.

Don't
know, Gazarra said. He was supposed to go to RGC Waste Haulers, but
RGC says he never showed up.

Thanks,
Eddie.

If
you want to return the favor, I could use a baby-sitter Saturday night.

Gazarra
could always use a baby-sitter. His kids were cute but death on baby-sitters.

Gee,
Eddie, I'd love to help you out, but Saturday's a bad day. I promised somebody
I'd do something on Saturday.

Yeah,
right.

Listen,
Gazarra, last time I baby-sat for your kids they cut two inches off my
hair.

You
shouldn't have fallen asleep. What were you doing sleeping on the job,
anyway?

It
was one in the morning!

My
next call was to Joe Morelli. Joe Morelh is a plainclothes cop who has skills
not covered in the policeman's handbook. A couple months ago, I let him into my
life and my bed. A couple weeks ago, I kicked him out. We'd seen each other
several times since then on chance encounters and arranged dinner dates. The
chance encounters were always warm. The dinner dates took the temperature up a
notch and more often than not involved loud talking, which I called a
discussion and Morelli called a fight.

None
of these meetings had ended in the bedroom. When you grow up in the Burg there
are several mantras little girls learn at an early age. One of them is that men
don't buy goods they can get for free. Those words of wisdom hadn't stopped me
from giving my goods away to Morelli, but they did stop me from continuing
to give them away. That plus a false pregnancy scare. Although I have to
admit, I had mixed feelings about not being pregnant. There was a smidgen of
regret mixed with the relief. And probably it was the regret more than the
relief that made me take a more serious look at my life and my relationship
with Morelli. That and the realization that Morelli and I don't see eye-to-eye
on a lot of things. Not that we'd entirely given up on the relationship. It was
more that we were in a holding pattern with each of us staking out territory .
. . not unlike the Arab-Israeli conflict.

I
tried Morelli's home phone, office number, and car phone. No luck. I left
messages everywhere and left my cell phone number on his pager.

Well,
what did you find out? Grandma wanted to know when I hung up.

Not
much. Fred left the house at one, and a little over an hour later he was at the
bank and the cleaner. He must have done something in that time, but I don't
know what.

My
mother and my grandmother looked at each other.

What?
I asked. What?

He
was probably taking care of some personal business, my mother said.
You don't want to bother yourself with it.

What's
the big secret?

Another
exchange of looks between my mother and grandmother.

There's
two kinds of secrets, Grandma said. One kind is where nobody knows the
secret. And the other kind is where everybody knows the secret, but pretends
not to know the secret. This is the second kind of secret.

So?

It's
about his honeys, Grandma said.

His
honeys?

Fred
always has a honey on the side, Grandma said. Should have been a
politician.

You
mean Fred has affairs? He's in his seventies!

Midlife
crisis, Grandma said.

Seventy
isn't midlife, I said. Forty is midlife.

Grandma
slid her uppers around some. Guess it depends how long you intend to
live.

I
turned to my mother. You knew about this?

My
mother took a couple deli bags of cold cuts out of the refrigerator and emptied
them on a plate. The man's been a philanderer all his life. I don't know
how Mabel's put up with it.

Booze,
Grandma said.

I
made myself a liverwurst sandwich and took it to the table. Do you think
Uncle Fred might have run off with one of his girlfriends?

More
likely one of their husbands picked Fred up and drove him to the
landfill, Grandma said. I can't see cheapskate Fred paying for the
cleaning if he was going to run off with one of his floozies.

You
have any idea who he was seeing?

Hard
to keep track, Grandma said. She looked over at my mother. What do
you think, Ellen? You think he's still seeing Loretta Walenowski?

I
heard that was over, my mother said.

My
cell phone rang in my shoulder bag.

Hey,
Cupcake, Morelli said. What's the disaster?

How
do you know it's a disaster?

You
left messages on three different phones plus my pager. It's either a disaster
or you want me bad, and my luck hasn't been that good today.

I
need to talk to you.

Now?

It'll
only take a minute.

THE
SKILLET IS a sandwich shop next to the hospital and could be better named the
Grease Pit. Morelli got there ahead of me. He was standing, soda in hand,
looking like the day was already too long.

He
smiled when he saw me . . . and it was the nice smile that included his eyes.
He draped an arm around my neck, pulled me to him, and kissed me. Just so
my day isn't a complete waste, he said.

We
have a family problem.

Uncle
Fred?

Boy,
you know everything. You should be a cop.

Wiseass,
Morelli said. What do you need?

I
handed him the packet of pictures. Mabel found these in Fred's desk this
morning.

He
shuffled through them. Christ. What is this shit?

Looks
like body parts.

He
tapped me on the head with the stack of pictures. Comedian.

You
have any ideas here?

They
need to go to Arnie Mott, Morelli said. He's in charge of the
investigation.

Arnie
Mott has the initiative of a squash.

Yeah.
But he's still in charge. I can pass them on for you.

What
does this mean?

Joe
shook his head, still studying the top photo. I don't know, but this
looks real.

I
MADE AN illegal U-turn on Hamilton and parked just short of Vinnie's office,
docking the Buick behind a black Mercedes S600V, which I suspected belonged to
Ranger. Ranger changed cars like other men changed socks. The only common
denominator with Ranger's cars was that they were always expensive and they
were always black.

Connie
looked over at me when I swung through the front door. Was Briggs really
only three feet tall?

Three
feet tall and uncooperative. I should have read the physical description on his
application for appearance bond before I knocked on his door. Don't suppose
anything else came in?

Sorry,
Connie said. Nothing.

This
is turning into a real bummer of a day. My uncle Fred is missing. He went out
to run errands on Friday, and that was the last anyone's seen him. They found
his car in the Grand Union parking lot. No need to mention the butchered
body.

I
had an uncle do that once, Lula said. He walked all the way to
Perth Amboy before someone found him. It was one of them senior moments.

The
door to the inner office was closed, and Ranger was nowhere to be seen, so I
guessed he was talking to Vinnie. I cut my eyes in that direction. Ranger
in there?

Yeah,
Connie said. He did some work for Vinnie.

Work?

Don't
ask, Connie said.

Not
bounty hunter stuff.

Not
nearly.

I
left the office and waited outside. Ranger appeared five minutes later.
Ranger's Cuban-American. His features are Anglo, his eyes are Latino, his skin
is the color of a mocha latte, and his body is as good as a body can get. He
had his black hair pulled back into a ponytail. He was wearing a black T-shirt
that fit him like a tattoo and black SWAT pants tucked into black high-top
boots.

Yo,
I said.

Ranger
looked at me over the top of his shades. Yo yourself. I gazed
longingly at his car. Nice Mercedes.

Transportation,
Ranger said. Nothing fancy.

Compared
to what? The Batmobile? Connie said you were talking to Vinnie.

Transacting
business, babe. I don't talk to Vinnie.

That's
sort of what I'd like to discuss with you . . . business. You know how you've
kind of been my mentor with this bounty hunter stuff?

Eliza
Doolittle and Henry Higgins Do Trenton.

Yeah.
Well, the truth is, the bounty huntering isn't going all that good.

No
one's jumping bail.

That
too.

Ranger
leaned against his car and crossed his arms over his chest. And?

And
I've been thinking maybe I should diversify.

And?

And
I thought you might help me.

You
talking about building a portfolio? Investing money?

No.
I'm talking about making money.

Ranger
tipped his head back and laughed softly. Babe, you don't want to do that
kind of diversifying.

I
narrowed my eyes.

Okay,
he said. What did you have in mind?

Something
legal.

There's
all kinds of legal.

I
want something entirely legal.

Ranger
leaned closer and lowered his voice. Let me explain my work ethic to you.
I don't do things I feel are morally wrong. But sometimes my moral code strays
from the norm. Sometimes my moral code is inconsistent with the law. Much of
what I do is in that gray area just beyond entirely legal.

All
right then, how about steering me toward something mostly legal and definitely
morally right.

You
sure about this?

Yes.
No. Not at all.

Ranger's
face was expressionless. I'll think about it.

He
slipped into his car, the engine caught, and Ranger rolled away.

I
had a missing uncle who quite possibly had butchered a woman and stuffed her
parts into a garbage bag, but I also was a month overdue on my rent. Somehow I
was going to have to manage both problems.

I
WENT BACK to Cloverleaf Apartments and parked in the lot. I got a black nylon
web utility belt from the back of the Buick and strapped it on, arming it with
a stun gun, pepper spray, and cuffs. Then I went in search of the building
superintendent. Ten minutes later I had a key to Briggs' apartment and was at
his door. I rapped twice and yelled, Bail enforcement. No answer. I
opened the door with the key and walked in. Briggs wasn't there.

Patience
is a virtue bounty hunters need and I lack. I found a chair facing the door and
sat down to wait. I told myself I'd stay for as long as it took, but I knew it
was a lie. To begin with, being in his apartment like this was a little
illegal. And then there was the fact that I was actually pretty scared. Okay, so
he was only three feet tall . . . that didn't mean he couldn't shoot a gun. And
it didn't mean he didn't have friends who were six-foot-four and nuts.

I'd
been sitting for a little over an hour when there was a knock at the door, and
I realized a piece of paper had been slipped under the doorjamb.

Dear
Loser, I know you're there, the message on the paper said, and I'm
not coming home until you leave.

Great.

MY
APARTMENT BUILDING bears a striking resemblance to Cloverleaf. Same blocky
brick structure, same minimalist attention to quality. Most of the tenants in
my building are senior citizens with a few Hispanics thrown in to make things
interesting. I'd come directly home after vacating Briggs' apartment. I'd
gotten my mail when I'd passed through the lobby, and I didn't have to open the
envelopes to know the contents. Bills, bills, bills. I unlocked my door, tossed
the mail on the kitchen counter, and checked my answering machine for messages.
None. My hamster, Rex, was asleep in his soup can in his cage.

Hey,
Rex, I said. I'm home.

There
was a slight rustling of pine shavings but that was it. Rex wasn't much for
small talk. I went to the refrigerator to get him a grape and found a sticky
note tacked to the door. I'm bringing dinner. See you at six. The
note wasn't signed, but I knew it was from Morelli by the way my nipples got
hard.

I
threw the note into the trash and dropped the grape into Rex's cage. There was
a major upheaval of shavings. Rex appeared butt first, stuffed the grape into
his cheek pouch, blinked his shiny black eyes, twitched his whiskers at me, and
scooted back into the can.

I
took a shower, did the gel-and-blow-dry thing with my hair, dressed in jeans
and a denim shirt, and flopped onto the bed facedown to think. My usual thinking
position is on my back, but I didn't want to wreck my hair for Morelli.

The
first thing I thought about was Randy Briggs and how it would feel good to drag
him by his little feet down the stairs of his apartment building, with his
stupid melon head going bump, bump, bump on the steps.

Then
I thought about Uncle Fred, and I got a sharp pain in my left eyeball.
Why me? I said, but there was no one around to answer.

Truth
is, Fred wasn't exactly Indiana Jones, and I couldn't imagine anything other
than an Alzheimer's attack happening to Fred, in spite of the gory photographs.
I searched my mind for memories of him, but found very little. When he smiled
it was big and phony, and his false teeth made a clicking sound. And he walked
with his toes pointed out . . . like a duck. That was it. Those were my
memories of Uncle Fred.

I
dozed off while walking down memory lane, and suddenly I awoke with a start,
all senses alert. I heard the front door to my apartment click open, and my
heart started knocking around in my chest. I'd locked the door when I'd gotten
home. And now someone had opened it. And that someone was in my apartment. I
held my breath. Please, God, let it be Morelli. I didn't much like the idea of
Morelli sneaking into my apartment, but it was a lot more palatable than coming
face-to-face with some ugly, droolly guy who wanted to squeeze my neck until my
tongue turned purple.

I
scrambled to my feet and searched for a weapon, settling for a stiletto-heeled
pink-satin pump left over from a stint as bridesmaid for Charlotte Nagy. I
crept out of my bedroom, through the living room, and peeked into the kitchen.

It
was Ranger. And he was dumping the contents of a large plastic container into a
bowl.

Jesus,
I said, you scared the hell out of me. Why don't you try knocking next
time.

I
left you a note. I thought you'd be expecting me.

You
didn't sign the note. How was I supposed to know it was you?

He
turned and looked at me. Were there any other possibilities?

Morelli.

You
back with him?

Good
question. I glanced at the food. Salad. Morelli would have brought
sausage sandwiches.

That
stuff'll kill you, Babe.

We
were bounty hunters. People shot at us. And Ranger was worried about trans fats
and nitrates. I'm not sure our life expectancy is all that good
anyway, I said.

My
kitchen is small, and Ranger seemed to be taking up a lot of space, standing
very close. He reached around me and snagged two salad bowls from the
over-the-counter cabinet. It's not length of life that's important,
he said. It's the quality. The goal is to have purity of mind and
body.

Do
you have a pure mind and body?

Ranger
locked eyes with me. Not right now.

Hmm.

He
filled a bowl with salad and handed it to me. You need money.

Yes.

There
are lots of ways to make money.

I
stared down into my salad, pushing greens around with my fork.
True.

Ranger
waited for me to look up at him before he spoke. You sure you want to do
this?

No,
I'm not sure. I don't even know what we're talking about. I don't actually know
what it is that you do. I'm just searching for a second profession that'll
supplement my income.

Any
restrictions or preferences?

No
drugs or illegal gun sales.

Do
you think I'd deal drugs?

No.
That was thoughtless.

He
helped himself to salad. What I have going now is a renovation job.

This
sounded appealing. You mean like interior decorating?

Yeah.
Guess you could call it interior decorating.

I
tried the salad. It was pretty good, but it needed something. Croutons fried in
butter. Big chunks of fattening cheese. And beer. I looked in vain for another
bag. I checked the refrigerator. No beer there either.

This
is the way it works, Ranger said. I send a team in to renovate, and
then I place one or two people in the building to take care of long-term
maintenance. Ranger looked up from his food. You're keeping in
shape, right? You run?

Sure.
I run all the time. I run never. My idea of exercise is to barrel
through a shopping mall.

Ranger
gave me a dark look. You're lying.

Well,
I think about running.

He
finished his food and put the bowl in the dishwasher. I'll pick you up
tomorrow at five A.M.

Five
A.M.! To start an interior decorating job?

It's
the way I like to do it.

A
warning message flashed through my brain. Maybe I should know more—

It's
routine. Nothing special. He checked his watch. I have to go.
Business meeting.

I
didn't want to speculate on the nature of his business meeting.

I
BUZZED THE television on, but couldn't find anything to watch. No hockey. No
fun movies. I went to my shoulder bag and pulled out the large envelope from
the copier. I'm not sure why, but I'd made color copies of the pictures before
meeting Morelli. I'd been able to fit six photos to a page and had filled four
pages. I spread the pages on my dining-room table.

Not
nice stuff to look at.

When
the photos were laid out side-by-side, certain things became evident. I was
pretty sure there was only one body and that it wasn't the body of an old
person. No gray hair. And the skin was firm. Difficult to tell if it was a
woman or a young man. Some of the pictures had been taken quite close. Some
were from further away. It didn't look like the parts were ever rearranged. But
the bag was sometimes pulled down to reveal more.

Okay,
Stephanie, put yourself in the photographer's shoes. Why are you taking these
pictures? Trophy shots? I didn't think so, because none showed the face. And
there were twenty-four pictures here, so the roll was intact. If I wanted a
remembrance of this grisly act, I'd want a face shot. Ditto for proof that the
job had been done. Proof of a kill required a face shot. What was left? A
visual record by someone who didn't want to disturb the evidence. So maybe
Uncle Fred happened on a bag of body parts and ran out and got himself a
point-and-shoot. And then what? Then he put the pictures in his desk drawer and
disappeared while running errands.

That
was my best guess, as weak as it was. The truth is, the pictures could have
been taken five years ago. Someone could have given them to Fred for
safekeeping or as a macabre joke.

I
stuffed the prints back into their envelope and grabbed my shoulder bag. I
thought searching the neighborhood around Grand Union would be wasted effort,
but I felt the need to do it anyway.

I
drove to a residential area behind the strip mall and parked on the street. I
grabbed my flashlight and set out on foot, walking streets and back alleys,
looking behind bushes and trash cans, calling Fred's name. When I was a kid I
had a cat named Katherine. She showed up on our doorstep one day and refused to
leave. We started feeding her on the back porch, and then somehow she found her
way into the kitchen. She went out at night to roam the neighborhood, and slept
curled up in a ball on my bed during the day. One night Katherine went out and
never came back. For days I walked the streets and alleys, looking behind
bushes and trash cans, calling her name, just like I was doing now for Fred. My
mother said cats sometimes wander off like that when it's their time to die. I
thought it was a lot of hooey.

I
STUMBLED OUT of bed at four-thirty, staggered into the bathroom and stood in
the shower until my eyes opened. After a while my skin started to shrivel, and
I figured I was done. I toweled off and shook my head by way of styling my
hair. I didn't know what I was supposed to wear for interior decorating, so I
wore what I always wore . . . jeans and a T-shirt. And then to dress it up,
just in case this actually turned out to be interior decorating, I added a belt
and a jacket.

Ranger
was waiting in the parking lot when I swung out the back door. He was driving a
shiny black Range Rover with tinted side windows. Ranger's cars were always new
and their point of purchase was never easy to explain. Three men took up the
backseat. Two were black, one was of indeterminate origin. All three men had
Marine buzz cuts. All were wearing black SWAT pants and black T-shirts. All
were heavily muscled. Not an ounce of fat among them. None of them looked like
interior decorators.

I
buckled myself into the seat next to Ranger. Is that the interior
decorating team in the backseat?

Ranger
smiled in the predawn darkness and cruised out of the lot.

I'm
dressed different from everybody else, I said.

Ranger
stopped at the light on Hamilton. I've got a jacket and a vest for you in
the back.

This
isn't interior decorating, is it?

There's
all kinds of interior decorating, Babe.

About
the vest—

Kevlar.

Kevlar
was bulletproof. Rats, I said. I hate getting shot at. You
know how I hate getting shot at.

Just
a precaution, Ranger said. Probably no one will get shot.

Probably?

We
rode in silence through center city. Ranger was in his zone. Thinking private
thoughts. The guys in back looking like they had no thoughts at all—ever. And
me, debating jumping out of the car at the next light and running like hell
back to my apartment. And at the same time, as ridiculous as it sounds, I was
keeping an eye peeled for Fred. He was stuck in my brain. It was like that with
my cat, Katherine, too. She'd been gone fifteen years, but I always looked
twice when I caught a glimpse of a black cat. Unfinished business, I guess.

Where
are we going? I finally asked.

Apartment
building on Sloane. Gonna do some house cleaning.

Sloane
Street runs parallel and two blocks over from Stark. Stark is the worst street
in the city, filled with drugs and despair and feed-lot housing. The ghetto
gentrifies as the blocks march south, and much of Sloane is the demarcation
line between the lawless and the law-abiding. It's a constant struggle to hold
the line and keep the pushers and hookers off Sloane. And word is that lately
Sloane's been losing the battle.

Ranger
drove three blocks up Sloane and parked. He nodded at the yellow-brick building
across the street, two doors down. That's our building. We're going to
the third floor.

The
building was four stories tall, and I guessed there were two or three small
apartments on each floor. Ground-level brick was covered with gang graffiti.
Windows were dark. No street traffic. Wind-blown trash banked against curbs and
collected in doorways.

I
glanced from the building to Ranger. You sure this is legal?

Been
hired by the landlord, Ranger said.

Does
this housecleaning involve people or is it just . . . things?

Ranger
looked at me.

There's
a legal process involved in getting people and their possessions out of an
apartment, I said. You need to present an eviction notice
and—

The
legal process is moving a little slow, Ranger said. And in the
meantime, the kids in this building are being harassed by the people who come
to shoot up in 3C.

Think
of this as community service, one of the guys in the back said.

The
other two nodded. Yeah, they said. Community service.

I
cracked my knuckles and chewed on my lower lip.

Ranger
angled from behind the wheel, walked to the rear of the Range Rover, and opened
the door. He gave everyone a flak vest, and then he gave everyone a black
windbreaker that had SECURITY printed in large white letters on the back.

I
strapped my vest on and watched while everyone else buckled on black nylon web
utility belts and holstered guns.

Let
me take a wild guess here, Ranger said, slinging an arm around my
shoulder. You forgot to bring your gun.

Interior
decorators don't use guns.

They
do in this neighborhood.

The
men were lined up in front of me.

Gentlemen,
Ranger said, this is Ms. Plum.

The
indeterminate-origin guy put his hand out. Lester Santos.

The
next man in line did the same. Bobby Brown.

The
last man was Tank. It was easy to see how he'd come by the name.

I
better not get into trouble for this, I said to Ranger. I'm going
to be really bummed if I get arrested. I hate getting arrested.

Santos
grinned. Man, you don't like to get shot. You don't like to get arrested.
You don't know how to have fun at all.

Ranger
shrugged into his jacket and set off, crossing the street with the band of
merry men closing ranks behind him.

We
entered the building and climbed two flights of stairs. Ranger went to 3C and
listened at the door. The rest of us flattened against the wall. No one spoke.
Ranger and Santos stood, guns in hand. Brown and Tank held flashlights.

I
braced myself, expecting Ranger to kick the door down, but instead, he took a
key from his pocket and inserted it in the lock. The door started to open but
caught on a security chain. Ranger took two steps back and threw himself at the
door, catching the door at chain height with his shoulder. The door popped
open, and Ranger was in first. Then everyone was in except me. Lights flashed
on. Ranger shouted, Security! and everything was chaos. Half-naked
people were scrambling off floor mattresses. Women were shrieking. Men were
swearing.

Ranger's
team went room by room, cuffing people, lining them up against the living room
wall. Six people in all.

One
of the men was berserk, waving his arms to avoid getting cuffed. You
can't do this, you fuckers, he was yelling. This is my apartment.
This is private property. Somebody call the fucking police. He pulled a
knife from his pants pocket and flicked it open.

Tank
grabbed the guy by the back of his shirt, lifted him off his feet, and threw
him out the window.

Everyone
went still, staring dumbstruck at the shattered glass. My mouth was open and my
heart had gone dead in my chest.

Ranger
didn't look all that disturbed. Have to replace that window, he
said.

I
heard a groan and some scraping sounds. I crossed the room to the window and
looked out. The guy with the knife was spreadeagle on the fire escape, making
feeble attempts to right himself.

I
clapped a hand to my heart, relieved to find it had started beating again.
He's on the fire escape! God, for a minute there I thought you dumped him
three stories.

Tank
looked out the window with me. You're right. He's on the fire escape.
Sonovagun.

It
was a small apartment. One small bedroom, one small bath, small kitchen, small
living room. Kitchen counters were littered with fast-food wrappers and bags,
empty soda cans, food-encrusted plates, and cheap, dented pots. The Formica was
scarred with burn marks from cigarettes and crack cookers. Used syringes,
half-eaten bagels, filthy dish towels, and unidentifiable garbage clogged the
sink. Two stained and torn mattresses had been pushed against the wall in the
living room. No lamps, no tables, no chairs, no sign that civilized man
occupied the apartment. Just filth and clutter. The same refuse that banked
against gutters outside filled the rooms of 3C. The air was stale with the
odors of urine and pot and unwashed bodies and something nastier.

Santos
and Brown herded the bedraggled occupants into the hall and down the stairs.

What
happens to them now? I asked Ranger.

Bobby'll
drive them over to the meth clinic and drop them off. They're on their own from
there.

No
arrests?

We
don't do arrests. Not unless someone's FTA.

Tank
returned from the car with a cardboard box filled with interior decorating
supplies, which in this case consisted of disposable gloves, trash bags, and a
coffee can for syringes.

This
is the deal, Ranger said to me. We strip the apartment of
everything not nailed down. Tomorrow the landlord will bring someone in to
clean and do repairs.

What's
to stop the tenant from returning?

Ranger
just stared at me.

Right,
I said. Stupid question.

IT
WAS MIDMORNING when we went through with the broom. Santos and Brown had
positioned themselves on folding chairs in the small vestibule downstairs. They
were to take the first security shift. Tank was on his way to the landfill with
the mattresses and bags of garbage. Ranger and I were left to lock up the
apartment.

Ranger
angled the brim of a Navy SEALS ball cap to shade his eyes. So, he
said, what do you think of security work? You want to be on the team? I
can let you take the graveyard shift with Tank.

He
isn't going to throw any more people out windows, is he?

Hard
to say, Babe.

I
don't know if I'm cut out for this.

Ranger
took his SEALS hat off and put it on me, tucking my hair behind my ears,
letting his hands linger a moment too long. You have to believe in what
you're doing.

That
could be a problem. And Ranger could be a problem. I was feeling much too
attracted to him. Ranger wasn't listed under potential boyfriends in my
Rolodex. Ranger was listed under crazed mercenaries. An attraction to
Ranger would be like chasing after the doomsday orgasm.

I
took a steadying breath. I guess I could try a shift, I said.
See how it goes.

I
WAS STILL wearing the hat when Ranger dropped me off at my apartment. I removed
the cap and held it out to him. Don't forget your SEALS hat.

Ranger
looked at me from behind dark glasses. His eyes hidden. His thoughts
unreadable. His voice soft. Keep it. Looks good on you.

It's
a righteous hat.

He
smiled. Live up to it, Babe.

I
pushed through the double glass doors into the lobby. I was about to take the
stairs when the elevator opened and Mrs. Bestler leaned out. Going
up, she said. Step to the rear of the car.

Mrs.
Bestler was eighty-three and had an apartment on the third floor. When things
got boring she played elevator operator.

Morning,
Mrs. Bestler, I said. Second floor.

She
hit the two button and eyeballed me. Looks like you've been working.
Catch any bad guys today?

Helped
a friend clean an apartment.

Mrs.
Bestler smiled. What a good girl. The elevator stopped and the
doors opened. Second floor, Mrs. Bestler sang out. Better
dresses. Designer suits. Ladies' lounge.

I
let myself into my apartment and went straight to the phone machine and its
blinking red light.

I
had two messages. The first was from Morelli, and it was for dinner. Miss
Popularity, that's me.

Meet
you at Pino's at six, Morelli said.

Morelli's
invitations always produced mixed emotions. The initial reaction was a sexual
rush at the sound of his voice, the rush was followed by a queasy stomach while
I considered his motives, and the queasy stomach eventually gave way to
curiosity and anticipation. Ever the optimist.

The
second message was from Mabel. A man just came asking about Fred,
Mabel said. Something about a business deal, and he needed to find Fred
right away. I explained how I couldn't help him, but I said you were on the
job, so he shouldn't worry. I thought you might want to know.

I
called Mabel back and asked who the man was and what he looked like.

He
was about my height, she said. And he had brown hair.

Caucasian?

Yes.
And now that you mention it, he didn't give me his name.

What
kind of business deal was he talking about?

I
don't know. He didn't say.

Okay,
I said. Let me know if he bothers you again.

I
checked in with the office to see if there were any new FTAs and was told no
luck. I called my best friend, Mary Lou, but she couldn't talk because her
youngest kid was sick with a cold, and the dog had eaten a sock and had just
pooped it out on the living room rug.

I
was contemplating Rex's soup can with new appreciation when the phone rang.

I
got it, Grandma said. I got a name for you. I was at the beauty
parlor this morning getting a set, and Harriet Schnable was there for a perm,
and she said she heard at bingo that Fred's been paying calls on Winnie Black.
Harriet isn't one of those to make something of nothing.

Do
you know Winnie Black?

Only
through the seniors' club. She goes on the bus trip to Atlantic City sometimes.
Her and her husband, Axel. I guess that's how Fred meets most of his honeys
these days . . . at the seniors' meetings. A lot of those women are real hot to
trot, if you know what I mean. I even got Winnie's address, Grandma said.
I called Ida Lukach. She's the club's membership chairman. She knows
everything.

I
took down the address and thanked Grandma.

Personally,
I'm hoping it was aliens, Grandma said. But then I don't know what
they'd want with an old fart like Fred.

I
settled my new hat on my brown bear cookie jar and traded my jeans for a beige
suit and heels. I didn't know Winnie Black, and I thought it wouldn't hurt to
look professional. Sometimes people responded better to a suit than to jeans. I
grabbed my shoulder bag, locked the apartment, and joined Mrs. Bestler in the
elevator.

Did
he find you? Mrs. Bestler wanted to know.

Did
who find me?

There
was a man looking for you. Very polite. I let him off on your floor about ten
minutes ago.

He
never knocked on my door. I would have heard him. I was in the kitchen almost
the whole time.

Isn't
that odd. The elevator door opened to the lobby, and Mrs. Bestler smiled.
First floor. Ladies' handbags. Fine jewelry.

What
did the man look like? I asked Mrs. Bestler.

Oh,
dear, he was big. Very big. And dark-skinned. African-American.

Not
the man Mabel just called about. That guy was short and Caucasian.

Did
he have long hair? Maybe pulled back into a ponytail?

No.
He almost didn't have any hair at all.

I
did a fast check of the lobby. No big guy lurking in the corners. I exited the
building and looked around the lot. Nobody there either. My visitor had
disappeared. Too bad, I thought. I'd love an excuse not to visit Winnie Black.
I'd talk to a census taker, a vacuum-cleaner salesman, a religious zealot. All
preferable to Winnie Black. It was bad enough knowing cheapskate Uncle Fred had
a girlfriend. I really didn't want to see her. I didn't want to confront
Winnie Black and have to imagine her in the sack with duck-footed Fred.

WINNIE
LIVED IN a little bungalow on Low Street. White clapboard with blue shutters
and a red door. Very patriotic. I parked, marched up to her front door, and
rang the bell. I hadn't any idea what I was going to say to this woman.
Probably something like, Excuse me, are you going around the block with my
uncle Fred?

I
was about to ring a second time when the door opened and Winnie Black peered
out at me.

She
had a pleasant, round face and a pleasant, round body, and she didn't look like
the sort to boff someone's uncle.

I
introduced myself and gave her my card. I'm looking for Fred Shutz,
I said. He's been missing since Friday, and I was hoping you might be
able to give me some information.

The
pleasant expression froze on her face. I'd heard he was missing, but I
don't know what I can tell you.

When
did you see him last?

The
day he disappeared. He stopped by for some coffee and cake. He did that
sometimes. It was right after lunch. And he stayed for about an hour. Axel, my
husband, was out getting the tires rotated on the Chrysler.

Axel
was getting his tires rotated. Unh! Mental head slap. Did Fred seem sick
or worried? Did he give any indication that he might be going off
somewhere?

He
was . . . distracted. He said he had something big going on.

Did
he say any more about it?

No.
But I got the feeling it had to do with the garbage company. He was having a
problem with his account. Something about the computer deleting his name from
the customer list. And Fred said he had the goods on them, and he was going to
make out in spades. Those were his exact words—'make out in spades.' I guess he
never got to the garbage company.

How
do you know he never got to the garbage company? I asked Winnie.

Winnie
seemed surprised at the question. Everyone knows.

No
secrets in the Burg.

One
other thing, I said. I found some photographs on Fred's desk. Did
Fred ever mention any photographs to you?

No.
Not that I can think of. Were these family photographs?

They
were pictures of a garbage bag. And in some of the pictures you could see the
bag's contents.

No.
I would have remembered something like that.

I
looked over her shoulder into the interior of her neat little house. No husband
in sight. Is Axel around?

He's
at the park with the dog.

I
got back in the Buick and drove two blocks to the park. It was a patch of
well-tended grass, two blocks long and a block wide. There were benches and
flower beds and large trees, and there was a small kids' play area at one end.

It
wasn't hard to spot Axel Black. He was sitting on a bench, lost in thought,
with his dog at his side. The dog was a small mutt type, sitting there, eyes
glazed, looking a lot like Axel. The difference was that Axel had glasses and
the dog had hair.

I
parked the car and approached the two. Neither moved, even when I was standing
directly in front of them.

Axel
Black? I asked.

He
looked up at me. Yes?

I
introduced myself and gave him my card. I'm looking for Fred Shutz,
I said. And I've been talking to some of the seniors who might have known
Fred.

Bet
they've been giving you an earful, Axel said. Old Fred was a real
character. Cheapest man who ever walked the earth. Argued over every nickel.
Never contributed to anything. And he thought he was a Romeo, too. Always
cozying up to some woman.

Doesn't
sound like you thought much of him.

Had
no use for the man, Axel said. Don't wish him any harm, but don't
like him much either. The truth is, he was shifty.

You
have any idea what happened to him?

Think
he might have paid too much attention to the wrong woman.

I
couldn't help thinking maybe he was talking about Winnie as being the wrong
woman. And maybe he ran Fred over with his Chrysler, picked him up, shoved him
in the trunk, and dumped him into the river.

That
didn't explain the photographs, but maybe the photographs had nothing to do
with Fred's disappearance.

Well,
I said, if you think of anything, let me know.

You
bet, Axel said.

Fred's
sons, Ronald and Walter, were next on my list. Ronald was the line foreman at
the pork roll factory. Walter and his wife, Jean, owned a convenience store on
Howard Street. I thought it wouldn't hurt to talk to Walter and Ronald. Mostly
because when my mother asked me what I was doing to find Uncle Fred I needed to
have something to say.

Walter
and Jean had named their store the One-Stop. It was across the street from a
twenty-four-hour supermarket and would have been driven out of business long
ago were it not for the fact that in one stop customers could purchase a loaf
of bread, play the numbers, and put down twenty dollars on some nag racing at
Freehold.

Walter
was behind the register reading the paper when I walked into the store. It was
early afternoon, and the store was empty. Walter put the paper down and got to
his feet. Did you find him?

No.
Sorry.

He took
a deep breath. Jesus. I thought you were coming to tell me he was
dead.

Do
you think he's dead?

I
don't know what I think. In the beginning I figured he just wandered off. Had
another stroke or something. But now I can't figure it. None of it makes
sense.

Do
you know anything about Fred having problems with his garbage company?

Dad
had problems with everyone, Walter said.

I
said good-bye to Walter, fired up the Buick, and drove across town to the pork
roll factory. I parked in a visitor slot, went inside, and asked the woman at
the front desk to pass a note through to Ronald.

Ronald
came out a few minutes later. I guess this is about Dad, he said.
Nice of you to help us look for him. I can't believe he hasn't turned up
by now.

Do
you have any theories?

None
I'd want to say out loud.

The
women in his life?

Ronald
shook his head. He was a pip. Cheap as they come and could never keep his
pecker in his pants. I don't know if he can still fire up the old engine, but
he's still running around. Christ, he's seventy-two years old.

Do
you know anything about a disagreement with the garbage company?

No,
but he's had a year-long feud with his insurance company.

I
LEFT THE pork roll factory's parking lot and headed across town. It was almost
five and government workers were clogging the roads. That was one of the many
good things about Trenton. If you needed to practice Italian hand signals,
there was no shortage of deserving bureaucrats.

I
made a fast stop back at my apartment for some last-minute beautifying. I added
an extra layer of mascara, fluffed my hair, and headed out.

Morelli
was at the bar when I got to Pino's. He had his back to me, and he was lost in
thought, elbows on the bar, head bent over his beer. He wore jeans and running
shoes and a green plaid flannel shirt unbuttoned over a Gold's Gym T-shirt. A
woman at the opposite end of the bar was watching him in the behind-the-bar
mirror. Women did that now. They watched and wondered. When he was younger and
his features were softer, women did more than watch. When he was younger,
mothers statewide warned their daughters about Joe Morelli. And when he was
younger, daughters statewide didn't give a darn what their mothers told them.
Morelli's features were more angular these days. His eyes were less inviting to
strangers. Women included. So women watched and wondered what it would be like
to be with Morelli.

I
knew, of course, what it was like to be with Morelli. Morelli was magic.

I
took the stool next to him and waved a beer, please signal to the
bartender.

Morelli
gave me an appraising look, his eyes dilated black in the dim bar light.
Business suit and heels, he said. That means you've either
been to a wake, a job interview, or you tried to trick some nice old lady out
of information she shouldn't be giving you.

Door
number three.

Let
me guess . . . this has to do with your uncle Fred.

Bingo,

Having
any luck?

Hard
to say. Did you know Fred fooled around? He had a girlfriend.

Morelli
grinned. Fred Shutz? Hell, that's encouraging.

I
rolled my eyes.

He
took our beer glasses off the bar and motioned to the area set aside for
tables. If I was Mabel I'd be happy Fred was going elsewhere, he
said. I don't think Fred looks like a lot of fun.

Especially
since he collects pictures of dismembered bodies.

I
gave the pictures to Arnie. He didn't look happy. I think he was hoping Fred
would turn up hitching a ride down Klockner Boulevard.

Is
Arnie going to do anything on this?

He'll
probably go back and talk to Mabel some more. Run the photos through the system
to see what comes up.

Did
you already run them through?

Yeah.
And I didn't get anything.

There
was nothing fancy about Pino's. At certain times of the day the bar was filled
with cops unwinding after their shift. And at other times of the day the tables
set aside for diners were filled with hungry Burg families. In between those
times, Pino's was home to a few regular drunks, and the kitchen was taken over
by cockroaches as big as barn cats. I ate at Pino's in spite of the roach rumor
because Anthony Pino made the best pizza in Trenton. Maybe in all of Jersey.

Morelli
gave his order and tipped back in his chair. How friendly are you feeling
toward me?

What'd
you have in mind?

A
date.

I
thought this was a date.

No.
This is dinner, so I can ask you about the date.

I
sipped at my beer. Must be some date.

It's
a wedding.

I
sat up straighter in my chair. It isn't my wedding, is it?

Not
unless there's something going on in your life that I don't know about.

I
blew out a sigh of relief. Wow. For a minute there I was worried.

Morelli
looked annoyed. You mean if I asked you to marry me, that's the reaction
I'd get?

Well,
yeah.

I
thought you wanted to get married. I thought that was why we stopped sleeping
together . . . because you didn't want sex without marriage.

I
leaned forward on the table and cocked a single eyebrow at him. Do you
want to get married?

No,
I don't want to get married. We've been all through this.

Then
my reaction doesn't matter, does it?

Jesus,
Morelli said. I need another beer.

So
what's with the wedding?

My
cousin Julie's getting married on Saturday, and I need a date.

You're
giving me four days' notice to go to a wedding? I can't be ready for a wedding
in four days. I need a new dress and shoes. I need a beauty parlor appointment.
How am I going to do all this with four days' notice?

Okay,
fuck it, we won't go, Morelli said.

I
guess I could do without the beauty parlor, but I definitely need new
shoes.

Heels,
Morelli said. High and spiky.

I
fiddled with my beer glass. I wasn't your last choice, was I?

You're
my only choice. If my mother hadn't called this morning I wouldn't have
remembered the wedding at all. This case I'm on is getting to me.

Want
to talk about it?

That's
the last thing I want to do.

How
about Uncle Fred, want to talk about him some more?

The
playboy.

Yeah.
I don't understand how he could just disappear.

People
disappear all the time, Morelli said. They get on a bus and start
life over. Or they jump off a bridge and float out with the tide. Sometimes
people help them disappear.

This
is a man in his seventies who was too cheap to buy a bus ticket and would have
had to walk miles to find a bridge. He left his cleaning in the car. He disappeared
in the middle of running errands.

We
both momentarily fell silent while our pizza was placed on the table.

He'd
just come from the bank, Morelli said when we were alone. He was an
old man. An easy mark. Someone could have driven up to him and forced him into
their car.

There
were no signs of struggle.

That
doesn't mean one didn't take place.

I
chewed on that while I ate my pizza. I'd had the same thought, and I didn't
like it.

I
told Morelli about my conversation with Winnie Black.

She
know anything about the pictures?

No.

One
other thing, Morelli said. I wanted to tell you about Benito
Ramirez.

I
looked up from the pizza. Benito Ramirez was a heavyweight professional boxer
from Trenton. He liked to punish people and didn't limit the punishing to
inside the ring. He liked to beat up on women. Liked to hear them beg while he
inflicted his own brand of sick torture. And in fact, I knew some of that
torture had ended in death, but there'd always been camp followers who'd gotten
posthumous credit for the worst of Ramirez's crimes. He'd been involved in my
very first case as a bounty hunter, and I'd been instrumental in putting him
behind bars. His incarceration hadn't come soon enough for Lula. Ramirez had
almost killed her. He'd raped her and beat her and cut her in terrible places.
And then he'd left her naked, bloody body on my fire escape for me to find.

What
about Ramirez? I asked Morelli.

He's
out.

Out
where?

Out
of jail.

What?
What do you mean, he's out of jail? He almost killed Lula. And he was involved
in a whole bunch of other murders. Not to mention that he'd stalked and
terrorized me.

He's
released on parole, doing community service, and getting psychiatric
counseling. Morelli paused to pull off another piece of pizza. He
had a real good lawyer.

Morelli
had said this very matter of fact, but I knew he didn't feel matter of fact.
He'd put on his cop face. The one that shut out emotion. The one with the hard
eyes that gave nothing away.

I
made a display of eating. Like I wasn't too bothered by this news either. When
in fact, nausea was rolling through my stomach. When did this
happen? I asked Morelli.

Yesterday.

And
he's in town?

Just
like always. Working out in the gym on Stark.

A
big man, Mrs. Bestler had said. African-American. Polite. Prowling in my hall.
Sweet Jesus, it might have been Ramirez.

If
you even suspect he's anywhere near you, I want to know, Morelli said.

I'd
shoved another piece of pizza into my mouth, but I was having a hard time
swallowing. Sure.

We
finished the pizza and dawdled over coffee.

Maybe
you should spend the night with me, Morelli said. Just in case
Ramirez decides to look you up.

I
knew Morelli had other things in mind beyond my safety. And it was a tempting
offer. But I'd already taken that bus, and it seemed like a ride that went
nowhere. Can't, I said. I'm working tonight.

I
thought things were slow.

This
isn't for Vinnie. This is for Ranger.

Morelli
did a little grimace. I'm afraid to ask.

It's
nothing illegal. It's a security job.

It
always is, Morelli said. Ranger does all kinds of security. Ranger
keeps small Third World countries secure.

This
has nothing to do with gunrunning. This is legitimate. We're doing front-door
security for an apartment building on Sloane.

Sloane?
Are you crazy? Sloane's at the edge of the war zone.

That's
why the building needs policing.

Fine.
Let Ranger get someone else. Trust me, you don't want to be out looking for a parking
place on Sloane in the middle of the night.

I
won't have to look for a parking place. Tank's picking me up.

You're
working with a guy named Tank?

He's
big.

Jesus,
Morelli said. I had to fall in love with a woman who works with a guy
named Tank.

You
love me?

Of
course I love you. I just don't want to marry you.

I
STEPPED OUT of the elevator and saw him sitting on the floor in the hall, next
to my door. And I knew he was Mabel's visitor. I stuck my hand in my shoulder
bag, searching for my pepper spray. Just in case. I rooted around in the bag
for a minute or two, finding lipsticks and hair rollers and my stun gun, but no
pepper spray.

Either
you're searching for your keys or your pepper spray, the guy said,
getting to his feet. So let me help you out, here. He reached into
his pocket, pulled out a canister of pepper spray, and tossed it to me.
Be my guest, he said. And then he pushed my door open.

How'd
you do that? My door was locked.

God-given
talent, he said. I thought it would save time if I searched your
apartment before you got home.

I
shook the spray to make sure it was live.

Hey,
don't get all bent out of shape, he said. I didn't wreck anything.
Although, I have to tell you, I did have fun in your panty drawer.

Instinct
said he was playing with me. There was no doubt in my mind he'd gone through my
apartment, but I doubted he lingered with my lingerie. Truth is, I didn't have
a lot and what I had wasn't especially exotic. I felt violated all the same,
and I would have sprayed him on the spot, but I didn't trust the spray in my
hand. It was his, after all.

He
rocked back on his heels. Well, aren't you going to ask me in? Don't you
want to know my name? Don't you want to know why I'm here?

Talk
to me.

Not
here, he said. I want to go in and sit down. I've had a long
day.

Forget
it. Talk to me here.

I
don't think so. I want to go inside. It's more civilized. It would be like we
were friends.

We're
not friends. And if you don't talk to me right now, I'm going to gas you.

He
was about my height, five-foot-seven, and built like a fireplug. It was hard to
tell his age. Maybe late thirties. His brown hair was receding. His eyebrows
looked like they'd been fed steroids. He was wearing ratty running shoes, black
Levi's, and a dark gray sweatshirt.

He
gave a big sigh and hauled a .38 out from under the sweatshirt. Using the
pepper spray wouldn't be a good idea, he said, because then I'd
have to shoot you.

My
stomach dropped an inch and my heart started banging in my chest. I thought
about the pictures and how someone had gotten themselves killed and mutilated.
Fred had gotten involved somehow. And now I was involved, too. And there was a
reasonable chance that I was being held at gunpoint by a guy who was on a
first-name basis with the photographed garbage bag.

If
you shoot me in the hall, my neighbors will be all over you, I said.

Fine.
Then I'll shoot them, too.

I
didn't like the idea of him shooting someone, especially me, so we both went
into my apartment.

This
is much better, he said, heading for the kitchen, opening the
refrigerator and getting a beer.

Where'd
that beer come from?

It
came from me. Where do you think, the beer fairy? Lady, you need to go food
shopping. It's unhealthy to live like this.

Who
are you?

He
shoved the gun under his waistband and stuck his hand out. I'm
Bunchy.

What
kind of a name is Bunchy?

When
I was a kid I had this underwear problem.

Ugh.
You have a real name?

Yeah,
but you don't need to know it. Everybody calls me Bunchy.

I
was feeling better now that the gun wasn't pointed at me. Feeling good enough
to be curious. So what's this business deal with Fred?

Well,
the truth is, Fred owes me some money.

Uh-huh.

And
I want it.

Good
luck.

He
chugged half a bottle of beer. Now, see, that's not a good
attitude.

How
did Fred come to owe you money?

Fred
likes to play the ponies once in a while.

Are
you telling me you're Fred's bookie?

Yeah,
that's what I'm telling you.

I
don't believe you. Fred didn't gamble.

How
do you know?

Besides,
you don't look like a bookie, I said.

How
do bookies look?

Different.
More respectable.

I
figure you're looking for Fred, and I'm looking for Fred, and maybe we can look
for Fred together.

Sure.

See,
that wasn't so difficult.

Are
you gonna go now?

Unless
you want me to stay and watch television.

No.

I
got a better television, anyway, he said.

AT
12:30 I was downstairs, waiting for Tank. I'd taken a nap, and I was feeling
halfway alert. I was dressed in black jeans, black T-shirt, Ranger's SEALS hat,
and the black SECURITY jacket. At Ranger's request, I had my gun clipped to my
belt, and my shoulder bag held the other essentials—stun gun, pepper spray,
flashlight, and cuffs.

The
lot was eerie at this time of the night. The seniors' cars were fast asleep,
their hoods and roofs reflecting light from the halogen floods. The macadam
looked mercurial. The neighborhood of small single-family houses behind my
building was dark and quiet. Occasionally there was the whir of traffic on St.
James. Headlights flashed at the corner and a car turned into my lot. I had a
moment of stomach-fluttering panic that this wasn't Tank, that this might be
Benito Ramirez. I held my ground, thinking about the gun on my hip, telling
myself I was cool, I was bad, I was a dangerous woman not to be messed with.
Make my day, punk, I thought. Yeah, right. If it turned out to be Ramirez I'd
wet my pants and run screaming back into the building.

The
car was black and shiny. An SUV. It rolled to a stop in front of me, and the
driver's side window slid down.

Tank
looked out. Ready to rock and roll?

I
took the seat beside him and buckled up. Do you expect a lot of rockin'
and rollin' tonight?

I
expect none. Working this shift is like watching grass grow.

That
was a relief. I had a lot to think about, and I didn't especially want to see
Tank in action. Even more, I didn't want to see myself in action.

I
don't suppose you know a bookie named Bunchy, do you?

Bunchy?
Nope. Never heard of him. He local?

Actually,
I'm not sure.

The
ride across town was quiet. One vehicle was parked at the curb in front of the
Sloane Street apartment building. It was another new black SUV. Tank parked
behind it. Beyond the building on either side and across the street, cars lined
the curb.

One
of the things we like to enforce is a no-parking zone in front of the
building, Tank said. Keeps things clean. The tenants have parking
behind the building. Only security vehicles are allowed here at the door.

And
if someone wants to park here?

We
discourage it.

Master
of understatement.

Two
men were in the lobby. They were dressed in black, wearing the SECURITY
jackets. One came forward when we approached and unlocked the door.

Tank
stepped in and looked around. Anything happening?

Nothing.
Been quiet all night.

When
was the last time you walked?

Twelve.

Tank
nodded.

The
men gathered their belongings—a large Thermos, a book, and a gym bag—and pushed
through the lobby door. They stood for a moment on the street, taking it in,
before climbing into their SUV and motoring off.

A
small table and two folding chairs had been placed against the far lobby wall,
enabling the security team to watch both the door and the stairs. There were
two walkie-talkies on the table.

Tank
locked the front door, took one of the walkie-talkies, and clipped it to his
belt. I'm going to do a walk-through. You stay here and keep your eye on
things. Call me if anyone approaches the door.

I
sent him a salute.

Snappy,
he said. I like that.

I
sat in the folding chair and watched the door. No one approached. I watched the
stairs. Nothing going on there, either. I checked out my manicure. Not great. I
looked at my watch. Two minutes had gone by—478 minutes more and I could go
home.

Tank
ambled down the stairs and took his seat. Everything's cool.

Now
what?

Now
we wait.

For
what?

For
nothing.

Two
hours later, Tank was comfortably slouched in his chair, arms crossed, eyes
slitted but vigilant, watching the door. His metabolism had dropped to
reptilian. No rise and fall of his chest. No shifting of position—250 pounds of
security in suspended animation.

I,
on the other hand, had given up trying to keep from falling off my chair and
was stretched out on the floor where I could doze without killing myself.

I
heard Tank's chair creak. Heard him lean forward. I opened an eye. Time
for another walk-through?

Tank
was on his feet. Someone's at the door.

I
sat up to see, and BANG! There was the loud discharge of a gun, and then
the sound of glass shattering. Tank pitched back, hit the table, and crashed to
the floor.

The
gunman rushed into the lobby, gun still in hand. It was the man Tank had thrown
through the window, the occupant of apartment 3C. His eyes were wild, his face
pale. Drop the gun, he yelled at me. Drop the fucking
gun.

I
looked down, and sure enough, I was holding my gun. You aren't going to
shoot me, are you? I asked, my voice sounding hollow in my head.

He
was wearing a long raincoat. He ripped the coat open and held it wide to show a
bunch of packets duct-taped to his body. You see this? These are
explosives. You don't do what I say, and I'll blow us up.

I
heard a clunk and realized the gun had slipped from my fingers and fallen onto
the floor.

I
need to get into my apartment, he said. I need to get in now.

It's
locked.

So
get a key.

I
don't have a key.

Jesus,
he said, so kick the damn door down.

Me?

You
see anyone else here?

I
looked down at Tank. He wasn't moving.

The
raincoat guy waved his gun in the direction of the stairs. Move.

I
edged around him and took the stairs to the third floor. I stood in front of
the door to 3C and tried the handle. Locked, all right.

Kick
it in, the raincoat guy said.

I
gave it a kick.

Christ!
That's not a kick. Don't you know anything? Don't you watch television?

I
took a couple of steps back and hurled myself at the door. I hit sideways and
bounced off. Nothing happened to the door. That worked when Ranger did
it, I said.

The
raincoat guy was sweating, and the gun was shaking in his hand. He turned to
the door, aimed the gun with two hands, and squeezed the trigger twice. Wood
splintered, and there was the sound of metal on metal. He kicked the door at
lock height, and the door crashed open. He jumped in, hit the light switch, and
looked everywhere at once. What happened to my stuff ?

We
cleaned the apartment.

He
ran into the bedroom and bathroom and back to the living room. He opened all
the cabinet doors in the kitchen. You had no right, he screamed at
me. You had no right to take my stuff.

There
wasn't much.

There
was a lot! Do you know what I had here? I had good stuff. I had pure. Jesus, do
you know how bad I need a hit?

Listen,
how about if I drive you to the clinic. Get you some help.

I
don't want the clinic. I want my stash.

The
occupant of apartment 3A opened her door. What's going on?

Get
back in your apartment and lock your door, I said. We have a little
problem here.

The
door slammed shut and the lock clicked.

The
raincoat guy was running around in his apartment again. Jesus, he
was saying. Jesus. Jesus.

Another
woman appeared in the hall. She was frail and stooped. Her age had to be
upwards of a hundred. Her short white hair stuck up in tufts. She was dressed
in a worn pink flannel nightgown and big fuzzy slippers. I can't sleep
with all this racket, she said. I've lived in this building for
forty-three years, and I've never seen such goings-on. This used to be a nice
neighborhood.

The
raincoated guy whipped around, pointed his gun at the woman, and fired. The
bullet tore into the wall behind her.

Bite
me, the old lady said, pulling a nickel-plated 9mm from somewhere in the
folds of her nightgown, aiming the gun two-handed.

No!
I yelled. Don't shoot. He's wired with—

Too
late. The old lady drilled the guy, the sound of my voice lost in the blast.

I
WOKE UP strapped to a gurney. I was in the apartment-house lobby, and the lobby
was filled with people, mostly cops. Morelli's face swam into focus. He was
moving his mouth, but he wasn't saying anything.

What?
I yelled. Speak up.

He
shook his head, waved his hands, and I saw him mouth, Take her
away. A paramedic rolled the gurney out of the lobby into the night air.
We clattered over the sidewalk, and then I felt myself lifted into the
ambulance, the flashing strobes blinding against the black sky.

Hey,
wait a minute, I said. I'm fine. Let me up. Untie these
straps.

IT
WAS MIDMORNING when I was released from the hospital. I was dressed and pacing
when Morelli strode into my room with my discharge papers.

They're
letting you go, he said. If I had my way, I'd move you upstairs to
psychiatric.

I
stuck my tongue out at him because I was feeling exceptionally mature. I
grabbed my bag, and we fled the room before the nurse arrived with the
mandatory wheelchair.

I
have a lot of questions, I said to Morelli.

He
steered me toward the elevator. I have a few of my own. Like, what the
hell happened?

Me
first. I need to know about Tank. No one will tell me anything. Is he, um, you
know—?

Dead?
No. Unfortunately. He was wearing a flak vest. The impact of the bullet knocked
him back and stunned him. He hit his head when he fell and was out for a while,
but he's fine. And by the way, where were you when he was shot?

I
was stretched out on the floor. It was past my bedtime.

Morelli
grinned. Let me get this straight. You didn't get shot because you fell
asleep on the job?

Something
like that. It sounded better the way I phrased it. What about the guy with the
bomb?

So
far they've found a shoe and a belt buckle in the vicinity of what's left of
the apartment—which, by the way, isn't much—and some teeth on Stark
Street.

The
elevator door opened, and we both stepped in.

You're
kidding about the teeth, right?

Morelli
grimaced and pushed the button.

Nobody
else hurt?

No.
The old lady got knocked on her ass just like you. Can you corroborate her
story that it was self-defense?

Yeah.
The drug guy got a round off before she blew him up. It should be embedded in
the wall . . . if the wall's still there.

We
exited the downstairs lobby and crossed the street to Morelli's truck.

Now
what? Morelli asked. Your place? Your mother's house? My place?
You're welcome to stay with me if you're feeling shaky.

Thanks,
but I need to go home. I want to take a shower and change my clothes.
Then I wanted to go look for Fred. I was antsy to retrace Fred's steps. I
wanted to stand in the parking lot where he'd disappeared and get psychic
vibes. Not that I'd ever gotten psychic vibes from anything before, but hey,
there's always a first time. By the way, do you know a bookie named
Bunchy?

No.
What's he look like?

Average
short Italian guy. Forty, maybe.

Doesn't
do anything for me. How do you know him?

He
visited Mabel, and then he visited me. He claims Fred owes him money.

Fred?

If
Fred wanted to play the horses, why wouldn't he place his bets with his
son?

Because
he doesn't want anyone to know he's gambling?

Oh,
yeah. I didn't think of that. Duh.

I
talked to your doctor, Morelli said. He told me you're supposed to
stay quiet for a couple days. And he said the ringing in your ears should
diminish over time.

The
ringing's already a lot better.

Morelli
glanced at me sideways. You're not going to stay quiet, are you?

Define
'quiet.'

At
home, reading, watching television.

I
might do some of that.

Morelli
pulled into my parking lot and rolled to a stop. When you're up to it,
you need to stop in at the station and make a formal report.

I
jumped out. Okay.

Hold
it, Morelli said, I'll go up with you.

Not
necessary. Thanks anyway. I'm fine.

Morelli
was grinning again. Afraid you might lose control in the hall and beg me
to come in and make love to you?

In
your dreams, Morelli.

When
I got up to my apartment the red light on my phone machine was blinking,
blinking, blinking. And Bunchy was asleep on my couch.

What
are you doing here? I yelled at him. Get up! Get out! This isn't
the Hotel Ritz. And do you realize what you're doing is breaking and
entering?

Boy,
don't get your panties in a bunch, he said, getting to his feet.
Where have you been? I got worried about you. You didn't come home last
night.

What
are you, my mother?

Hey,
I'm concerned, that's all. You should be happy to have a friend like me.
He looked around. Do you see my shoes?

You
are not my friend. And your shoes are under the coffee table.

He
retrieved the shoes and laced them up. So where were you?

I
had a job. I was moonlighting.

Must
have been some job. Your mother called and said she heard you blew someone
up.

You
talked to my mother?

She
left a message on your machine. He was looking around again. Do you
see my gun?

I
turned on my heel and went in to the kitchen to play my messages.

Stephanie,
it's your mother. What's this about an explosion? Edna Gluck heard from her
son, Ritchie, that you blew someone up? Is this true? Hello? Hello?

Bunchy
was right. Damn that big-mouth Ritchie.

I
played the second message. Breathing. As was message number three.

What's
with the breathing? Bunchy wanted to know, standing in the middle of my
kitchen floor, hands stuck in his pockets, his rumpled, beyond-faded, plaid
flannel shirt hanging loose.

Wrong
number.

You'd
tell me if you had a problem, right? Because, you know, I have a way of solving
problems like that.

No
doubt in my mind. He didn't look like a bookie, but I had no trouble at all
believing he could solve that kind of problem. Why are you
here?

He
prowled through my cabinets, looking for food, finding nothing that interested
him. Guess he wasn't crazy about hamster pellets.

I
wanted to know if you found anything, he said. Like, do you have
clues or something?

No.
No clues. Nothing.

I
thought you were supposed to be this hotshot detective.

I'm
not a detective at all. I'm a bail enforcement agent.

Bounty
hunter.

Yeah.
Bounty hunter.

So,
that's okay. You go out and find people. That's what we want to have happen
here.

How
much money did Fred owe you?

Enough
that I want it. Not enough to make a man feel like he had to disappear. I'm a
pretty nice guy, you know. It isn't like I go around breaking people's knees
'cause they don't pay up. Well, okay, so sometimes I might break a knee, but
it's not like it happens every day.

I
rolled my eyes.

You
know what I think you should do? Bunchy said. I think you should go
check at his bank. See if he's taken any money out. I can't do things like that
on account of I look like I might break people's knees. But you're a pretty
girl. You probably got a friend works in the bank. People would want to do a
favor for you.

I'll
think about it. Now go away.

Bunchy
ambled to the door. He took a beat-up brown leather jacket from one of the pegs
on the wall and turned to look at me. His expression was serious. Find
him.

What
hung unsaid in the air was . . . or else.

I
slipped the bolt behind him. First chance I had I was going to have to get a
new lock. Surely someone made a lock that actually kept people out.

I
called my mother back and explained to her that I hadn't blown someone up. He'd
sort of blown himself up with some help from an old lady in a pink nightgown.

You
could have a good job, my mother said. You could take lessons from
that place that advertises on television and teaches you to be a computer
operator.

I
have to go now.

How
about dinner. I'm making a nice pot roast with potatoes and gravy.

I
don't think so.

Pineapple
upside-down cake for dessert.

Okay.
I'll be there at six.

I
erased the breathing messages and told myself they were wrong numbers. But in
my heart, I knew the breather.

I
double-checked all the locks on my door, and I checked to make sure my windows
were secure and no one was hiding in a closet or under the bed. I took a long,
hot shower, wrapped myself in a towel, stepped out of the bathroom . . . and
came face-to-face with Ranger.

YIKES! I JUMPED back and clapped
my hand to my chest, tightening my towel. What are you doing here?
I yelled at Ranger.

His eyes dropped to the towel and then back to my
face. Returning your hat, Babe. He put the SEALS hat on my head and
adjusted it over my damp hair. You left it in the lobby.

Oh. Thanks.

Ranger smiled.

What? I asked.

Cute, Ranger said.

I narrowed my eyes. Anything else?

You doing the shift with Tank tonight?

You're still policing that building?

It's got a big hole in it, Babe. Gotta keep the
bad guys out.

I'll pass on that one.

No problem. I have other jobs you can try
on.

Oh, yeah? Like what?

Ranger shrugged. Things turn up. He
reached behind him and came up with a gun. My gun. Found this in the
lobby, too. He tucked the gun under the top edge of my towel, wedging it
between my breasts, his knuckles brushing against me.

My breath caught in my throat, and for a moment I
thought my towel might catch fire.

Ranger smiled again. And I did more eye narrowing.

I'll be in touch, Ranger said.

And then he was gone.

Dang. I carefully extracted the gun from the towel
and put it in the cookie jar in the kitchen. Then I went back to my door to
examine the locks. Worthless pieces of junk. I locked them anyway, including
the bolt. I didn't know what more I could do.

I went into the bedroom, dropped the towel, and
shimmied into a sports bra and jockey bikinis. This wasn't going to be one of
those silk and lace days. This was going to be a no-nonsense jockey day all the
way through.

Half an hour later, I was out the door, dressed in
jeans and a denim shirt. I buckled myself into Big Blue and motored out of the
lot. Two blocks later, I turned onto Hamilton and noticed a car close on my
tail. I swiveled in my seat and looked at the driver. Bunchy. I pressed my lips
together, getting a smile and a wave from him. This guy was unreal. He'd pulled
a gun on me, and probably he had something to do with the body in the garbage
bag, but I was having a hard time working up any real fear of him. In all
honesty, he was sort of likeable . . . in an annoying kind of way.

I swerved to the curb, yanked the emergency brake up,
got out, and stomped over. What are you doing? I shouted into his
window.

Following you.

Why?

I don't want to miss anything. In case you get
lucky and find Fred, I want to be there.

I don't know how to break this to you, but
between you and me, I think it's unlikely that Fred is going to be in any shape
to repay your money if and when I find him.

You think he's fish food?

It's a possibility.

He shrugged. Call me crazy, but I'm an
optimist.

Fine. Go be an optimist someplace else. I don't
like you following me around. It's creepy.

I won't be any bother. You won't even know I'm
here.

You're driving six inches from my rear. How am
I going to not know you're here?

Don't look in your mirror.

And I don't think you're a bookie,
either, I said. Nobody knows you. I've been asking around.

He smiled, like this was pretty funny. Oh,
yeah? Who do you think I am?

I don't know.

Let me know when you find out.

Asshole.

Sticks and stones, Bunchy said. And
I bet your mother wouldn't like you using that language.

I huffed off to the Buick, jammed myself behind the
wheel, and drove to the office.

You see that guy parked behind me? I
asked Lula.

The one in the piece-of-shit brown Dodge?

His name's Bunchy, and he says he's a
bookie.

He don't look like no bookie to me, Lula
said. And I never heard of anyone named Bunchy.

Connie squinted out the window, too. I don't
recognize him, either, she said. And if he's a bookie, he's not
doing all that good.

He says Fred owes him money, and he's following
me in case I find Fred.

Does that float your boat? Lula wanted to
know.

No. I need to get rid of him.

Permanently? 'Cause I got a friend—

No! Just for the rest of the day.

Lula took another look at Bunchy. If I shoot
out his tires, will he shoot back?

Probably.

I don't like when they shoot back, Lula
said.

I thought maybe I could trade cars with
you.

Trade my Firebird for that whale you drive? I
don't think so. Friendship don't go that far.

Fine! Great! Forget I asked!

Hold on, Lula said. Don't have to
go getting all snippy. I'll have a talk with him. I can be real
persuasive.

You aren't going to threaten him, are
you?

I don't threaten people. What kind of woman you
think I am?

Connie and I watched her sashay out the office over
to the car. We knew what kind of woman she was.

Lula was wearing a canary-yellow spandex miniskirt
and a stretchy top that was at least two sizes too small. Her hair was orange.
Her lipstick was bright pink. And her eyelids were gold glitter.

We heard her say, Hello, handsome, to
Bunchy, and then she lowered her voice, and we couldn't hear any more.

Maybe you should try to sneak away while Lula's
got his attention, Connie said. Maybe you could roll the Buick back
nice and easy, and he won't notice.

I thought chances of Bunchy not noticing were pretty
slim, but I was willing to try. I quickly walked to the car, snuck in on the
curb side, and slid behind the wheel. I released the emergency brake, held my
breath, and turned the key in the ignition. Varoooom. A V8 does not
sneak.

Bunchy and Lula both turned to look at me. I saw
Bunchy say something to Lula. And Lula grabbed Bunchy by the shirt-front and
yelled Go! to me. I got him, she said. You
can count on me!

Bunchy slapped at her hand, and Lula squashed herself
into the car window with her big yellow ass hanging out, looking from the
outside like Pooh Bear stuck in the rabbit hole. She had Bunchy by the neck,
and when I drove by I saw her plant a kiss square on his mouth.

MABEL WAS IN the kitchen making tea when I got there.

Anything new in the investigation? she
asked.

I talked to the man who was looking for Fred.
He says he's Fred's bookie. Did you know Fred was gambling?

No. She paused with the tea bag in her
hand. Gambling, she said, testing the word. I had no
idea.

He could be lying, I said.

Why would he do that?

Good question. If Bunchy wasn't a bookie, then what?
What was his involvement?

About those pictures, I said to Mabel.
Do you have any idea when they might have been taken?

Mabel added water to her teapot. I think it
must have been recently because I never saw them before. I don't go into Fred's
desk all the time, but every now and then I need something. And I never saw any
pictures. Fred doesn't take pictures. Years ago, when the kids were little, we
used to take pictures. Now Ronald and Walter bring us pictures of the
grandchildren. We don't even own a camera anymore. Last year we had to take
pictures of the roof for the insurance company, and we got one of those disposable
cameras.

I left Mabel to her tea and got back behind the
wheel. I looked up and down the street. So far, so good. No Bunchy.

My next stop was the strip mall where Fred did his
shopping. I parked in the same area where Fred's car was found. It was about
the same time of day. Weather was similar. Seventy and sunny. There were enough
people moving around that a scuffle would be noticed. A man walking around dazed
would probably be noticed too, but I didn't think that's what I was looking
for.

First Trenton was located at the end of the strip
mall. It was a branch office with a drive-through window outside and
full-service banking inside. Leona Freeman was a teller at First Trenton. She
was a second cousin on my mother's side, a couple years older than me, and she
had a head start on the family thing, with four kids, two dogs, and a nice
husband.

Business was slow when I walked in, and Leona waved
at me from behind the counter. Stephanie!

Hey, Leona, how's it going?

Pretty good. What's with you? You want some
money? I gotta lot.

I grinned.

Bank joke, Leona said.

Did you hear about Fred going missing?

I heard. He was in here right before it
happened.

Did you see him?

Yeah, sure. He got money from the machine, and
then he went in to see Shempsky.

Leona and I went to school with Allen Shempsky. He
was an okay guy who'd worked his way up the ladder and was now a VP. And this
was a new development. No one had said anything about Fred going to see
Shempsky. What'd Fred want with Allen?

Leona shrugged. Don't know. He was in there
talking to Allen for about ten minutes. He didn't stop to say hello or anything
when he came out. Fred was like that. Not the most sociable person.

Shempsky had a small private office tucked between
two other small private offices. His door was open, so I stuck my head in.

Knock, knock, I said.

Allen Shempsky looked at me blank-faced for a moment,
and then I saw recognition kick in. Sorry, he said, my mind
was someplace else. What can I do for you?

I'm looking for my uncle Fred. I understand he
talked to you just before he disappeared.

Yeah. He was thinking of taking out a
loan.

A loan? What kind of a loan?

Personal.

He say what he needed the money for?

No. Wanted to know what interest rates were and
how long would it take. That sort of thing. Preliminary stuff. No paperwork or
anything. I think he was only in here for maybe five minutes. Ten tops.

Did he seem upset?

Not that I remember. Well, not any more than
usual. Fred was sort of a grumpy guy. The family ask you to look for
Fred?

Yeah. I stood and gave Shempsky my card.
Let me know if you think of anything significant.

A loan. I couldn't help wondering if it was to pay
off Bunchy. I didn't think Bunchy was a bookie, but I wouldn't be shocked to
find he was a blackmailer.

The dry cleaner was in the middle of the strip of
buildings, next to Grand Union. I knew the woman behind the counter by sight,
but not by name. I brought my cloths here too, sometimes.

She remembered Fred, but not much else. He'd picked
up his clothes and that was it. No conversation. They'd been busy at the time.
She hadn't paid a lot of attention to Fred.

I went back to the Buick and stood there, looking
around, trying to imagine what might have happened. Fred had parked in front of
Grand Union, anticipating that he'd have groceries to carry. He'd laid the
cleaning neatly on the backseat, then closed and locked the car. Then what?
Then he'd disappeared. The mall opened to a four-lane highway on one side.
Behind the mall was an apartment complex and the neighborhood of single-family
houses where I'd searched for Fred.

The RGC office was down by the river, on the other
side of Broad. It was an industrial area of warehouses and mom-and-pop
factories. Not especially scenic. Perfect for a waste hauler.

I eased into traffic and pointed Big Blue's nose
west. Ten minutes and seven lights later, I rolled down Water Street, squinting
at the somber brick buildings, looking for numbers. The road was cracked and
pocked with potholes. Parking lots associated with businesses were ringed by
chain-link fences. Sidewalks were empty. Windows were dark and lifeless. I
didn't need to see the numbers, RGC was easy to spot. Large sign. Lots of
garbage trucks parked in the lot. There were five visitor slots next to the
building. They were all empty. No surprise there. It didn't exactly smell like
roses outside.

I parked in one of the slots and scurried inside. The
office was small. Linoleum floor, death-pallor-green walls, and a counter cut
the room in half. There were two desks and file cabinets in the back half of
the room.

A woman got up from one of the desks and stood at the
counter. A plaque on the counter read MARTHA DEETER, RECEPTIONIST, and I
assumed this was Martha.

Can I help you? Martha asked.

I introduced myself as Fred's niece and told her I
was looking for Fred.

I remember speaking to him, she said.
He went home to get his canceled check and never returned. It never
occurred to me that something might have happened to him. I just assumed he'd
given up. We get a lot of people in here trying to get something for
nothing.

Go figure.

Exactly. That's why I sent him home for the
check. The old ones are the worst. They're all on fixed incomes. They'll say
anything to hang on to a dollar.

There was a man sitting at the second desk. He got up
and moved next to Martha. Perhaps I can be of assistance here. I'm the
bookkeeper, and I'm afraid this is my problem. Truth is, this has happened
before. It's the computer. We just can't get it to recognize certain
customers.

Martha tapped a finger on the counter. It's not
the computer. There are people out there who'll take advantage. People think
it's okay to gyp big business.

The man gave me a tight smile and extended his hand.
Larry Lipinski. I'll make sure the account is set straight.

Martha didn't look happy. We really should see
the canceled check.

For goodness' sakes, Lipinski said to
Martha, the man disappeared in the middle of his errands. He probably had
the check on him. How do you expect them to show you the check?

Supposedly the Shutzes have been customers for
years. They must have canceled checks from previous quarters, she said.

I don't believe this, Lipinski said.
Give it a rest. It's the computer. Remember last month? We had the same
problem.

It isn't the computer.

It is.

Isn't.

Is.

I backed out of the office and slipped out the door.
I didn't want to be around for the bitch-slapping and hair-pulling. If Fred was
going to make out in spades, it seemed unlikely he'd make his
killing with these two.

Half an hour later I was back at Vinnie's. His door
was shut and there were no bond seekers at Connie's desk. Lula and Connie were
discussing meatloaf.

That's disgusting, Lula said, eyeballing
Connie's sandwich. Whoever heard of mayonnaise on meatloaf ? Everybody
knows you gotta put ketchup on meatloaf. You can't put no dumb-ass mayonnaise
on it. What is that, some Italian thing?

Connie gave Lula a stiff middle finger. This is
an Italian thing, she said.

I snitched a corn chip from the bag on Connie's desk.
So what happened? I asked Lula. You and Bunchy going steady
now?

He's not such a bad kisser, Lula said.
He had a hard time giving it his full attention at first, but after a
while I think he was into it.

I'm going after Briggs, I said. You
want to ride shotgun?

Sure, Lula said, pulling a sweatshirt
over her head. Better than sitting around here. It's damn boring in here
today. She had keys in her hand. And I'm driving. You have a
pipsqueak sound system in that Buick, and I need Dolby. I need mood music. I
gotta get myself ready to kick some butt.

We're not kicking butt. We're finessing.

I could do that, too, Lula said.

I followed Lula out the door to her car. We buckled
ourselves in, the CD player clicked on, and the bass almost lifted us off the
ground.

So what's the plan? Lula asked, pulling
into Briggs' parking lot. We need a plan.

The plan is that we knock on his door and
lie.

I could get into that, Lula said. I
like to lie. I could lie your ass off.

We crossed the lot and took the stairs. The hall was
empty, and there was no noise coming from Briggs' apartment.

I flattened against the wall, out of sight, and Lula
knocked twice on Briggs' door.

How's this? she asked. I look okay?
This here's my nonthreatening look. This look says, Come on, motherfucker, open
your door.

If I saw Lula on the other side of my apartment door,
wearing her nonthreatening look, I'd hide under my bed. But hey, that's me.

The door opened with the security chain in place and
Briggs peeked out at Lula.

Howdy, Lula said. I'm from
downstairs, and I got a petition for you to sign on account of they're gonna
raise our rent.

I didn't hear anything about a rent
raise, Briggs said. I didn't get any notice.

Well, they're gonna do it all the same,
Lula said.

Sons of bitches, Briggs said.
They're always doing something in this building. I don't know why I stay
here.

Cheap rent? Lula asked.

The door closed, the chain slid off, and the door
opened wide.

Hey! Briggs said when Lula and I pushed
past him into the apartment. You can't just barge in like this. You
tricked me.

Look again, Lula said. We're bounty
hunters. We can barge if we want to. We got rights.

You have no rights, Briggs said.
It's a bogus charge. I was carrying a ceremonial knife. It was
engraved.

A ceremonial knife, Lula said.
Seems like a little dude like you should be able to carry a ceremonial
knife.

Exactly, Randy said. I'm unjustly
accused.

'Course it don't matter, Lula said.
You still gotta go to the pokey with us.

I'm in the middle of a big project. I don't
have time.

Hmmm, Lula said. Let me explain to
you how this works. Bottom line is, we don't give a doody.

Briggs pressed his lips together and folded his arms
tight across his chest. You can't make me go.

Sure we can, Lula said. You're just
a little pipsqueak. We could make you sing 'Yankee Doodle' if we wanted.
'Course, we wouldn't do that on account of we're professionals.

I pulled a pair of cuffs out of my back pocket and
clamped one of the bracelets on Briggs.

Briggs looked at the cuff like it was the
flesh-eating virus. What's this?

Nothing to be alarmed about, I said.
Standard procedure.

Eeeeeeeee, Briggs shrieked.
Eeeeeeeee.

Stop that! Lula yelled. You sound
like a girl. You're creeping me out.

He was running around the room now, waving his arms
and still shrieking. Eeeeeeeee.

Get a grip! Lula said.

Eeeeeeee.

I made a grab for the cuff but missed. Stand
still, I ordered.

Briggs bolted past Lula, who was dumbstruck, rooted
to the floor, and then ran out the door.

Get him, I yelled, rushing at Lula.
Don't let him get away! I pushed her into the hall, and we
thundered down the stairs after Briggs.

Briggs sprinted through the small lobby, through the
front door, and into the parking lot.

Well, damn, Lula said, I can hear
his little feet going, but I can't see him. He's lost in between all these
cars.

We separated and walked into the lot, Lula going one
way and me the other. We stopped and listened for footsteps when we got to the
outer perimeter.

I don't hear him anymore, Lula said.
He must be going tippytoe.

We started to walk back when we saw Briggs round the
corner of the apartment building and race inside.

Holy cow! Lula said. He's going
back to his apartment.

We ran across the lot, barreled through the door, and
took the stairs two at a time. When we got to Briggs' apartment the door was
closed and locked.

We know you're in there, Lula yelled.
You better open this door.

You can huff and you can puff, but you'll never
get through this door, Briggs said.

The hell we won't, Lula told him.
We could shoot the lock off. And then we're gonna come in there and root
you out like a rodent.

No answer.

Hello? Lula called.

We listened at the door and heard the computer boot
up. Briggs was going back to work.

Nothing I hate more than a wise-ass
dwarf, Lula said, hauling a .45 out of her purse. Stand back. I'm
gonna blast this door open.

Drilling Briggs' door held a lot of appeal, but
probably it wasn't practical to shoot up an apartment building for a guy who
was only worth seven hundred dollars.

No shooting, I said. I'll get the
key from the super.

That isn't gonna do you no good if you're not
willing to shoot, Lula said. He's still gonna have the security
chain on.

I saw Ranger pop a door open with his
shoulder.

Lula looked at the door. I could do that
too, she said. Only I just bought this dress with them little
spaghetti straps, and I wouldn't want to have a bruise.

I looked at my watch. It's almost five, and I'm
having dinner with my parents tonight.

Maybe we should do this some other time.

We're leaving, I hollered through Briggs'
door, but we'll be back. And you'd better be careful of those handcuffs.
They cost me forty dollars.

We would have been justified to shoot our way
in on account of he's in possession of stolen property, Lula said.

Do you always carry a gun? I asked Lula.

Don't everybody?

They released Benito Ramirez two days
ago.

Lula stumbled on the second step down. That's
not possible.

Joe told me.

Piece-of-shit legal system.

Be careful.

Hell, Lula said. He already cut me.
You're the one who has to be careful.

We swung through the door and stopped in our tracks.

Uh-oh, Lula said. We got
company.

It was Bunchy. He was parked behind us in the lot.
And he didn't look happy.

How do you suppose he found us? Lula
asked. We aren't even in your car.

He must have followed us from the office.

I didn't see him. And I was looking.

I didn't see him either.

He's good, Lula said. He might be
someone to worry about.

HOW'S THE POT roast? my mother wanted to
know. Is it too dry?

It's fine, I told her. Just like
always.

I got the green bean casserole recipe from Rose
Molinowski. It's made with mushroom soup and bread crumbs.

Whenever there's a wake or a christening, Rose
always brings this casserole, Grandma said. It's her signature
dish.

My father looked up from his plate. Signature
dish?

I got that from the shopper's channel on TV.
All the big designers got signature this and that.

My father shook his head and bent lower over his pot
roast.

Grandma helped herself to some of the casserole.
How's the manhunt going? You got any good leads on Fred yet?

Fred is a dead end. I've talked to his sons and
his girlfriend. I've retraced his last steps. I've talked to Mabel. There's
nothing. He's disappeared without a trace.

My father muttered something that sounded a lot like
lucky bastard and continued to eat.

My mother rolled her eyes.

And Grandma spooned in some beans. We need one
of them psychics, Grandma said. I saw on television where you can
call them up, and they know everything. They find dead people all the time. I
saw a couple of them on a talk show, and they were saying how they help the
police with these serial murder cases. I was watching that show, and I was
thinking that if I was a serial murderer I'd chop the bodies up in little
pieces so those psychics wouldn't have such an easy job of it. Or maybe I'd
drain all the blood out of the body and collect it in a big bucket. Then I'd
bury a chicken, and I'd take the victim's blood and make a trail to the
chicken. Then the psychic wouldn't know what to make of it when the police dug
up a chicken. Grandma helped herself to the gravy boat and poured gravy
over her pot roast. Do you think that'd work?

Everyone but Grandma paused with forks in midair.

Well, I wouldn't bury a live
chicken, Grandma said.

No one had much to say after that, and I felt myself
nodding off halfway through my second piece of cake.

You look all done in, Grandma said.
Guess getting blown up takes it out of you.

I didn't get much sleep last night.

Maybe you want to take a nap while your
grandmother and I clean up, my mother said. You can use the guest
room.

Ordinarily, I'd excuse myself and go home early, but
tonight Bunchy was sitting across the street, two houses down, in the Dodge. So
leaving early didn't appeal to me. What appealed to me was to make Bunchy's
night as long as possible.

My parents have three bedrooms. My grandma Mazur
sleeps in my sister's room, and my room is used as a guest room. Of course, I'm
the only guest who ever uses the guest room. All my parents' friends and family
live within a five-mile radius and have no reason to stay overnight. I also
live within five miles, but I've been known to have the occasional disaster
that sends me in search of temporary residence. So my bathrobe hangs in the
guest room closet.

Maybe just a short nap, I said. I'm
really tired.

THE SUN WAS slanting through the break in the
curtains when I woke up. I had a moment of disorientation, wondering if I was
late for school, and then realized I'd been out of school for a lot of years,
and that I'd crawled into bed for a short nap and ended up sleeping through the
night.

I rolled out of bed fully dressed and shuffled down
to the kitchen. My mother was making vegetable soup, and my grandmother was
sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper, scrutinizing the obituaries.

Grandma looked up when I came in. Weren't you
at the garbage company yesterday, checking on Fred?

I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat across from
her. Yep.

It says here this woman, Martha Deeter, who was
the receptionist at RGC, was shot to death last night. Says they found her in
the parking lot of her apartment building. Grandma slid the paper over to
me. Got a picture of her and everything.

I stared goggle-eyed at the picture. It was Martha,
all right. With the way she was going at it with her office mate, I'd expected
she might have fingerprint marks on her neck. A bullet in the brain never
occurred to me.

Says she's being laid out at Stiva's tomorrow
night, Grandma said. We should go on account of it was our garbage
company.

The Catholic church held bingo parties only twice a
week, so Grandma and her friends enlarged their social life by attending
viewings.

No suspects, I said, reading the article.
The police think it was robbery. Her purse was missing.

THE BROWN DODGE was still parked down the street when
I left my parents' house. Bunchy was asleep behind the wheel, his head back,
mouth open. I rapped on the window, and he jumped awake.

Shit, he said, what time is
it?

Were you here all night?

Sure looks like it.

Looked like it to me, too. He looked even worse than
usual. He had dark circles under his eyes, he needed a shave, and his hair
looked like it had been styled by a stun gun.

So, you didn't kill anybody last night?

Bunchy blinked at me. Not that I remember. Who
bought the farm?

Martha Deeter. She worked at RGC Waste
Haulers.

Why would I want to kill her?

I don't know. I saw it in the paper this
morning and just thought I'd ask.

Never hurts to ask, Bunchy said.

I LET MYSELF into my apartment and saw the light
flashing on my phone machine.

Hey, Babe, Ranger said, got a job
for you.

The second message was from Benito Ramirez.
Hello, Stephanie, he said. Quiet-voiced. Articulate, as always.
I've been away for a little while . . . as you know. There was a
pause and in my mind I could see his eyes. Small for his face and terrifyingly
insane. I came by to see you, but you weren't at home. That's okay. I'll
try some other time. He gave a small, girlish giggle and disconnected.

I erased Ranger's message and saved Ramirez's.
Probably I should have a restraining order issued. Ordinarily I didn't hold
much stock in restraining orders, but in this case, if Ramirez continued to
harass me I might be able to get his parole revoked.

I connected with Ranger on his car phone.
What's the job? I asked.

Chauffeur. I have a young sheik flying in to
Newark at five.

He carrying drugs? Delivering guns?

Negative. He's visiting relatives in Bucks
County. Long weekend. Probably he won't even blow himself up.

What's the catch?

No catch. You wear a black suit and white
shirt. You meet him at the gate and escort him safely to his destination.

I guess that sounds okay.

You'll be driving a Town Car. You can pick it
up at the garage on Third and Marshall. Be there at three o'clock and talk to
Eddie.

Anything else?

Make sure you're dressed.

You mean the suit—

I mean the gun.

Oh.

I disconnected and went back to Fred's photos. I
spread the color copies out on the table just as I did the first time. Two of
the pictures were of the bag all tied up. I was guessing that was how Fred
found it. He took a couple pictures, then he opened the bag. The big question
was, did he know what was inside before he opened it, or was it a surprise?

I went upstairs to Mrs. Bestler, who had failing
eyesight, and borrowed a magnifying glass. I returned to my apartment, took the
pages closer to the window, and looked at them with the glass. The glass wasn't
much help, but I was almost sure it was a woman. Short dark hair. No jewelry on
her right hand. There seemed to be newspapers crumpled into the bag with her. A
crime lab might be able to pick something out to help date the photo. The bag
with the woman was sitting with other bags. I could count four. They were on
asphalt. Garbage stacked outside a business, maybe. A business too small to
need a Dumpster. Lots of those around. Or it could be a driveway belonging to a
family who made tons of garbage.

Part of a building was visible in the background.
Hard to tell what it was. It was out of focus and in shade. A stucco wall was
my best guess.

That was all the pictures were going to offer up to
me.

I took a shower, scrounged for lunch, and set off to
talk to Mabel.

I
LEFT MY building with more caution than usual, keeping my eyes open for
Ramirez. I reached the Buick and was almost disappointed not to have been
accosted. On the one hand, it'd be good to get the confrontation over with. On
the other hand . . . I didn't want to think about the other hand.

Bunchy
wasn't there, either. I had mixed feelings about this, too. Bunchy was a pain
in the behind, and I had no idea who he was, but I thought he might be good to
have around if Ramirez attacked me. Better Bunchy than Ramirez. I don't know
why I felt like that. For all I knew, Bunchy was the butcher.

I
chugged out of the lot and drove on autopilot to Mabel's house, trying to
prioritize projects. I had to neutralize Ramirez, get to the bottom of the Fred
thing, chauffeur some sheik . . . And I felt uncomfortable about the dead
garbage lady. Not to mention, I needed shoes for Saturday night. I lined
everything up in my mind. The shoes were, hands down, top priority. Okay, so
sometimes I wasn't the world's greatest bounty hunter. I wasn't a fabulous
cook. I didn't have a boyfriend, much less a husband. And I wasn't a big
financial success. I could live with all those failings as long as I knew that
once in a while I looked really hot. And Saturday night I was going to look
hot. So I needed shoes and a new dress.

Mabel
was standing at the door when I drove up. Still on the lookout for Fred, I guess.

I'm
so glad you're here, she said, ushering me into the house. I don't
know what to think.

As
if I could help her in that department.

Sometimes
I expect Fred to walk in the door, just like always. And then other times I
know he'll never be back. And the thing is . . . I really need a new washer and
dryer. In fact, I've needed them for years, but Fred was so cautious about
spending money. Maybe I'll just go down to Sears and take a look. It doesn't
hurt to look, does it?

Looking
sounds good to me.

I
knew I could count on you, Mabel said. Would you like some
tea?

No
thanks on the tea, but I have some more questions. I want you to think about
places Fred might go that would have four or five garbage bags sitting outside
on garbage day. The bags would be sitting on asphalt. And there might be a
light-colored stucco wall behind them.

This
is about those photographs, isn't it? Let me think. Fred had a routine, you
know. When he retired two years ago, he took over the errands. In the beginning
we did the marketing together, but it was too stressful. So I started staying
home and watching my television shows in the afternoon, and Fred took over the
errands. He went to the Grand Union every day. And sometimes he'd go to
Giovichinni's Meat Market. He didn't go there too often because he thought
Giovichinni gypped him on the meat scale. He only went there if he wanted
kielbasa. Once in a while he'd splurge on Giovichinni's olive loaf.

Did
he go to Giovichinni's last week?

Not
that I know of. The only thing different about last week was that he went out
in the morning to the garbage company. He didn't usually go out in the morning,
but he was really in a state over that missed day.

Did
he ever go out at night?

We
went to the seniors' club on Thursdays to play cards. And we went to special
events sometimes. Like the Christmas party.

We
were standing in front of the living room window, talking, when the RGC garbage
truck rumbled up the street, bypassed Mabel's house, and stopped next door.

Mabel
blinked in disbelief. They didn't take my garbage, she said.
It's right out there on the curb, and they didn't take it. She
threw the door open and trotted out to the sidewalk, but the truck was gone.
How could they do this? she wailed. What am I going to do
with my garbage?

I
went to the Yellow Pages, found the number for RGC, and dialed the number.
Larry Lipinski answered the phone.

Larry,
I said, this is Stephanie Plum, remember me?

Sure,
Larry said, but I'm a little busy right now.

I
read about Martha—

Yeah,
Martha. What's on your mind?

My
aunt's garbage. The thing is, Larry, the truck went right by her house just now
and didn't pick up her garbage.

There
was a big sigh. That's because she didn't pay her bill. There's no record
of payment.

We
went through all that yesterday. You said you'd take care of it.

Look,
lady, I tried, okay? But there's no record of payment, and frankly I'm thinking
Martha was right, and you and your aunt are trying to gyp us.

Listen,
Larry!

Larry
disconnected.

You
dumb fuck! I yelled at the phone.

Aunt
Mabel looked shocked.

Sorry,
I said. I got carried away.

I
went down to the cellar, got the canceled RGC check off Fred's desk, and
dropped it into my shoulder bag.

I'll
take care of this tomorrow, I said. I'd do it today, but I don't
have time.

Mabel
was wringing her hands. That garbage is going to smell if I leave it
sitting out there in the sun, she said. What will the neighbors
think?

I
did some mental head-banging. No problem. Don't worry about it.

She
gave me a tremulous smile.

I
said good-bye, marched to the curb, extracted Mabel's nicely tied up plastic
garbage bag from her container, and stuffed it into the trunk of my car. Then I
drove to RGC, pitched the bag onto the sidewalk in front of their office, and
raced away.

Am
I a take-charge woman or what?

I
drove away thinking about Fred. Suppose Fred saw someone do that? Well, not
exactly what I just did. Suppose he saw someone take a garbage bag out of the
trunk of their car and put it on the curb, alongside someone else's garbage.
And suppose for one reason or another he got to wondering what was in the
garbage bag?

This
made a reasonable picture to me. I could see this happening. What I didn't
understand, if in fact any of this occurred the way I imagined, was why Fred
didn't report it to the police. Maybe he knew the person dumping the bag. But
then why would he take pictures?

Hold
on, let's reverse it. Suppose someone saw Fred dump the bag. They went to
investigate, found the body and took pictures for evidence, then tried to
blackmail Fred. Who would do such a thing? Bunchy. And maybe Fred all of a
sudden got spooked and left for points south.

What's
wrong with this picture? I couldn't see Fred taking a chain saw to some woman.
And you'd have to be pretty dumb to blackmail Fred, because Fred didn't have
any money.

THE
SKIRT TO my black suit hit two inches above my knee. The jacket sat high on my
hipbone. My stretchy white jersey tucked into the skirt. I was wearing sheer,
barely black pantyhose and black heels. My .38 was in my black leather shoulder
bag. And for this special occasion, I'd taken the time to put some bullets in
the stupid thing . . . just in case Ranger showed up and gave me a pop quiz.

Bunchy
was in the parking lot, parked behind my Buick. Going to a funeral?

I
have a job chauffeuring a sheik from Newark. It's going to take me out of town
for the rest of the afternoon, and I'm worried about Mabel. Since you like to
sit around and do nothing, I thought you might sit around and do nothing across
from Mabel's house. Give him something to do, I thought. Keep the guy
busy.

You
want me to protect the people I'm squeezing?

Yeah.

It
doesn't work that way. And what the hell are you doing going off on a chauffeuring
job? You're supposed to be looking for your uncle.

I
need money.

You
need to find Fred.

Okay,
this is the honest-to-God truth . . . I don't know how to find Fred. I run down
leads and they don't go anywhere. Maybe it would help if you told me what you
were really after.

I'm
after Fred.

Why?

You
better get going, Bunchy said. You're gonna be late.

THE
GARAGE AT Third and Marshall didn't have a name. It was probably listed under
something in the phone book, but on the outside of the building there was
nothing. Just a redbrick building with a paved parking lot, enclosed by
chain-link fencing. There were three bays in the side of the building, opening
out to the lot. The bay doors were open and men worked on cars in each of the
bays. A white stretch limo and two black Town Cars were parked in the lot. I
pulled the Buick into a slot next to one of the Town Cars, locked the Buick,
and dropped the keys into my shoulder bag.

A
guy who looked like Antonio Banderas on an off day sauntered over to me.

Nice
car, he said, eyeing the Buick. Man, they don't make cars like this
anymore. He ran a hand over the back fender. Cherry. Real
cherry.

Uh-huh.
The cherry car got four miles to a gallon and cornered like a refrigerator. Not
to mention it was all wrong for my self-image. My self-image called for fast
and sleek and black, not bulbous and powder blue. Red would be okay, too. And I
needed a sunroof. And a good sound system. And leather seats . . .

Earth
to Babe, Banderas said.

I
dragged myself back to the moment. You know where I can find Eddie?

You're
looking at him, Cookie. I'm Eddie.

I
extended my hand. Stephanie Plum. Ranger sent me.

I
got a car ready and waiting. He rounded the nearest Town Car, opened the
driver's side door, and took a large white envelope from behind the visor.
Here's everything you need. The keys are in the ignition. The car's
gassed up.

I
don't need a chauffeur's license to do this, do I?

He
stared at me blank-faced.

Yeah,
right, I said. Probably nothing to worry about anyway. It wasn't easy to
get a permit to carry concealed in Mercer County. And I wasn't one of the chosen.
If I got stopped by a cop he'd be so overjoyed to be able to arrest me for
illegally carrying concealed that he'd no doubt forget to charge me for the
driving thing.

I
took the envelope and slid behind the wheel. I adjusted the seat and leafed
through the papers. Flight information, parking directions, some procedural
instructions, name and brief description, and snapshot of Ahmed Fahed. No age
was given, but he looked young in the photo.

I
eased the Lincoln out of the lot and headed for Route 1. I picked up the
turnpike in East Brunswick and glided along in my big, black,
climate-controlled car, feeling very professional. Chauffeuring wasn't so bad,
I thought. Today a sheik, tomorrow . . . who knows, maybe Tom Cruise.
Definitely better than getting some computer nut out of his apartment. And if
it wasn't for the fact that I couldn't stop thinking about that severed right
hand and decapitated head, I'd really be enjoying myself.

I
took the airport exit and found my way to Arrivals. My passenger was coming in
from San Francisco, flying commercial. I parked in the area reserved for limos,
crossed the road, entered the terminal, and checked the monitors for gate
information.

A
half hour later, Fahed strolled through the gate, wearing two-hundred-dollar
sneakers and oversize jeans. His T-shirt advertised a microbrewery. His red
plaid flannel shirt was wrinkled and unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbow.
I'd expected sheik clothes with the head thing and robe. Fortunately for me, he
was the only arrogant Arab departing first class, so it wasn't hard to pick him
out.

Ahmed
Fahed? I asked.

His
eyebrows raised ever so slightly in acknowledgment.

I'm
your driver.

He
looked me over. Where's your gun?

In
my shoulder bag.

My
father always orders a bodyguard for me. He's afraid someone will kidnap
me.

Now
it was my turn to raise an eyebrow.

He
shrugged. We're rich. Rich people get kidnapped.

Hardly
ever in Jersey, I said. Too much overhead. Hotel rooms and food
bills. The payoff's better on extortion.

His
gaze dropped to my chest. You ever do it with a sheik?

Excuse
me?

You
could get lucky today.

Yeah.
And you could get shot. How old are you, anyway?

He
tipped his chin up an eighth of an inch. Nineteen.

My
guess would be closer to fifteen, but hey, what do I know about Arabs?
You have luggage?

Two
bags.

I
led the way to baggage, snagged his two pieces, and rolled them out of the
building across the pick-up lanes to the parking garage. When I had my charge
settled into the backseat, I cruised off into gridlocked traffic.

After
a couple minutes of creeping along Fahed was antsy. What's the
problem?

Too
many cars, I said. Not enough road.

Well,
do something.

I
glanced at him in the rearview mirror. What did you have in mind?

I
don't know. Just do something. Just go.

This
isn't a helicopter. I can't just go.

Okay,
he said. I've got an idea. How about we do this?

What?

This.

I
turned in my seat and looked at him. What is this?

He
wagged his wonkie at me and smiled.

Great.
A fifteen-year-old sex fiend, exhibitionist sheik.

I
can make it do tricks, he said.

Not
in my car, you can't. Put it back in your pants, or I'll tell your
father.

My
father would be proud. Look at me . . . I'm hung like a horse.

I
pulled a knife out of my shoulder bag and flipped it open. I can make you
hung like a hamster.

American
whore bitch.

I
rolled my eyes.

This
is intolerable, he said. I hate this traffic. And I hate this car.
And I hate sitting here doing nothing.

Fahed
wasn't the only one experiencing road rage. Other drivers were coming unglued.
Men were swearing to themselves and tugging at ties. Fingers drummed
impatiently on steering wheels. Someone behind me leaned on his horn.

I'll
give you one hundred dollars if you let me drive. Fahed said.

No.

A
thousand.

No.

Five
thousand.

I
glanced at him in the rearview mirror. No.

You
were tempted, he said, smiling, looking satisfied.

Ugh.

An
hour and a half later we managed to reach the New Brunswick interchange.

I
need something to drink, Fahed said. There's nothing to drink in
this car. I'm used to having a stretch with a bar. I want you to find a place
to get me a soda.

I
wasn't sure if this was limo protocol, but I figured what the hell, it was his
nickel. I picked up Route 1 and looked for fast food. Not much of a challenge.
The first thing that came up was a McDonald's. It was dinnertime and the
drive-through lane looked like the Jersey Turnpike, so I junked the drive-through
and parked the car.

I
want a Coke, he said, sitting tight, clearly not interested in standing
in line with the rest of New Jersey.

Don't
freak out, I told myself. He's used to being waited on. Anything
else?

French
fries.

Fine.
I grabbed my bag and crossed the lot. I swung though the door and chose a line.
Two people in front of me. I studied the menu over the counter. One person left
in front of me. I hiked my bag higher on my shoulder and looked out the window.
I didn't see my car. There was a small twinge of alarm just below my heart. I
scanned the lot. No car. I left the line and pushed through the door into the
cool air. The car was gone.

Shit!

My
first fear was that he'd been kidnapped. I'd been hired as a chauffeur and
bodyguard for the sheik, and the sheik's been kidnapped. The fear was
short-lived. No one would want this rotten kid. Face it, Stephanie, that little
snot took the car.

I
had two choices. I could call the police. Or I could call Ranger.

I
tried Ranger first. Bad news, I said. I sort of lost the
sheik.

Where
did you lose him?

North
Brunswick. He sent me into a McDonald's for a soda, and next thing I knew, he
was gone.

Where
are you now?

I'm
still at the McDonald's. Where else would I be?

Don't
move. I'll get back to you.

The
connection was severed. When? I asked the dead phone.
When?

Ten
minutes later the phone rang.

No
problem, Ranger said. Found the sheik.

How'd
you find him?

I
called the car phone.

Was
he kidnapped?

Impatient.
Said he got tired of waiting for you.

That
little jerk-off!

Several
people stopped in their tracks and stared.

I
lowered my voice and turned, facing the phone. Sorry, I got carried
away, I said to Ranger.

Understandable,
Babe.

He's
got my jacket.

Bones
will get it when he gets the car. You need a ride home?

I
can call Lula.

YOU
SHOULD HAVE taken me with you, Lula said. This wouldn't have
happened if you hadn't hauled your skinny ass off on your own.

It
seemed like such an easy job. Pick up a kid and drive him somewhere.

Look
at this, Lula said, we're passing by the mall. I bet some shopping
would cheer you right up.

I
do need shoes.

See,
Lula said, there's a reason for everything. God meant for you to shop
tonight.

We
entered the mall through Macy's and blasted into the shoe department first
thing.

Hold
on here! Lula said. Look at these shoes! She'd pulled a pair
of black satin shoes off the display. They had pointy toes and four-inch heels
and a slim ankle strap. These are hot shoes, Lula said.

I
had to agree. The shoes were hot. I got my size from the salesperson and tried
the shoes on.

Those
shoes are you, Lula said. You gotta get those shoes. We'll
take these shoes, Lula said to the salesclerk. Wrap 'em up.

Ten
minutes later, Lula was pulling dresses off the rack. Yow!
Lula said. Hold the phone. Here it is.

The
dress she was holding was barely there. It was a shimmery black scrap of
miracle fiber with a low-cut neck and a short skirt.

This
is a genuine hard-on dress, Lula said.

I
suspected she was right. I looked at the price tag and sucked in some air.
I can't afford this!

You
gotta at least try it on, Lula said. Maybe it won't fit so good,
and then you'll feel better about not being able to buy it.

It
seemed like sound reasoning, so I dragged myself off to the dressing room. I
did a fast computation of money left on my credit card and winced. If I caught
Randy Briggs and I ate all my meals for the next month at my mother's house and
I did my own nails for the wedding, I could almost afford the dress.

Damn
skippy, Lula said when I tottered out of the dressing room in the black
shoes and black dress. Holy shit.

I
checked myself out in the mirror. It was definitely a damn skippy, holy
shit outfit. And if I could lose five pounds in the next two days, the
dress would fit.

Okay,
I said. I'll take it.

We
need some french fries to celebrate with, Lula said after I bought the dress.
My treat.

I
can't have french fries. Another ounce and I won't get into the dress.

French
fries are a vegetable, Lula said. They don't count when it comes to
fat. And besides, we'll have to walk all the way down the mall to get to the
food court, so we'll get exercise. In fact, probably we'll be so weak from all
that walking by the time we get there we'll have to have a piece of crispy
fried chicken along with the french fries.

It
was dark when we left the mall. I had the button open on my skirt to
accommodate the fried chicken and french fries, and I was having a panic attack
over my new clothes.

Look
at this, Lula said, sidling up to her Firebird. Somebody left us a
note. It better not be that someone put a ding in my car. I hate when that
happens.

I
looked over her shoulder to read the note.

I
saw you in the mall, the note said. You shouldn't tempt men by
wearing dresses like that.

Guess
this is for you, Lula said. On account of I wasn't wearing no
dress.

I
did a quick scan of the lot. Unlock the car and let's get out of
here, I said to Lula.

It's
just some pervert note, Lula said.

Yeah,
but it was written by someone who knew where our car was parked.

Could
have been someone who saw us when we first got here. Some little runt waiting
for his wife to come out of Macy's.

Or
it could have been written by someone who tailed me out of Trenton. And I
didn't think that someone was Bunchy. I'd been alert for Bunchy's car. And
besides, I was pretty sure Bunchy would watch Mabel, like I asked.

Lula
and I looked at each other and shared the same thought . . . Ramirez. We
quickly jumped into the Firebird and locked the doors.

Probably
it wasn't him, Lula said. You would have seen him, don't you
think?

MY
NEIGHBORHOOD IS quiet after dark. All the seniors are tucked away in their
apartments by then, settled in for the night, watching reruns of Seinfeld and
Cop Bloopers.

Lula
dropped me off at the back door to my building at a little after nine, and true
to form, not a creature was stirring. We looked for headlights and listened for
footfalls and car engines and came up empty.

I'll
wait until you get in the building, Lula said.

I'll
be fine.

Sure.
I know that.

I
took the stairs, hoping they'd help out with the chicken and fries. When I'm
scared, it's always a toss-up between the elevator and the stairs. I feel more
in control on the stairs, but the stairwell feels isolating, and I know when
the fire doors are closed, sound doesn't carry. I had a sense of relief when I
reached my floor and there was no Ramirez.

I
let myself into my apartment and called hello to Rex. I dropped my shopping
bags on the kitchen counter, kicked my shoes off, and stripped out of the
pantyhose. I did a fast room-by-room check, and no large men turned up there,
either. Whew. I returned to the kitchen to listen to my phone messages and
shrieked when someone knocked at my door. I squinted out the peephole with my
hand over my heart.

Ranger.

You
never knock, I said, opening the door.

I
always knock. You never answer. He handed me my jacket. The little
sheik said you weren't any fun.

Scratch
chauffeuring off the list.

Ranger
studied me for a moment. Do you want me to shoot him?

No!
But it was a tempting idea.

He
glanced down at the shoes and pantyhose on the floor. Am I interrupting
something?

No.
I just got home. Lula and I went shopping.

Recreational
therapy?

Yeah,
but I also needed a new dress. I held the dress up for him to see.
Lula sort of talked me into this. What do you think?

Ranger's
eyes darkened and his mouth tightened into a small smile. My face got warm and
the dress slipped from my fingers and fell to the floor.

Ranger
picked the dress up and handed it to me.

Okay,
I said, blowing a strand of hair off my forehead. Guess I know what you
think of the dress.

If
you knew, you wouldn't be standing here, Ranger said. If you knew,
you'd have yourself barricaded in the bedroom with your gun in your hand.

Gulp.

Ranger's
attention strayed to the note on the counter. Someone else shares my
opinion of the dress.

The
note was left on the windshield of Lula's Firebird. We found it when we came
out of the mall.

You
know who wrote it?

I
have a couple ideas.

You
want to share them with me?

Could
just be some guy who saw me at the mall.

Or?

Or
it could be Ramirez.

You
have reason to think it's Ramirez?

Touching
it makes my skin crawl.

WORD
ON THE street is that Ramirez got religion, Ranger said, relaxed against
my kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest.

So
maybe he doesn't want to rape and mutilate me. Maybe he just wants to save
me.

Either
way, you should carry a gun.

When
Ranger left I listened to the single message on my phone machine.
Stephanie? This is your mother. Remember you promised to take your
grandmother to the funeral parlor tomorrow night. And you can come early and
have something to eat with us. I'm going to have a nice leg of lamb.

The
lamb sounded good, but I would have preferred the message to have been about
Fred. Like, guess what, the funniest thing just happened . . . Fred showed up.

There
was another knock on the door, and I looked out the peephole at Bunchy.

I
know you're lookin' out at me, he said. And I know you're thinking
you should go get your gun and your pepper spray and your electronic torture
device, so just go get them all because I'm getting tired of standing
here.

I
opened the door a bit, leaving the security chain in place.

Give
me a break, Bunchy said.

What
do you want?

How
come the Rambo guy gets in and I don't?

I
work with him.

You
work with me, too. I just did a surveillance shift for you.

Anything
happen?

I'm
not telling you until you let me in.

I
don't need to know that bad.

Yes,
you do. You're nosy.

He
was right. I was nosy. I slid the chain off and opened the door.

So
what happened? I asked.

Nothing
happened. The grass grew an eighth of an inch. He got a beer out of the
refrigerator. You know, your aunt is a real boozer. You should get her
into AA or something. He noticed the dress on the counter. Wowy
kazowy, he said. This your dress?

I
got it to wear to a wedding.

You
need a date? I don't look so bad when I get cleaned up.

I
have a date. I've been sort of seeing this guy—

Yeah?
What guy?

His
name's Morelli. Joe Morelli.

Oh,
man, I know him. I can't believe you're going with Morelli. The guy is a loser.
Excuse me for saying so, but he porks everyone he meets. You shouldn't have
anything to do with him. You could do better.

How
do you know Morelli?

We
have a professional relationship, being that he's a cop and I'm a bookie.

I
asked him about you, and he said he never heard of you. Bunchy tipped his
head back and laughed. It was the first time I'd ever heard him laugh, and it
wasn't bad.

He
might know me by one of my other names, Bunchy said. Or maybe he
just doesn't want to come clean because he knows I might spill the beans about
him.

What
would these other names be?

They're
secret names, he said. If I told you, then they wouldn't be secret
anymore.

Out!
I said, pointing stiff-armed to the door.

MORELLI
CALLED AT nine the next morning. Just wanted to remind you the wedding is
tomorrow, he said. I'll pick you up at four. And don't forget you
have to come in to make a report on the Sloane Street shooting.

Sure.

You
get any leads on Fred?

No.
Nothing worth mentioning. Good thing I don't do this for a living.

Good
thing, Morelli said, sounding like he was smiling.

I
hung up, and I called my friend Larry at RGC.

Guess
what, Larry? I said. I found the check. It was on my uncle's desk.
Payment for three months' worth of garbage pickup. And the check has been
canceled and everything.

Fine,
Larry said. Bring the check in, and I'll credit the account.

How
late are you open?

Five.

I'll
be there before you close.

I
shoveled my gear into my shoulder bag, locked my apartment behind me, and took
the stairs to the lobby. I exited the building and crossed the lot to my car. I
had the key in hand, ready to unlock my door, when I felt the presence of
someone behind me. I turned and found myself toe-to-toe with Benito Ramirez.

Hello,
Stephanie, he said. Nice to see you again. The champ missed you
while he was away. He thought about you a lot.

The
champ. Better known as Benito Ramirez, who was too crazy to talk about himself
in the first person.

What
do you want?

He
smiled his sick smile. You know what the champ wants.

How
about you tell me.

He
wants to be your friend. He wants to help you find Jesus.

If
you continue to stalk me, I'll get a restraining order.

The
smile stayed on his mouth, but his eyes were cold and hard. Steel orbs floating
in empty space. Can't restrain a man of God, Stephanie.

Move
away from my car.

Where
are you going? Ramirez asked. Why don't you go with the champ? The
champ'll take you for a ride. He stroked my cheek with the back of his
hand. He'll take you to see Jesus.

I
dug down in my shoulder bag and pulled out my gun. Get away from
me.

Ramirez
laughed softly and took a step backward. When it's your time to see God,
there'll be no escape.

I
unlocked the driver's side door, slid behind the wheel, and drove away with
Ramirez still standing in the lot. I stopped for a light two blocks down
Hamilton and realized there were tears on my cheeks. Shit. I swiped the tears
away and yelled at myself. You are not afraid of Benito
Ramirez!

That
was a stupid, empty statement, of course. Ramirez was a monster. Anyone with a
grain of sense would be afraid of him. And I was beyond afraid. I was terrified
to tears.

BY
THE TIME I reached the office I was in pretty decent condition. My hands had
stopped shaking, and my nose wasn't running. I still had some nausea, but I
didn't think I'd throw up. It seemed like a weakness to be so frightened, and I
wasn't crazy about the feeling. Especially since I'd chosen to work in a form
of law enforcement. Hard to be effective when you're blubbering in fear. My one
point of pride was that I hadn't shown my fear to Ramirez.

Connie
stroked vermilion nail polish onto her thumbnail. You calling the
hospitals and the morgue about Fred?

I
placed the check facedown on the copier, closed the lid, and pushed the button.
Every morning.

What's
next? Lula wanted to know.

I
got a picture of Fred from Mabel. I thought I'd flash it around the strip mall
and maybe go door-to-door on the streets behind Grand Union. Hard to
believe there wasn't someone out there who saw Fred leave the parking lot.

Don't
sound like a lot of fun to me, Lula said.

I
took the copy of the check and dropped it into my shoulder bag. Then I made a
folder with Fred's name on it, dropped the original check into the folder, and
filed it in the office file cabinet under Shutz. It would have been easier to
put it in my desk . . . but I didn't have a desk.

How
about Randy Briggs? Lula said. Aren't we gonna visit him
today?

Short
of burning the building down, I didn't know how to get Randy Briggs out of his
apartment.

Vinnie
stuck his head out of his office. I hear somebody say something about
Briggs?

Not
me. I didn't say nothing, Lula said.

You
have one chickenshit case, Vinnie said to me. Why haven't you
brought this guy in?

I'm
working on it.

Yeah,
and it's not her fault, Lula said, on account of he's wily.

You
have until eight o'clock Monday morning, Vinnie said. Briggs' ass
isn't in the slammer by Monday morning, I'm giving the case to somebody
else.

Vinnie,
you know a bookie named Bunchy?

No.
And trust me, I know every bookie on the East Coast. He pulled his head
back into his office and slammed the door shut.

Tear
gas, Lula said. That's the way to get him. We just lob a can of
tear gas through his dumb-ass window and then wait for him to come running out,
gagging and choking. I know where we can get some, too. I bet we could get some
from Ranger.

No!
No tear gas, I said.

Well,
what are you gonna do? You gonna let Vinnie give this to Joyce Barnhardt?

Joyce
Barnhardt! Shit. I'd eat dirt before I'd let Joyce Barnhardt bring in Randy
Briggs. Joyce Barnhardt is a mutant human being and my arch enemy. Vinnie hired
her on as a part-time bounty hunter a couple months ago in exchange for
services I didn't want to think about. She'd tried to steal one of my cases
back then, and I had no intention of letting that happen again.

I
went to school with Joyce, and all through school she'd lied and snitched and
was loosey-goosey with other girls' boyfriends. Not to mention, I'd been
married for less than a year when I'd caught Joyce woman-superior on my dining
room table with my sweating, cheating exhusband.

I'm
going to reason with Briggs, I said.

Oh
boy, Lula said. This is gonna be good. I gotta see this.

No.
I'm going alone. I can do this by myself.

Sure,
Lula said. I know that. Only it'd be more fun if I was there.

No!
No, no, no.

Boy,
you sure do got an attitude these days, Lula said. You were better
when you were getting some, you know what I mean? I don't know why you gave
Morelli the boot anyway. I don't usually like cops, but that man has one fine
ass.

I
knew what she meant about my attitude. I was feeling damn cranky. I hitched my
bag onto my shoulder. I'll call if I need help.

Unh,
Lula said.

THINGS
WERE QUIET at Cloverleaf Apartments. No traffic in the lot. No traffic in the
dingy foyer. I took the stairs and knocked on Briggs' door. No answer. I moved
out of sight and dialed his number on my cell phone.

Hello,
Briggs said.

It's
Stephanie. Don't hang up! I have to talk to you.

There's
nothing to talk about. And I'm busy. I have work to do.

Look,
I know this court thing is inconvenient for you. And I know it's unfair because
you were unjustly charged. But it's something you have to do.

No.

Then
do it for me.

Why
should I do it for you?

I'm
a nice person. And I'm just trying to do my job. And I need the money to pay
for a pair of shoes I just bought. And even more, if I don't bring you in,
Vinnie is going to give your case to Joyce Barnhardt. And I hate Joyce
Barnhardt.

Why
do you hate Joyce Barnhardt?

I
caught her screwing my husband, who is now my ex-husband, on my dining-room
table. Can you imagine? My diningroom table.

Jeez,
Briggs said. And she's a bounty hunter, too?

Well,
she used to do makeovers at Macy's, but now she's working for Vinnie.

Bummer.

Yeah.
So, how about it? Won't you let me bring you in? It won't be so bad.
Honest.

Are
you kidding? I'm not letting a loser like you bring me in. How would it
look?

Click.
He hung up.

Loser?
Excuse me? Loser? Okay, that does it. No more Ms. Nice Person. No more
reasoning. This jerk is going down. Open this door! I
yelled. Open this goddamn door!

A
woman popped her head out from the apartment across the hall. If you
don't stop this racket I'm going to call the police. We don't put up with this
kind of goings-on here.

I
turned and looked at her.

Oh,
dear, she said and slammed her door shut.

I
gave Briggs' door a couple kicks with my foot and hammered on it with my fists.
Are you coming out?

Loser,
he said through the door. You're just a stupid loser, and you can't make
me do anything I don't want to do.

I
hauled my gun out of my shoulder bag and fired one off at the lock. The round
glanced off the metal and lodged in the door frame. Christ. Briggs was right. I
was a fucking loser. I didn't even know how to shoot off a lock.

I
ran downstairs to the Buick and got a tire iron out of the trunk. I ran back
upstairs and started whacking away at the door with the tire iron. I made a
couple dents but that was about it. Bashing the door in with the tire iron was
going to take a while. My forehead was beaded with sweat, and sweat stained the
front of my T-shirt. A small crowd of people had collected at the far end of
the hall.

You
gotta get the tire iron between the door and the jamb, an old man at the end
of the hall said. You gotta wedge it in.

Shut
up, Harry, a woman said. Anyone can see she's crazy. Don't
encourage her.

Only
trying to be helpful, Harry said.

I
followed his advice and wedged the iron between the door and the jamb and
leaned into it. A chunk of wood splintered off the jamb and some metal
stripping pulled away.

See?
Harry said. I told you.

I
gouged some more chunks from the doorjamb down by the lock. I was trying to get
the tire iron back in when Briggs opened the door a crack and looked out at me.

What
are you, nuts? You can't just destroy someone's door.

Watch
me, I said. I shoved the tire iron at Briggs and put my weight behind it.
The security chain popped off its mooring, and the door flew open.

Stay
away from me! he hollered. I'm armed.

What,
are you kidding me? You're holding a fork.

Yes,
but it's a meat fork. And it's sharp. I could poke your eye out with this
fork.

Not
on your best day, Shorty.

I
hate you, Briggs said. You're ruining my life.

I
could hear sirens in the distance. Swell. Just what I needed . . . the police.
Maybe we could call in the fire department, too. And the dogcatcher. And hell,
how about a couple newspaper reporters.

You're
not taking me in, Briggs said. I'm not ready. He lunged at me
with his fork. I jumped away, and the fork ripped a hole in my Levi's.

Hey,
I said, these were almost new pants.

He
came at me again, shouting, I hate you. I hate you. This time I
smacked the fork out of his hand, and he stumbled into an end table, knocking
the table over, smashing a lamp in the process. My lamp, he
shrieked. Look what you did to my lamp. He lowered his head and
charged at me bull-style. I stepped to the side, and he crashed into a
bookcase. Books tumbled out, and knickknacks shattered on the polished wood
floor.

Stop
it, I said. You're wrecking your apartment. Get a grip on
yourself.

I'll
get a grip on you, he snarled, lunging forward, catching me with a body
tackle at knee level.

We
both went down hard to the floor. I had him by about seventy pounds, but he was
in a frenzy and I couldn't pin him. We rolled around, locked together, cursing
and breathing heavy. He slithered away from me and ran for the door. I
scrambled after him on hands and knees and grabbed him by the foot at the top
of the stairs. He yelped and fell forward, and we both went head over heels
tumbling down the stairs to the landing, where we tangled again. There was some
scratching and hair grabbing and attempted eye-gouging. I had him by the front
of his shirt when we lost balance and pitched down the second flight of stairs.

I
flopped to a stop in the foyer, flat on my back, gasping for air. Briggs was
squashed under me, dazed into inertia. I blinked my eyes to clear my head and
two cops swam into focus. They were staring down at me, and they were smiling.

One
of the cops was Carl Costanza. I'd gone to school with Carl and we'd stayed
friends . . . in a remote sort of way.

I
heard you liked the top, Carl said, but don't you think this is
carrying it a little far?

Briggs
squirmed under my weight. Get off me. I can't breathe.

He
doesn't deserve to breathe, I said. He ripped my Levi's.

Yeah,
Carl said, lifting me off Briggs, that's a capital offense.

I
recognized the other cop as Costanza's partner. His name was Eddie Something.
Everyone called him Big Dog.

Jeez,
Big Dog said, barely controlling laughter, what did you do to this poor
little guy? Looks like you beat the crap out of him.

Briggs
was standing on wobbly legs. His shirt was untucked and he'd lost a shoe. His
left eye was starting to bruise and swell, and his nose was bleeding.

I
didn't do anything! I yelped. I was trying to take him into custody
and he went berserk.

That's
right, Harry said from the top of the landing. I saw the whole
thing. This runty little guy just about ruined himself. And this lady hardly
put a hand to him. Except of course when they were wrestling.

Carl
looked at the cuff still attached to Briggs' wrist. Your bracelet?
he asked me.

I
nodded.

You're
supposed to cuff both hands.

Very
funny.

You
got papers?

Upstairs
in my shoulder bag.

We
climbed the stairs while Big Dog baby-sat Briggs.

Holy
shit, Costanza said when he saw Briggs' door. Did you do
this?

He
wouldn't let me in.

Hey,
Big Dog, Costanza yelled. Lock the little guy in the car and come
take a look. You gotta see this.

I
gave Costanza the bond documents. Maybe we could keep this all kind of
quiet—

Holy
shit, Big Dog said when he saw the door.

Steph
did that, Costanza told him proudly.

Big
Dog clapped me on the shoulder. I guess they don't call you the bounty
hunter from hell for nothing.

Everything
seems to be in order, Costanza said to me. Congratulations. You
caught yourself a Munchkin.

Big
Dog examined the doorjamb. You know there's a slug in here?

Costanza
looked at me.

Well,
I didn't have a key—

Costanza
put his hands over his ears. I don't want to hear this.

I
limped into Briggs' apartment, found a set of keys on a hook in his kitchen,
and used one to lock his door. Then I collected his shoe, which had been left
on the landing, gave the shoe and the keys to Briggs, and told Carl I'd follow
him in.

When
I walked back to the Buick, Bunchy was waiting for me. Cripes, he
said. You beat the bejeezus out of that little guy. Who the hell was he,
the Son of Satan?

He's
a computer operator who got picked up for carrying concealed. He really isn't
such a bad guy.

Man,
I'd hate to see what you do to someone you don't like.

How
did you know where to find me? And why weren't you in my parking lot when I
needed you?

I
picked you up leaving the office. I overslept this morning, so I tried hitting
your usual haunts and got lucky. What's new with Fred?

I
haven't found him.

You
aren't giving up, are you?

No,
I'm not giving up. Listen, I have to go. I have to get my body receipt.

Don't
drive too fast. There's something wrong with my transmission. It makes this
real bad sound when I do over forty.

I
watched him walk to his car. I was pretty sure I knew what he was, and he
wasn't a bookie. I just didn't know why he was tagging after me.

COSTANZA
AND BIG Dog brought Briggs through the back door to the docket lieutenant.

The
docket lieutenant looked over his desk at Briggs. Damn, Stephanie,
he said, smiling, what'd you do to the poor little guy? What, are you on
the rag today?

Juniak
was passing through. You're lucky, he said to Briggs. Usually
she blows people up.

Briggs
didn't look like he thought that was funny. I've been framed, he
said.

I
got my body receipt for Briggs, and then I went upstairs to Crimes Against
Persons and gave my report on the Sloane Street shooting. I called Vinnie and
told him I brought Randy Briggs in, so America could rest easier tonight. Then
I drove over to RGC with Bunchy close on my bumper.

It
was a little after three when I got to Water Street. Clouds had rolled in late
in the day, thick and low, the color and consistency of lard. I could feel them
pressing on the roof of the Buick, slowing my progress, dulling down the firing
of brainy synapses. I cruised on autopilot, my thoughts sliding from Uncle Fred
to Joe Morelli to Charlie Chan. Life was good for Charlie Chan. He knew
freaking everything.

Two
blocks from RGC I snapped out of the stupor, realizing there was something
going on in the street ahead. There were cops in front of RGC. Lots of them.
The medical examiner's truck was there, too, and this was not a good sign. I
parked half a block from RGC and walked the rest of the way, Bunchy trailing
after me like a faithful dog. I looked for a familiar face in the crowd. No
luck. A small knot of uniformed RGC employees huddled on the fringe. Probably
had just come in with the trucks.

What's
going on? I asked one of the men.

Somebody
got shot.

Do
you know who?

Lipinski.

The
shock must have shown on my face, because the man said, Did you know
him?

I
shook my head. No. I was just coming to settle my aunt's bill. How did it
happen?

Suicide.
I was the one who found him, another of the men said. I brought my
truck in early, and I went inside to get my paycheck. And there he was with his
brains blown out. He must have put the gun in his mouth. Christ, there was
blood and brains all over the place. I wouldn't have thought Lipinski had that
much brains.

Are
you sure it was suicide?

There
was a note, and I read it. Lipinski said he was the one who offed Martha
Deeter. Said they'd had a fight over an account, and he shot her. And then he
tried to make it look like she was robbed. Said he couldn't live with what he'd
done, so he was checkin' out.

Oh
boy.

That's
horseshit, Bunchy said. That smells like a load of horseshit.

I
hung around for a while longer. The forensic photographer left. And most of the
police left. The RGC men left one by one. And then I left, too, with Bunchy in
tow. He'd gotten quiet after his horseshit pronouncement. And very serious.

Two
RGC employees are dead, I said to him. Why?

We
locked eyes for a moment, and he shook his head and walked away.

I
TOOK A fast shower, dried my hair, and dressed in a short denim skirt and red
T-shirt. I took a look at my hair and decided it needed some help, so I did the
hot roller thing. My hair still didn't look wonderful after the rollers, so I
lined my eyes and added extra mascara. Stephanie Plum, master of diversion. If
your hair is bad, shorten your skirt and add extra mascara.

Before
I left the apartment, I took a minute to go through the Yellow Pages and find a
new garbage company for Mabel.

Bunchy
was in the lobby when I came down. He was leaning against the wall, and he was
still looking serious. Or maybe he just looked tired.

You
look nice, he said to me. Real nice, but you wear too much
makeup.

GRANDMA
WAS AT the door when I arrived. Did you hear about the garbage guy? Blew
his brains out. Lavern Stankowski called and said her son, Joey, was working
the EMS truck. And he said he never saw anything like it. Said there was brains
all over the place. Said the whole back half of the guy's head was stuck to the
wall in the garbage office.

Grandma
slid her uppers around some. Lavern said the deceased was being laid out
at Stiva's. Imagine the job Stiva's going to have with that one. Probably use
up two pounds of putty to fill all the holes. Remember Rita Gunt?

Rita
Gunt was ninety-two when she died. She'd lost a lot of weight in the later
years of her life, and her family had asked Stiva to give her a more robust
look for her last public appearance. I guess Stiva had done the best he could
with what he had to work with, but Rita had gone into the ground looking like
Mrs. Potato Head.

If
somebody was going to kill me I wouldn't want it to be with a bullet to the
head, Grandma said.

My
father was in the living room in his favorite chair. And from the corner of my
eye I saw him peek around the edge of his newspaper.

I
want to get poisoned, Grandma said. That way my hair wouldn't get
messed.

Hmm,
my father said thoughtfully.

My
mother came out from the kitchen. She smelled like roast lamb and red cabbage,
and her face glowed from stove steam. Any word about Fred?

Nothing
new, I said.

I
think there's something funny going on with these garbage people, Grandma
said. Somebody's killing the garbage people, and I bet they killed Fred,
too.

Larry
Lipinski left a suicide note, I told her.

It
could have been forged, Grandma said. It could have been a fake to
throw everybody off guard.

I
thought it was aliens that took Fred, my father said from behind his
paper.

That
would account for a lot of things, Grandma said. Nothing to say
aliens didn't off the garbage people, too.

My
mother shot my father a warning glance and went back to the kitchen.
Everyone come to the table before the lamb gets cold, she said.
And I don't want to hear any more talk about aliens and killing.

It's
the change, Grandma whispered to me. Your mother's been snarfy ever
since she started the change.

I
heard that, my mother said. And I'm not snarfy.

I
keep telling her she should take them hormone pills, Grandma said.
I've been thinking about taking them myself. Mary Jo Klick started taking
them, and she said there were parts to her that had got all shriveled, and
after a week on them hormones she was all plumped up again. Grandma
looked down at herself. I wouldn't mind getting plumped up in some of
them parts.

We
all went to the table and took our places. Grace was said at Christmas and
Easter. Since this wasn't either of those, my father shoveled food onto his
plate and dug in, head down, concentrating on the task at hand.

What
do you think happened to Uncle Fred? I asked, catching his attention
between forkfuls of lamb and potato.

He
looked up surprised. No one ever asked his opinion. Mob, he said.
When someone disappears without a trace, it's the mob. They've got
ways.

Why
would the mob want to kill Uncle Fred?

I
don't know, my father said. All I know is it sounds like the
mob.

We
better hurry, Grandma said. I don't want to be late for the
viewing. I want to get a good seat right up front, and there'll probably be a
crowd, being that the deceased was shot. You know how some people are nosy
about that sort of thing.

There
was silence at the table, no one daring to make a comment.

Well,
I guess I might be a little nosy, Grandma finally said.

When
we were done I put some lamb and potatoes and vegetables in a disposable
aluminum pie plate.

What's
that for? Grandma wanted to know.

I
added a plastic knife and fork. Stray dog down by the Kerner's.

He
eat with a knife and fork?

Don't
ask, I said.

STIVA'S
FUNERAL HOME was in a big white house on Hamilton. There'd been a fire in the
basement, and much of the house was newly rebuilt and refurnished. New green
indoor-outdoor carpet on the front porch. New ivory medallion wallpaper
throughout. New industrial-strength blue-green carpeting in the lobby and
viewing rooms.

I
parked the Blue Bomb in the lot and helped Grandma wobble inside on the black
patent-leather pumps she always wore to evening viewings.

Constantine
Stiva was in the middle of the lobby, directing traffic. Mrs. Balog in slumber
room three. Stanley Krienski in slumber room two. And Martha Deeter, who was
clearly going to be the big draw, was laid out in room one.

Not
long ago I'd had a run-in with Constantine's son, Spiro. The result had been
the aforementioned fire and the mysterious disappearance of Spiro. Fortunately,
Con was the consummate undertaker, his demeanor always controlled, his smile
sympathetic, his voice as smooth as vanilla custard. There was never any ugly
mention of the unfortunate incident. After all, I was a potential customer. And
with my line of work it might be sooner rather than later. Not to mention
Grandma Mazur.

And
who are you visiting tonight? he asked. Ah yes, Ms. Deeter is
resting in room one.

Resting.
Unh.

Let's
get a move on, Grandma said, taking me by the hand and pulling me
forward. Looks like there's already a crowd collecting.

I
scanned the faces. Some regulars like Myra Smulinski and Harriet Farver. Some
other people who probably worked for RGC and most likely wanted to make sure
Martha was really dead. A knot of people dressed in black, staying close to the
casket—family members. I didn't see any representatives from Big Business. I
was pretty sure my father was wrong about the mob doing in Uncle Fred and the
garbage people. Still, it didn't hurt to keep my eyes open. I also didn't see
any aliens.

Will
you look at this, Grandma said. Closed casket. Isn't this a fine
howdy-do. I get dressed up and come out to pay my respects, and I don't even
get to see anything.

Martha
Deeter was shot and autopsied. They'd taken her brain out to get weighed. After
she was put back together she probably looked like Frankenstein. I was
personally relieved to see a closed casket.

I'm
going to check out the flowers, Grandma said. See who sent
what.

I
did another crowd scan and spotted Terry Gilman, Hello! Maybe my father
was right. It was rumored that Terry Gilman worked for her uncle Vito Grizolli.
Vito was a family man who ran a dry cleaning business that laundered a lot more
than dirty clothes. What I heard from Connie, who was connected in a
nonparticipating sort of way, was that Terry had started out in collections and
was moving up the corporate ladder.

Terry
Gilman? I said with more statement than question, extending my hand.

Terry
was slim and blond and had dated Morelli all through high school. None of which
endeared her to me. She was wearing an expensive gray silk suit and matching
heels. Her manicure was to die for, and the gun she carried in a slim-line
shoulder holster was discreetly hidden by the line of her jacket. Only someone
who had worn a similar rig would notice Terry's.

Stephanie
Plum, Terry said, nice to see you again. Were you friends with
Martha?

No.
I'm here with my grandma. She likes to come to scope out the caskets. How about
you? Were you friends with Martha?

Business
associates, Terry said.

That
hung in the air for a moment.

I
hear you're working for your uncle Vito.

Customer
relations, Terry said.

Another
silence.

I
rocked back on my heels. Funny how Martha and Larry died from gunshots
one day apart.

Tragic.

I
lowered my voice and leaned a little closer. That wasn't your job, was
it? I mean, you weren't the one to, uh—

Whack
them? Terry said. No. Sorry to disappoint you. It wasn't me.
Anything else you want to know?

Well,
yeah, actually my uncle Fred is missing.

I
didn't whack him either, Terry said.

I
didn't think so, I said, but it never hurts to ask.

Terry
glanced at her watch. I've got to give my respects, and then I'm out of
here. I have two more viewings tonight. One at Moser and one across town.

Boy,
sounds like Vito's business is booming.

Terry
shrugged. People die.

Uh-huh.

Her
eyes focused on something beyond my shoulder, and her interest shifted.
Well, well, she said, look who's here.

I
turned to see who put the purr in Terry's voice and wasn't all that surprised.
It was Morelli.

He
draped a proprietary arm around my shoulders and smiled at Terry. How's
it going?

Can't
complain, Terry said.

Morelli
cut his eyes to the casket at the end of the room. You know Martha?

Sure,
Terry said. We go way back.

Morelli
smiled some more.

I
think I'll go find Grandma, I said.

Morelli
tightened his hold on me. Not yet. I need to talk to you. He nodded
at Terry. Will you excuse us?

I
need to be moving on anyway, Terry said. She sent Joe a smoochy air kiss
and went off in search of the Deeters.

Joe
dragged me out to the lobby.

That
was very friendly back there, I said, trying hard not to narrow my
eyes and grind my teeth.

We
have a lot in common, Morelli said. We both work in vice.

Hmm.

You
know, you're kind of cute when you're jealous.

I'm
not jealous.

Liar.

Now
my eyes were definitely narrowed, but I was secretly thinking it'd be nice if
he'd kiss me. Did you want to discuss something?

Yeah.
I want to know what the hell went on today. Did you really beat the shit out of
that poor little Briggs guy?

No!
He fell down the stairs.

Oh
boy, Morelli said.

He
did!

Honey,
I say that all the time, and it's never true.

There
were witnesses.

Morelli
was trying to look serious, but I could see the grin twitching at the corners
of his mouth. Costanza said you tried to shoot the lock off, and when
that didn't work you took an axe to the door.

That's
totally wrong . . . it was a tire iron.

Christ,
Morelli said. Is it that time of the month?

I
pressed my lips together.

He
tucked a clump of hair behind my ear and trailed a fingertip down my cheek.

Guess
I'll find out tomorrow.

Oh?

A
woman's always an easy mark at a wedding, Morelli said. I thought about
the tire iron. It'd be really satisfying to clonk Morelli on the head with it.
Is that why you invited me?

Morelli
grinned.

Yep.
He definitely deserved to get smacked with the tire iron. Then after I smacked
him I'd kiss him. Run my hand down his chest to his flat hard stomach to his
nice hard . . .

Grandma
materialized at my elbow. How nice to see you, she said to Morelli.
Hope this means you're going to start paying attention to my
granddaughter again. Things are pretty dull since you got cut out of the
scene.

She
broke my heart, Morelli said.

Grandma
shook her head. She don't know much.

Morelli
looked pleased.

Well,
I'm ready to go, Grandma said. Nothing to see here. They've got the
lid nailed down. Besides, there's a Jackie Chan movie coming on at nine
o'clock, and I don't want to miss it. Eeeya! she said, making a kung
fu-type move. You could come over to watch it with us, Grandma said
to Morelli. We've got some pie left from dessert, too.

Sounds
good, Morelli said, but I'm going to have to take a rain check. I'm
working tonight. I have to relieve someone on a stakeout.

BUNCHY
WAS NOWHERE in sight when we came out of the funeral home. So maybe the way to
get rid of him was to feed him. I dropped Grandma off and continued on to my
apartment. I circled the parking lot once, looking between cars, making sure
Ramirez wasn't waiting for me.

Rex
was running on his wheel when I came in. He stopped and twitched his whiskers
at me when I flicked the light on.

Food!
I said to Rex, showing him the brown grocery bag that always accompanied me
home from a dinner at my parents. Lamb leftovers, mashed potatoes,
vegetables, a jar of pickled beets, two bananas, a quarter pound sliced ham,
half a loaf of bread, and apple pie. I broke off a chunk of pie and
dropped it into Rex's food dish, and Rex almost fell off his wheel in excitement.

I
would have liked a piece of pie, too, but I thought about the little black
dress and had a banana instead. I was still hungry after the banana, so I made
myself half a ham sandwich. After the sandwich I picked at the lamb. And
finally I gave in and ate the pie. Tomorrow morning I'd get up first thing and
go for a run. Maybe. No! Definitely! Okay, I knew how to do this. I'd call
Ranger and see if he wanted to run with me. Then he'd be over here first thing
tomorrow and make me go out and get some exercise.

Yo,
Ranger said, answering the phone. His voice was husky, and I realized it was
late and I'd probably awakened him.

It's
Stephanie. I'm sorry to be calling so late.

He
took a slow breath. No problem. Last time you called me late at night you
were naked and chained to your shower curtain rod. I hope this isn't going to
be disappointing.

That
had happened when we'd first started working together and I barely knew him.
He'd broken into my apartment and released me with clinical efficiency. I
suspected he'd act differently now. The thought of him coming upon me naked and
chained now gave me a hot flash.

Sorry,
I said. You only get one call like that in a lifetime. This call's about
exercise. Um, I could use some.

Now?

No!
In the morning. I want to go running, and I'm looking for a partner.

You're
not looking for a partner, Ranger said. You're looking for an
enforcer. You hate to run. You must be worried about getting into that black
dress. What did you eat just now? Piece of cake? Candy bar?

Everything,
I said. I just ate everything.

You
need some self-control, Babe.

Boy,
that was the truth. Are you going to run with me, or what?

Only
if you're serious about getting into shape.

I
am.

You're
a terrible liar, Ranger said. But since I don't want to have some
fat chick working for me, I'll be there at six.

I'm
not a chick, I yelled. But he'd already hung up.

Damn.

I
SET THE alarm for five-thirty, but was awake at five and dressed by
five-fifteen. I wasn't all that enthusiastic about running anymore. And I
didn't especially care about being on time as a courtesy to Ranger. My fear was
that I'd oversleep, and when Ranger broke into my apartment to wake me up, I'd
drag him into bed with me.

And
then what would I tell Joe? We sort of had an agreement. Except neither of us
knew exactly what the agreement meant. In fact, now that I thought about it,
maybe we didn't have an agreement at all. Actually, it was more like we were in
agreement negotiations.

Besides,
I wasn't going to do anything with Ranger because getting involved with Ranger
would be the equivalent to sky diving without a parachute. I was temporarily
oversexed, but I wasn't any more stupid than usual.

I
had a ham sandwich and the rest of the pie for breakfast. I did some stretches.
I tweezed my eyebrows. I changed from shorts to sweats. And at six o'clock I was
in the lobby, watching Ranger pull into the lot.

Man,
he said, you must be serious about running. I didn't expect you to
actually be up at this hour. Last time we ran I had to drag you out of
bed.

I
was wearing sweats, and I was freezing my butt off, wondering where the hell
the sun was. Ranger was wearing a T-shirt with the sleeves cut out, and he
didn't look cold at all. He did a couple hamstring stretches, a couple neck
rolls, and began jogging in place.

You
ready? Ranger asked.

A
mile later I pulled up and bent at the waist, trying to suck in some air. My
shirt was soaked in sweat and my hair was plastered to my head. Hold it a
minute, I said. I have to throw up. Boy, I'm really out of
shape. And maybe I shouldn't have had the ham and pie.

You
aren't going to throw up, Ranger said. Keep going.

I
can't keep going.

Do
another quarter mile.

I
shoved off behind him. Boy, I'm really out of shape, I said again.
Guess running once every three months wasn't enough for maximum fitness.

Two
more minutes, Ranger said. You can make it.

I
really think I'm going to throw up.

You're
not going to throw up, Ranger said. One more minute.

The
sweat was dripping off my chin and running into my eyes, blurring my vision. I
wanted to wipe it away, but I couldn't lift my arm that high. We there
yet?

Yes.
Mile and a quarter, Ranger said. See, I knew you could do it.

I
was unable to speak, so I nodded my head.

Ranger
was jogging in place. Want to keep moving, he said. You ready
to go?

I
bent over and threw up.

That's
not gonna save you, Ranger said.

I
gave him a stiff middle finger.

Shit,
Ranger said, looking down at the mess I'd made on the ground. What's that
pink stuff?

Ham
sandwich.

Maybe
you want to just shoot yourself in the head.

I
like ham.

He
jogged a few feet in front of me. Come on. We'll do another mile.

I
just threw up!

Yeah,
so?

So
I'm not running anymore.

No
pain, no gain, Babe.

I
don't like pain, I said. I'm going home. And I'm walking. He
pushed off. I'll catch you on the way back.

Look
on the bright side, I thought. At least I didn't have to worry about breakfast
going straight to my thighs. And throwing up is so attractive that chances were
real good I wouldn't have to worry about Ranger having a libido attack over me
anytime in the near future.

I
was walking one block from Hamilton, in a neighborhood of small single-family
houses. Traffic was picking up on Hamilton, but one block over, where I walked,
activity was centered in kitchens. Lights were on, coffee was brewing, cereal
bowls were being set out. It was Saturday, but Trenton wasn't sleeping in. Kids
had to be chauffeured to football and soccer. Laundry had to go to the cleaner.
Cars needed washing. And the farmer's market was calling . . . fresh
vegetables, eggs, baked goods, and sausages.

The
sun was weak in a murky sky, and the air felt cold against my sweat-soaked
clothes. I was three blocks from my apartment building, planning my day.
Canvass the area around the strip mall, showing Uncle Fred's photo. Get home in
time to pour myself into the little black dress. All the while keeping an eye
out for Bunchy.

I
heard a runner coming up behind me. Ranger, I thought, steeling myself not to
get coerced into racing him home.

Hello,
Stephanie, the runner said.

My
walking faltered. The runner was Ramirez. He was dressed in sweats and running
shoes, but he wasn't sweating. And he wasn't breathing heavy. He was smiling,
dancing around me on the balls of his feet, alternately shadowboxing and jogging
in place.

What
do you want? I asked.

The
champ wants to be your friend. The champ can show you things. He can take you
places you've never been.

I
was torn between wanting Ranger to show up and save me, and not wanting Ranger
to see Ramirez at all. I suspected Ranger's solution to my stalking problem
might be death. There was a good possibility that Ranger killed people on a
regular basis. Only bad guys, of course, so who was I to criticize? Still, I
didn't want him killing someone on my behalf. Not even if it was Ramirez.
Although, if Ramirez died in his sleep or was accidentally run over by a truck,
it wouldn't bother me too much.

I'm
not going anywhere with you, ever, I said. And if you continue to
harass me I'll take steps to make sure it stops.

It's
your destiny to go with the champ, Ramirez said. You can't escape
it. Your friend Lula went with me. Ask her how she liked it, Stephanie. Ask
Lula what it's like to be with the champ.

I
got a mental picture of Lula left naked and bloodied on my fire escape. Good
thing I'd already thrown up because if there was anything in my stomach I'd be
ralphing now.

I
strode off, walking away from him. You don't debate with a madman. He
pitty-patted after me for half a block, and then he laughed softly and called
good-bye, and he was gone, jogging off toward Hamilton.

Ranger
didn't reach me until I was at my parking lot. His skin was slick with sweat,
and his breathing was labored. He'd been running hard, and he looked like he'd
enjoyed it.

Are
you okay? he asked. Your face is white. I thought you'd have
recovered by now.

Think
you're right about ham, I said.

You
want to try this again tomorrow?

I
don't think I'm cut out to be this healthy.

You
still looking for work?

I
mentally cracked my knuckles. I needed money, but Ranger's jobs weren't turning
out so good. What is it this time?

Ranger
unlocked his car, reached inside, and retrieved a large yellow envelope.
I have a high-bond FTA floating around Trenton. I have someone watching
his girlfriend's house and someone watching his apartment. The guy's mother
lives in the Burg. I don't think it's worthwhile to put someone on the mother's
house twenty-four hours, but you know a lot of people in the Burg, and I
thought you might be able to find an informant. He handed the envelope
over. The guy's name is Alphonse Ruzick.

I
knew the Ruzicks. They lived on the other side of the Burg, two doors down from
Carmine's Bakery, across from the Catholic school. Sandy Polan lived on that block.
I'd gone to school with Sandy. She was married to Robert Scarfo now, so I guess
she was Sandy Scarfo, but I still thought of her as being Sandy Polan. She had
three kids, and the last one looked a lot more like the next-door neighbor than
like Robert Scarfo. I peeked inside the envelope. Photo of Alphonse Ruzick,
apprehension authorization, bond agreement, and personal information sheet.

Okay,
I said. I'll see if I can find someone to rat on Alphonse.

I
pushed through the glass door to the lobby and did a fast sweep to make sure
Ramirez wasn't lying in wait for me. I took the stairs and felt safe when I
stepped onto my floor. There was the smell of bacon cooking behind Mrs.
Karwatt's door. And the television was blaring in Mr. Wolesky's apartment. A
normal morning. Business as usual. Aside from the fact that I'd barfed and been
scared half to death by a psychopathic maniac.

I
opened my door and found Bunchy on the couch, reading the paper.

You've
got to stop breaking into my apartment, I said. It's rude.

I
feel conspicuous sitting out in the hall. I figure it doesn't look good for you
to have men loitering. What'll people think?

Then
loiter in your car, in the lot.

I
was cold.

Someone
knocked on my door. I went to the door and peeked out. It was my neighbor from
across the hall, Mr. Wolesky.

Did
you take my paper again? he asked.

I
got the paper from Bunchy and returned it to Mr. Wolesky.

Out,
I told Bunchy. Good-bye.

What
are you doing today? Just so I know.

I'm
going to the office, and then I'm putting some posters up at the Grand
Union.

The
office, huh? Maybe I'll pass on the office. But you can tell Lula there's gonna
be payback for making me lose you the other day.

You
should be happy she didn't use her stun gun.

He
stood at the couch with his hands in his pockets. You want to tell me
about the color copies on your table?

Damn.
I hadn't put the prints away. They're nothing special.

Body
parts in a garbage bag?

Do
you find them interesting?

I
don't know who it is, if that's what you're getting at. He moved to the
table. Twenty-four pictures. The whole roll. Two with the bag tied up.
That's got me thinking. And they're recent, too.

How
do you know that?

There
are newspapers stuck in the bag along with the body. I looked at them with your
magnifying glass, and you see this one here with the color? I'm pretty sure
this is a supplement from Kmart advertising the Mega Monster. I know because my
kid made me go get him one the second he saw the ad.

You
have a kid?

Why
is that such a big shock? He lives with my ex-wife.

When
was the first time the ad ran?

I
called and checked. It was a week ago Thursday.

The
day before Fred disappeared.

Where'd
you get these pictures? Bunchy asked.

Fred's
desk.

Bunchy
shook his head. Fred was involved in some very bad shit.

I
locked and bolted the door after Bunchy left. I showered and dressed in Levi's
and a black turtleneck. I tucked the turtleneck in and added a belt. I stuffed
Uncle Fred's picture into my shoulder bag and took off to do my pseudo-private
investigator thing.

My
first stop was at the office to collect my pittance on Briggs.

Lula
looked up from the filing when I walked in. Girl, we've been waiting for
you. We heard how you beat the crap out of that Briggs guy. Not that he didn't
deserve it, but I think if you was gonna beat the crap out of someone, you
could let me in on it. You know how bad I wanted to beat the crap out of that
little wiener.

Yeah,
Connie said to me, you've got some nerve hogging all the brutality.

I
didn't do anything, I said. He fell down the stairs.

Vinnie
opened his office door and stuck his head out. Jesus Christ, he
said. How many times have I told you not to hit people in the face? You
hit them in the body where it doesn't show. Kick them in the nuts. Sucker-punch
them in the kidney.

He
fell down the stairs! I said again.

Yeah,
but you pushed him, right?

No!

See,
that's good, Vinnie said. Lying is good. Stick with that story. I
like it. He stepped back into his office and slammed the door shut.

I
gave Connie the body receipt, and Connie wrote me a check.

I'm
off to find a witness, I said.

Lula
had her purse in her hand. I'll go with you. Just in case that Bunchy guy
decides to follow you some more. I'll take care of his ass.

I
smiled. This should be interesting.

WE
STARTED AT the copy store on Route 33. I enlarged Fred's photo and reproduced
it onto a hand-printed request for information about Fred's disappearance.

After
the copy store, I cruised into the Grand Union lot and was disappointed not to
see Bunchy waiting for us. I parked close to the store, and Lula and I took the
posters inside.

Hold
on here, Lula said. They got Coke on sale. This is a real good
price for Coke. And they got some good-lookin' lunchmeat in the deli section.
What time is it? Is it lunchtime? You mind if I do some food shopping?

Hey,
I said to Lula, don't let me slow you down. I tacked a poster onto
the bulletin board in the front of the store. Then I took the original photo
and started quizzing shoppers while Lula foraged in the bakery aisle.

Have
you seen this man? I asked.

The
reply would be no. Or sometimes, Yeah, that's Fred Shutz. What a
putz.

No
one could remember seeing him on the day of the disappearance. And no one had
seen him since. And no one especially cared that he was missing.

How's
it going? Lula asked, wheeling a shopping cart past me, en route to the
car.

Slow.
No takers.

I'm
gonna drop these bags off. And then I'm going to look in that little video
store at the end.

Knock
yourself out, I said. I showed Fred's photo to a few more people and at
noon I broke for lunch. I searched my pockets and the bottom of my bag and came
up with enough money to buy a small bag of nutritious, already washed and
ready-to-eat baby carrots. For the same amount of money I could also buy a
giant Snickers bar. Boy, what a tough decision.

Lula
returned from the video store just as I was licking the last of the chocolate
off my fingers. Look at this, Lula said. They had Boogie
Nights on sale. I don't care much about the movie. I just like to look at
the ending once in a while.

I'm
going door-to-door with Fred's photo, I told her. Want to
help?

Sure,
you just give me one of them posters, and I'll door-to-door the hell out of
you.

We
divided the neighborhood in half and decided to work until two o'clock. I was
done early, scoring a big zero. One woman said she saw Fred go off with
Harrison Ford, but I thought that was unlikely. And another woman said she'd
seen a vision of Fred floating across her television screen. I didn't put a lot
of stock in that, either.

Since
I had some time to kill I went back to the Grand Union to buy pantyhose for the
wedding. I stepped into the glass vestibule and noticed an elderly woman was
staring at the Fred poster I'd tacked up on the community bulletin board.
That's good, I thought. People read these things.

I
bought the pantyhose, and as I was leaving I saw the woman was still standing
in front of the poster. Have you seen him? I asked.

Are
you Stephanie Plum?

Yes.

I
thought I recognized you. I remember your picture from when you blew up that
funeral home.

Do
you know Fred?

Sure,
I know Fred. He's in my seniors club. Fred and Mabel. I didn't realize he was
missing.

When
did you see him last?

I
was trying to remember that. I was sitting on the bench outside Grand Union
here, waiting for my nephew to come pick me up, on account of I don't drive
anymore. And I saw Fred come out of the cleaners.

That
must have been Friday.

That's
what I think, too. I think it was Friday.

What
did Fred do when he came out of the cleaners?

He
went to his car with the clothes. And it looked like he laid them out real
careful on the backseat, although it was hard to tell from here.

What
happened next?

A
car pulled up alongside Fred and a man got out, and him and Fred talked for a
while. And then Fred got in the car with the man and they drove away. I'm
pretty sure that's the last time I saw Fred. Except I can't be certain of the
day. My nephew would know.

Holy
shit. Did you know the man Fred was talking to?

No.
He wasn't familiar to me. But I got the feeling Fred knew him. They seemed
friendly.

What
did he look like?

Goodness.
I don't know. He was just a man. Ordinary.

Caucasian?

Yes.
And about the same height as Fred. And he was dressed in a suit.

What
color hair? Was his hair long or short?

It
wasn't like I was paying attention to remember something, she said.
I was just passing time until Carl got here. I suppose his hair was short
and maybe brown. I can't actually remember, but if it was unusual, it would
have stuck in my mind.

Would
you know him if you saw him again? Would you recognize him from a
picture?

I
don't think I could say for sure. He was a ways away, you know, and I didn't
see his face much.

How
about the car he was driving? Do you remember the color?

She
was silent for a moment, her eyes unfocused while she searched for a mental
image of the car. I just wasn't paying attention, she said.
I'm sorry. I can't recall the car. Except that it wasn't a truck or
anything. It was a car.

Did
it look like they were arguing?

No.
They were just talking. And then the man walked around the car and got behind
the wheel. And Fred got in the passenger side. And they drove away.

I
gave her my card in exchange for her name, address, and phone number. She said
she didn't mind if I called to ask more questions. And she said she'd keep her
eyes open and call me if she saw Fred.

I
was so psyched I almost didn't see Lula standing two inches from me.
Wow! I said, bumping into her.

Earth
to Stephanie, Lula said.

How'd
you do? I asked her.

Lousy.
There's a bunch of dummies living here. Nobody knows nothing.

I
didn't have any luck back there, either, I said. But I found
someone in the store who saw Fred get into a car with another man.

You
shitting me?

Swear
to God. The woman's name is Irene Tully.

So
who's the man? And where's ol' Fred? Lula asked.

I
didn't know the answers to those questions. Some of the wind went out of my
sails when I realized not a whole lot had changed. I had a new puzzle piece,
but I still didn't know if Fred was in Fort Lauderdale or the Camden landfill.

We'd
been walking back to Lula's Firebird, and I'd been lost in thought. I looked at
the Firebird and thought there was something strange about it. It hit me at the
same time Lula started shrieking.

My
baby, Lula yelled. My baby, my baby.

The
Firebird was up on blocks. Someone had stolen all four wheels.

This
is just like Fred, she said. What is this, the Bermuda
Triangle?

We
got closer and looked in the car window. Lula's groceries were stuffed onto the
front seat, and two of the wheels were in the back. Lula popped the trunk and
found her other two wheels.

What
the hell? she said.

An
old brown Dodge rolled to a stop beside us. Bunchy.

Okay,
who do we know who can open doors without keys? Who has a score to settle with
Lula? And who has returned to the scene of the crime?

Not
bad, I said to Bunchy. Sort of a sadistic sense of humor . . . but
not bad.

He
smiled at my comment and eyed the car. You ladies got a problem?

Someone
took the wheels off my Firebird, Lula said, looking like she'd figured it
out, too. Don't suppose you know who could've done something like
this.

Vandals?

Vandals,
my ass.

I
have to be getting along now, Bunchy said, smiling ear to ear.
Toodles.

Lula
hauled a small cannon out of her shoulder bag and pointed it at Bunchy.
You slime-faced bag of monkey shit.

The
smile was gone in a flash, and Bunchy laid rubber out of the lot.

Good
thing I got auto club, Lula said.

An
hour later, I was back in my Buick. I was running short on time, but I wanted
to talk to Mabel.

I
almost zipped right past her house, because the '87 Pontiac station wagon
wasn't parked at the curb. In its place was a new silver-gray Nissan Sentra.

Where's
the station wagon? I asked Mabel when she answered the door.

Traded
it in, she said. I never did like driving that big old boat.
She looked at her new car and smiled. What do you think? Isn't it
zippy-looking?

Yeah,
I said. Zippy. I ran into someone today who said she might have seen
Fred.

Oh,
dear, Mabel said. Don't tell me you've found him.

I
blinked twice because she hadn't sounded like that would be happy news.
No.

She
put her hand to her heart. Thank goodness. I don't mean to sound
uncaring, but you know, I just bought the car, and Fred wouldn't understand
about the car.

Okay,
now we know where Fred stacks up against a Nissan Sentra. Anyway, this
woman said she might have seen Fred on the day he disappeared. She said she
thought she saw Fred talking to a man in a suit. Do you have any idea who the
man might be?

No.
Do you?

Question
number two. It's very important that I know everything Fred did the day
before he disappeared.

It
was just like all the other days, Mabel said. He didn't do anything
in the morning. Puttered around the house. Then we ate lunch, and he went out
to the store.

Grand
Union?

Yes.
And he was only gone about an hour. We didn't need much. And then he worked in
the yard, cleaning up the last of the leaves. That was all he did.

Did
he go out at night?

No
. . . wait, yes, he went out with the leaves. If you have too many bags of
leaves, you have to pay extra to the garbage company. So whenever Fred had more
than his allotted number of bags, he'd wait until it was dark, and then he'd
drive one or two bags to Giovichinni's. He said it was the least Giovichinni
could do for him being that he always overcharged on his meat.

When
did Fred leave the house Friday morning?

Early.
Around eight, I guess. When he came home he was complaining because he had to
wait for RGC to open.

And
when did he come back to the house?

I
don't remember exactly. Maybe around eleven. He was home for lunch.

That's
a long time just to go to RGC to complain about a bill.

Mabel
looked thoughtful. I didn't really pay much attention, but I guess you're
right.

He
didn't go to Winnie's because he was there in the afternoon.

While
I was in the neighborhood I cruised over to the Ruzicks'. The bakery was on the
corner, and the rest of the houses on the street were duplexes. The Ruzick
house was yellow brick with a yellow-brick stoop in front and a front yard that
was three feet deep. Mrs. Ruzick kept her windows clean and her porch swept.
There were no cars in front of the house. The backyard was long and narrow,
leading to an alley that was one lane wide. The duplexes were divided by double
driveways, at the end of which sat single-car garages.

I
toyed with the idea of talking to Mrs. Ruzick, but gave it up. She had a
reputation for being outspoken and had always been fiercely protective of her
two worthless sons. I went to Sandy Polan instead.

Wow,
Stephanie! Sandy said when she opened the door. I haven't seen you
in a long time. What's up?

I
need a snitch.

Let
me guess. You're looking for Alphonse Ruzick.

Have
you seen him?

No,
but he'll be around. He always comes to eat Saturday dinner with Mama. He is
such a loser.

Would
you mind doing lookout for me? I'd do it myself, but I have to go to a wedding
this afternoon.

Oh
my God. You're going to Julie Morelli's wedding! It's true about you and
Joe.

What
about me and Joe?

I
heard you were living with him.

I
had a fire in my apartment, and I rented a room from him for a short
time.

Sandy's
face scrunched up in disappointment. You mean you weren't sleeping with
him?

Well,
yeah, I guess I was sleeping with him.

Oh
my God. I knew it! I just knew it! What's he like? Is he excellent? Is he . . .
you know, big? He doesn't have a little twinkie, does he? Oh, God, don't tell
me if he has a little twinkie.

I
looked at my watch. Gee, look at the time. I have to be going—

Oh,
you've got to tell me or I'll die! Sandy said. I had such a
crush on him in high school. Everyone did. If you tell me, I swear I
won't tell another soul.

Okay,
it's not a little twinkie.

Sandy
looked at me expectantly.

That's
it, I said.

Did
he tie you up? He always looked like the kind of guy who liked to tie women
up.

No!
He didn't tie me up! I gave her my card. Listen, if you see
Alphonse, give me a call. Try my cell phone number first, and if that doesn't
work, try my pager.

I
WAS SUPER late when I barreled through the back door to my apartment building.
I quickly crossed to the bank of mailboxes on the far side of the lobby, spun
the dial on my box, and grabbed my mail. A phone bill, a wad of junk mail, and
an envelope from RangeMan Enterprises. My curiosity was stronger than my desire
to be punctual, so I tore the RangeMan envelope open on the spot. RangeMan
Enterprises is Ricardo Carlos Manoso. Better known as Ranger. Incorporated as
RangeMan.

It
was a payroll check issued by Ranger's accountant, paying me for the two jobs I
screwed up. I had a moment of guilt, but brushed it aside. I didn't have time
to feel guilty right now.

I
rushed upstairs, hurled myself into the shower, and was out in record time. I
went for the big soft curly look to my hair, natural frosted polish on my
nails, and an extra sweep of mascara on my lashes. I tugged the little black
dress into place, checked myself out in the mirror, and thought I looked pretty
darn good.

I
transferred a few things to a small black beaded purse, hooked a pair of long,
dangly rhinestone earrings into my ears, and slipped my faux-diamond cocktail
ring onto my ring finger.

My
apartment is on the parking-lot side of the building, and my bedroom window
opens to an old-fashioned fire escape. More modern buildings have balconies
instead of fire escapes. Those buildings charge twenty-five dollars more a
month than mine for rent, so I like my fire escape just fine.

The
only problem with the fire escape is that people can climb up as well as down.
Now that Ramirez was back on the street, I checked my bedroom window fourteen
times a day to make sure it was locked. And when I left the apartment, not only
was the window locked, but the curtain was pushed open, so I could immediately
see upon entering the room if the window was broken.

I
went to the kitchen to say good-bye to Rex. I gave him a green bean from my
cache of leftovers and told him not to worry if I came home late. He watched me
for a beat and then took the bean to his soup can. Don't look at me like
that, I said to Rex. I'm not going to sleep with him.

I
looked down at the black dress with the low scoop neck and slinky little skirt.
Who was I kidding? Morelli wouldn't waste any time getting me out of this
dress. We'd be lucky if we got to the wedding at all. Is that what I wanted?
Shit. I didn't know what I wanted.

I
ran back to the bedroom, kicked off the heels, and shimmied out of the black
dress. I tried on a tan suit, a red knit dress, an apricot cocktail dress, and
a gray silk suit. I ransacked my closet some more and came up with a tea-length
rayon dress. It was a soft teal color with a small pink rose print and a skirt
that was soft and swirly. It wasn't hot like the little black dress, but it was
sexy in an understated romantic way. I changed my pantyhose, junked the
earrings, dropped the dress over my head, shoved my feet into low-heeled shoes,
and dumped the contents of the black purse into a small tan bag.

I
had just buttoned the last button on the dress when the doorbell rang. I
grabbed a sweater and hustled to get the door. I threw the door open and didn't
see anyone.

Down
here.

It
was Randy Briggs.

Why
aren't you in jail?

I
made bail, he said. Again. And thanks to you I don't have anyplace
to live.

You
want to run that by me again?

You
wrecked my door, and while I was in jail, thieves came in and ransacked my
apartment. Stole everything and set fire to my couch. Now I don't have anyplace
to live while they fix my apartment. And when your cousin wrote my bail he said
I had to have an address. So here I am.

Vinnie
sent you here?

Yeah.
Isn't that a kick in the ass? You want to help me with this stuff I've
got?

I
stuck my head out the door. Briggs had a couple big suitcases propped against
the wall.

You
are not living here, I told him. You must be crazy to think
for a single moment that I'd let you live here.

Listen,
Toots, I don't like it any more than you do. And believe me, I'll be out of
here as soon as possible. He pushed past me, wheeling one of the
suitcases. Where's my bedroom?

You
don't have a bedroom, I said. This is a one-bedroom apartment. And
that one bedroom is mine.

Christ,
he said, when was the last time you got laid? You need to relax a
little. He had the second suitcase by the handle.

Halt!
I said, blocking the doorway. You are not living here. You aren't
even visiting here.

This
is what it says on my bond agreement. Call your ratfaced cousin and ask. You
want to violate my bond agreement? You want to come after me again?

I
held my ground.

It's
only for a couple days. They have to put down a new rug and put in a new door.
And in the meantime I have a job to do. Which, by the way, thanks to you again,
I'm behind schedule.

I
don't have time to stand here and argue. I'm going out, and there's no way I'm
leaving you alone in my apartment.

He
put his head down and pushed past me. Don't worry about it. I'm not
interested in hocking your silverware. I just want a place to work. He
flopped the suitcase on its back, unzipped it, took out a laptop computer, and
set it on my coffee table.

Shit.

I
dialed Vinnie at home. What's the deal with Briggs? I asked.

He
needed a place to stay, and I thought if he stayed with you, you could keep an
eye on him.

Are
you nuts?'

It's
only for a couple days until they get a door on his apartment. Which, for your
information, I took a lot of grief over. You destroyed that door.

I
don't baby-sit FTAs.

He's
harmless. He's just a little guy. And besides, he threatened me with a civil
liberties suit. And if he goes through with it, you're not gonna come out
looking like roses. You beat the shit out of him.

I
didn't!

Look,
I gotta go. Just humor him, will you?

Vinnie
disconnected.

Briggs
was on the couch, booting up his computer. He was sort of cute with his little
legs sticking out. Kind of like a big, cranky doll with a bashed-in face. He
had a Band-Aid across his broken nose, and a beauty of a black eye. I didn't
think he could win a lawsuit, but I didn't want to put it to the test.

This
comes at a bad time for me, I said to him. I have a date.

Yeah,
I bet that's a big event in your life. And just between you and me, that dress
is a dud.

I
like this dress. It's romantic.

Men
don't like romantic, Sis. Men like sexy. Short and tight. Something you can get
your hand up real easy. And I'm not saying I'm like that . . . I'm just
telling you about men.

I
heard the elevator doors open down the hall. Morelli was here. I snatched my
sweater and handbag and ran for the door. Don't touch anything,
I said. When I get back I'm going to inspect this apartment, and it
better be exactly the way I left it.

I
go to bed early, so be quiet if you get home late. Being that you're wearing
that dress, I don't guess I have to worry about you spending the night with
this guy.

I
met Morelli in the hall. Hmm, Morelli said when he saw me.
Pretty, but not what I'd expected.

I
couldn't say the same for him. He was exactly what I'd expected. He was
edible. California-cut charcoal silk gabardine suit, French-blue shirt, very
cool tie. Black Italian loafers.

What
did you expect? I asked.

Higher
heels, shorter skirt, more breast.

Damn
that Briggs. I had another outfit, I told him, but I had to
use my little black beaded purse with it, and it was too small to hold my cell
phone and pager.

This
is a wedding, Morelli said. You don't need a cell phone and
pager.

You
have a pager clipped to your belt.

It's
this job I'm on. We're close to wrapping it up, and I don't want to miss the
takedown. I'm working with a couple Treasury guys who make me look like a Boy
Scout.

Dirty?

Crazy.

I
got a break today with Uncle Fred. I found a woman who saw Fred talking to a
man in a suit. And then they got in the man's car and drove away.

You
should call Arnie Mott and let him know what you've got, Morelli said.
You don't want to withhold information on a possible kidnapping and
murder.

HOLY
ASCENSION CHURCH had a small lot that was already filled. Morelli parked a
block and a half from the church and blew out a sigh. I don't know why I
agreed to do this. I should have pulled duty.

Weddings
are fun.

Weddings
suck.

What
don't you like about weddings?

I
have to talk to my relatives.

Okay,
I'll concede you that one. What else?

I
haven't been to church in a year. The Monsignor's going to assign me to
Hell.

Maybe
you'll see Fred there. I don't think he went to church, either.

And
I have to wear a suit and tie. I feel like my uncle Manny.

His
uncle Manny was a construction expediter. Manny could expedite the completion
of a building project by insuring that no unexplained fires would take place
during the construction process.

You
don't look like your uncle Manny, I said. You look very sexy.
I felt the material in his trouser leg. This is a beautiful suit.

His
eyes softened. Yeah? His voice pitched low. Why don't we skip
the wedding. We could still go to the reception.

The
reception isn't for another hour. What would we do?

He
slid his arm along the back of my seat and twirled a curl around his finger.

No!
I said, trying to get some conviction behind it.

We
could do it in the truck. We've never done it in the truck.

Morelli
drove a four-wheel drive Toyota pickup. It was pretty nice, but it wasn't going
to replace a queen-size bed. And besides, my hair would get mussed. Not to
mention I was afraid Bunchy might be watching. I don't think so, I
said.

He
brushed his lips across my ear and told me some of the things he wanted to do
to me. A rush of heat fluttered through my stomach. Maybe I should reconsider,
I thought. I liked all of those things. A lot.

A
mile-long car pulled to the curb behind us.

Damn,
Morelli said. It's my uncle Dominic and aunt Rosa.

I
didn't know you had an uncle Dominic.

He's
from New York State. And he's in retail, Morelli said, opening his door.
Don't ask him too many questions about the business.

Aunt
Rosa was out of the car and running toward us. Joey, she yelled.
Let me look at you. It's been so long. Look, Dominic, it's little
Joey.

Dominic
ambled up and nodded at Joe. Long time.

Joe
introduced me.

I
heard you had a girl, Rosa said, talking to Joe, beaming at me.
It's about time you settled down. Give your mother more
grandchildren.

One
of these days, Joe said.

You're
not getting any younger. Pretty soon it'll be too late.

It's
never too late for a Morelli, Joe said.

Dominic
made a move like he was going to smack Joe in the head. Wise guy,
he said. Then he smiled.

THERE
ARE ONLY a few places big enough to handle an Italian wedding reception in the
Burg. Julie Morelli held hers in the back room of Angio's. The room could hold
two hundred and was reaching maximum capacity when Joe and I arrived.

And
when is your wedding? Joe's Aunt Loretta wanted to know, smiling broadly,
giving Joe the squinty eye. She shook her finger at him. When are you
going to make an honest woman out of this poor thing? Myra, come here,
she called. Joe's here with his girl.

This
is such a pretty dress, Myra said, examining my roses. It's so nice
to find a modest young woman.

Oh,
great. I always wanted to be a modest young woman. I need a drink,
I said to Joe. Something with cyanide.

I
spied Terry Gilman across the room, and she wasn't modest at all. She was
wearing a dress that was short and clingy, and shimmery gold. Leaving me to
wonder where the gun was hidden. She turned and stared directly at Joe for a
couple beats, then she blew him a kiss.

Joe
acknowledged her with a noncommittal smile and a nod of his head. If it had been
more I'd have stabbed him with one of the butter knives.

What's
Terry doing here? I asked Joe.

Cousin
to the groom.

A
hush fell over the crowd. For a moment there was total silence, and then
talking resumed, first with low murmurings and finally building to a roar.

What
was that silence all about? I asked Joe.

Grandma
Bella's arrived. That was the sound of terror spreading through the room.

I
looked to the entrance and sure enough, there she was . . . Joe's grandma
Bella. She was a small woman with white hair and piercing hawklike eyes. She
dressed in black and looked like she belonged in Sicily, herding goats, making
the lives of her daughters'-in-law a living misery. Some people believed Bella
had special powers . . . some thought she was wacko. Even the nonbelievers were
reluctant to incur her wrath.

Bella
scanned the room and picked me out. You, she said, pointing a bony
finger at me. You, come here.

Oh,
shit! I whispered to Joe. Now what?

Just
don't let her smell fear, and you'll be fine, Joe said, guiding me
through the crowd, his hand at the small of my back.

I
remember this one, Bella said to Joe, referring to me. This is the
one you sleep with now.

Well,
actually . . . I said.

Joe
brushed a kiss across the nape of my neck. I'm trying.

I
see babies, Bella said. You will give me more great-grandchildren.
I know these things. I have the eye. She patted my stomach. You're
ripe tonight. Tonight would be good.

I
looked at Joe.

Don't
worry, he said. I've got it covered. Besides, there's no such thing
as the eye.

Hah!
Bella said. I gave Ray Barkolowski the eye, and all his teeth fell
out.

Joe
grinned down at his grandmother. Ray Barkolowski had periodontal
disease.

Bella
shook her head. Young people, she said. They believe in
nothing. She took my hand and dragged me after her. Come. You
should meet the family.

I
looked back at Joe and mouthed Help!

You're
on your own, Joe said. I need a drink. A big one.

This
is Joe's cousin, Louis, Grandma Bella said. Louis fools around on
his wife.

Louis
looked like a thirty-year-old loaf of fresh raised white bread. Soft and plump.
Scarfing down appetizers. He stood next to a small olive-skinned woman, and
from the look she gave him, I assumed they were married.

Grandma
Bella, he said, croaky-voiced, his cheeks mottled in red, mouth stuffed
with crab balls. I would never—

Silence,
she said. I know these things. You can't lie to me. I'll put the eye on
you.

Louis
sucked in some crab and clutched his throat. His face got red, then purple. He
flailed his arms.

He's
choking! I said.

Grandma
Bella tapped her finger to her eye and smiled like the wicked witch in The
Wizard of Oz.

I
gave Louis a good hard thwack between his shoulder blades, and the crab
ball flew out of his mouth.

Grandma
Bella leaned close to Louis. You cheat again, and next time I'll kill
you, she said.

She
moved off toward a group of women. One thing you learn about Morelli
men, she said to me. You don't let them get away with a
thing.

Joe
nudged me from behind and put a drink in my hand. How's it going?

Pretty
good. Grandma Bella put the eye on Louis. I took a sip.
Champagne?

All
out of cyanide, he said.

AT
EIGHT O'CLOCK the waitresses were clearing the plates off the tables, the band
was playing, and all the Italian ladies were on the dance floor, dancing with
one another. Kids were running between the tables, squealing and shrieking. The
wedding party was at the bar. And the Morelli men were out back, smoking cigars
and passing gas.

Morelli
had forsaken the cigar ritual and was slouched back in his chair, studying the
buttons on my dress. We could go now, he said. And no one
would notice.

Your
grandma Bella would notice. She keeps looking over here. I think she might be
getting ready to do the eye thing again.

I'm
her favorite grandson, Morelli said. I'm safe from the eye.

So
your grandma Bella doesn't scare you?

You're
the only one who scares me, Morelli said. You want to dance?

You
dance?

When
I have to.

We
were sitting close, with our knees touching. He leaned forward and took my hand
and kissed the inside, and I felt my bones heat up and start to liquefy.

I
heard the click of stiletto heels approaching and caught a flash of gold in my
peripheral vision.

Am
I disturbing something? Terry Gilman said, all glossy lipstick and
carnivorous, perfect white teeth.

Hello,
Terry, Joe said. What's going on?

Frankie
Russo's taking the men's room apart. Something about his wife eating potato
salad off Hector Santiago's fork.

And
you want me to talk to him?

Either
that or shoot him. You're the only one with a legal piece. He's racking up a
hell of a bill in there.

Morelli
gave my hand another kiss. Don't go anywhere.

They
walked off together, and I had a moment of doubt that they might not be going
to the men's room. That's dumb, I told myself. Joe isn't like that anymore.

Five
minutes later he still hadn't returned, and I was having a hard time
controlling my blood pressure. I was distracted by ringing, far off in the
distance. I realized with a start that it wasn't far off at all—it was my cell
phone, the ringing smothered in my, purse.

It
was Sandy. He's here! she said. I was just walking the dog,
and I looked in the Ruzicks' windows, and there he was, watching television. It
was easy to see because the lights are all on, and Mrs. Ruzick never pulls her
shades.

I
thanked Sandy and dialed Ranger. No answer, so I left a message on his machine.
I tried his car phone and cell phone. No answer at those numbers either. I
called his pager and left my cell phone number. I tapped my finger on the table
for five minutes while I waited for a call back. No call back. No Joe. Little
wisps of smoke were starting to escape from my hairline.

The
Ruzicks' house was three blocks away. I wanted to go over and keep my eye on
things, but I didn't want to walk out on Joe. No problem, I told myself. Just
go find him. He's in the men's room. Only he wasn't in the men's room. No one
was in the men's room. I asked a few people if they knew where I could find
Joe. Nope. No one knew where I could find Joe. Still no call from Ranger.

The
steam was coming out my ears now. If this kept up I'd start whistling like a
teakettle. Wouldn't that be embarrassing?

Okay,
I'll leave him a note, I decided. I had a pen but no paper, so I wrote on a
napkin. Be right back, I wrote. I have to check on an FTA for
Ranger. I propped the napkin up against Joe's drink and left.

I
power-walked the three blocks and pulled up across from the Ruzick house. Sure
enough, Alphonse was there, big as life, watching television. I could see him
crystal clear through the living room window. No one had ever accused Alphonse
of being smart. You might say that about me too, because I'd remembered to take
my purse, but I'd left my sweater and cell phone at Angio's. And now that I was
standing still, I was freezing. No problem, I told myself. Go to Angio's, get
your stuff, and come back.

It
would have been a good plan, except at that moment Alphonse stood, scratched
his belly, hiked up his pants, and walked out of the room. Damn. Now what?

I
was across the street from the Ruzicks', crouched between two parked cars. I
had good line of sight to the living room and front of the house, but all else
was lost to me. I was contemplating this problem when I heard the back door
open and close. Shit. He was leaving. He'd probably parked his car in the alley
behind the house.

I
ran across the street and hugged the shadows on the side of the house. Sure
enough, I could see the hulking outline of Alphonse Ruzick making his way to
the alley, carrying a bag. He was charged with armed robbery and assault with a
deadly weapon. He was forty-six, and he weighed in at 230 pounds, with the bulk
of his weight in his gut. He had a little pinhead and a brain to match. And he
was getting away. Damn Ranger. Where the hell was he?

Alphonse
was halfway down the yard when I yelled. I didn't have a weapon. I didn't have
cuffs. I didn't have anything, but I yelled, anyway. It was all I could think
to do.

Stop!
I yelled. Bail Enforcement Agent! Drop to the ground.

Alphonse
didn't even turn to look. He just took off, cutting across yards, rather than
going for the alley. He ran for all he was worth, handicapped by his lard butt
and beer gut, hanging on to the bag in his right hand. Dogs barked, porch
lights flashed, and back doors were thrown open all down the block.

Call
the police, I yelled, chasing after Alphonse, my skirt up around my neck.
Fire, fire. Help. Help.

We
reached the end of the block, and I was within an arm's length when he whirled
around and hit me with the bag. The impact burst the bag and knocked me off my
feet. I was flat on my back, covered in garbage. Alphonse hadn't been leaving
at all. He'd been taking the garbage out for his mother.

I
scrambled to my feet and charged after Alphonse. He'd rounded the block and was
running back to his mother's. He had half a house length on me when he pulled a
set of keys from his pocket, pointed at a Ford Explorer parked at the curb, and
I heard the alarm system chirp off.

Stop!
I yelled. You're under arrest! Stop or I'll shoot!

It
was a stupid thing to say because I didn't have a gun. And even if I had a gun
I certainly wouldn't shoot him. Alphonse looked over his shoulder to check me
out, and it was enough to uncoordinate the forward momentum of his blubber. The
result was that he started to stumble, and I inadvertently plowed into his
gelatinous body.

We
both went down to the sidewalk, where I hung on for dear life. Alphonse was
trying to get to his feet, and I was trying to keep him on the ground. I could
hear sirens in the distance and people yelling and running toward us. And I was
thinking I just had to wrestle around with him long enough for help to get to
me. He was on his knees, and I had a fistful of his shirt in my hand, and he
batted me away like I was a bug.

Dumb
cunt, he said, getting to his feet. You haven't got a gun.

I
get called lots of names. That's not one of my favorites. I latched onto his
cuff and pulled his feet out from under him. He seemed suspended in air for a
fraction of a second, and then he crash-landed with a loud whump that shook the
ground and hit about 6.7 on the Richter scale.

I'm
gonna kill you, he said, sweating and panting, rolling on top of me,
hands to my neck. I'm gonna fuckin' kill you.

I
squirmed under him and sunk my teeth into his shoulder.

Yow!
he yelled. Sonovabitch. What are you, a goddamn vampire?

We
rolled around for what seemed like hours, locked onto each other. Him trying to
kill me, and me just hanging on like a tick on a dog's back, oblivious to my
surroundings and the state of my skirt, afraid if I let go he'd beat me to
death. I was exhausted, and I was thinking I was about at the end of the line
when I was hit with a splash of ice-cold water.

We
both instantly unlocked and flopped onto our backs, sputtering.

What?
I said. What? I blinked my eyes and saw there were lots of people
around us. Morelli and Ranger, a couple uniformed cops, and some people from
the neighborhood. Plus Mrs. Ruzick was there, holding a big empty pot.

Works
every time, Mrs. Ruzick said. Except usually I hose down cats. This
neighborhood has too many cats.

Ranger
grinned down at me. Good bust, Tiger.

I
got to my feet and took stock of myself. No broken bones. No bullet holes. No
knife wounds. Ruined manicure. Soaking wet hair and dress. What looked like
vegetable soup clinging to my skirt.

Morelli
and Ranger were staring at my breasts and smiling at the wet dress that was
plastered to my skin.

So
I have nipples, I snapped. Get over it.

Morelli
gave me his jacket. What's with the vegetable soup on your skirt?

He
hit me with a bag of garbage.

Morelli
and Ranger were smiling again.

Don't
say anything, I told them. And if you value your lives you'll stop
grinning.

Hey,
man, Ranger said, grinning wider than ever. I'm out of here. I've
got to take Bluto for a ride.

Show's
over, Morelli said to the neighbors.

Sandy
Polan was there. She gave Joe an appraising once-over, giggled, and left.

What
was that about? Joe asked me.

I
gave him a palms-up. Go figure.

I
traded his jacket for my sweater when we got to his truck. Out of morbid
curiosity, how long were you standing there watching me wrestle with
Ruzick?

Not
long. A minute or two.

And
Ranger?

The
same.

You
could have jumped in and helped me.

We
were trying. We couldn't get hold of you the way you were tumbling around.
Anyway, you looked like you were doing okay.

How
did you know where I was?

I
talked to Ranger. He called your cell phone.

I
looked down at my dress. It was probably wrecked. Good thing I hadn't worn the
little black number.

Where
were you? I went to the men's room, and it was empty.

Frankie
needed some air. Morelli stopped for a light and glanced over at me.
Whatever possessed you to go after Alphonse like that? You were
unarmed.

Charging
after Alphonse wasn't what bothered me. Okay, so it hadn't been the bright
thing to do. But it hadn't been as stupid as walking the streets, alone and
unarmed, when Ramirez might have been stalking me.

Morelli
parked the truck in the lot and walked me up to my apartment. He backed me
against my door and kissed me lightly on the lips. Do I get to come
in?

I
have coffee grounds in my hair. And Randy Briggs in my apartment.

Yeah,
Morelli said. Makes you smell kind of homey.

I
don't know if I'm up to being romantic tonight.

We
don't have to be romantic, Morelli said. We could just have some
really dirty sex.

I
rolled my eyes.

Morelli
kissed me again. A good-night kiss this time. Call me when you want
some, he said.

Some
what? As if I didn't know.

Some
anything.

I
let myself into my apartment and tiptoed past Briggs, who was asleep on my
couch.

SUNDAY
MORNING I woke up to rain. It was coming down in a steady drone on my fire
escape, spattering against my window. I opened the curtains and thought, ick.
The world was gray. Beyond the parking lot, the world didn't exist at all. I
looked at the bed. Very tempting. I could crawl into bed and stay there until
the rain stopped, or the world came to an end, or until someone showed up with
a bag of doughnuts.

Unfortunately,
if I went back to bed I might lie there taking stock of my life. And my life
had some problems. The project that was taking most of my time and mental
energy wasn't going to get me lunch money. Not that it mattered, I was
determined to find Fred, dead or alive. The projects Ranger gave me weren't
working out. And the bounty hunter projects were a big goose egg. If I thought
about my life long enough I might reach the conclusion I needed to go out and
get a real job. Something that required pantyhose every day and a good
attitude.

Even
worse, I might get to thinking about Morelli, and that I was an idiot not to
have invited him to spend the night. Or worse still, I might think about
Ranger, and I didn't want to go there at all!

And
then I remembered why I hadn't invited Morelli into my apartment. Briggs. I
closed my eyes. Let it all be a bad dream.

Bam,
bam, bam, on my door. Hey! Briggs yelled. You haven't got
any coffee. How am I supposed to work without coffee? Do you know what time it
is, Sleeping Beauty? What, do you sleep all day? No wonder you can't afford any
food in this hellhole.

I
got up and got dressed and stomped out to the living room. Listen,
Shorty, who the hell do you think you are, anyway?

I'm
the guy who's gonna sue your ass. That's who I am.

Give
me a little time, and I could really learn to hate you.

Jeez,
and just when I was thinking you were my soul mate.

I
gave him my best eat-dirt-and-die look, zipped myself into my rain jacket, and
grabbed my shoulder bag. How do you like your coffee?

Black.
Lots of it.

I
sprinted through the rain to the Buick and drove to Giovichinni's. The front of
the store was redbrick, sandwiched between other businesses. On either side of
Giovichinni's the buildings were single story. Giovichinni's was two stories,
but the second floor wasn't used for much. Storage and an office. I drove to
the end of the block and took the service alley that ran behind the store. The
back side of Giovichinni's was redbrick, just like the front. And the back door
opened to a small yard. At the end of the yard was a dirt parking area for
delivery trucks. Two doors down was a real estate office. The back wall was
stuccoed over and painted beige. And the back door opened to a small asphalt
parking lot.

So
suppose cheapskate Fred drives his leaves to Giovichinni's in the dark of
night. He parks the car and turns off his lights. Doesn't want to get caught.
He unloads the leaves and hears a car coming. What would he do? Hide. Then
maybe he's there hiding, and he sees someone come along and deposit a garbage
bag behind the real estate office.

After
that I was lost. I had to think about after that some more.

Next
stop was the 7-Eleven and then home with a large coffee for me and a Big Gulp
of coffee for Briggs and a box of chocolate-covered doughnuts . . . because if
I had to put up with Briggs, I needed doughnuts.

I
shucked my wet jacket and settled down at the dining room table with the coffee
and doughnuts and a steno pad, doing my best to ignore the fact that I had a
man typing away at my coffee table. I listed out all the things I knew about
Fred's disappearance. No doubt now that the photographs played a large role.
When I ran out of things to write in the steno pad, I locked myself in my
bedroom and watched cartoons on television. This took me to lunchtime. I didn't
feel like eating lamb leftovers, so I finished off the box of doughnuts.

Cripes,
Briggs said, do you always eat like this? Don't you know about the major
food groups? No wonder you have to wear those 'romantic' dresses.

I
retreated to my bedroom, and while I was retreating I took a nap. I was
startled awake by the phone ringing.

Just
wanted to make sure you were going to come take me to the Lipinski viewing
tonight, Grandma said.

The
Lipinski viewing. Ugh. Trekking out in the rain to see some dead guy wasn't
high on my list of desirable things to do. How about Harriet
Schnable? I suggested. Maybe Harriet could take you.

Harriet's
car's on the fritz.

Effie
Reeder?

Effie
died.

Oh!
I didn't know that.

Almost
everybody I know has died, Grandma said. Bunch of wimps.

Okay,
I'll take you.

Good.
And your mother says you should come for dinner.

I
BUZZED THROUGH the living room, but before I could get to the door Briggs was
on his feet.

Hey,
where are you going? he asked.

Out.

Out
where?

My
parents' house.

I
bet you're going there for dinner. Man, that's the pits. You're gonna leave me
here with nothing to eat, and you're going to your parents' house for
dinner.

There's
some cold lamb in the refrigerator.

I
ate that for lunch. Hold on, I'll go with you.

No!
You will not go with me.

What,
are you ashamed of me?

Yes!

WELL,
WHO'S THIS little guy? Grandma asked when I walked in with Briggs.

This
is my . . . friend, Randy.

Aren't
you something, Grandma said. I never saw a midget up close.

Little
person, Briggs said. And I never saw anyone as old as you up close,
either.

I
gave him a smack on the top of his head. Behave yourself, I said.

What
happened to your face? Grandma wanted to know.

Your
granddaughter beat me up.

No
kidding? Grandma said. She did a pip of a job.

My
father was in front of the TV. He turned in his chair and looked at us.
Oh, cripes, now what? he said.

This
is Randy, I told him.

He's
kinda short, isn't he?

He's
not a boyfriend.

My
father went back to the television. Thank God for that.

There
were five places set at the table. Who's the fifth person? I asked.

Mabel,
my mother said. Your grandmother invited her.

I
thought it would give us a chance to grill her. See if she's holding something
out, Grandma said.

There
will be no grilling, my mother said to my grandmother. You
invited Mabel over for dinner, and that's what we're going to have . . . a nice
dinner.

Sure,
Grandma said, but it wouldn't hurt to ask her a few questions.

A
car door slammed at the front of the house and everyone migrated to the foyer.

What's
that car Mabel's driving? Grandma asked. That's not the station
wagon.

Mabel
bought a new car, I said. She thought the old one was too
big.

Good
for her, my mother said. She should be able to make those
decisions.

Yeah,
Grandma said. But she better hope Fred's dead.

Who's
Mabel and Fred? Briggs asked.

I
gave him the condensed explanation.

Cool,
Briggs said. I'm starting to like this family.

I
brought a coffee cake, Mabel said, handing a box to my mother, closing
the door with her other hand. It's prune. I know Frank likes prune.
She craned her neck to the living room. Hello, Frank, she called.

Mabel,
my father said.

Nice
car, Grandma said to Mabel. Aren't you afraid Fred'll come back and
have a cow?

He
shouldn't have left, Mabel said. And anyway, how am I to know he'll
come back? I got a new bedroom set, too. It's getting delivered tomorrow. New
mattress and everything.

Maybe
you were the one who bumped Fred off, Grandma said. Maybe you did
it for the money.

My
mother slammed a bowl of creamed peas down on the table. Mother!
she said.

It
was just a thought, Grandma said to Mabel.

We
all took our seats, and my mother set a highball down for Mabel and a beer for
my father and brought a kid cushion for Briggs to sit on.

My
grandchildren use these, she said.

Briggs
looked over at me.

My
sister Valerie's kids, I said.

Hah,
he said. So you're a loser in the grandchildren race, too.

I
have a hamster, I told him.

My
father forked some roast chicken onto his plate and reached for the mashed
potatoes.

Mabel
swilled down half her highball.

What
else you gonna buy? Grandma asked her.

I
might go on a vacation, Mabel said. I might go to Hawaii. Or I
might go on a cruise. I always wanted to go on a cruise. Of course I wouldn't
do that for a while. Unless Stephanie finds that man. Then that might speed
things up.

What
man? Grandma wanted to know.

I
told her about the woman at the Grand Union.

Now
we're getting somewhere, Grandma said. This is more like it. All we
have to do is find that man. She turned to me. You have any
suspects?

No.

Nobody
at all?

I'll
tell you who I suspect, Mabel said. I suspect that garbage company.
They didn't like Fred.

Grandma
waved a chicken leg at her. That's just what I said the other day.
There's something funny going on with that garbage company. We're going to the
viewing tonight to look into it. She ate some chicken while she thought.
You met the deceased when you went to the garbage office, didn't
you? she asked me. What did he look like? He look like the guy who
took Fred for a ride?

I
guess he could fit the description.

Too
bad it's gonna be a closed casket. If it was open we could take the Grand Union
woman with us and see if she recognizes Lipinski.

Hell,
my father said, why don't you just haul Lipinski out and put him in a
lineup?

Grandma
looked at my father. You think we could do that? I imagine he'd be stiff
enough.

My
mother sucked in some air.

I
don't know if you stay stiff, Mabel said. I think you might loosen
up again.

How
about passing the gravy, my father said. Could I get some gravy
down here?

Grandma's
face lit with inspiration. There'll be lots of Lipinski's relatives there
tonight. Maybe one of them will give us a picture! Then we can show the picture
to the Grand Union lady.

I
thought this was all a little grim, considering Mabel was at the table, but
Mabel seemed unfazed.

What
do you think, Stephanie? she asked. Do you think I should go to
Hawaii? Or do you think I should take a cruise?

Jesus,
Briggs said to me, you turned out pretty good considering your gene
pool.

WOW,
LOOK AT this, Grandma said, peering out at the parking lot. This
place is packed tonight. That's on account of Stiva has a full house. He's got
somebody in every room. I was talking to Jean Moon, and she said her cousin
Dorothy died yesterday morning, and they couldn't get her into Stiva's. Had to
take her to Mosel.

What's
wrong with Mosel? Briggs asked.

He
don't know nothing about makeup, Grandma said. Uses too much rouge.
I like when the deceased looks nice and natural.

Yeah,
I like that, too, Briggs said. Nothing worse than an unnatural
corpse.

The
rain had slowed to a drizzle, but it still wasn't a glorious night to be out,
so I dropped Grandma and Briggs off at the door and went in search of a parking
place on the street. I found one a block away, and by the time I reached
Stiva's front porch my hair was more frizz than curl and my cotton knit sweater
had grown two inches.

Larry
Lipinski was in room number one, as was befitting a suicidal killer. Family and
friends were clustered in a knot around the casket. The rest of the room was
filled with the same crowd I'd seen at the Deeter viewing. There were the
professional mourners like Grandma Mazur and Sue Ann Schmatz. And there were
the garbage people.

Grandma
Mazur marched over to me with Briggs running after her. I already gave my
condolences, she said. And I want to tell you they're a real
standoffish group. It's a shame when people like that get to take rooms away
from people like Dorothy Moon.

I
guess that means they wouldn't give you a picture.

Zip,
Grandma said. They gave me zip.

They
gave it to her in a big way, too, Briggs said, smiling. You should
have been there.

I
don't think he's the one, anyway, I said.

I'm
not so sure, Grandma said. These people look to me like they got
something to hide. I think this is a shifty lot.

If
I was related to someone who'd confessed to murder, I'd probably be feeling a
little uncomfortable, too.

Don't
worry, Grandma said. I thought this might happen, and I've got a
plan.

Yeah,
the plan is we forget about it, I said.

Grandma
slid her uppers around while she scanned the crowd. Emma Getz told me the
deceased in room number four is done up real nice. I thought I might take a
look.

Me
too, Briggs said. I don't want to miss anything.

I
wasn't interested in how room four was done up, so I volunteered to wait in the
lobby. Waiting got old after a couple minutes, so I wandered over to the tea
table and helped myself to some cookies. Then the cookies got old, so I went to
the ladies' room to check out my hair. Big mistake. Best not to look at my
hair. I went back to the cookies and put one in my pocket for Rex.

I
was counting the ceiling tiles, wondering what to do next, when the fire alarm
went off. Since not that long ago Stiva's almost burned to the ground, no one
was wasting any time vacating the premises. People poured from the viewing
rooms into the lobby and ran for the door. I didn't see Grandma Mazur, so I
struggled through the crowd to viewing room four. The room was empty when I got
there, with the exception of Mrs. Kunkle, who was serene in her
twelve-thousand-dollar mahogany and solid brass slumber chamber. I ran back to
the lobby and was about to check outside for Grandma Mazur when I noticed the
door to room one was closed. All the other doors were open, but the Lipinski
door was closed.

Sirens
whined in the distance, and I had a bad feeling about room one. Stiva was on
the other side of the lobby, yelling to his assistant to check the back rooms.
He turned and looked at me, and his face went white.

It
wasn't me! I said. I swear!

He
followed after the assistant, and the second he was out of sight I ran to room
one and tried the door. The knob turned but the door wouldn't open, so I put my
weight behind it and gave it a shove. The door flew open, and Briggs fell over
backward.

Shit,
he said, close the door, you big oaf.

What
are you doing?

I'm
doing lookout for your grandma. What do you think I'm doing?

At
the other end of the room, Grandma had the lid up on Larry Lipinski. She was
standing one foot on a folding chair, one foot on the edge of the casket, and
she was taking pictures with a disposable camera.

Grandma!

Boy,
she said, this guy don't look so good.

Get
down!

I
gotta finish this roll out. I hate when there's pictures left over.

I
ran down the aisle between the folding chairs. You can't do this!

I
can now that I got this chair. I was only getting the side of his face before.
And that wasn't working good, on account of there's a lot of his head
missing.

Stop
taking pictures this instant and get down!

Last
picture! Grandma said, climbing off the chair, dropping the camera into
her purse. I got some beauts.

Close
the lid! Close the lid!

Crash!

Didn't
realize it was so heavy, Grandma said.

I
moved the chair back against the wall. I scrutinized the casket to make sure
everything looked okay. And then I took Grandma by the hand. Let's get
out of here.

The
door was wrenched open before we got to it, and Stiva gave me a startled look.
What are you doing in here? I thought you were leaving the
building.

I
couldn't find Grandma, I said. And um—

She
came in here to rescue me, Grandma said, hanging on to me, making her way
to the door. I was paying my respects when the alarm went off, and
everybody stampeded out of here. And somebody knocked me over, and I couldn't
get up. The midget was in here with me, but it would have taken two of them to
do the job. If it wasn't for my granddaughter coming to get me I'd have burned
to a cinder.

Little
person! Randy Briggs said. How many times do I have to tell you,
I'm not a midget.

Well,
you sure do look like a midget, Grandma said. She sniffed the air.
Do I smell smoke?

No,
Stiva said. It looks like a false alarm. Are you all right?

I
think so, Grandma said. And it's a lucky thing, too, because I got
fragile bones on account of I'm so old. Grandma glanced over at me.
Imagine that, a false alarm.

Imagine
that. Unh. Mental head slap.

There
were two fire trucks in the street when we left. Mourners were outside,
shivering in the drizzle, kept in place by curiosity and the fact that their
coats were inside. A police car was angled at the curb.

You
didn't set that alarm off, did you? I asked Grandma Mazur.

Who,
me?

MY
MOTHER WAS waiting at the door when we got back to the house. I heard the
sirens, she said. Are you all right?

Sure
we're all right, Grandma said. Can't you see we're all right?

Mrs.
Ciak got a call from her daughter, who told her there was a fire at
Stiva's.

No
fire, Grandma said. It was one of them false alarms.

My
mother's mouth had turned grim.

Grandma
shook the rain off her coat and hung it in the closet. Ordinarily I guess
I might feel bad that the fire department had to go out for nothing, but I
noticed Bucky Moyer was driving. And you know how Bucky loves to drive that big
truck.

Actually
this was true about Bucky. In fact, he'd been suspected on more than one
occasion for setting off a false alarm himself just so he could take the truck
out.

I
have to go, I said. I have a lot to do tomorrow.

Wait,
my mother said, let me give you some chicken.

GRANDMA
CALLED AT eight. I got a beauty parlor appointment this morning,
she said. I thought maybe you could give me a ride, and on the way we
could drop the you-know-what off.

The
film?

Yeah.

When
is your appointment?

Nine.

WE
STOPPED AT the photo store first. Do that one-hour thing, Grandma
said, handing me the film.

That
costs a fortune.

I
got a coupon, Grandma said. They give them to us seniors on account
of we haven't got a lot of time to waste. We have to wait too long to get our
pictures back, and we could be dead.

After
I deposited Grandma at the hair salon I drove to the office. Lula was on the
Naugahyde couch, drinking coffee, reading her horoscope. Connie was at her
desk, eating a bagel. And Vinnie was nowhere in sight.

Lula
put the paper down as soon as she spied me walking through the door. I
want to know all about it. Everything. I want details.

Not
much to tell, I said. I chickened out and didn't wear the
dress.

What?
Say that again?

It's
sort of complicated.

So
you're telling me you didn't get any this weekend.

Yeah.

Girl,
that's a sad-ass state of affairs.

Tell
me about it.

You
got any FTAs? I asked Connie.

Nothing
came in on Saturday. And it's too early for today.

Where's
Vinnie?

At
the lockup, writing bail on a shoplifter.

I
left the office and stood outside, staring at the Buick. I hate
you, I said.

I
heard someone laughing softly behind me and turned to find Ranger.

You
always talk to your car like that? Think you need a life, Babe.

I've
got a life. What I need is a new car.

He
stared at me for a couple beats, and I was afraid to speculate on what he was
thinking. His brown eyes were assessing, and his expression was mildly amused.
What would you be willing to do for a new car?

What
did you have in mind?

Again,
the soft laugh. Would it still have to be morally correct?

What
kind of car are we talking about?

Powerful.
Sexy.

I
had a feeling those words might be included in the job description, too.

A
light rain had started to fall. He pulled my jacket hood up and tucked my hair
in. His finger traced a line at my temple, our eyes met, and for a terrifying
moment I thought he might kiss me. The moment passed, and Ranger pulled back.

Let
me know when you decide, he said.

Decide?

He
smiled. About the car.

Okeydokey.

Unh!
I climbed into the Buick and roared off into the mist. I stopped for a light
and thunked my head on the steering wheel while I waited for the green. Stupid,
stupid, stupid, stupid, I thought while I thunked. Why had I said
okeydokey ? What a dopey thing to say! I did one last thunk and the
light turned.

Grandma
was getting coated with hairspray when I got to the salon. Her hair was steel
gray, and she kept it cut short and curled in rolls that marched in
side-by-side rows on her pink skull. I'm almost done, she said.
Did you get the pictures?

Not
yet.

She
paid for her wash and set, stuffed herself into her coat, and carefully tied
the plastic rain bonnet on her head. That was some viewing last
night, she said, being cautious how she walked on the wet pavement.
What a lot of excitement. You weren't even there when Margaret Burger
pitched a fit over the guy in room three. You remember how Margaret's husband,
Sol, died from a heart attack last year? Well, Margaret said it was all over a
problem Sol was having with the cable company. Margaret said they drove Sol to
high blood pressure. And she said the guy who did it was the dead guy in room
three, John Curly. Margaret said she came to spit on his dead body.

Margaret
Burger came to Stiva's to spit on someone? Margaret Burger was a sweet
white-haired lady.

That's
what she told me, but I didn't actually see her spit. I guess I came in too
late. Or maybe after she saw this John Curly person she decided not to do it.
He looked even worse than Lipinski.

How
did he die?

Hit
and run. And from the looks of him he must have got hit by a truck. Boy, I'm
telling you these companies are something. Margaret said Sol was arguing over
his bill, just like Fred, and this smart-mouth in the office, John Curly,
didn't want to hear anything.

I
parked in front of One-Hour Photo and got Grandma's pictures.

These
aren't so bad, she said, shuffling through the pack.

I
looked over at them. Eeew.

You
think it's real obvious he's dead? Grandma asked.

He's
in a casket.

Well,
I still think they're pretty good. I think we should see if that Grand Union
lady recognizes him.

Grandma,
we can't ring some woman's doorbell and show her pictures of a dead man.

Grandma
pawed through her big black patent-leather handbag. The only other thing
I got is the memorial brochure from Stiva. The picture's kind of fuzzy,
though.

I
took the paper from Grandma and looked at it. It was a photo of Lipinski and
his wife. And below it was the Twenty-third Psalm. Lipinski was standing with
his arm around a slim woman with short brown hair. It was a snapshot, taken
outdoors on a summer day, and they were smiling at each other.

Kind
of funny they used that picture, Grandma said. I overheard people
talking, saying as how Lipinski's wife left him last week. Just up and went.
And she didn't show up for the viewing, either. Nobody could find her to tell
her about it. Was like she just disappeared off the face of the earth. Just
like Fred. Except from what I heard, Laura Lipinski left on purpose. Packed her
bags and said she wanted a divorce. Isn't that a shame?

Now
I know there are billions of women out there who are slim with short brown
hair. But my mind made the leap anyway to the severed head with the short brown
hair. Larry Lipinski was the second RGC employee to die a violent death in the
space of a week. And while it seemed like a remote connection, Fred had been in
contact with Lipinski. Lipinski's wife was gone. And Lipinski's wife could, in
a very vague way, fit the body in the bag.

Okay,
I said, let's show the pictures to Irene Tully. What the hell. If
she freaked out I'd write it off as an average day. I dug her address out of my
bag. Apartment 117, Brookside Gardens. Brookside Gardens was an apartment
complex about a quarter mile from the strip mall.

Irene
Tully, Grandma said. The name sounds familiar, but I can't place
her.

She
said she knew Fred from the seniors' club.

I
guess that's where I heard of her. There's lots of people in that seniors'
club, and I don't go to the meetings all the time. I can only take so much of
old people. If I want to see loose skin I can look in the mirror.

I
turned into Brookside Gardens and started searching for numbers. There were six
buildings arranged around a large parking area. The buildings were two-story
brick, done up in colonial modern, which meant the trim was white and the
windows were framed by shutters. Each apartment had its own outside entrance.

Here
it is, Grandma said, unbuckling her seat belt. The one with the
Halloween decoration on the door.

We
walked up the short sidewalk and rang the bell.

Irene
looked out at us. Yes?

We
need to ask you about the disappearance of Fred Shutz, Grandma said.
And we got a picture to show you.

Oh,
Irene said. Is it a picture of Fred?

Nope,
Grandma said. It's a picture of the kidnapper.

Well,
actually, we aren't really sure Fred was kidnapped, I said. What
Grandma meant was—

Take
a look at this, Grandma said, handing Irene one of the photos. Of
course, the suit might be different.

Irene
studied the photo. Why is he in a casket?

He's
sort of dead now, Grandma said.

Irene
shook her head. This isn't the man.

Maybe
you're just thinking that because his eyes are closed, and he don't look so
shifty, Grandma said. And his nose looks a little smushed. I think
he might have fallen on his face after he blew his brains out.

Irene
studied the picture. No. It's definitely not him.

Bummer,
Grandma said. I was sure he was the one.

Sorry,
Irene said.

Well,
they're still pretty good pictures, Grandma said, when we got back to the
car. They would have been better if I could have got his eyes to
open.

I
took Grandma home and bummed lunch off my mom. All the while I was looking for
Bunchy. Last I saw him was Saturday, and I was beginning to worry. Figure that
one out. Me worrying about Bunchy. Stephanie Plum, mother hen.

I
left my parents and took Chambers to Hamilton. Bunchy picked me up on Hamilton.
I saw him in my rearview mirror, pulled to the curb, and got out to talk to
him.

Where've
you been? I asked. Take Sunday off?

I
had some work to catch up on. Bookies gotta work sometimes too, you know.

Yeah,
only you're not a bookie.

We
gonna start that again?

How'd
you find me just now?

I
was riding around, and I got lucky. How about you? You get lucky?

That's
none of your damn business!

His
eyes crinkled with laughter. I was talking about Fred.

Oh.
One step forward, two steps backward, I said. I get things that
seem like leads and then they go nowhere.

Like
what?

I
found a woman who saw Fred get into a car with another man the day he
disappeared. Problem is, she can't describe the man or the car. And then
something weird happened at the funeral home, and it feels to me like it might
tie in, but I can't find any logical reason why.

What
was the weird thing?

There
was a woman at one of the viewings who seemed to have a similar problem to the
one Fred was having with the garbage company. Only this woman had problems with
her cable company.

Bunchy
looked interested. What kind of problems?

I
don't know exactly. Grandma told me about it. She just said they were similar
to Fred's.

I
think we should talk to this woman.

We?
There's no we.

I
thought we were working together. You brought me lamb and everything.

I
felt sorry for you. You were pathetic, sitting out there in your car.

He
wagged his finger at me. I don't think so. I think you're getting to like
me.

Like
a stray dog. Maybe not that much. But he was right about talking to Margaret
Burger. What was the harm? I had no idea where Margaret Burger lived, so I went
back to my parents' house and asked Grandma.

I
can show you, she said.

Not
necessary. Just tell me.

And
miss all the action? No way!

Why
not? I had Bunchy tagging along. Maybe I should ask Mrs. Ciak and Mary Lou and
my sister, Valerie. I took a deep breath. Sarcasm always made me feel better.
Get in the car, I said to Grandma.

I
took Chambers to Liberty and turned onto Rusling.

It's
one of these houses, Grandma said. I'll know it when I see it. I
went to a get-together there once. She looked over her shoulder. I
think someone's following us. I bet it's one of them garbage people.

It's
Bunchy, I said. I'm sort of working with him.

No
kidding? I didn't realize this had turned into such a big investigation. We've
got a whole team here.

I
stopped at the house Grandma had described, and we all got out and collected
together on the sidewalk. It had stopped raining, and the temperature had risen
to pleasant.

My
granddaughter tells me you're working together, Grandma said to Bunchy,
looking him over. Are you a bounty hunter, too?

No,
ma'am, he said. I'm a bookie.

A
bookie! Grandma said. Isn't that something. I always wanted to meet
a bookie.

I
knocked on Margaret Burger's door, and before I could introduce myself Grandma
stepped forward.

Hope
we aren't disturbing you, Grandma said. But we're conducting an
important investigation. Stephanie and me and Mr. Bunchy.

Bunchy
elbowed me. Mr. Bunchy, he said.

Not
at all, Margaret Burger said. I guess this is about poor
Fred.

We
can't find him no-how, Grandma said. And my granddaughter thought
your problem with that cable company sounded real similar. Except, of course,
they gave Sol a heart attack instead of making him disappear.

They
were awful people, Margaret said. We paid our bills on time. We
never missed a payment. And then when we had trouble with the cable box, they
said they never heard of us. Can you imagine?

Just
like Fred, Grandma said. Isn't that right, Stephanie?

Uh,
yeah, it sounds—

So
then what? Bunchy said. Did Sol complain?

He
went down there in person and raised a big fuss. And that's when he had his
heart attack.

What
a shame, Grandma said. Sol was only in his seventies, too.

Do
you have any canceled checks from the cable company? Bunchy asked
Margaret. Something from before you had the problem?

I
could look in my file, Margaret said. I keep all my checks for a
couple years. But I don't think I have any of the cable checks. After Sol died,
that awful cable person, John Curly, came and tried to look like he was being
helpful about solving the mix-up. I didn't buy that for a minute. He was just
trying to cover his tracks because he messed up the computer records. He even
said as much, but it was too late for Sol. He'd already been given the heart
attack.

Bunchy
looked resigned to what he was hearing. John Curly took the canceled
checks, Bunchy said, more statement than question.

He
said he needed them for his records.

And
he never brought them back?

Never.
And next thing I know I get a statement from them welcoming me like I was a
brand-new customer. I'm telling you, that cable company is a mess.

Anything
else you want to know? I asked Bunchy.

No.
That's about it.

How
about you, Grandma?

I
can't think of anything more.

Well
then, I said to Margaret, I guess there isn't anything else. Thanks
for talking to us.

I
hope Fred turns up, Margaret said. Mabel must be beside
herself.

She's
holding up pretty good, Grandma said. I guess Fred wasn't one of
those husbands you really mind losing.

Margaret
nodded, like she understood completely what Grandma was saying.

I
dropped Grandma off and continued on home to my apartment. Bunchy followed me
the whole way and parked behind me.

Now
what? Bunchy said. What are you going to do now?

I
don't know. You have any ideas?

I'm
thinking there's something going on with the garbage company.

I
considered telling him about Laura Lipinski but decided against it.

Why
did you want to see Margaret's canceled checks? I asked.

No
special reason. Just thought they'd be interesting.

Uh-huh.

Bunchy
rocked back on his heels with his hands in his pockets. How about the
checks from the garbage company? You ever get any of them?

Why?
You think they'd be interesting, too?

Might
be. You never know about stuff. His eyes focused on something behind me,
and his face changed expression. Wariness, maybe.

I
felt a body move so close it was skimming my own, and a warm hand protectively
settled at the base of my neck. Without turning I knew it was Ranger.

This
is Bunchy, I said to Ranger, by way of introduction. Bunchy the
bookie.

Ranger
didn't move. Bunchy didn't move. And I wasn't moving, held in a kind of
suspended animation by Ranger's force field.

Finally
Bunchy took a couple steps backward. It was the sort of maneuver a man might
make when confronted with a grizzly. I'll be in touch, Bunchy said,
pivoting on his heel, walking to his car.

We
watched Bunchy drive out of the lot.

He's
not a bookie, Ranger said, his hand still holding me captive.

I
stepped away and turned to face him, putting space between us.

What
was with the intimidation routine you just did?

Ranger
smiled. You think I intimidated him?

Not
a whole lot.

I
don't think so, either. He's got a few face-offs behind him.

Am
I right in assuming you didn't like him?

Just
being cautious. He was carrying and he was lying. And he's a cop.

I
already knew all those things. He's been following me for days. So far
he's been harmless.

What's
he after?

I
don't know. Something to do with Fred. Right now he knows more than I do. So I
figure it's worthwhile to play along with him. He's probably a Fed. I think he
has a tracking device on my car. Jersey cops can't usually afford to do stuff
like that. And I think he must be working with a partner to be able to pick me
up, but I haven't spotted the partner yet.

Does
he know you've made him?

Yeah,
but he doesn't want to talk about it.

I
can help with the tracking problem, Ranger said, handing me a set of
keys.

What's
this?

THIS
IS TEMPTATION, Ranger said, leaning against a new midnight-black Porsche
Boxster.

Could
you be more specific about the temptation? Like, what kind of temptation were
you thinking about?

Temptation
to broaden your horizons.

I
had a lot of unease over Ranger's definition of broad horizons. I
suspected his horizons were a teensy bit closer to hell than I might want to
travel. For starters, there was the car and the slight possibility that it
wasn't entirely legitimate.

Where
do you get these cars? I asked him. You seem to have a never-ending
supply of new, expensive black cars.

I
have a source.

This
Porsche isn't stolen, is it?

Do
you care?

Of
course I care!

Then
it isn't stolen, Ranger said.

I
shook my head. It's a really cool car. And I appreciate your offer, but I
can't afford a car like this.

You
don't know the price yet, Ranger said.

Is
it more than five dollars?

The
car isn't for sale. It's a company car. You get the car if you continue to work
with me. You're ruining my image in that Buick. Everyone who works with me
drives black.

Well,
hell, I said, I wouldn't want to ruin your image.

Ranger
just kept looking at me.

Is
this charity? I asked him.

Guess
again.

I'm
not selling my soul, am I?

I'm
not in the soul-buying business, Ranger said. The car's an
investment. Part of the working relationship.

So
what do I have to do in this working relationship?

Ranger
uncrossed his arms and pushed off from the car. Jobs come up. Don't
accept any that make you uncomfortable.

You
aren't doing this just to amuse yourself, are you? To see what I'd be willing
to do for an expensive car?

That
would be somewhere in the middle of the list, Ranger said. He looked at
his watch. I have a meeting. Drive the car. Think it over.

He
had his Mercedes parked next to the Porsche. He slid behind the wheel and drove
away without looking back.

I
almost collapsed on the spot. I put a hand to the Porsche to steady myself, and
then immediately yanked my hand away, afraid I'd left prints. Dang!

I
ran inside and looked around for Randy Briggs. His laptop was on the coffee
table, but his jacket was gone. I toyed with the idea of packing all his things
into the two suitcases, moving them into the hall, and locking my door, but
gave it up as futile.

I
cracked open a beer and called Mary Lou. Help! I said.

What
help?

He
gave me a car. And he touched me twice! I looked at my neck in the hall
mirror to see if I was branded where his hand had rested.

Who?
What are you talking about?

Ranger!

Omigod.
He gave you a car?

He
said it was an investment in our working relationship. What does that
mean?

What
kind of car is it?

A
new Porsche.

That's
at least oral sex.

Be
serious! I said.

Okay,
the truth is . . . it's beyond oral sex. It could be, you know, butt
stuff.

I'll
return the car.

Stephanie,
this is a Porsche!

And
I think he's flirting with me, but I'm not sure.

What
does he do?

He's
gotten sort of physical.

How
physical?

Touchy.

Omigod,
what did he touch?

My
neck.

Is
that all?

My
hair.

Hmmm,
Mary Lou said. Was it sexy touching?

It
felt sexy to me.

And
he gave you a Porsche, Mary Lou said. A Porsche!

It
isn't like it's a gift. It's a company car.

Yeah,
right. When do I get to ride in it? You want to go to the mall tonight?

I
don't know if I should be driving it for personal stuff. In fact, I
didn't know if I should be driving it at all until I made sure about the
butt thing.

You
really think this is a company car? Mary Lou asked.

So
far as I can see, everyone who works for Ranger drives a new black car.

A
Porsche?

Usually
an SUV, but maybe a Porsche happened to fall off the back of the truck
yesterday. I could hear screaming in the background. What's
happening?

The
kids are having a conflicting opinion. I suppose I should go mediate.

Mary
Lou had started taking parenting classes because she couldn't get the
two-year-old to stop eating the dog's food. Now she said things like the
kids are having a conflicting opinion instead of the kids are
trying to kill each other. I think it sounds much more civilized, but
when you come right down to it . . . the kids were trying to kill each other.

I
hung up and took the check Fred had written to RGC out of my shoulder bag and
studied it. Nothing unusual that I could see. A plain old check.

The
phone rang, and I put the check back in my bag.

Are
you alone? Bunchy asked.

Yes,
I'm alone.

Something
going on between you and that Ranger guy?

Yes.
I just didn't know what it was.

We
didn't get much chance to talk, Bunchy said. I was wondering what
you were gonna do next.

Look,
why don't you just tell me what it is you want me to do.

Hey,
I'm following you around, remember?

Okay,
I'll play the game. I thought I'd go back to the bank tomorrow and talk to a
friend of mine. What do you think of that?

Good
idea.

It
was close to five. Joe would most likely be home now, watching the news on
television, fixing himself something to eat, getting ready for Monday Night
Football. If I invited myself to his house for Monday Night Football,
I could show him the check and see what he thinks. And I could ask him to check
into Laura Lipinski. If things went well, maybe I could also make up for
opportunities missed on Saturday night.

I
dialed his number.

Hey,
I said. I thought maybe you wanted company for Monday Night Football.

You
don't like football.

I
sort of like football. I like when they all jump on each other. That's pretty
interesting. So do you want me to come over?

Sorry.
I have to work tonight.

All
night?

There
was a moment of silence while Morelli processed the hidden message. You
want me bad, he said.

I
was just being friendly.

Will
you still be feeling friendly tomorrow? I don't think I'll be working
tomorrow.

Order
a pizza.

After
I hung up I looked guiltily at the hamster cage. Hey, I'm just being
friendly, I said to Rex. I'm not going to sleep with him.

Rex
still didn't come out of his can, but I could see the pine shavings moving. I
think he was laughing.

The
phone rang around nine.

I
have a job for you tomorrow, Ranger said. Are you interested?

Maybe.

It's
of high moral quality.

And
the legal quality?

Could
be worse. I need a decoy. I have a deadbeat who needs to be separated from his
Jaguar.

Are
you stealing it or repossessing it?

Repossessing.
All you have to do is sit in a bar and talk to this guy while we load his car
onto a flatbed.

That
sounds okay.

I'll
pick you up at six. Wear something that'll hold his attention.

What
bar is this?

Mike's
Place on Center.

Thirty
minutes later, Briggs came home. So what do you do on Monday
nights? he asked. You watch football?

I
went to bed at eleven, and two hours later I was still thrashing around, unable
to sleep. I had Larry Lipinski's missing wife, Laura, on my mind. The back of
her head, severed at the neck, stuffed in a garbage bag. Her husband dead from
a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Hacked up his wife. Shot his coworker. I really
didn't know if it was Laura Lipinski. What were the chances? Probably not good.
Then who was in that bag? The more I thought about it, the more convinced I
became that it was Laura Lipinski.

I
looked at the clock for the hundredth time.

Laura
Lipinski wasn't the only thing keeping me awake. I was having a hormone attack.
Damn Morelli. Whispering all those things in my ear. Looking sexy in his
Italian suit. Surely Morelli would be home by now. I could call him, I thought,
and tell him I was coming to visit. After all, it was his fault I was in this
hellish state.

But
what if I call, and he isn't home, and I get recorded on his caller ID?
Major embarrassment. Best not to call. Think of something else, I ordered myself.

Ranger
flashed into my mind. No! Not Ranger!

Damn.
I kicked the covers off and went out to the kitchen to get some orange juice.
Only there wasn't any orange juice. There wasn't any kind of juice,
because I never went food shopping. There were still some leftovers from my
mother, but no juice.

I
really needed juice. And a Snickers bar. If I had juice and a Snickers bar, I
probably could forget about sex. In fact, I didn't even need the juice anymore.
Just the Snickers bar.

I
stuffed myself into a pair of old gray sweats, shoved my feet into unlaced
boots, and pulled a jacket over my plaid flannel nightshirt. I grabbed my purse
and my keys, and because I was trying not to be stupid, I also grabbed my gun.

I
don't know what the hell you're going after, Briggs said from the couch,
but bring one back for me, too.

I
clomped off, out of my apartment, down the hall, into the elevator.

When
I got to the lot, as fate would have it, I realized I'd taken the Porsche key.
Hah! Who am I to dispute fate? Guess I just had to drive the Porsche.

I
started out for the 7-Eleven, but I was there in no time at all, and it seemed
a shame not to at least work the kinks out of the car. Especially since I
hadn't yet found any kinks. I continued on down Hamilton, turned into the
Burg, wound around some, left the Burg, and sonovagun, before I knew it, I was
in front of Morelli's townhouse. His truck was parked at the curb, and the
house was dark. I idled in front of the house for a minute, thinking about
Morelli, wishing I was comfy in bed with him. Well, what the hell, I thought,
maybe I should ring his doorbell and tell him I was in the neighborhood, so I
thought I'd stop by. No harm in that. Just being friendly. I caught a glimpse
of myself in the rearview mirror. Eek. Should have done something with my hair.
And my legs might need shaving now that I thought about it. Rats.

Okay,
maybe it's not such a good idea to visit Morelli right now. Maybe I should go
home first and shave and scrounge up some sexy underwear. Or maybe I should
just wait until tomorrow. Twenty-four hours, give or take a couple. I wasn't
sure I could hold out for twenty-four hours. He was right. I wanted him bad.

Get
a grip! I told myself. We're talking about a simple sex act here. This isn't a
medical emergency like having a heart attack. This can wait twenty-four hours.

I
took a deep breath. Twenty-four hours. I was feeling better. I was in control.
I was a rational woman. I put the Porsche into gear and cruised down the
street.

Piece
of cake. I can last it.

I
got to the corner and noticed lights in my rearview mirror.

Not
many people out in this neighborhood, at this hour, on a work night. I turned
the corner, parked, cut my lights, and watched the car stop in front of
Morelli's house. After a couple minutes Morelli got out and walked to his door,
and the car began to roll down the street toward me.

I
gripped the wheel tight, so the Porsche wouldn't be tempted to go into reverse
and zoom back to Morelli's. Less than twentyfour hours, I repeated, and my legs
would be smooth as silk and my hair would be clean. But wait a minute! Morelli
has a shower and a razor. This is all baloney. There's no need to wait.

I
shifted into reverse just as the other car came into the intersection. I caught
a glimpse of the driver and felt my heart go dead in my chest. It was Terry
Gilman.

Say
what? Terry Gilman!

There
was an explosion of red behind my eyeballs. Shit. I was such a sap. I hadn't
suspected. I'd thought he'd changed. I'd believed he was different from the
other Morellis. Here I was worrying over leg hair, when Morelli was out doing
God knows what with Terry Gilman. Unh! Major mental smack in the head.

I
squinted at the car as it cleared the intersection and motored on. Terry was
oblivious to my presence. Probably planning out the rest of her night. Probably
going off to whack someone's grandmother.

Well,
who cares about Morelli, anyway. Not me. I could care less. There was only one
thing I cared about. Chocolate.

I
put my foot to the pedal and careened away from the curb. Clear the streets.
Stephanie's got a Porsche and needs a Snickers bar.

I
reached the 7-Eleven in record time, blasted through the store, and left with a
full bag. Hey, Morelli, orgasm this.

I
entered my lot at warp speed, screeched to a stop, stomped up the stairs, down
the hall, and kicked my door open. Shit!

Rex
stopped running on his wheel and looked at me.

You
heard me, I said. Shit, shit, shit.

Briggs
sat up. What the hell's going on? I'm trying to get some sleep
here.

Don't
push your luck. Don't speak to me.

He
squinted at me. What are you wearing? Is that some new form of birth
control?

I
grabbed the hamster cage and bag of candy, carted everything off to my bedroom,
and slammed my door shut. I ate the 100 Grand bar first, and then the Kit Kat,
and then the Snickers. I was starting to feel sick, but I ate the Baby Ruth and
the Almond Joy and the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup.

Okay,
I'm feeling much better now, I said to Rex.

Then
I burst into tears.

When
I was done crying I told Rex it was only hormones reacting with a prediabetic
surge of insulin from eating all those candy bars . . . so he shouldn't worry.
I went to bed and immediately fell asleep. Crying is fucking exhausting.

I
awoke the next morning with my eyes crusty and puffed from crying and my spirit
lower than slug slime. I lay there for about ten minutes wallowing in my
misery, thinking of ways to kill myself, deciding on smoking. But then I didn't
have any cigarettes, and I wasn't in a mood to traipse back to the 7-Eleven.
Anyway, I was working with Ranger now, so probably I could just let nature take
its course.

I
dragged myself out of bed and into the bathroom where I stared at myself in the
mirror. Get a grip, Stephanie, I said. You have a Porsche and
a SEALS hat, and you're broadening your horizons.

I
was afraid after all those candy bars I was also broadening my ass, and I
should get some exercise. I was still dressed in my sweats, so I wriggled into
a sports bra and laced up my running shoes.

Briggs
was already at work at his computer when I came out of my bedroom. Look
who's here . . . Mary Sunshine, he said. Christ, you look like
shit.

This
is nothing, I told him. Wait until you see what I look like when
I'm done running.

I
returned drenched in sweat and feeling very pleased with myself. Stephanie
Plum, woman in charge. Screw Morelli. Screw Terry Gilman. Screw the world.

I
had a chicken sandwich for breakfast and took a shower. Just to be mean I put
the beer on the top shelf in the refrigerator, told Briggs to have a rotten
day, and zoomed off in my Porsche to the Grand Union. Dual-purpose trip. Talk
to Leona and Allen and shop for real food. I parked about a half mile away from
the store so no one would park next to me and ding my door. I got out and
looked at the Porsche. It was perfect. It was a totally kick-ass car. When you
had a car like this you didn't mind so much that your boyfriend was boinking a
skank.

I
did the shopping first, and by the time I was done and had the groceries tucked
away in the trunk, the bank was open. Business was slow first thing on a
Tuesday morning. No one in the lobby. There were two tellers counting out
money. Probably practicing. I didn't see Leona.

Allen
Shempsky was in the lobby drinking coffee, talking to a bank guard. He saw me
and waved. How's the Uncle Fred hunt going? he asked.

Not
that good. I was looking for Leona.

It's
her day off. Maybe I can be of help.

I
rooted around in my bag, located the check, and handed it over to Allen.
Anything you can tell me about this?

He
examined it front and back. It's a canceled check.

Anything
weird about it?

He
looked at it some more. Not that I can see. What's so special about this
check?

I
don't know. Fred was having billing problems with RGC. He was supposed to bring
this check to the office the day he disappeared. I guess he didn't want to take
the original, so he left it home on his desk.

Sorry
I can't be more helpful, Shempsky said. If you want to leave it
with me I can ask around. Sometimes different people pick up different
things.

I
dropped the check back into my bag. Think I'll hang on to it. I have a
feeling people have died because of this check.

That's
serious, Shempsky said.

I
walked back to the car feeling spooky and not knowing why. Nothing alarming had
happened at the bank. And no one was parked or standing by the Porsche. I
checked the lot. No Bunchy. No Ramirez that I could see. Still, there was that
uncomfortable feeling. Something forgotten, maybe. Or someone watching. I
unlocked the car and looked back at the bank. It was Shempsky I'd sensed. He
was standing to the side of the bank building, smoking a cigarette, watching
me. Oh man, now I was getting the creeps from Shempsky. I blew out a breath. My
imagination was in overdrive. The man was just sneaking a smoke, for Pete's
sake.

The
only oddity in the act was that Allen Shempsky actually had a bad habit. A bad
habit seemed like an excess of personality for Allen Shempsky. Shempsky was a
nice guy who never offended anyone and was totally forgettable. He'd been like
that for as long as I could remember. When we were in school he was the kid in
the back of the room who never got called on. Quiet smile, never a conflicting
opinion, always neat and clean. He was like a chameleon whose clothes matched
the wall behind him. After knowing Allen all my life, I'd be hard-pressed to
name his hair color. Maybe mouse brown. Not that he was rodentlike. He was a
reasonably attractive man with an average nose and average teeth and average
eyes. He was average height, of average build, and I assumed of average
intelligence, although there was no way of knowing for sure.

He'd
married Maureen Blum a month after they both graduated from Rider College. He
had two young children and a house in Hamilton Township. I'd never driven past
his house, but I was willing to bet it was forgettable. Maybe that wasn't so
bad. Maybe it was a good thing to be unmemorable. I bet Maureen Blum Shempsky
didn't have to worry about being stalked by Benito Ramirez.

Bunchy
was waiting when I got back to my apartment building. He was in the lot,
sitting in his car, looking grumpy.

What's
with the Porsche? he wanted to know, coming over.

It's
on loan from Ranger. And if you put a tracking device on it he won't be
happy.

Do
you know how much a car like this costs?

A
lot?

Maybe
more than you want to pay, Bunchy said.

I
hope that's not the case.

He
took one of the grocery bags and followed me upstairs. You go to the bank
like you said?

Yep.
I talked to Allen Shempsky, but I didn't learn anything new.

What
did you talk to him about?

The
weather. Politics. Managed health care. I balanced my bag on my hip while
I unlocked the door.

Boy,
you're a beaut. You don't trust anybody, do you?

I
don't trust you.

I
wouldn't trust him, either, Briggs said from the living room. He
looks like he's got a social disease.

Who's
that? Bunchy wanted to know.

That's
Randy, I said.

Want
to see him disappear?

I
looked over at Briggs. It was a tempting offer. Some other time, I
said to Bunchy.

Bunchy
unpacked his bag and set everything out on the kitchen counter. You've
got some strange friends.

And
they hardly counted at all compared to my relatives. I'll make you lunch
if you tell me who you're working for and why you're interested in Fred,
I said.

No
can do. Besides, I think you'll make me lunch anyway.

I
made canned tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. I made grilled cheese
because that's what I felt like eating. And I made the soup because I like to
keep a clean can in reserve for Rex.

Halfway
through lunch I looked at Bunchy, and Morelli's words echoed in my ear. I'm
working with a couple Treasury guys who make me look like a Boy Scout, he'd
said. The Hallelujah Chorus rang out in my head, and I had an epiphany.
Holy cow, I said. You're working with Morelli.

I
don't work with anyone, Bunchy said. I work alone.

That's
a load of pig pucky.

This
wasn't the first time Morelli had been involved in one of my cases and had kept
it from me, but it was the first time he'd sent someone to spy on me. This was
a new all-time low for Morelli.

Bunchy
sighed and pushed his dish away. Does this mean I'm not getting
dessert?

I
gave him one of the leftover candy bars. I'm depressed.

Now
what?

Morelli
is scum.

He
looked down at the candy bar. I told you I work alone.

Yeah,
and you told me you were a bookie.

He
glanced up. You don't know for sure that I'm not.

The
phone rang, and I snatched it up before the machine could take over.

Hey,
Cupcake, Morelli said. What do you want on your pizza
tonight?

I
want nothing. There is no pizza. There is no you, no me, no us, no pizza. And don't
ever call me again, you scummy, slimy fungus-ridden dog turd, piece of fly
crud. And I slammed the phone down.

Bunchy
was laughing. Let me guess, he said. That was Morelli.

And
you! I yelled, pointing my finger, teeth clenched. You are no
better.

I
gotta go, Bunchy said, still doing his Mr. Chuckles impersonation.

So,
have you always had a problem with men? Briggs asked. Or is this
something recent?

I
WAS IN the lobby, waiting for Ranger at six o'clock. I was all showered and
perfumed and hair freshly done up to look sexily unkempt. Mike's Place is a
sports bar frequented by businessmen. At six o'clock it would be filled with
suits catching ESPN and having a drink to unwind before going home, so I chose
to look suity, too. I was wearing my Wonderbra, which worked wonders, a white
silk shirt unbuttoned clear to the front clasp on the magical bra, and a black
silk suit with the skirt rolled at the waist to show a lot of leg. I covered
the mess at the waist with a wide fake leopard skin belt, and I stuffed my
stocking-clad feet into four-inch fuck-me pumps.

Mr.
Morganthal shuffled out of the elevator and winked at me. Hey,
hootchie-mamma, he said. Want a hot date? He was ninety-two
and lived on the third floor, next to Mrs. Delgado.

You're
too late, I told him. I've already made plans.

That's
just as well. You'd probably kill me, Mr. Morganthal said.

Ranger
pulled up in the Mercedes, and idled at the door. I gave Mr. Morganthal a tweak
on the cheek and sashayed out, swinging my hips, wetting my lips. I poured
myself into the Mercedes and crossed my legs.

Ranger
looked at me and smiled. I told you to get his attention . . . not start
a riot. Maybe you should button one more button.

I
batted my eyelashes at him, in fake-flirt, which actually wasn't totally fake.
You don't like it? I said. Hah! Take that, Morelli. Who needs you!

Ranger
reached over and flipped the next two buttons open, exposing me to mid-belly.
That's the way I like it, he said, the smile still in place.

Shit!
I quickly rebuttoned the buttons. Wise guy, I said. Okay, so he
called my bluff. No reason to panic. Just file it away for future reference. Not
ready for Ranger!

Mr.
Morganthal came out and shook his finger at us.

I
think I just sullied your reputation, Ranger said, putting the car in
gear.

Probably
more like you helped me live up to expectations.

We
cruised across town and parked half a block from the bar on the opposite side
of the street.

Ranger
took a photo from behind the sun visor. This is Ryan Perin. He's a
regular here. Comes every day after work. Has two drinks. Goes home. Never
parks his car more than half a block away on the street. He knows the dealer's
trying to get it back, and he's nervous. Comes out to check on it every few
minutes. Your job is to make sure he keeps his eyes on you—not the car. Keep
him in the building.

Why
are you taking it here?

When
he's home the car's in a locked garage, and the regular repo people can't get
at it. When he's at work he parks it in a garage with an attendant who takes
his Christmas bonus seriously. Ranger made a gun sign with his hand,
finger and thumb extended. For that matter, Perin carries too and isn't
slow on the draw. That's why we need to finesse the car. Nobody wants
bloodshed.

What
does this guy do for a living?

Lawyer.
Sending all his money up his nose these days.

A
dark green Jaguar rolled past us. There were no spaces open on the street. Just
as he got to the end of the block a car pulled out, and the jag slid in place.

Wow,
I said, that was lucky.

No,
Ranger said. That was Tank. We have cars parked all along this street, so
Perin has to park down there.

Perin
angled out of the car, beeped the alarm on, and headed for Mike's.

I
looked at Ranger. Will the alarm be a problem?

None
at all.

Perin
disappeared into the building.

Okay,
Ranger said. Go get 'em, Slick. I'll give you a five-minute lead, and
then I'll call the truck in. He gave me a buzzer. If something goes
wrong, hit the panic button. I'll come get you when the car's cleared the
street.

Perin
was dressed in a blue pinstripe. He was in his early forties, with thinning
sandy blond hair and an athletic build gone soft. I stepped just to the side of
the door and waited while my eyes adjusted to the change in light. There were
mostly men in the room, but there were a few women, too. The women were in
clusters. The men tended to be alone, eyes turned to the TV. Perin was easy to
spot. He was at the far end of the polished mahogany bar. The bartender set a
drink in front of him. Something clear on the rocks.

There
were chairs open on either side of Perin, but I didn't want to sit down and
start a conversation. I didn't want him to feel singled out. If he was nervous
the direct approach might be too obvious. So I walked toward him, rummaging in
my bag, looking absorbed in finding whatever. And just as I reached his stool I
faked a stumble. Not enough to go down to the ground, but enough to knock into
him, clutching at his sleeve for support.

Omigod,
I said. I'm so sorry. This is so embarrassing. I wasn't watching where I
was going and . . . I looked down. It's these shoes! I'm just not a
high-heel person.

What
kind of a person are you? Perin asked.

I
gave him the million-dollar smile. I think maybe I'm a barefoot
person. I slid onto the stool next to him and signaled the bartender.
Boy, I really need a drink. It's been one of those days.

Tell
me about it, he said. What do you do?

I'm
a lingerie buyer. Used to be, anyway, before I started bounty-huntering.

His
eyes dropped to my cleavage. No shit?

I
hoped they loaded that car on fast. This guy had a head start on the drinky
poos, and was going to be on me like white on rice. I could feel it coming.

My
name's Ryan Perin, he said, extending his hand.

Stephanie.

He
kept hold of my hand. Stephanie the lingerie buyer. That's very
sexy.

Yuk.
I hate holding hands with strange men. Damn Ranger and his horizons.
Well, you know . . . it's a job.

I
bet you have a lot of great lingerie.

Sure.
I have everything. You name it, I've got it.

The
bartender looked at me expectantly.

I'll
have one of those, I said, pointing to Perin's drink. And could you
hurry?

So
tell me about your lingerie, Perin said. You have any garter
belts?

Oh,
yeah. I wear garter belts all the time-red, black, purple.

How
about thong panties?

Yeah,
thong panties. Every time I feel like flossing my ass.

The
alarm went off on his watch.

What's
that? I asked.

It's
a reminder to check on my car.

Damn!
Don't panic. Don't panic. What's wrong with your car?

This
isn't such a great neighborhood at this time of night. I had a radio ripped off
last week. So once in a while I just look out and make sure no one's messing
with anything.

Don't
you have an alarm system?

Well,
yeah.

Then
you don't have to worry.

I
guess you're right. Still . . . He looked toward the door. Maybe I
should check just to be safe.

You're
not one of those obsessive-compulsive types, are you? I asked. I
don't like those types. They're always so uptight. They never want to try
anything new like, um . . . group sex.

That
got his attention back.

Some
spittle collected at the corner of his mouth. You like group sex?

Well,
I don't like to do it with too many men, but I have a couple girlfriends . .
. My drink came. I knocked it back and went into a coughing fit. When I
stopped coughing, my eyeballs got hot and watery. What is
this?

Bombay
Sapphire.

I'm
not much of a drinker.

Perin
slid a hand up my leg to just inside my skirt hem. Tell me more about the
group sex.

Stick
a fork in me, I thought. Because I'm done. If Ranger didn't get here soon I was
gonna be in big trouble. I was unloading everything I had, and I didn't know
where to go from here. I didn't have a whole lot of experience at this sort of
thing. And what I knew about group sex was zero. Which was already more than I wanted
to know. Thursday is my group sex night, I said. We do it
every Thursday. Unless we can't find a man . . . then we just watch
television.

How
about another drink? Perin asked.

No
sooner had he gotten the words out of his mouth than he was off his bar stool,
flying through the air. He crash-landed on a table, the table collapsed, and
Perin lay still as a stone, spread-eagled on the floor, eyes wide, mouth open,
like a big, dead beached fish.

I
gasped and turned and was nose-to-nose with Benito Ramirez. You shouldn't
be whoring like this, Stephanie, Ramirez said, soft-voiced and
crazy-eyed. The champ don't like when he sees you with other men. Sees
them handling you. You need to save yourself for the champ. He managed a
small, sick smile. The champ's gonna do things to you, Stephanie. Things
you've never had done to you before. Did you ask Lula about the things the
champ can do?

What
are you doing here? I shrieked. I had one eye on Perin, afraid he was
going to get to his feet and run for his car. And I had one eye on Ramirez,
afraid he was going to draw a knife and carve me up like a Christmas turkey.

You
can't get away from the champ, Ramirez whispered. The champ sees
everything. He sees when you go out for candy bars late at night. What's the
matter, Stephanie, having trouble sleeping? The champ could fix that. He knows
how to make women sleep.

My
stomach clenched, and I broke into an instant cold sweat. I never saw him. He'd
been lying in wait for me, following my every move, watching me. And I never
saw him. Probably the only reason I was alive was because Ramirez loved the
cat-and-mouse game. He loved the smell of another person's fear. Loved to
torture, to prolong the pain and terror.

There'd
been a black hole in the time continuum when Perin had gone airborne. Everyone
in the bar, with the exception of me and Ramirez, had sat frozen in dumbfounded
shock. Now everyone in the bar was on their feet.

What
the hell? the bartender yelled, coming at Ramirez.

Ramirez
turned his eyes to the bartender, and the bartender backed off.

Hey,
man, the bartender said. You gotta take your problems
outside.

Perin
was standing wobble-legged, glaring at Ramirez. What are you, nuts? Are
you freaking nuts?

The
champ don't like remarks like that, Ramirez said, his eyes shrinking in
his head.

A
big, no-neck guy came to Perin's rescue. Hey, leave the little guy
alone, he said to Ramirez.

Ramirez
turned on him. No one tells the champ what to do.

Bam!
Ramirez sucker-punched no-neck, and no-neck went down like a house of cards.

Perin
pulled his gun and fired one off. The shot went wide of Ramirez, and sent
everyone in the bar running for the door. Everyone but Perin and Ramirez and
me. The bartender was shouting into the phone for the police to get their asses
in gear. And through the open door I caught a glimpse of the flatbed moving
down the street with the green Jaguar on board.

I
don't like the police, Ramirez said to the bartender. You shouldn't
have called the police. Ramirez gave me one last look with his
nobody's-home eyes and went out the back door.

I
hopped off the bar stool. Nice meeting you, I said to Perin.
I have to go now.

Ranger
strolled in, looked around, shook his head, and smiled at me. You never
disappoint, he said.

RANGER
HAD THE Mercedes double-parked outside Mike's Place. I got in, and we took off
before Perin made it through the door to the sidewalk.

Ranger
glanced over at me. Are you okay?

Never
been better.

This
brought another appraising look from Ranger.

Well,
maybe I'm a little buzzed, I said. Think I shouldn't have drunk
that whole drink. I leaned closer to Ranger, as he was looking very fine,
and I was finding him superior to that rat-fink Morelli.

Ranger
downshifted at a light. Want to tell me about the gunfire?

Perin
got one off. It didn't hit anybody, though. I smiled at him. Ranger
wasn't nearly so scary when I was tanked on Bombay.

Perin
was shooting at you?

Well,
no. There was this other guy who sort of didn't like Perin talking to me. And
there was an altercation. I touched Ranger's diamond stud earring.
Pretty, I said.

Ranger
grinned. How many drinks did you have?

One.
But it was a big one. And I'm not much of a drinker.

Something
to remember, Ranger said.

I
wasn't sure exactly what he meant by that, but I hoped it had to do with sex
and taking advantage of me.

He
turned into my lot and rolled to a stop at the door. Major disappointment,
because it meant he was dropping me off, as opposed to parking and coming in
for a nightcap . . . or something.

You
have a visitor, he said.

Moi?

That's
Morelli's bike.

I
swiveled to look. Sure enough, Morelli's Ducati was parked next to Mr.
Feinstein's Cadillac. Damn. I stuck my hand in my shoulder bag and fished
around.

What
are you looking for? Ranger asked.

My
gun.

Probably
it's not a good idea to shoot Morelli, Ranger said. Cops are real
touchy about that sort of thing.

I
wrenched myself out of the car, straightened my skirt, and huffed into the
building.

Morelli
was sitting in the hall when I got upstairs. He was dressed in black jeans,
black motorcycle boots, a black T-shirt, and a black leather motorcycle jacket.
He had a two-day beard and his hair was long, even by Morelli standards. If I
hadn't been mad at him I'd have had my clothes off before I got to my door.
Now, I realize I'd just had the same thought about Ranger, but there it was.
What can I say? Pretty soon Bunchy and Briggs would be looking good to me.

Boy,
you have a lot of nerve coming here, I said to Morelli, fumbling for my
key.

He
took his key ring from his pocket and opened my door.

Since
when do you have a key to my apartment? I asked him.

Since
you gave it to me back when we were friendlier. He looked down at me and
amusement softened the set of his mouth. Have you been drinking?

Occupational
hazard. I had this job to do for Ranger, and drinking seemed like the right
thing to do at the time.

You
want some coffee?

No
way, that would ruin everything. Anyway, I wouldn't drink your coffee. And you
can leave now, thank you.

I
don't think so. Morelli opened the refrigerator, searched around and
discovered the bag of Mocha Java I'd bought at Grand Union. He measured out
water and coffee and tripped the switch on my coffeemaker. Let me take a
winger here. You're mad at me, right?

I
rolled my eyes so far into the back of my head I saw myself thinking. And while
my eyes were all the way back there, I looked for Briggs. Where was the little
devil?

You
want to give me a clue? Morelli said.

You
don't deserve a clue.

That's
probably true, but how about giving me one anyway.

Terry
Gilman.

Yeah?

That's
it. That's your entire clue, you creep.

Morelli
got two mugs from the over-the-counter cabinet and filled the mugs with coffee.
He added milk and handed one of the mugs to me. I need more to go on than
a name.

No
you don't. You know exactly what I'm talking about.

His
pager went off, and he did some creative swearing. He looked at the read-out
and made a call on my phone. I have to leave, he said. I'd
like to stay and settle this, but something's come up.

He
got to the door and turned and came back. I almost forgot. Have you seen
Ramirez?

Yes.
And I want to get a restraining order and have his parole revoked.

His
parole has already been revoked. He picked up a hooker on Stark Street last
night and almost killed her. Brutalized her and left her for dead in a
Dumpster. Somehow she managed to climb out, and two kids found her this
morning.

Is
she going to be okay?

Looks
like it. She's still on critical, but she's holding her own. When did you see
him?

About
a half hour ago.

I
told him about the repo and the incident with Ramirez.

I
could see emotion bubbling inside Morelli. Frustration, mostly. And some anger.
I don't suppose you'd consider moving back in with me? he asked.
Just until Ramirez is found.

Be
a little crowded what with Terry there, too. Don't suppose I would,
I said.

How
about if I marry you?

Now
you want to marry me? What happens after they catch Ramirez? We get a
divorce?

There's
no divorce in my family. Grandma Bella wouldn't hear of it. You have to die to
get out of a marriage in my family.

Gosh,
that's cheery. And true. I understood some of Joe's attitude about
marriage. The Morelli men had a bad track record. They drank too much. They
cheated on their wives. They beat their kids. And the misery lasts 'til death
do them part. Fortunately for many of the Morelli wives, death visited the
Morelli men early. They were shot in bar brawls, killed themselves in DUI car
crashes, and exploded their livers. We'll talk some other time, I
said. You'd better get moving. And don't worry, I'll be careful. I've
been keeping my doors and windows locked, and I'm carrying a gun.

You
have a permit to carry concealed?

Got
it yesterday.

I
didn't hear any of this, Morelli said. He bent his head and kissed me
lightly on the lips. Make sure the gun's loaded.

He
was actually a very nice guy. Some of the less desirable Morelli genes had
passed him by. He had the Morelli good looks and charm and none of the abusive
qualities. The womanizing part was in question.

I
smiled and said thanks. Although I'm not sure what I was thanking him for. For
being a decent person about the gun, I guess. Or maybe for caring about my
safety. At any rate, the smile and the thanks were encouragement enough for
Morelli. He pulled me to him and kissed me again, hot and serious this time.
Not a kiss I'd easily forget, nor want to end.

When
he broke from the kiss, still holding me close, the grin returned. That's
better, he said. I'll call when I can.

And
he was gone.

Damn!
I locked the door behind him and thunked myself on the forehead with the heel
of my hand. I was such a dope. I'd just kissed Morelli like there was no
tomorrow. Not the message I'd wanted to give him at all. What about Terry? What
about Bunchy? What about Ranger? Never mind Ranger, I thought. Ranger wasn't
part of this problem. Ranger was a different problem.

Briggs
stuck his head out from my bathroom doorway. Is it safe to come
out?

What
are you doing in there?

I
heard you in the hall and didn't want to screw it up for you. Sounded like you
finally had a live one.

Thanks,
but he wasn't all that live.

So
I see.

AT
ONE O'CLOCK I was still awake. It was the kiss. I couldn't stop thinking about
the kiss, and the way I'd felt when Morelli had taken me in his arms. And then
I got to thinking about the way I'd have felt if he'd ripped my clothes off and
kissed me in other places. And then there was Morelli naked. And Morelli
naked and aroused. And Morelli doing something about being naked and aroused.
And that's why I couldn't sleep. Again.

At
two o'clock I was no closer to sleep. Damn Morelli. I rolled out of bed and
padded barefoot into the kitchen. I went through the cupboards and fridge, but
I couldn't find exactly the right thing to satisfy my hunger. Morelli was what
I wanted, of course, but if I couldn't have Morelli, what I wanted was an Oreo.
Lots of Oreos. I should have thought to get Oreos when I was at the store.

Grand
Union was open twenty-four hours. Tempting, but a bad idea. Ramirez could be
out there. Bad enough to worry about him during the day when there are people
around and visibility is good. Going out at night seemed foolishly risky.

I
went back to bed and instead of thinking about Joe Morelli, I found myself
thinking about Ramirez, wondering if he was out there, parked in the lot or on
one of the side streets. I knew all the cars that belonged in the lot. If an
odd car was there, I'd spot it.

Curiosity
had me now. And the excitement of a possible capture. If Ramirez was sitting in
my lot, I could have him picked up. I slipped from under the covers and crept
to the window. The lot was well-lit. Not a place where a car could be hidden in
shadow. I grabbed hold of the curtain and drew it open. I expected to look down
at the lot. Instead I looked into the obsidian eyes of Benito Ramirez. He was
on my fire escape, leering in at me, his face illuminated in ambient light, his
massive body shadowed and threatening against the night sky, his arms
outspread, and his hands flat to the window frame.

I
jumped back and yelped, and terror filled every part of me. I couldn't breath.
I couldn't move. I couldn't think.

Stephanie,
he sang, his voice muffled through the black glass. He laughed softly and sang
my name out again. Stephanieeeee.

I
wheeled around and flew out of the room and into the kitchen, where I fumbled
in my bag for my gun. I found the gun and ran back to the bedroom, but Ramirez
was gone. My window was still closed and locked, the curtains half open. The
fire escape was empty. No sign of him in the lot. No strange car that I could
see. For a moment I thought I'd imagined the whole thing. And then I saw the
paper taped to the outside of my window. There was a hand-printed message on
the paper.

God
is waiting. Soon it will be your time to see Him.

I
ran back to the kitchen to dial police dispatch. My hand was shaking, and my
fingers wouldn't go to the right buttons on the phone. I took a calming breath
and tried again. Another breath and I was telling the answering officer about
Ramirez. I hung up and dialed Morelli. Halfway through the dial I cut the
connection. Suppose Terry answered. Stupid thought, I told myself. She'd
dropped him off. Don't make more of it than it is. There could be an
explanation. And even if Joe wasn't the world's best boyfriend, he was still a
damn good cop.

I
redialed and waited while the phone rang seven times. Finally Morelli's machine
picked up. Morelli wasn't home. Morelli was working. Ninety percent certainty,
10 percent doubt. It was the 10 percent that kept me from calling his cell
phone or pager.

I
suddenly realized Briggs was standing next to me.

The
usual sarcasm was gone from his voice. I don't think I've ever seen
anyone that scared, he said. You didn't hear anything I was saying
to you.

There
was a man on my fire escape.

Ramirez.

Yeah.
You know who he is?

Boxer.

More
than that. He's a very terrible person.

Let's
make some tea, Briggs said. You don't look too good.

I
brought my pillow and quilt into the living room and settled on the couch with
Briggs. Every light in my apartment was on, and I had my gun within reach on
the coffee table. I sat like that until daylight, dozing occasionally. When the
sun was up, I went back to bed and slept until the phone woke me at eleven.

It
was Margaret Burger.

I
found a check, she said. It was misfiled. It's from that time when
Sol was arguing with the cable company. I know Mr. Bunchy was interested in
seeing it, but I don't know how to get in touch with him.

I
can get it to him, I told her. I have a few things to do, and then
I'll stop around.

I'll
be here all day, Margaret said.

I
didn't know what I was going to get out of the check, but I thought it couldn't
hurt to take a look. I made fresh coffee and chugged a glass of orange juice. I
took a fast shower, dressed in my usual uniform of Levi's and a long-sleeve
T-shirt, drank my coffee, ate a Pop-Tart, and called Morelli. Still no answer,
but I left a message this time. The message was that Morelli should page me
immediately if Ramirez was caught.

I
took the pepper spray out of my shoulder bag and clipped it onto the waistband
of my Levi's.

Briggs
was in the kitchen when I left. Be careful, he said.

My
stomach knotted when I got to the elevator, and again when I stepped out of the
lobby, into the lot. I quickly crossed to the car, powered up the Porsche, and
watched my rearview mirror as I drove.

It
occurred to me that I was no longer looking around every corner for Uncle Fred.
Somehow the Uncle Fred search had morphed into a mystery about a butchered woman
and dead office workers and an uncooperative garbage company. I told myself it
was all the same. That somehow it all tied to Fred's disappearance. But I
wasn't completely convinced. It was still possible that Fred was in Fort
Lauderdale, and I was spinning my wheels while Bunchy laughed his ass off.
Maybe Bunchy was actually Allen Funt in disguise, and I was on funniest bounty
hunter bloopers.

Margaret
opened the door on the first knock. She had the canceled check ready and
waiting for me. I scrutinized it, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary.

You
can take it if you want, Margaret said. It's no good to me. Maybe
that nice Mr. Bunchy would want to see it too.

I
dropped the check in my bag and thanked Margaret. I was still spooked from
finding Ramirez on my fire escape, so I drove to the office to see if Lula
wanted to ride shotgun for the rest of the day.

I
don't know, Lula said. You aren't doing anything with that Bunchy
guy, are you? He has a sick sense of humor.

We'll
take my car, I told her. Nothing to worry about.

I
guess that would be okay, Lula said. I could wear a hat to disguise
myself, so no one recognizes me.

No
need, I said. I have a new car.

Connie
looked up from her computer screen. What kind of car?

Black.

That's
better than powder blue, Lula said. What is it? Another one of them
little jeeps?

Nope.
It's not a jeep.

Both
Connie and Lula looked at me expectantly. Well? Lula said.

It's
. . . a Porsche.

Say
what? Lula said.

Porsche.

They
were both at the door.

Damned
if it doesn't look like a Porsche, Lula said. What'd you do, rob a
bank?

It's
a company car.

Lula
and Connie did some more of the expectant looking at me with their eyebrows up
at the top of their heads.

Well,
you know how I've been working with Ranger . . .

Lula
peered into the car's interior. You mean like getting that guy to blow
hisself up? And like the time you lost the sheik? Hold on here, Lula
said. Are you telling me Ranger gave you this car because you're working
with him?

I
cleared my throat and polished a thumbprint off the rightrear quarter panel
with the hem of my flannel shirt.

Lula
and Connie started smiling.

Dang,
Lula said, punching me in the arm. You go, girl.

It's
not that kind of work, I said.

The
smile on Lula had stretched ear to ear. I didn't say anything about what
kind of work. Connie, did you hear me say anything about this kind of work or
that kind of work?

I
know what you were thinking, I said.

Connie
jumped in. Let's see . . . there's oral sex. And then there's regular
sex. And then there's—

Getting
close now, Lula said.

All
the men who work with Ranger drive black cars, I told them.

He
give them SUVs, Lula said. He don't give them no Porsche.

I
bit into my lower lip. So you think he wants something?

Ranger
don't do stuff for nothing, Lula said. Sooner or later he gets his
price. You telling me you don't know the price?

Guess
I was hoping I was one of the guys, and the car was part of my job.

I've
seen the way he looks at you, Lula said. And I know he don't look
at any of the guys like that. Think what you need is a job description. Not
that it would matter if it was me. If I could get my hands on that man's body,
I'd buy him a Porsche.

We
drove to the Grand Union strip mall, and I parked in front of First Trenton.

What
we doing here? Lula wanted to know.

Good
question. The answer was a little vague to me. I have a couple canceled
checks I want to show my cousin. She's a teller here.

Something
special about these checks?

Yeah.
Only I don't know what. I gave them to Lula. What do you
think?

Looks
like a couple plain-ass checks to me.

The
bank was busy at lunchtime, so we got in line to see Leona. I looked over at
Shempsky's office while I waited my turn. The door was open, and I could see
Shempsky at his desk, on the phone.

Hey,
Leona said when I got to her window. What's up?

I
wanted to ask you about a check. I passed Margaret's check to her.
You see anything unusual here?

She
looked at it front and back. No.

I
gave her Fred's check to RGC. How about this one?

Nope.

Anything
strange about the accounts?

Not
that I can see. She typed some information into her computer and scanned
the screen. Money comes in and goes out pretty fast on this RGC account.
My guess is this is a small liquid account RGC keeps at the local level.

Why
do you say that?

RGC
is the biggest waste hauler in the area, and I don't see enough transactions
here. Besides, I use RGC, and my checks to RGC are canceled through Citibank.
When you work at a bank, you notice things like that.

How
about the cable check?

Leona
looked at it again. Yep. Same thing. My checks are canceled someplace
else.

Is
it unusual to assign customers to two different banks?

She
shrugged. I don't know. I guess not, since both these companies are doing
it.

I
thanked Leona, and dropped the checks back into my bag. I almost collided with
Shempsky when I turned to leave.

Oops,
he said, jumping back. Didn't mean to bumper-ride you. Just thought I'd
come over and see how things are going.

Things
are going okay. I introduced Lula and thought it was to Shempsky's credit
that he didn't seem to notice Lula's neon-orange hair or the fact that she'd
poured over two hundred pounds of woman into a pair of size-nine tights and
topped it off with a Cherry Garcia T-shirt and faux-fur jacket that was trimmed
in what looked like pink lion mane.

What
ever happened to that check? Shempsky asked. Did you solve your
mystery?

Not
yet, but I'm making progress. I found a similar check from another business.
And the curious thing is that both checks were canceled here.

Why
is that curious?

I
decided to fib. I didn't want to involve Leona or Margaret Burger. The
checks I write to those companies are canceled elsewhere. Don't you think
that's weird?

Shempsky
smiled. No. Not at all. Businesses often keep small, liquid local
accounts, but deposit the bulk of their money somewhere else.

Heard
that before, Lula said.

Do
you have the other check with you? Shempsky asked. Would you like
me to look at it?

No,
but thanks for offering.

Boy,
Shempsky said. You're really tenacious. I'm impressed. I assume you think
this all ties in with Fred's disappearance?

I
think it's possible.

Where
do you go from here?

RGC.
I still need to get the account straightened out. I was going to do it last
Friday, but I got there after Lipinski killed himself.

Not
a good time to take care of business, Shempsky said.

No.

He
gave me a friendly banker smile. Well, good luck.

She
don't need luck, Lula said. She's excellent. She always gets her
man, you see what I'm saying? She's so good she drives a Porsche. How many
bounty hunters you know got a Porsche?

It's
actually a company car, I told Shempsky.

It's
a great car, he said. I saw you drive off in it yesterday.

Finally
I felt like I was on to something. I had an idea how a lot of stuff might tie
together. It was still pretty half-baked, but it was something to think about.
I took Klockner to Hamilton and crossed South Broad. I pulled into the
industrial area and was relieved at the absence of flashing lights and police
cruisers. No human disasters today. The RGC lot was empty of trucks and didn't
smell bad. Clearly midday is the preferred time to visit a garbage company.

They
might be a little sensitive in here, I said to Lula.

I
can sensitive your ass off, Lula said. I just hope they got their
wall painted.

The
office didn't look freshly painted, but it didn't look bloody either. A man was
behind the counter, working at one of the desks. He was somewhere in his
forties, brown hair, slim build. He looked up when we approached.

I'd
like to settle an account, I said. I spoke to Larry about it, but
it was never resolved. Are you new here?

He
extended his hand. Mark Stemper. I'm from the Camden office. I'm filling
in temporarily.

Is
that the wall where the brains were splattered? Lula asked. It
don't look fresh painted. How'd you get it so clean? I never have any luck
getting blood off walls like that.

We
had a cleaning crew come in, Stemper said. I don't know exactly
what they used.

Boy,
too bad, because I could use some of that.

He
looked at her warily. You get blood on your walls a lot?

Well,
not usually on my walls.

About
this account, I said.

Name?

Fred
Shutz.

He
tapped into the computer and shook his head. Nobody here by that
name.

Exactly.
I explained the problem and showed him the canceled check.

We
don't use this bank, he said.

Maybe
you have a second account there.

Yeah,
Lula said, a local liquid account.

No.
All the offices are the same. Everything goes through Citibank.

Then
how do you explain this check?

I
don't know how to explain it.

Were
Martha Deeter and Larry Lapinski the only office workers here?

In
this office, yes.

When
someone mails in their quarterly payment, what happens to it?

It
goes through here. It's logged into the system and deposited in the Citibank
account.

You've
been very helpful, I said. Thanks.

Lula
followed me out. Personally, I didn't think he was all that helpful. He
didn't know nothing.

He
knew it was the wrong bank, I told her.

I
could tell that turns you on.

I
sort of had a brainstorm while I was talking to Allen Shempsky.

You
want to share that brainstorm?

Suppose
Larry Lipinski didn't enter all the accounts. Suppose he held out ten percent
for himself and deposited them someplace else?

Skimming,
Lula said. You think he was skimming RGC money. And then Uncle Fred come
along and started making a stink. And so Lipinsky had to get rid of Uncle
Fred.

Maybe.

You're
the shit, Lula said. Girlfriend, you are smart.

Lula
and I did a high five and then a down low and then she tried to do some
elaborate hand thing with me, but I got lost halfway through.

Actually,
I thought it was more complicated than Fred getting disposed of because he made
some noise over his account. It seemed more likely Fred's disappearance was
related to the dismembered woman. And I still thought that woman might be Laura
Lipinski. So it did sort of tie in together. I could construct a possible
scenario up to the point of Fred seeing Lipinski dump the garbage bag at the
real estate office. After that, I was lost.

We
were about to get in the car when the side door to the building opened, and
Stemper stuck his head out and waved at us. Hey, he yelled.
Hold up a minute. That check is bothering me. Would you mind letting me
make a copy?

I
didn't see where that would do any harm, so Lula and I returned to the office
with him and waited while he fiddled with the copier.

Damn
thing never works, he said. Hold on while I change the paper.

Half
an hour later, I got my check back with an apology.

I'm
sorry that took so long, he said. But maybe it'll be worthwhile.
I'll send it to Camden and see what they make of it. I think it's pretty
strange. I've never run across anything like this.

We
got back to the Porsche and sunk into the leather seats.

I
love this car, Lula said. I feel like the shit in this car.

I
knew exactly what she meant. It was a fantasy car. No matter if it was true,
when you drove the car you felt prettier, sexier, braver, and smarter. Ranger
was on to something with this broader horizon business. When I drove the
Porsche I could see myself with broader horizons.

I
put the car in gear and headed for the driveway out of the lot. The lot itself
was surrounded by a high chain-link fence. Out-of-use trucks parked to the rear
in the lot, and office workers and drivers parked in the front. Double gates
opened to the street. Probably at night they closed and locked the gates.
During the day the gates were open, and it was wide enough for two trucks to
pass.

I
rolled to a stop at the open gate, looked left and saw the first garbage truck
of the day rumble home. It was a colossus of a truck. A green and white
behemoth that shook the earth as it thundered closer, its bulk preceded by the
stench of rotting everything, its arrival heralded by descending seagulls.

The
truck swung wide to enter the lot, and Lula jumped in her seat. Holy
cats, that guy don't see us. He's taking this turn like he owns the road.

I
went into reverse, but it was too late. The truck sideswiped the Porsche,
shearing fiberglass off half the car. I leaned on the horn, and the truck
driver stopped and looked down at us in amazement.

Lula
jumped out of the car in full rant, and I followed after her, climbing over the
seat because my side was smushed into the monster garbage truck.

Jeez,
lady, the driver said. I don't know what happened. I didn't see you
until you started blowing your horn.

That
don't cut it, Lula yelled. This here's a Porsche. You know what she
had to do to get this Porsche? Well, actually she hasn't done nothing yet, but
I think if she gets lucky, she's gonna have to do plenty. This company better
be insured. Lula turned to me. You need to exchange insurance
information. That's always the first thing you do. You got your card?

I
don't know. I guess all that stuff is in the glove compartment, I said.

I'll
get it, Lula told me. I can't believe this happened to a Porsche.
People should be more careful when they see a Porsche on the road. She
leaned into the car, rooted around in the glove compartment, and was back in a
heartbeat. This looks like it, she said, handing the card over to
me. And here's your purse. You might need your license.

Maybe
we should get the guy in the office, the driver said. He fills out
the forms for this kind of thing.

I
thought that was a good idea. And while we were at it how about if I just slip
away unnoticed and get a one-way ticket to Rio. I didn't want to have to
explain this to Ranger.

Yeah,
we should get that office guy, Lula said. Because I might have
whiplash or something. I can feel it coming on. Maybe I need to go in and sit
down.

I
would have rolled my eyes, but I thought I should save my energy in case Lula
suddenly got paralyzed from the half-mile-per-hour impact she'd just sustained.

We
all went into the building and had just gotten through the door when there was
a loud explosion. We stopped in our tracks and looked at each other. There was
a moment of stunned immobility, and then we all scrambled to see what had
happened.

We
burst out the door and faltered when a second explosion went off and flames
shot from the Porsche and licked along the undercarriage of the garbage truck.

Oh
shit, the driver said. Take cover! I've got a full tank of
gas.

Say
what? Lula said.

And
then it blew. Barrroooom! Liftoff. The garbage truck jumped off the
pavement. Tires and doors flew off like Frisbees, the truck bounced down with a
jolt, listed to one side, and rolled over onto the furiously burning Porsche,
turning it into a Porsche pancake.

We
flattened ourselves against the building while pieces of scrap metal and shreds
of rubber rained down around us.

Uh-oh,
Lula said. All the king's horses and all the king's men aren't gonna put
that Porsche back together again.

I
don't get it, the driver said. It was only a scratch. I hardly
scraped against your car. Why would it explode like that?

That's
what her cars do, Lula said. They explode. But I gotta tell you
this was the best. This here's the first time she exploded a garbage truck. One
time her truck got hit with an antitank missile. That wasn't bad either, but it
couldn't compare to this.

I
hauled the cell phone out of my bag and dialed Morelli.

ONLY
ONE FIRE truck was left on the scene, and the remaining firemen were directing
the cleanup. A crane had been brought in to move the RGC truck. When they got
the truck up and off the Porsche, I'd be able to put the Porsche in my pocket.
Connie had picked Lula up and taken her back to work, and most of the returning
truck drivers had lost interest and dispersed.

Morelli
had arrived seconds after the first fire truck and was now standing
threateningly close to me, fist on hip, eyes narrowed, giving me the third
degree.

Tell
me again, Morelli said, why Ranger gave you a Porsche.

It's
a company car. Everyone who works with Ranger drives a black car, and since my
car is blue—

He
gave you a Porsche.

I
narrowed my eyes back at him. Just what is the problem here?

I
want to know what's going on with you and Ranger is the problem.

I
told you. I'm working with him. And I supposed I was flirting with
him, but I didn't think it was necessary to report flirting. Anyway, talk about
the pot calling the kettle black.

Morelli
didn't look satisfied, and he definitely didn't look happy. I don't
suppose you bothered to check the registration number on your Porsche.

Don't
suppose I did. And it was unlikely anyone was going to check it now,
being that the Porsche was blown up, and its remnants were only three inches
thick.

You
weren't worried that you might be driving a hot car?

Ranger
wouldn't give me a hot car.

Ranger
would give his mother a hot car, Morelli said. Where do you think
he gets all those cars he gives away? You think he gets them from the car
fairy?

I'm
sure there's an explanation.

Such
as?

Such
as, I don't know. And anyway there are other things that are more important to
me right now. Like why did my car explode?

Good
question. I think it's unlikely the garbage truck side-swiping you caused the
explosion. If you were a normal person I'd be hard-pressed to find an
explanation. Since you're who you are . . . my guess is someone planted a
bomb.

Why
did it take so long? Why didn't it go off when I started the car?

I
asked Murphy. He's the demo expert. He thinks it might have been set on a
timer, so it would go off when you were on the street, not in the lot.

So
maybe the bomber is someone from the garbage company, and he didn't want the
explosion so close to home.

We
looked for Stemper, but he's nowhere.

Did
you check for his car?

It's
still here.

Are
you kidding me? He's just disappeared?

Morelli
shrugged. Doesn't mean much. He could have gone out for a drink with a
friend. Or he could have gotten fed up with waiting for the lot to get cleared
enough to get the cars out and found some other way to go home.

But
you guys are going to look for him, right?

Right.

And
he isn't home yet?

Not
yet.

I
have a theory, I said.

Morelli
smiled. I love this part.

I
think Lipinski was skimming. And maybe Martha Deeter was in on it, or maybe she
found out about it, or maybe she was just a pain in the ass. Anyway, I think
Lipinski might have been keeping some accounts for himself. I showed
Morelli the checks and told him about the banks.

And
you think this other guy who worked for the cable company, John Curly, was
skimming, too?

There
are some similarities.

And
Fred might have disappeared because he was making too much noise?

More
than that. I told him about the Mega Monster flyer in the garbage bag,
and about Laura Lipinski, and finally about Fred and the leaves.

I'm
not liking this picture, Morelli said. I wish I'd known about these
things sooner.

I
just put it together.

Two
steps in front of me. I've been really stupid on this one. Tell me about the
fake bookie.

Bunchy.

Yeah.
Whoever.

I
raised an eyebrow. I figured you two were working together.

What's
Bunchy look like?

A
fireplug with eyebrows. About my height. Brown hair. Needs a cut. Receding
hairline. Looks like a street person. Walks and talks like a cop. Drinks
Corona.

I
know him, but I'd be hard-pressed to say I was working with him. He doesn't
work with anybody.

I
don't suppose you want to share what you know with me?

Can't.

Wrong
answer. Okay, let me get this straight, I said. Some Fed has
been following me around for days, camping out on my doorstep, breaking into my
apartment, and you think that's okay?

No,
I don't think it's okay. I think it's grounds for beating the shit out of him.
I didn't know he was doing it, and I intend to make sure it stops. I just can't
tell you what it's all about right now. What I can tell you is that you should
back off and let us take it from here. Obviously we're both going down the same
road.

Why
should I be the one to back off ?

Because
you're the one who's getting bombed. You notice my car exploding?

The
day isn't over.

Morelli's
pager went off. Morelli looked at the read-out and sighed. I have to go.
You want a ride home?

Thanks,
but I need to stay. I have a call in to Ranger. I'm not sure what he wants to
do with the Porsche.

Some
time soon we need to talk about Ranger, Morelli said.

Oh
boy. I'll look forward to that conversation.

Morelli
skirted the crane and got into the dusty maroon Fairlane that was his company
car. He cranked the engine over and pulled out of the lot.

My
attention swung back to the crane operator. He was maneuvering the boom over
the truck. A cable was attached, and the truck was slowly hauled upright,
exposing what was left of the Porsche.

I
caught a flash of black beyond the crane. It was Ranger's Mercedes.

Just
in time, I said when he strolled over.

He
looked down at the flattened, charred piece of scrap metal pressed into the
macadam.

That's
the Porsche, I said. It exploded and caught fire and then the
garbage truck fell over on it.

I
especially like the part about the garbage truck.

I
was afraid you might be mad.

Cars
are easy to come by, Babe. People are harder to replace. Are you okay?

Yeah.
I was lucky. I was just waiting to see what you wanted to do with the
Porsche.

Not
much anybody's going to do with that dead soldier, Ranger said.
Think we'll walk away from this one.

It
was a great car.

Ranger
took one last look at it. You might be more the Humvee type, he
said, steering me toward the Mercedes.

Streetlights
were on when we crossed Broad and the twilight was deepening. Ranger rolled
down Roebling and stopped in front of Rossini's. I have to meet a guy
here in a few minutes. Come in and have a drink, and we can have an early
dinner when I'm done. This shouldn't take long.

Is
this bounty hunter business?

Real
estate, Ranger said. I'm meeting my lawyer. He has papers for me to
sign.

You're
buying a house?

He
opened the door for me. Office building in Boston.

Rossini's
is an excellent Burg restaurant. A pleasant mix of cozy but elegant with linen
tablecloths and napkins and gourmet food. Several men in suits stood at the
small oak bar at the far end of the room. A few of the tables were already
occupied, and in a half-hour the room would be filled.

Ranger
guided me to the bar and introduced me to his lawyer.

Stephanie
Plum, the lawyer said. You look familiar.

I
didn't intend to burn down the funeral home, I said. It was an
accident.

He
shook his head. No, that's not it. He smiled. I've got it.
You were married to Dickie Orr. He was briefly with our firm.

Everything
Dickie did was brief, I said. Especially our marriage. The pig.

Twenty
minutes later, Ranger had his business concluded, his lawyer finished his drink
and left, and we moved to a table. Ranger was black today. Black T-shirt, black
cargo pants, black boots, and black Gortex squall jacket. He left his jacket
on, and everyone in the room knew why. Ranger wasn't the sort to leave his gun
in the glove compartment.

We
ordered, and Ranger slouched back in his chair. You never say much about
your marriage.

You
never say much about anything.

He
smiled. Low profile.

Have
you ever been married?

Long
time ago.

I
hadn't expected him to say that. Any kids?

He
stared at me for a full minute before answering. I have a daughter. She's
nine. Lives with her mother in Florida.

Do
you ever see her?

When
I'm in the area.

Who
was this man? He owned office buildings in Boston. And he was the father
of a nine-year-old. I was having a hard time merging this new knowledge into my
mental Ranger-the-gunrunner/bounty-hunter file.

Tell
me about the bomb, Ranger said. I get the feeling I'm not up to
speed on your life.

I
told him my theory.

He
was still slouched back, but the line of his mouth had tightened. Bombs
aren't good, Babe. They're real messy. Give you a real bad hair day.

You
have any ideas?

Yeah,
you ever think about taking a vacation?

I
wrinkled my nose. I can't afford a vacation.

I'll
give you an advance on services performed.

I
felt my face flush. About those services—

He
lowered his voice. I don't pay for the kind of service you're worried
about.

Yeeesh.

I
dug into my pasta. I wouldn't go anyway. I'm not giving up on Uncle Fred.
And where would I leave Rex? And Halloween is coming up. I love Halloween. I
couldn't miss Halloween.

Halloween
is one of my favorite holidays. I love the crisp air and the pumpkins and
spooky decorations. I never cared about the candy I collected when I was a kid.
I got psyched over the dress-up part. Maybe this says something about my
personality, but put me behind a mask, and I'm a happy person. Not one of those
ugly, sweaty rubber things that fit over your whole head. I like the kind that
just fits around the eyes and makes you look like the Lone Ranger. And face
paint is very cool, too.

Of
course, I don't go out trick-or-treating anymore, I said, stabbing a
piece of sausage. I go over to my parents' house now and give out candy.
Grandma Mazur and I always get dressed up for when the kids come around. Last
year I was Zorro, and Grandma was Lily Munster. I think this year she's going
to be a Spice Girl.

I
could see you as Zorro, Ranger said.

Zorro
is actually one of my favorite people. Zorro is the shit.

I
had tiramisù for dessert because Ranger was paying, and because Rossini's made
orgasmic tiramisù. Ranger skipped dessert, of course, not wanting to pollute
his body with sugar, not desiring an extra ripple in his washboard stomach. I
scarfed up the last smidgens of cake and custard and reached under the
tablecloth to discreetly pop the top snap on my jeans.

I'm
not a fanatic about weight. Truth is, I don't even own a scale. I judge my
weight by the way my jeans fit. And unpleasant as it is to admit, these jeans
weren't fitting at all. I needed a better diet. And I needed an exercise
program. Tomorrow. Starting tomorrow, no more taking the elevator to the second
floor, no more doughnuts for breakfast.

I
studied Ranger as he drove me home, details seen in the flash of oncoming
headlights and overhead streetlights. He wore no rings. A watch on his left
wrist. Wide nylon band. No studs in his ears today. He had a network of fine
lines around his eyes. The lines were from sun, not age. My best guess was that
Ranger was somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five. No one knew for sure.
And no one knew much of his background. He moved easily through the underbelly
of Trenton, speaking the language, walking the walk of the projects and
minority neighborhoods. There'd been no trace of that Ranger tonight. Tonight
he'd sounded more Wall Street than Stark Street.

The
ride back to my building was quiet. Ranger pulled into my lot, and I did a
quick scan for creepy people. Finding none, I had my door open before the car
came to a complete stop. No sense lingering in the dark, alone with Ranger,
tempting fate. I'd made enough of an ass of myself last time when I was half
snockered.

You
in a hurry? Ranger said, looking amused.

Things
to do.

I
moved to get out of the car, and he grabbed me by the scruff of my neck.
You're going to be careful, he said.

Y-y-yes.

And
you're going to carry your gun.

Yes.

Loaded.

Okay,
loaded.

He
released my neck. Sweet dreams.

I
ran into the building and up the stairs, rushed into my apartment, and dialed
Mary Lou.

I
need help with a stakeout tonight, I told Mary Lou. Can Lenny sit
with the kids?

Lenny
is Mary Lou's husband. He's a nice guy, but he hasn't got much upstairs. That's
fine with Mary Lou because she's more interested in what's downstairs,
anyway.

Who
are we staking out?

Morelli.

Oh,
honey, you heard!

I
heard what?

Uh-oh.
You didn't hear?

What?
What?

Terry
Gilman.

Argh.
Direct shot to the heart. What about Terry?

The
rumor is she's been seen with Joe late at night.

Man,
you can't get away with anything in the Burg. I know about the late-night
stuff. Anything else?

That's
it.

Besides
seeing Terry, he's also involved in a project that ties in with Uncle Fred's
disappearance, and he won't tell me anything.

Asshole.

Yeah.
And after I gave him some of the best weeks of my life. Anyway, it seems like
he works nights, so I thought I'd see what he was up to.

You
going to pick me up in the Porsche?

The
Porsche is out of commission. I was hoping you could drive, I said.
I'm afraid Morelli might recognize the Buick.

No
problemo.

And
wear sneakers and something dark.

Last
time we went snooping together Mary Lou wore ankle boots with spike heels and
gold earrings the size of dinner plates. Not exactly the invisible snooper.

Briggs
was standing behind me. You're going to spy on Morelli? This should be
good.

He's
leaving me no choice.

I
bet you five dollars he spots you.

Deal.

THERE
COULD BE a perfectly good explanation for the Terry thing, I said to Mary
Lou.

Yeah,
like he's a prick?

That's
one of the things I like about Mary Lou. She's willing to believe the worst
about anyone. Of course it's easy to believe the worst about Morelli. He's
never cared a whole lot about public opinion and has never made much of an
attempt to improve his rogue reputation. And in the past, his reputation was
well deserved.

We
were in Mary Lou's Dodge minivan. It smelled like Gummi Bears and grape
lollipops and McDonald's cheeseburgers. And when I turned to look out the back
window I was confronted with two kiddie car seats that made me feel sort of
left out of things. We were idling in front of Morelli's house, staring into his
front windows, seeing nothing. The lights were on, but the curtains were drawn.
His truck was parked at the curb, so probably he was home, but there was no
guarantee. He lived in a rowhouse and that made surveillance difficult because
we couldn't creep around the entire house and easily do our Peeping Tom thing.

We
can't see anything like this, I said. Let's park on the cross
street and go on foot.

Mary
Lou had followed my instructions and was dressed in black. Black leather jacket
with fringe running down the sleeves, tight black leather slacks—and as a
compromise between my suggestion of sneakers and her preferred four-inch heels,
she was wearing black cowboy boots.

Morelli's
house was halfway down the block, his narrow yard backed up to a one-lane
service road, and the side borders of his yard were delineated by bedraggled
hedgerows. Morelli hadn't yet discovered gardening.

The
sky was overcast. No moon. No streetlights lining the back alley. This was all
fine by me. The darker the better. I was wearing a utility belt that held
pepper spray, a flashlight, a Smith and Wesson .38, a stun gun, and a cell
phone. I'd constantly watched our tail for signs of Ramirez and had seen
nothing. That didn't fill me with security, since spotting Ramirez clearly wasn't
one of my talents.

We
walked the alley and paused when we reached Morelli's yard. Lights were on in
the kitchen. Shades were up at the single kitchen window and at the back door.
Morelli passed in front of the window, and Mary Lou and I took a step back,
further into shadow. He returned and worked at the counter, probably fixing
something to eat.

The
sound of the phone ringing carried out to us. Morelli answered the phone and
paced in the kitchen while he talked.

Not
someone he's happy to hear from, Mary Lou said. He hasn't cracked a
smile.

Morelli
hung up and ate a sandwich, still standing at the counter. He washed it down
with a Coke. I thought the Coke was a good sign. If he was in for the night he
probably would have had a beer. He flipped the light off and left the kitchen.

Now
I had a problem. If I chose to watch the wrong half of the house I might miss
Morelli leaving. And by the time I ran to the car and took off after him, it
could be too late. Mary Lou and I could split up, but that would negate my
reason for inviting Mary Lou along. I'd wanted another set of eyes looking for
Ramirez.

Come
on, I said, creeping toward the house. We need to get closer.

I
pressed my nose to the windowpane on Morelli's back door. I could see clear to
the front, looking through the kitchen and dining room. I could hear the
television, but I couldn't see it. And I couldn't see any sign of Morelli.

Do
you see him? Mary Lou wanted to know.

No.

She
peered through the back door window with me. Too bad we can't see the
front door from here. How will we know if Morelli goes out?

He
shuts his lights off when he goes out.

Blink.
The lights went out, and the sound of the front door opening and shutting
carried back to us.

Shit!
I sprang away from the door and took off for the car.

Mary
Lou ran after me, doing pretty good considering the tight pants and cowboy
boots and the fact that she had legs several inches shorter than mine.

We
piled into the car. Mary Lou rammed the key into the ignition, and the mom car
jumped into chase mode. We whipped around the corner and saw Morelli's
taillights disappear as he made a right-hand turn two blocks down.

Perfect,
I said. We don't want to be so close that he sees us.

Do
you think he's going to see Terry?

It's
possible. Or maybe he's relieving someone on stakeout. Now that the first
rush of emotion was behind me, I found it hard to believe Joe was romantically
or sexually involved with Terry. It had nothing to do with Joe the man. It had
to do with Joe the cop. Joe wouldn't get himself entangled with the Grizollis.

He'd
told me he had something in common with Terry—that they were both in vice. And
I suspected that was the connection. I thought it possible that Joe and Terry
were working together, although I couldn't imagine in what capacity. And since
the Feds were in town, I guessed Vito Grizolli was involved. Maybe Joe and
Terry were acting as intermediaries between Vito and the Feds. And Bunchy's
interest in the checks might support my skimming theory. Although I didn't know
why the government would be interested in skimming.

Joe
turned onto Hamilton, drove a quarter mile, and pulled into the 7-Eleven. Mary
Lou zipped past him, circled a block, and waited at the side of the road with
her lights off. Joe came out of the store carrying a bag and got back into his
car.

Oh,
man, I'm dying to know what's in the bag, Mary Lou said. Do they
sell condoms at the 7-Eleven? I never noticed.

He's
got dessert in that bag, I said. My money's on ice cream.
Chocolate.

And
I bet he's taking the ice cream to Terry!

His
engine caught, and he retraced his route down Hamilton.

He's
not going to Terry's, I said. He's going home.

What
a rip. I thought I was going to see some action.

I
didn't actually want to see a whole lot of action. I just wanted to find Uncle
Fred and get on with my life. Unfortunately, I wasn't going to learn anything
new if Morelli sat in front of his television eating ice cream all night.

Mary
Lou dropped a block behind Morelli, keeping him in sight. He parked in front of
his house, and Mary Lou and I parked on the cross street again. We got out of
the mom car, skulked back down the alley, and stopped short at the edge of
Morelli's yard. The light was on in his kitchen, and Morelli was moving in
front of the window.

What's
he doing? Mary Lou asked. What's he doing?

Getting
a spoon. I was right—he went out to buy ice cream.

The
light blinked out, and Morelli disappeared. Mary Lou and I scuttled across
Morelli's backyard and squinted into his window.

Do
you see him? Mary Lou asked.

No.
He's disappeared.

I
didn't hear the front door open.

No,
and he's got the television on. He's just out of sight somewhere.

Mary
Lou crept closer. Too bad he's got the shades pulled on his front
windows.

I'll
try to be more considerate next time, Morelli said, standing inches
behind us.

Mary
Lou and I yelped and instinctively sprang away, but Morelli had both of us by
the back of our jackets.

Look
who we have here, Morelli said. Lucy and Ethel. Is this the girls'
night out?

We
were looking for my cat, Mary Lou said. It's been lost, and we
thought we saw it run through your yard.

Morelli
grinned at Mary Lou. Nice to see you, Mary Lou. It's been a while.

The
kids keep me busy, Mary Lou said. Soccer and preschool and Kenny
keeps getting these ear infections—

How's
Lenny doing?

He's
great. He's thinking about hiring someone else. His father's going to retire,
you know.

Lenny
had graduated from high school and had gone directly into the family business,
Stankovik and Sons, Plumbing and Heating. He made a good living at it, but he
frequently smelled like stagnant water and metal piping.

I
need to talk to Stephanie, Morelli said.

Mary
Lou started backing up. Hey, don't let me get in the way. I was just
leaving. I've got my car parked around the corner.

Morelli
opened his back door. You, he said, releasing my jacket. Go
in the house. I'll be right back. I'm going to walk Mary Lou to her car.

Not
necessary, Mary Lou said, looking nervous, like she was going to run like
hell at any moment. I can find my own way.

It's
dark back here, Morelli said to Mary Lou. And you've just been
contaminated by Calamity Jane. You're not getting out of my sight until you're
safely locked in your car.

I
did as I was told. I scurried into the house while Morelli walked Mary Lou to
her car. And as soon as they cleared his yard I scrolled back through his
caller ID. I scribbled the numbers on a pad by the phone, ripped the page off,
and stuffed it into my pocket. The last number to come in had an identification
block on it. No number available. If I'd known the number hadn't registered I
might not have been so fast to jump to Morelli's command.

The
ice cream was still sitting on the counter. And it was melting. Probably I
should eat it, so it didn't get totally melted and have to get thrown
away.

I
was savoring the last spoonful when Morelli returned. He closed and locked the
door behind him and pulled the shades.

I
raised my eyebrows.

Nothing
personal, Morelli said, but you've got bad people following you
around. I don't want someone sniping at you through my kitchen window.

You
think it's that serious?

Honey,
your car was bombed.

I
was starting to get used to it. How did you spot Mary Lou and me?

Rule
number one, when you've got your nose pressed to someone's window . . . don't
talk. Rule number two, when doing surveillance don't use a car with vanity
plates that have your best friend's name on them. Rule three, never
underestimate nosy neighbors. Mrs. Rupp called and wanted to know why you were
standing in the alley, looking into her windows, and she was wondering if she
should call the police. I explained it was most likely my windows you
were looking in and reminded her that I was the police, so she needn't bother
with another phone call.

Well,
it's all your fault because you won't tell me anything, I said.

If
I told you what was going on, you'd tell Mary Lou, and she'd tell Lenny, and
Lenny would tell the guys down at the plumbing supply house, and the next day
it'd be in the newspaper.

Mary
Lou doesn't tell Lenny anything, I said.

What
the hell was she wearing? She looked like the friendly neighborhood dominatrix.
The only things missing were a whip and a pimp.

She
was making a fashion statement.

Morelli
looked down at my utility belt.

What
kind of a statement is this?

Fear.

He
gave his head a disbelieving shake. You know what my biggest fear is? I
worry that someday you might be the mother of my children.

I
wasn't sure if I should be pleased or annoyed, so I changed the subject.
I deserve to know about this investigation, I said. I'm
sitting right in the middle of it. He was just implacably staring at me,
so I hit him with the heavy stuff. And I know about your late-night
meetings with Terry. And not only that, but I am not going away. And I
will continue to harass and follow you until I figure this out. So there.

I'd
tie you up and wrap you in a rug and drive you to the landfill, Morelli
said, but Mary Lou would probably finger me.

Okay,
so how about sex? Maybe we can make a deal?

Morelli
grinned. You've got my attention.

Start
talking.

Not
so fast. I want to know what I'm going to get for this information.

What
do you want?

Everything.

Not
working tonight?

He
looked at his watch. Shit. Yeah, I'm working. In fact I'm late. I need to
relieve Bunchy on a surveillance watch.

Who
are you watching?

He
stared at me for a moment. Okay, I'm going to tell you, because I don't
want you riding all over Trenton looking for me. But if I find out you leaked
this to anyone I swear I'll come get you.

I
held my hand up. Scout's honor. My lips are sealed.

MORELLI
LEANED BACK against the counter and folded his arms. Somehow it came to
light that there was a discrepancy between how much money Vito Grizolli's
cleaning business was taking in and how much was reported for income tax
purposes.

Gee,
what a surprise.

Yeah.
Well, the Feds decided they wanted to nail him on it, so they started to do
their thing, and it soon became pretty obvious that Vito, in fact, is losing
money he has no knowledge of.

Someone
is skimming Vito?

Morelli
started to laugh. Can you believe it?

Man,
there's a lot of that going on.

Enough
to make it worthwhile for Treasury to deal with Vito so they can maybe get a
bigger fish.

Like
what kind of a bigger fish?

Morelli
shrugged. Don't know. The two brain surgeons I'm working with think it's
some new crime organization.

What
do you think?

Until
you showed me the checks, I thought it was just some guy with a death wish
trying to pay off his mortgage. Now I'm not sure what I think, but a new crime
organization feels far out there. I don't see any other signs of a new
organization.

Maybe
it's just coincidence.

I
don't think so. There are too many things adding up. Three companies involved
so far. Three accounts-receivable clerks have died. Another is missing. Fred is
missing. Someone set a bomb to your car.

How
about the bank? Were Vito's missing accounts processed through First
Trenton?

Yes.
It'd be helpful to pull some records, but we'd run the risk of alerting whoever
is involved that there's an investigation going on.

It
turns out, RGC had also been flagged for possible tax evasion. The RGC stands
for Ruben, Grizolli, and Cotell. I knew Grizolli was part owner, but I didn't
know there'd been any irregularities. My Treasury contacts didn't tell me that
part.

You're
working as a team, and they didn't tell you about RGC?

You
don't know these guys. Real hot dogs. And they don't like being coupled with
local law enforcement.

I
smiled at him.

Yeah,
I know, he said. Sounds like I'm describing myself. Anyway,
Bronfman, the guy you know as Bunchy, was doing surveillance at RGC, looking to
see who went in and out. He was sitting in the café across the street the
Friday that Fred disappeared. I guess Fred had wanted to get an early start,
but he got to RGC before the office opened, so he went across the street for
coffee. Bronfman and Fred got to talking and Bronfman realized Fred was one of
the nonrecorded accounts. The following Tuesday, Bronfman got to thinking it
might be helpful to get a canceled check from Fred, one way or another, went to
talk to Fred, and discovered Fred was missing.

When
Mabel told him you were on the case, Bronfman decided he could use you to front
for him. You could poke around and ask questions, and it wasn't as likely
anyone would run for the hills. Didn't turn out exactly as he'd planned,
because he hadn't counted on your ornery, suspicious nature.

I
didn't tell him much.

No.
His efforts got him zero. That's the good part. Morelli locked eyes with
me. Now that you know what's going on, you're going to tell me what you
have, though, right?

Sure.
Maybe.

Christ,
Morelli said.

Hey,
I might tell you something.

I'm
sorry, I didn't have enough pieces to put this together sooner.

Part
my fault, I said.

Yeah,
part your fault. You're not talking to me enough. Part my fault, too.

What's
your role with Treasury?

Tito
wouldn't talk to them directly. Said he'd only deal with someone he knew. And I
guess he feels protected when information goes through a couple of sources.
Makes it easier to deny. So Vito talks to Terry, and Terry talks to me, and I
talk to Frick and Frack.

Who
are you watching?

Morelli
flipped the kitchen light off. Vito's accounts-receivable person. Harvey
Tipp.

You
better be watching him close. Harvey's life expectancy might not be too
good.

MORELLI
DROPPED ME off on his way to relieve Bronfman.

Thanks
for the ride, I told Morelli.

He
snagged my collar as I turned to leave. We have an agreement, he
said. And you owe me.

Now?

Later.

How
much later?

To
be determined, Morelli said. I just don't want you to forget.

Not
much chance of that.

Briggs
was working when I got upstairs. You keep long hours, I said.

I've
got to get this project done. I lost a lot of ground when my apartment got
burglarized. I was lucky I had my laptop in the closet in the bedroom, and they
missed it. I had most of my work backed up on the laptop, so it wasn't a total
disaster.

I
WOKE UP at four and couldn't get back to sleep. I lay there for an hour,
listening for sounds on my fire escape, planning my escape should someone toss
a fire bomb through my bedroom window. Finally I gave up and tiptoed into the
kitchen for a snack. I had so many things to worry about I could barely sort
through them. Fred was last on the list. Morelli collecting on what was owed
was closer to the top.

Briggs
padded in after me. Spooked again?

Yeah.
Too much on my mind. I can't sleep. I looked down at him. He was wearing
Winnie-the-Pooh pajamas. Nice jammies, I said.

I
have a hard time finding things that fit. When I want to really impress the
ladies I wear Spider-Man.

Is
it hard being a little person?

Has
its ups and downs. I get a lot of perks because people think I'm cute. And I
try to take advantage of my minority status.

I
noticed.

Hey,
Briggs said, you gotta use what God gave you.

True.

So,
you want to do something? You want to play Monopoly?

Okay,
but I want to be the shoe.

We
were still playing at seven o'clock, when the phone rang.

I'm
in your parking lot, Ranger said. Do you want to come down, or do
you want me to come up?

Why
are you calling? You always just break in.

I
didn't want to take a chance on scaring the hell out of you and getting
shot.

Good
thinking. What's the occasion?

Wheels,
Babe.

I
went to the window, pulled the curtain aside, and looked down at Ranger. He was
standing alongside a black BMW.

I'll
be right down, I said to Ranger. Give me a minute to get
dressed.

I
pulled on a pair of jeans, shoved my feet into ratty sneakers, and covered my
flannel nightshirt with an oversized gray sweatshirt. I grabbed my keys and
took off for the stairs.

Looking
a little scary, Babe, Ranger said when he saw me.

A
friend of mine suggested this look could be a new concept in birth
control.

It's
not that scary.

I
smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from my sweatshirt and closely examined a speck
of lint on my sleeve. I looked up and found Ranger smiling.

The
ball's in your court, Ranger said. Let me know when you're
ready.

For
the car?

He
smiled.

Are
you sure you want to give me another car?

This
one's equipped with sensors on the undercarriage. He held a small remote.
Push the green button to set the sensors. If there's motion under the car
the alarm sounds and the red light on the dash stays lit. Unfortunately, the
car doesn't know the difference between a cat, a baseball, and a bomb, so if
the light is flashing you have to do some investigating. Not perfect, but
better than stepping on the accelerator and being turned into confetti.
Probably it's not necessary. It's unlikely someone would try to blow you up twice.
He handed the remote over to me and explained the rest of the security system.

Just
like James Bond, I said.

You
have plans for the day?

I
need to call Morelli and see if the guy who delayed me at RGC, Mark Stemper,
turned up. Then I suppose I'll do my rounds. Visit Mabel. Check in at the
office. Harass the garbage people. Keep my eyes peeled for Ramirez. Have
my head examined.

Somebody
out there's feeling real cranky because you're not dead. You might want to wear
your vest.

I
watched him drive away, and before I went into the building I armed the car. I
finished up the game with Briggs, took a shower, shook my head with the hopes
it would style my hair, and applied mascara so people would notice my eyes and
not pay too close attention to the rest of me.

I
scrambled an egg and ate it with a glass of orange juice and a multivitamin. A
healthy breakfast to start the day off right—just in case I lived through the
morning.

I
decided Ranger might have a good idea about the vest. It made me sort of flat-chested,
but then, what didn't? I was wearing jeans and boots and a T-shirt with the
vest Velcroed tight to my body. I buttoned a navy flannel shirt over the vest
and thought it didn't look too bad.

There
were no bomb alert lights flashing when I got to the car, so I slid behind the
wheel feeling secure. My parents' house was first on the visitation list. I
thought it wouldn't hurt to have a cup of coffee and catch up on the latest
rumors.

Grandma
appeared at the door the minute I swerved in to the curb. Boy, that's a
pip of a car, she said, watching me angle out and set the security
system. What kind of car is it?

It's
a BMW.

We
just read in the paper where you had a Porsche, and it got blown up. Your
mother's in the bathroom taking an aspirin.

I
ran up the porch stairs two at a time. It was in the paper?

Yeah,
only they didn't have a picture of you, like usual. They just had a picture of
the car. Boy, it looked flat as a pancake.

Great.
Did they say anything else?

They
called you the Bombshell Bounty Hunter.

Maybe
I needed an aspirin too. I dropped my shoulder bag on a kitchen chair and
reached for the paper on the table. Oh, God, it was on the front page.

The
paper said the police were pretty sure it was a bomb, Grandma said.
Only after the garbage truck fell on the car I guess they had a hard time
figuring out what was what.

My
mother came into the kitchen. Whose car is that parked in front of our
house?

That's
Stephanie's new car, Grandma said. Isn't it a pip?

One
of my mother's eyebrows raised in question. Two new cars? Where are these
cars coming from?

Company
cars, I said.

Oh?

Anal
sex is not involved, I told her.

My
mother and grandmother both gasped.

Sorry,
I said. It just slipped out.

I
thought only homosexual men did anal sex, Grandma said.

Anybody
with an anus can do it, I told her.

Hmm,
she said. I got one of them.

I
poured a cup of coffee and sat at the table. So what's new?

Grandma
got coffee and sat across from me. Harriet Mullen had a baby boy. They
had to do a C-section on her at the last minute, but everything turned out
okay. And Mickey Szajak died. Guess it was about time.

Are
you hearing anything these days about Vito Grizolli?

I
saw him at the meat market last week, and I thought he'd put on some
weight.

How's
he doing financially?

I
hear he's making big money on that cleaning business. And I saw Vivien driving
a new Buick.

Vivien
was Vito's wife. She was sixty-five, wore fake eyelashes, and dyed her hair
bright red because that's the way Vito liked it. Anyone who voiced a critical
opinion got fitted with cement booties and accidentally took a dive into the
Delaware River.

I
don't suppose there are any rumors going around about First Trenton.

My
mother and grandmother both looked up from their coffee.

The
bank? my mother asked. Why do you want to know about the
bank?

I
don't know. Fred had an account there. I was just fishing.

Grandma
stared at my chest. You look different. Are you wearing one of them
sports brassieres? She looked more closely. Hot dog. I know what it
is. You're wearing a bulletproof vest. Ellen, look at this, she said to
my mother. Stephanie's wearing a bulletproof vest. Isn't that
something?

My
mother's face had turned white. Why me? she said.

NEXT
STOP WAS Mabel's house.

Mabel
opened the door and smiled. Stephanie, how nice to see you, dear. Would
you like tea?

I
can't stay, I said. I just wanted to stop around and see how you
were doing.

Isn't
that sweet of you. I'm doing peachy. I think I've decided on a trip to
Bermuda.

I
picked a brochure off the coffee table. Singles cruises for
seniors?

They
have some very good rates.

Anything
happen that I should know about? Like, have you heard from Fred?

I
haven't heard a word from Fred. I suppose he's dead.

Boy,
don't get all broken up over it. It's only been two weeks, I said.
He could still turn up.

Mabel
slid a longing look at the brochures. I suppose that's true.

Ten
minutes later I was at the office.

Hey,
girlfriend, Lula said. Did you see the paper this morning? You got
a big spread. And not that I'm bummed or anything, but I didn't even get a
mention. And I didn't get a cool name like Bombshell Bounty Hunter either.
Hell, I could bombshell your ass off.

I
know that, I said. And that's why I was wondering if you wanted to
ride along with me again today?

I
don't know. What kind of car are you driving? You back to driving that
Buick?

Actually,
I have a Beemer.

Lula
rushed to the front window and looked out. Damn skippy. Way to go.

Vinnie
stuck his head out of his office doorway. What's going on?

Stephanie
got a new car, Lula said. That's it at the curb.

Anybody
hear about anything funny going on at First Trenton? I asked.
Anybody shady work there?

You
should ask the little guy we talked to yesterday, Lula said. I
can't remember his name, but he seemed like a nice guy. You don't think he's
shady, do you?

Hard
to tell who's shady, I said to Lula. Actually, I thought shady would be a
step up for Shempsky.

Where'd
you get the car? Vinnie asked.

It's
a company car. I'm working with Ranger.

Vinnie's
face creased into a big, oily smile. Ranger gave you a car? Hah! What
kind of work you doing? Gotta be good to get a car like that.

Maybe
you should ask Ranger, I said.

Yeah,
sure, when I don't want to live anymore.

Any
new FTAs come in? I asked Connie.

We
got two in yesterday, but they're chump change. I wasn't sure you wanted to be
bothered with them. Seems like you've got a lot on your plate right now.

What's
the profile?

A
shoplifter and a wife beater.

We'll
take the wife beater, Lula said. We don't allow no wife beaters to
just walk away. We like to give the wife beaters personal attention.

I
took the file from Connie and sifted through it. Kenyon Lally. Age
twenty-eight. Unemployed. Long history of spousal abuse. Two DUI convictions.
Living in the projects. No mention of Kenyon shooting any previous bounty
hunters.

Okay,
I said, we'll take this one.

Oh
boy, Lula said. I'm gonna squash this guy like a roach.

No.
No, no, no, no, no roach squashing. No unnecessary force.

Sure,
Lula said. I know that. But we could use necessary force,
right?

Necessary
force won't be necessary.

Just
don't beat the crap out of him like you did with the computer nerd,
Vinnie said. I keep telling you, kick them in the kidney where it don't
show.

Must
be scary being related to him, Lula said, looking over at Vinnie.

Connie
filled in my authorization to apprehend and gave the file back to me. I dropped
it into my bag and hiked my bag higher on my shoulder. Later.

Later,
Connie said. And watch out for garbage trucks.

I
beeped the alarm off, and Lula and I got in the Beemer.

This
is cushy, Lula said. Big woman like me needs a car like this. I
sure would like to know where Ranger gets all these cars. See that little
silver strip with the numbers on it. That's your registration number. So
theoretically this car isn't even stolen.

Theoretically.
Ranger probably had those strips made by the gross. I punched Morelli's number
into the car phone and after six rings I got his answering machine. I left a
message and tried his pager.

Not
that it's any of my business, Lula said, but what's going on with
you and Morelli? I thought that was over with you two when you moved out.

It's
complicated.

Your
problem is you keep getting involved with men who have lots of potential in bed
and no potential at the altar.

I'm
thinking of giving men up altogether, I said. Celibacy isn't so
bad. You don't have to worry about shaving your legs.

The
phone rang, and I answered it on the speakerphone.

What
number is this? Morelli wanted to know.

It's
my new car phone number.

In
the Buick?

No.
Ranger gave me another car.

Silence.

What
kind of car is it this time? he finally asked.

Beemer.

Has
it got a registration number on it?

Yes.

Is
it fake?

I
shrugged. It doesn't look fake.

That'll
go far in court.

Have
you heard anything about Mark Stemper?

No.
I think he's probably playing rummy with your uncle Fred.

How
about Laura Lipinski?

Disappeared
off the face of the earth. Left home the Thursday before your uncle
disappeared.

Perfect
timing to get stuffed into a garbage bag. Thanks. That's all I wanted.
Over and out.

I
pulled into the Grand Union parking lot and drove to the end of the mall where
the bank was located. I parked at a safe distance from other cars, exited the
BMW, and set the alarm.

You
want me to stay with the car in case someone's riding around with a bomb in his
backseat looking for a place to put it? Lula asked.

Not
necessary. Ranger says the car has sensors.

Ranger
give you a car with bomb sensors? The head of the CIA don't even have a car
with bomb sensors. I hear they give him a stick with a mirror on the end of
it.

I
don't think it's anything space-age. Sounds to me like they're just motion
detectors mounted on the undercarriage.

Boy,
I'd like to know where he got the motion detectors. This would probably be a
good night to rob the governor's mansion.

I
was starting to feel like a regular customer at the bank. I said hello to the
guard at the door, and I waved to Leona. I looked for Shempsky, but he wasn't
visible, and his office was empty.

He's
out to lunch, the guard said. Took it earlier than usual
today.

No
problem. Leona was giving me the come here! gesture, anyway.

I
read about you in the paper, she said. They said your car was
bombed!

Yeah.
And then a garbage truck fell on it.

It
was excellent, Lula said. It was the shit.

Boy,
nothing fun ever happens to me, Leona said. I've never had a car
bombed or anything.

But
you work at a bank, I told her. That's pretty cool. And you have
kids. Kids are the best. Okay, so I fibbed a little about the kids. I
didn't want her to feel bad. I mean we can't all be lucky enough to have a
hamster.

We
came to see if you had any suspicious characters working here, Lula said.

Leona
looked startled by that. In the bank?

Well,
maybe 'suspicious' is the wrong word, I told her. Is there anyone
here who might have connections with people who might not be totally
law-abiding?

Leona
rolled her eyes. Almost everybody. Marion Beddle was a Grizolli before
she was married. You know about Vito Grizolli? And then Phil Zuck in mortgages
lives next door to Sy Bernstein, the lawyer who was just disbarred for illegal
practices. The guard has a brother in Rahway, doing time for burglary. You want
me to go on?

Let's
take this from a different direction. Is there anyone here who looks too
successful for his job? You know, has too much money? Or is there anyone here
who desperately needs money? Anyone who likes to gamble? Anyone doing expensive
drugs?

Hmm.
That's a harder question. Annie Shuman has a sick kid. Some kind of bone
disease. Lots of doctor bills. Couple of people who play the numbers. I'm one
of them. Rose White likes to go to Atlantic City and play the slots.

I
don't get what you want to know this for anyway, Lula said to me.

We
know of three companies with extra accounts in this bank. We think there's a
possibility those accounts were opened to hold illegal money. So maybe there's
a good reason the accounts were opened here.

Like
someone here in the bank is involved, Lula said.

I
see where you're going, Leona said. You're suggesting we're
laundering money. The money comes into those accounts you asked me about and
almost immediately goes out.

I
don't know if it's exactly laundering, I said. Where does the money
go?

I
don't have that information, Leona said. You'd need a bank officer
for that. And probably they wouldn't tell you. I'm sure that would be
confidential. You should talk to Shempsky.

We
hung around for another fifteen minutes, but Shempsky didn't materialize.

Maybe
we should go get that wife beater, Lula said. I bet he's sitting in
his living room, drinking beer, being a jerk.

I
looked at my watch. Noon. Chances were good that Kenyon Lally was just getting
up. Unemployed drunks were usually slow risers. Might be a good time to snag
him.

Okay,
I said, we'll take a ride over.

Gonna
fit right in with the BMW, Lula said. Everybody in the projects
gonna think you're a drug dealer.

Oh,
great.

I
know about the bomb sensors and all, Lula said after we'd gone about a
half mile, but I still got the heebie-jeebies sitting next to you.

I
knew exactly where she was coming from. I felt like that, too. I could
take you back to the office if you're uncomfortable.

Hell,
no. I'm not that freaked out. It just makes you wonder, you know? Anyway, I
felt like that when I was a 'ho, too. You never knew when you were gonna get in
the car with some maniac.

It
must have been a tough job.

Most
of my customers were repeaters, so that wasn't too bad. The worst part was
standing around on the corner. Don't matter if it's hot or cold or raining, you
still gotta stand there. Most people think the hard part's being on your back,
but the hard part is being on your feet all day and night. I got varicose veins
from standing too many hours on my feet. I guess if I'd been a better 'ho I'd
have been on my back more and my feet less.

I
took Nottingham to Greenwood, turned right off Greenwood, and crossed the
railroad tracks. Trenton subsidized housing always reminded me of a POW camp,
and in many ways, that's exactly what it was. Although, in all fairness, I have
to say they aren't the worst I've ever seen. And they were preferable to living
on Stark Street. I suppose the original vision was of garden apartments, but
the reality is cement and brick bunkers squatting on hard-packed dirt. If I had
to find a single word to describe the neighborhood, I'd have to choose bleak.

We
want the next building, Lula said. Apartment 4B.

I
parked around the corner, a block away, so Lally wouldn't see us coming, got
out, and studied Lally's photo.

Nice
touch with the vest, Lula said. It'll come in handy when the
Welcome Wagon shows up.

The
sky was gray and the wind whipped across yards. A few cars were parked on the
street, but there was no activity. No dogs, no kids, no stoop sitters. It
looked like a ghost town with Hitler as architect.

Lula
and I walked to 4B and rang the bell.

Kenyon
Lally answered the door. He was my height and rangy, wearing low-slung jeans
and a thermal T-shirt. His hair was uncombed, and his face was unshaven. And he
looked like a man who smacked women around.

Hunh,
Lula said when she saw him.

We
don't need no Girl Scout cookies, Lally said. And he slammed the door
shut.

I
hate when people do that, Lula said.

I
rang the bell again, but there was no response.

Hey!
Lula yelled. Bail Enforcement Agents. Open this door!

Go
fuck yourself, Lally yelled back.

The
hell with this bullshit, Lula said. She gave the door a kick with her
foot, and the door banged open.

We
were both so surprised we just stood there. Neither of us had expected the door
to open.

Government
housing, Lula finally said with a shake of her head. It makes you
wonder, don't it?

You're
gonna pay for that, Lally said.

Lula
was standing with her hands in her jacket pockets. How about you make me?
Why don't you come get me, Mr. Tough Guy?

Lally
charged Lula. Lula stuck out her hand, made contact with Lally's chest, and
Lally went down like a sack of sand.

Fastest
stun gun in the East, Lula said. Oops, look at that . . . damn, I
accidentally kicked the wife beater.

I
cuffed Lally and checked to make sure he was breathing.

Shoot,
Lula said. I'm so careless, I accidentally kicked him again. She
bent over Lally with the stun gun still in her hand. Want me to make him
jump?

No!
I said. No jumping!

AFTER
FIFTEEN MINUTES, Lally's eyes were open and his fingers were twitching, but I
could see that it might take awhile longer before he was up to walking any kind
of distance.

You
should join a gym, Lula told Lally. And you should lay off the
beer. You're out of shape. I only buzzed you once, and look at you. I never saw
anybody so pathetic from one measly jolt.

I
gave Lula the car keys. Bring the car over so he doesn't have to walk so
far.

You
might never see me again, Lula said.

Ranger
would find you.

Yeah,
Lula said, that'd be the best part.

Five
minutes later, Lula was back.

It's
gone, she said.

What's
gone?

The
car. The car's gone.

What
do you mean, it's gone?

What
part of 'gone' don't you understand? Lula asked.

You
don't mean it's been stolen?

Yep.
That's just what I mean. The car's been stolen.

My
heart did a nosedive. I didn't want to believe what I was hearing. How
could someone steal the car? We didn't hear the alarm go off.

Must
have gone off when we were inside here. It's a distance, and the wind's blowing
away from us. Anyway, the brothers know how to take care of that kind of stuff.
I'm real surprised, though. I figured you see a nice car in this kind of
neighborhood and you think dealer. And messing with a dealer's car don't do a
whole lot for your quality of life. Guess these guys were low on their daily
quota. I got there just as the flatbed was turning the corner two blocks away.
They must have been in the area.

What
am I going to tell Ranger?

Tell
him the good news is they left him his plates. Lula handed me two license
plates. And guess they didn't want the registration number. They left
that, too. Looks like they took it off with an acetylene torch. She
dropped a small piece of scorched dashboard with the metal tag still attached
into the palm of my hand.

That's
it?

Yep.
That's what they left at the side of the road for you.

Lally
was flopping around on the floor, trying to get to his feet, but his
coordination was off and his hands were cuffed behind his back. He was drooling
and cussing and slurring his words.

Fruckin'
bish, he said to me. Fruckin' peesh a shit.

I
searched in my bag for the cell phone, found it, and called Vinnie. I explained
I had Kenyon Lally in custody, but there was a small problem with my car, and
would he please come collect Lally and Lula and me.

What's
the problem? Vinnie wanted to know.

It's
nothing. It's trivial. Don't worry about it.

I'm
not coming until you tell me. I bet this is something good.

I
blew out a sigh. The car's been stolen.

That's
it?

Yeah.

Jeez,
I expected something better . . . like it got hit by a train or sat on by an
elephant.

Are
you going to come get us, or what?

I'm
on my way. Hold your bladder.

We
sat down to wait for Vinnie, and my cell phone rang. Lula and I exchanged
glances.

You
expecting a call? Lula asked.

Both
of us thinking it might be Ranger.

Well,
answer it, Lally said. Stoopid fruck.

It
could be Vinnie, Lula said. He might have found a goat walking down
the middle of the road and decided to do a nooner.

I
searched through my bag, found the phone, crossed all my fingers and my eyes,
and answered.

It
was Joe. We found Mark Stemper, he said.

And?

He
doesn't look good.

Damn.
How bad does he look?

He
looks dead. Shot in the head. Someone tried to make it look like a suicide, but
among other things they put the gun in the wrong hand. Stemper was left-handed.

Oops.

Yeah.
Not very professional.

Where'd
it happen?

In
an abandoned building a couple blocks from RGC. A watchman found him.

You
ever wonder why Harvey Tipp is still alive?

I
guess he must pose no threat, Morelli said. Or maybe he's related
to Mr. Big. Or maybe he's not involved. We really have nothing on him, other
than the fact that he's the logical person.

I
think it's time you talked to him.

I
think you're right. There was a moment of silence. One more thing.
Are you still driving the BMW?

Nope.
Not me. Gave up on that puppy.

What
happened to it?

Stolen.

I
could hear Morelli laughing over the phone.

It's
not funny! I yelled. Do you think I should file a police
report?

I
think you should talk to Ranger first. Do you need a ride?

No.
Vinnie's on his way.

Later,
Hotstuff.

I
disconnected and told Lula about Stemper.

Somebody
don't like leaving loose ends, Lula said.

I
took a deep breath and dialed Ranger's home phone. No answer. Car phone. No
answer. I could try his cell phone, but I didn't want to press my luck, so I
left my number on his pager. The condemned woman gets a few extra minutes.

I'd
been watching the window, and I saw Vinnie pull up in his Cadillac. I thought
it might be satisfying to delay Vinnie for a half hour and see if his car
disappeared, but dismissed it as being not practical. I'd only have to call yet
another person to come collect us. And even worse, I'd have to spend time with
Vinnie.

Lula
and I dragged Lally out to the curb and waited while Vinnie popped his door
locks.

Scumbags
sit in the backseat, Vinnie said.

Hunh,
Lula said, hand on hip, who you callin' a scumbag?

If
the shoe fits, Vinnie said.

If
the shoe fits, you'd have your pervert ass in the backseat, Lula said.

Why
me? I asked. I realized I sounded like my mother and had a brief panic
attack. I liked my mother, but I didn't want to be her. I didn't want to
ever cook a pot roast. I didn't want to live in a house with three adults and
only one bathroom. And I didn't want to marry my father. I wanted to marry
Indiana Jones. I figured Indiana Jones was the middle ground between my father
and Ranger. Morelli fit in there, too. In fact, Morelli wasn't too far off the
Indiana Jones mark. Not that it mattered, since Morelli didn't want to get
married.

Vinnie
dropped Lula and me at the office and took Lally to the police station on North
Clinton.

Well,
that was fun, Lula said. Too bad about the car. I can't wait to see
what you get next.

I'm
getting nothing next. I'm not taking any more cars. From now on, I'm driving
the Buick. Nothing ever happens to the Buick.

Yeah,
Lula said, but that isn't necessarily a good thing.

I
dialed First Trenton, asked for Shempsky, and was told he'd gone home early
with an upset stomach. I got his home number out of the directory and tried to
reach him there. No answer. Just for the hell of it, I ran a fast credit check.
Nothing unusual. Mortgage, credit cards all in good standing.

Why
are you checking on Shempsky? Lula asked. You think he's
involved?

I
keep thinking about the bomb in the Porsche. Shempsky knew I was driving a
Porsche.

Yeah,
but he could have told people. He could have mentioned to someone you were
going to the garbage company in your brand-new Porsche.

True.

Do
you want a ride someplace? Lula asked.

I
shook my head no. I could use some air and exercise, I said.
I'm going to walk home.

That's
a long walk.

It's
not so long.

I
stepped outside and turned my jacket collar up against the wind. The
temperature had dropped and the sky was gray. It was midafternoon, but houses
had lights on to fight the gloom. Furnaces were running. Cars rolled by on
Hamilton, drivers intent on getting somewhere. There were few people on the
sidewalks. It was a good day to be indoors, cleaning out closets, making hot
chocolate, organizing a fresh start for winter. And it was a good day to be
outdoors, scuffing through the few remaining leaves, feeling flushed from the
cold air. It was my favorite time of the year. And if it wasn't for the fact
that people were dying left and right, and I couldn't find Uncle Fred, and
someone wanted to kill me, and Ramirez wanted to send me to Jesus—it would be a
very good day.

In
an hour I was back at my building, in the lobby, and I was feeling fine. My
head was clear and my circulation was in top form. The Buick was sitting in the
parking lot, looking solid as a rock and just as serene. I had the keys in my
pocket, and I was still wondering about Shempsky. Maybe I should ride by and
see him, I thought. Surely he'll be home by now.

The
elevator doors opened and Mrs. Bestler leaned out. Going up?

No,
I said. I changed my mind. I have more errands to run.

All
ladies' accessories are twenty percent off on the second floor, she said.
She pulled her head back and the doors closed.

I
recrossed the lot and gingerly unlocked the Buick. Nothing went boom, so
I slid behind the wheel. I started the car and jumped out. I stood a good
distance away and timed ten minutes. Still no explosion. Whew. Big relief. I
got back in the car, put it into gear, and drove out of the lot. Shempsky lived
in Hamilton Township, off Klockner, behind the high school. Typical suburban
development of single-family houses. Two cars, two incomes, two kids per
family. It was easy to find his street and his house. It was all clearly
marked. His house was a split-entry frame. White with black shutters. Very
tidy.

I
parked at the curb, walked to the door, and rang the bell. I was about to ring
again when a woman answered. She was nicely dressed in a brown sweater,
matching slacks, and rubber-soled loafers. Her hair was cut in a short bob. Her
makeup was Martha Stewart. And her smile was genuine. She was the perfect match
for Allen. I suspected I would immediately forget anything she told me, and a
half hour from now I wouldn't recall what she looked like.

Maureen?
I asked.

Yes?

It's
Stephanie Plum . . . we went to school together.

She
slapped herself on the forehead. Of course! I should have remembered.
Allen mentioned you the other night. He said you'd stopped by the bank.
The smile faded. I heard about Fred. I'm so sorry.

You
haven't seen him, have you? Just in case she had him in her basement.

No!

I
always ask, I explained, since she looked taken aback.

And
it's a good idea. I might have seen him walking down the street.

Exactly.

So
far, I hadn't seen any sign of Allen. Of course, if he was really sick he might
be upstairs in bed. Is Allen here? I asked Maureen. I tried
to catch him at the bank, but he'd gone out to lunch, and then I got busy with
another matter. I thought maybe he'd be home by now.

No.
He always comes home at five. The smile popped back in place. Would
you like to come in and wait? I could make some herb tea.

The
nosy part of me would have liked to snoop through the Shempsky's house. The
part of me that wanted to live to see another day thought it wise not to leave
the Buick unguarded.

Thanks,
maybe some other time, I said to Maureen. I need to keep my eye on
the Buick.

Mom,
a kid yelled from the kitchen, Timmy's got an M M's stuck up his
nose.

Maureen
shook her head and smiled. Children, she said. You know how
it is.

Actually,
I have a hamster, I said. Hard to get an M M's up his
nose.

I'll
be right back, Maureen said. This will only take a minute.

I
stepped into the foyer and looked around while Maureen hustled off to the
kitchen. The living room opened off to the right. It was a large, pleasant room
done in tones of tan. An upright piano stood against the near wall. Family
photos covered the top of the piano. Allen and Maureen and the kids at the
beach, at Disney World, at Christmas.

Lots
of pictures. Probably one wouldn't be missed if it happened to jump into my
purse.

I
heard a kid yelp, and Maureen chirped that everything was hunky-dory and the
bad M M's was bye-bye. I'll be right back, Maureen said. The
kitchen television was clicked on, and in the blink of an eye, I snatched the
nearest photo, dropped it into my bag, and stepped back into the foyer.

Sorry
about that, Maureen said, returning. Never a dull moment.

I
handed Maureen a business card. Maybe you could have Allen give me a call
when he gets in.

Sure.

By
the way, what kind of car does Allen drive?

A
tan Taurus. And then there's the Lotus.

Allen
has a Lotus?

It's
his toy.

Expensive
toy.

It
was necessary to pass by the strip mall on my way home, so I did a short detour
into the lot and checked out the bank. The lobby was closed, but the
drive-through window was open. That didn't do me any good. Allen wasn't going
to be doing drive-through duty. I rode around the lot looking for a tan Taurus,
but had no luck.

Allen,
I said, where are you?

And
then, since I was in the neighborhood, I thought it wouldn't hurt to stop by
and say hello to Irene Tully. And, what the hell, I might as well show her the
picture of Allen Shempsky. You never know what could jog a person's memory.

For
goodness' sake, Irene said when she opened the door. Are you still
looking for Fred? She gave an apprehensive glance to the Buick. Is
your grandmother with you?

Grandma's
at home. I was hoping you wouldn't mind looking at another picture.

Is
this that dead man again?

No.
This guy's alive. I gave her the photo of the Shempsky family.

Isn't
this nice, Irene said. What a lovely family.

Do
you recognize any of these people?

Not
offhand. I might have seen the man somewhere, but I can't place him.

Could
he have been the man Uncle Fred talked to in the parking lot?

I
guess it's possible. If it wasn't this man, it was someone very much like him.
He was just an ordinary man. I suppose that's why I can't remember him so good.
There wasn't anything special to remember. Of course, he wasn't wearing a
Mickey Mouse hat and Bermuda shorts.

I
retrieved the photo. Thanks. You've been very helpful.

Anytime,
she said. You always have such interesting pictures.

I
bypassed the street that led to my apartment building and continued down
Hamilton to the Burg. I'd been thinking about the bombing, and I had a plan.
Since I wasn't going anywhere tonight, I'd lock the Buick up in my parents'
garage and bum a ride home from my dad. Not only would it keep the car safe,
but it had the added advantage of getting me dinner.

I
didn't have to worry about the garage being in use, because my father never put
his car in the garage. The garage was used to store jugs of motor oil and old
tires. My father had a workbench in there along one wall. He had a vise
attached to the workbench, and little jars filled with nails and things lined
the back of the workbench. I never saw him work at the workbench, but when he
got really fed up with my grandmother, my father would hide in the garage and
smoke a cigar.

Uh-oh,
Grandma said when she saw me at the door. This don't look good. Where's
the black car?

It
got stolen.

Already?
You didn't even have it a whole day.

I
went into the kitchen and got the garage keys. I'm going to put the Buick
in the garage overnight, I said to my mother. Is that okay?

My
mother put her hand to her heart. My God, you're going to get our garage
blown up.

Nobody's
going to blow up the garage. Not unless they were sure I was in it.

I
have a ham, my mother said. Are you staying for supper?

Sure.

I
put the Buick in the garage, locked everything up nice and tight, and went into
the house to have ham.

It's
gonna be two weeks tomorrow since Fred's been missing, Grandma said at
dinner. I thought for sure he'd have turned up by now—one way or another.
Even aliens don't keep people that long. Usually they just probe your insides
and let you go.

My
father hunkered down over his plate.

Of
course, maybe they started probing Fred and he croaked. What do you think
they'd do then? You think they'd just pitch him out? Maybe their spaceship was
over Afghanistan when they tossed Fred, and we'll never find him. Good thing he
isn't a woman, what with landing in Afghanistan and all. I hear they don't treat
women so good over there.

My
mother paused with her fork halfway to her mouth, and her eyes darted to the
side window. She listened like that for a moment and then resumed eating.

Nobody's
going to bomb the garage, I said to her. I'm almost sure of it.

Boy,
wouldn't it be something if someone did bomb our garage, Grandma
said. That'd be a good story to tell at the beauty parlor.

I
was starting to wonder why I hadn't received a call from Ranger. It wasn't like
him not to get back to me right away. I set my shoulder bag on my lap and pawed
through the clutter, looking for my cell phone.

What
are you looking for? Grandma asked.

My
cell phone. I've got so much junk in my bag I can never find anything. I
started pulling stuff out and setting it on the table. Can of hairspray,
hairbrush, zippered makeup pouch, flashlight, minibinoculars, Ranger's license
plates, bottle of nail polish, stun gun . . .

Grandma
leaned over the table to take a better look. What's that thing?

Stun
gun, I said.

What's
it do?

It
emits an electrical charge.

My
father forked in more ham, focusing his concentration on his plate.

Grandma
got out of her seat and came around to examine the stun gun. What do you
do with this? she wanted to know, picking it up and studying it.
How does it work?

I
was still rooting through my bag. You press the metal prongs against
someone and push the button, I said.

Stephanie,
my mother said, take that away from your grandmother before she
electrocutes herself.

Aha!
I said, finding my cell phone. I pulled it out and looked at it. Dead battery.
No wonder Ranger hadn't called.

Look,
Frank, my grandmother said to my father, did you ever see anything
like this? Stephanie says you just stick it against someone and push the button
. . .

My
mother and I both jumped out of our seats. No!

Too
late. Grandma had the prongs pressed against my father's arm. Zzzzzt.

My
father's eyes glazed over, a piece of ham fell out of his mouth, and he crashed
to the floor.

He
must have had a heart attack, Grandma said, looking down at my father.
I told him and told him, he uses too much gravy.

It's
the stun gun! I yelled at her. That's what happens when you use a
stun gun on someone!

Grandma
bent down for a closer look. Did I kill him?

My
mother was on her knees alongside my grandmother. Frank? she
shouted. Can you hear me, Frank?

I
took his pulse. He's okay, I said. Grandma just scrambled
some brain cells. It's not permanent. He'll be good as new in a couple
minutes.

My
father opened an eye and farted.

Oops,
Grandma said. Someone must have stepped on a duck.

We
all backed away and fanned the air.

I
have a nice chocolate cake for dessert, my mother said.

I
used my parents' phone in the kitchen and left a new message on Ranger's
machine. Sorry about my cell phone. The battery conked out. I'll be home
in about a half-hour. I need to talk to you. Then I called Mary Lou and
asked her to give me a lift home. I didn't think it was such a good idea to ask
my dad to drive so soon after getting zapped. And I didn't want my mom to take
me and leave my grandmother and father alone in the house together. And first
and foremost, I didn't want to be there when my father went nuts at Grandma
Mazur.

I've
been dying to hear from you, Mary Lou said when she picked me up.
What happened with Morelli last night?

Not
a lot. We talked about the case he's working on, and then he took me
home.

That's
it?

Pretty
much.

No
fooling around?

Nope.

So
let me get this straight. Last night you were with the two sexiest men in the
entire world, and you didn't score with either one of them?

There
are other things in this life besides scoring with men, I said.

Like
what?

I
could score with myself

You
could go blind doing that.

No!
I mean, I could feel good about myself. You know, like when you do a job and it
turns out excellent. Or when you set a moral standard for yourself and stick to
it.

Mary
Lou gave me the open-mouth, wrinkled-nose, this-is-a-load-of-bullshit look.
What?

Well,
okay, so I've never had any of those things happen, but they could!

And
pigs could fly, Mary Lou said, but personally, I'd rather have an
orgasm.

Mary
Lou swung into the lot and stopped short, jerking both of us against the
shoulder harness. Omigod, she said. Do you see what I think I
see?

Ranger's
Mercedes was parked in shadow just beyond the door.

Damn,
Mary Lou said, if he was waiting for me, I'd need Depends.

Ranger
was leaning against the car, arms folded across his chest, not moving. Very foreboding
in the dark. Definitely Depends material.

Thanks
for the ride, I said to Mary Lou, my eyes on Ranger, wondering about his
mood.

You
going to be okay? He looks so . . . dangerous.

It's
the hair.

It's
more than the hair.

It
was the hair, the eyes, the mouth, the body, the gun on his hip . . .

I'll
call you tomorrow, I told Mary Lou. Don't worry about Ranger. He's
not as bad as he looks. Okay, so I fib now and then, but it's always for
a good cause. No point Mary Lou spending the night in a state.

Mary
Lou gave Ranger one last look and whipped out of the lot. I took a deep breath
and ambled over.

Where's
the BMW? Ranger asked.

I
pulled the plates and the piece of dashboard out of my bag and gave them to
him. I sort of had a problem . . .

His
eyebrows raised, and a smile started to twitch at the corners of his mouth.
This is what's left of the car?

I
nodded my head and swallowed. It got stolen.

The
smile widened. And they left you the plates and registration tag. Nice
touch.

I
didn't think it was a nice touch. I thought it was very crappy. In fact, I was
thinking my life was crappy. The bomb, Ramirez, Uncle Fred—and just when
I thought I'd succeeded at something and made a capture, someone stole my car.
The whole crappy world was thumbing its nose at me. Life sucks, I
said to Ranger. A tear popped out of my eye and slid down my cheek. Damn.

Ranger
studied me for a moment, turned, and dropped the plates in his backseat.
It was a car, Babe. It wasn't important.

It's
not just the car. It's everything. Another tear squeezed out.
I have all these problems.

He
was very close. I could feel the heat from his body. And I could see that his
eyes were dilated black in the dark parking lot.

Here's
something else to worry about, he said. And he kissed me—his hand at the
nape of my neck and his mouth on mine, soft at first, then serious and
demanding. He drew me closer and kissed me again and desire washed over me, hot
and liquid and scary.

Oh
boy, I whispered.

Yeah,
he said. Think about it.

What
I think . . . is that it's a bad idea.

Of
course it's a bad idea, Ranger said. If it was a good idea I'd have
been in your bed a long time ago. He took a notecard from his jacket
pocket. I have a job for you tomorrow. The young sheik is going home and
needs a ride to the airport.

No!
No way am I driving that little jerk.

Look
at it this way, Steph. He deserves you.

He
had a point. Okay, I said. I haven't got anything else to
do.

Instructions
are on the card. Tank will bring the car around for you.

And
he was gone.

Omigod,
I said. What did I just do?

I
rushed into the lobby and pushed the elevator button, still talking to myself.
He kissed me and I kissed him, I said. What was I
thinking? I rolled my eyes. I was thinking . . . yes!

The
elevator door opened and Ramirez stepped out at me. Hello,
Stephanie, he said. The champ's been waiting for you.

I
shrieked and jumped away, but I'd had my mind on Ranger and not Ramirez, and I
didn't move fast enough. Ramirez grabbed a handful of hair and yanked me toward
the door. It's time, he said. Time to see what it's like to
be with a real man. And then when the champ is done with you, you'll be ready
for God.

I
stumbled and went down to one knee, and he dragged me forward. I had my hand in
my bag, but I couldn't find my gun or the stun gun. Too much junk. I swung the
bag as hard as I could and caught him in the face. He paused, but he didn't go
down.

That
wasn't nice, Stephanie, he said. You're gonna have to pay for that.
You're gonna have to get punished before you go to God.

I
dug my heels in and screamed as loud as I could.

Two
doors opened on the first floor.

What's
going on here? Mr. Sanders said.

Mrs.
Keene stuck her head out. Yeah, what's the racket?

Call
the police, I yelled. Help! Call the police.

Don't
worry, dear, Mrs. Keene said, I've got my gun. She fired two
off and took out an overhead light. Did I get him? she asked.
Would you like me to shoot again?

Mrs.
Keene had cataracts and wore glasses as thick as the bottom of a beer glass.

Ramirez
had bolted for the door at the first shot.

You
missed him, Mrs. Keene, but that's okay. You scared him off.

Do
you still want us to call the police?

I'll
take care of it, I told them. Thanks.

Everyone
thought I was a big professional bounty hunter, and I didn't want to ruin that
image, so I calmly walked to the stairs. I climbed one step at a time, and I
told myself to stay focused. Get yourself into your apartment, I thought. Lock
the door, call the police. I should have found my gun and gone into the lot
after Ramirez. But the truth is, I was too scared. And if I was being really
honest here, I wasn't such a good shot. Better to leave it to the police.

By
the time I got to my door, I had my key in my hand. I took a deep breath and
got the key in on the first try. The apartment was dark and quiet. Too early
for Briggs to be asleep. He must have gone out. Rex was silently running on his
wheel. The red light was lit on my answering machine. Two messages. I suspected
one was from Ranger, left early afternoon. I flipped the light on, dropped my
bag on the kitchen counter, and played the messages.

The
first was from Ranger, just as I'd thought, telling me to page him again.

The
second was from Morelli. This is important, he said. I have
to talk to you.

I
dialed Morelli at home. Come on, I said. Pick up the
phone. No answer, so I started working my way down the speed dial. Next
on the list was Morelli's car phone. No answer there either. Try his cell
phone. I took the phone into my bedroom, but only got as far as the bedroom
door.

Allen
Shempsky was sitting on my bed. The window behind him was broken. No secret how
he got into my bedroom. He was holding a gun. And he looked terrible.

Hang
up, he said. Or I'll kill you.

WHAT
ARE YOU doing? I asked Shempsky.

Good
question. I thought I knew. I thought I had it all figured out. He shook
his head. It's all gone to heck in a handbasket.

You
look awful. His face was flushed, his eyes were bloodshot and glassy, and
his hair was a mess. He was in a suit, but his shirt was hanging out, and his
tie was twisted to one side. His slacks and jacket were wrinkled. Have
you been drinking?

I
feel sick, he said.

Maybe
you should put the gun down.

Can't.
I have to kill you. What is it with you anyway? Anyone else would know when to
quit. I mean, no one even liked Fred.

Where
is he?

Hah!
Another good question.

I
heard muffled noise coming from my closet.

It's
the dwarf, Shempsky said. He scared the hell out of me. I thought
no one was in here. And all of a sudden this little Munchkin came running
in.

I
was at the closet in two strides. I opened the door and looked down. Briggs was
trussed up like a Christmas goose, his hands tied behind his back with my
bathroom clothesline, mailing tape across his mouth. He seemed okay. Very
scared and boiling mad.

Shut
the door, Shempsky, said. He's quieter if you shut the door. I
guess I have to kill him, too, but I've been procrastinating. It's like killing
Doc or Sneezy, or Grumpy. And I have to tell you I feel real bad about killing
Sneezy. I really like Sneezy.

If
you've never had a gun pointed at you, you can't imagine the terror. And the
regret that life was too short, too unappreciated. You don't really want
to kill Sneezy and me, I said, working hard to keep my voice from
shaking.

Sure
I do. Hell, why not. I've killed everybody else. He sniffed and wiped his
nose on his jacket sleeve. I'm getting a cold. Boy, I tell you, when
things start going bad . . . He ran his hand through his hair. It
was such a good idea. Take a few customers and keep them for yourself. Real
clean. Except I didn't count on people like Fred stirring things up. We were
all making money. Nobody was getting hurt. And then things started to go wrong
and people started to panic. First Lipinski and then John Curly.

So
you killed them?

What
else could I do? It's the only way to really keep someone quiet, you
know.

What
about Martha Deeter?

Martha
Deeter, he said on a sigh. One of my many regrets is that she's
dead, and I can't kill her again. If it wasn't for Martha Deeter . . . He
shook his head. Excuse my language, but she had a real stick up her ass
about the accounts. Everything strictly by the books. Wouldn't budge on the
Shutz thing. Even though it was none of her business. She was a stupid
receptionist, but she wouldn't keep her nose out of anything. After you left
the office she decided she was going to make an example out of you and your
aunt. Sent a fax off to the home office suggesting they look into the matter
and prosecute you for making fraudulent claims. Can you imagine what that could
lead to? Even if they just called to pacify you, it could start an
investigation.

So
you killed her?

It
seemed like the prudent thing to do. Looking back it might have been a little
extreme, but like I said before, it's really the only way you can be sure of
keeping someone quiet. Human nature, such as it is, is not dependable.
And you know, I discovered this amazing thing. It's not that hard to kill
someone.

Where
did you learn about bombs?

The
library. Actually, I'd built the bomb for Curly, but by chance I happened to
see him crossing the street to get to his car. It was late at night, and he was
coming out of a bar. Nobody around. Couldn't believe how lucky I was. So I ran
him over a bunch of times. I had to make sure he was dead, you know. Didn't
want him to suffer. He wasn't such a bad guy. It was just he was a loose
end.

I
gave an involuntary shiver.

Yeah,
he said, it was kind of creepy the first time I ran over him. I tried to
pretend it was a bump in the road. So anyway, I had this bomb all ready to go,
and then I found out you were going over to RGC again. I called Stemper and
gave him some baloney about delaying you for a half hour so the bank could run
the check through the system.

Then
you had to kill Stemper.

Stemper
was your fault. Stemper'd still be alive if you hadn't been so
compulsive about that check. Two dollars, Shempsky said, sniffling.
All these people are dead, and my life is unraveling because of two fucking
dollars.

Seems
to me it started with Laura Lipinski.

You
figured that out? He slumped a little. She was giving Larry a hard
time. He'd made the mistake of telling her about the money, and she wanted it.
She was leaving him, and she wanted the money. Said if she didn't get it, she'd
go to the police.

So
you killed her?

The
mistake we made was in getting rid of the body. I'd never done anything like
that before, so I figured chop it up, stuff it in a couple garbage bags, leave
them spread out over town the night before garbage pickup. First off, let me
tell you, it isn't easy to chop up a body. And second, cheapskate Fred was out,
trying to save a buck on his leaves, and saw Larry and me with the bag. I mean,
what are the chances?

I
don't get Fred's part in this.

He
saw us dump the bag and didn't think anything of it. I mean he was out there
doing the same thing. The next morning Fred goes to RGC, and Martha pisses him
off and sends him packing. Fred gets a block away and thinks to himself that he
knows Martha's office partner. He thinks about it for another block and realizes
he's the guy who dumped the bag. So Fred goes to the real estate office
alongside the deli with a camera and starts taking pictures. I guess he was
going to wave them in Larry's face, trying to embarrass him enough to give him
his money. Only after a couple pictures Fred thinks the bag looks too lumpy and
smells pretty bad. And Fred opens the bag.

Why
didn't Fred report this to the police?

Why
do you think? Money.

He
was going to blackmail you. That's why Fred left the canceled check on
his desk. He didn't need it. He had the pictures.

Fred
said he didn't have any retirement account. Worked at the button factory for
fifty years and had hardly any retirement account. Said he read where you
needed ninety thousand to get into a decent nursing home. That's what he
wanted. Ninety thousand.

What
about Mabel? Didn't he want nursing home money for her, too?

Shempsky
shrugged. He didn't say anything about Mabel.

Cheap
bastard.

Why
did you kill Larry? Not that I actually cared at this point. What I cared
about was time. I wanted more of it. I didn't want him to pull the trigger. If
it meant I had to talk to him then that's what I was going to do.

Lipinski
got cold feet. He wanted out. Wanted to take his money and run. I tried to talk
to him, but he was really freaked out. So I went over to see if I could calm
him down.

You
succeeded. You can't get much calmer than dead.

He
wouldn't listen, so what could I do? I thought I did a good job of making it
look like a suicide.

You
have a nice life—a nice house, a nice wife and kids, a good job. Why were you
skimming?

In
the beginning it was just fun money. Tipp and me used to play poker with a
bunch of guys on Monday nights. And Tipp's wife would never give Tipp any
money. So Tipp started skimming. Just a couple accounts for poker money. But
then it was so easy. I mean, nobody knew the money was gone. So we enlarged
until we had a nice chunk of Vito's accounts. Tipp knew Lipinski and Curly, and
he brought them in. Shempsky wiped his nose again. It wasn't like I
was ever going to make money at the bank. I'm in a dead-end job. It's my face,
you know. I'm not stupid. I could have been somebody, but nobody pays attention
to me.

God
gives everybody a special talent. And you know what my talent is? Nobody
remembers me. I have a forgettable face. It took me a bunch of years, but I
finally figured out how to use my gift. He gave a crazy little laugh that
sent all the hairs on my arm standing at attention. My talent is that I
can rob people blind, kill them on the street, and nobody remembers.

Allen
Shempsky was drunk or crazy or both. And at the rate we were going he wouldn't
even have to shoot me, because he was scaring me to death. My heart was
pounding in my chest, echoing in my ears.

What
will you do now? I asked him.

You
mean after I kill you? I guess I'll go home. Or maybe I'll just get in my car
and drive somewhere. I have lots of money. I don't need to go back to the bank
if I don't want to.

Shempsky
was sweating, and under the flush on his cheeks his face was pale.
Christ, he said. I really feel sick. He stood up and
pointed the gun at me. You got any cold medicine?

Just
aspirin.

I
need more than aspirin. I'd like to sit and talk some more, but I gotta get
some cold medicine. I bet I have a fever.

You
don't look good.

I
bet my face is all flushed.

Yeah,
and your eyes are glassy.

There
was a scraping sound on the fire escape outside my window, and we both swiveled
our heads to look. We saw only darkness beyond the broken pane.

Shempsky
turned back to me and cocked the hammer on his revolver. Now hold still
so I kill you with the first bullet. It's better that way. There's a lot less
mess. And if I shoot you in the heart, you can have an open casket. I know
everybody likes that.

We
both took a deep breath—me to die, and Shempsky to aim. And in that instant the
air was pierced with a bloodcurdling roar of rage and lunacy. And Ramirez
filled the window, his face contorted, his eyes small and evil.

Shempsky
instinctively whirled and fired, emptying his gun in Ramirez.

I
wasted no time running. I flew out of the room, through my living room,
and out my front door. I sprinted down the hall, leaped down two flights of
stairs, and almost bashed in Mrs. Keene's door.

Goodness,
Mrs. Keene said, you certainly are having a full night. What now?

Your
gun! Give me your gun!

I
called the police and went back upstairs with the gun in my hand. My apartment
door was wide open. Shempsky was gone. And Briggs was still alive in my closet.

I
ripped the tape off. Are you okay?

Shit,
he said. I messed my pants.

THE
UNIFORMS CAME first, then the paramedics and finally the homicide detectives
and the medical examiner. They had an easy time finding my apartment. Most of
them had been there before. Morelli had arrived with the uniforms.

It
was now three hours later, and the party was winding down. I'd given my
statement, and the only thing left was to get Ramirez into a body bag and haul
him off my fire escape. Rex and I had set up camp in the kitchen while the
professionals did their thing. Randy Briggs gave his statement and left,
deciding his apartment without a door was safer than living with me.

Rex
still looked perky, but I was exhausted. I was all out of adrenaline, and I
felt like my blood level was a pint low.

Morelli
wandered in, and for the first time all night we had a moment alone together.
You should be relieved, he said. You don't have to worry
about Ramirez anymore.

I
nodded. It's a terrible thing to say, but I'm glad he's dead. Any word on
Shempsky?

Nobody's
seen him or his car. He didn't go home.

I
think he's flipped out. And he has the flu. He looked really bad.

You'd
look bad too if you were wanted for multiple murders. We're leaving a uniform
here tonight to make sure no one comes in through your window, but it's going
to be cold in your bedroom. Probably you want to stay someplace else. My vote's
for my house.

I'd
feel safe at your house, I said. Thanks.

The
gurney with the body clattered over the hall floor and rolled out my door. My
stomach lurched, and I reached for Morelli. He pulled me to him and wrapped his
arms around me. You'll feel better tomorrow, he said. You
just need some sleep.

Before
I forget. You left a message on my machine that you needed to talk to me.

We
brought Harvey Tipp in for questioning, and he squealed like a pig. I wanted to
warn you about Shempsky.

I
WOKE UP to the sun streaming in through Morelli's bedroom window, but no
Morelli next to me. I had a dim recollection of falling asleep on the ride to
his house. And falling asleep again, next to Morelli. I had no recollection of
any kind of sexual encounter. I was wearing a T-shirt and underpants. Since the
underpants were on me and not on the floor that probably told me something.

I
got out of bed and padded barefoot into the bathroom. There was a damp bath
towel hanging on the hook on the door. A set of clean towels had been set out
for me, neatly stacked on the tub. A note was taped to the mirror over the
sink. Had to leave for work early, the note said. Make yourself
at home. He also confirmed what I'd suspected—that I'd zonked out the
minute my head hit the pillow. And since Morelli appreciated response to his
lovemaking, he'd passed on last night's opportunity to collect on his debt.

I
took a shower and got dressed and went to the kitchen in search of breakfast.
Morelli didn't stock Pop-Tarts, so I settled on a peanut butter sandwich. I was
halfway through the sandwich when I remembered the chauffeuring job. I'd never
gotten around to reading the notecard, and I had no idea when I was supposed to
get the sheik. I shuffled through the mess in my shoulder bag and found the
card. It said Tank would drop the limo off at nine. I was to pick the sheik up
at ten and drive him to Newark Airport. It was almost eight, so I finished my
sandwich, stuffed yesterday's clothes into the tote, and called Mary Lou to bum
a ride.

Boy,
you really get around, Mary Lou said. When I dropped you off you
were with Ranger. You must have had a busy night.

You
don't know the half of it. I explained to her about the kiss, and
Ramirez, and Shempsky, and finally about Morelli.

I
can't imagine being too tired to do it with Morelli, Mary Lou said.
Of course, I've never been attacked by a homicidal rapist, held at
gunpoint by a screwy banker, and had a guy killed outside my bedroom
window.

Mrs.
Bestler was waiting by the elevator when I walked into the lobby. Going
up? she asked. Second floor. . . belts, handbags, body bags.

I'm
taking the stairs, I told her. I need the exercise.

I
opened my apartment door and surprised a young cop who was feeding Rex
Cheerios.

He
looked hungry, the cop said. I hope you don't mind.

Not
at all. Feel free to join him for breakfast. Just poke around in the fridge until
you find something you like.

The
cop smiled. Thanks. There's a guy here fixing your window. Morelli
arranged it. I'm supposed to leave as soon as he's done.

Sounds
good.

I
went into the bedroom and collected my chauffeur uniform of black suit and stockings
and heels. I changed in the bathroom, added some lipstick and a swipe of
mascara, and sprayed my hair. When I came out, the window man was gone, and my
window looked sparkly clean. The cop was gone, too.

I
grabbed my shoulder bag, said good-bye to Rex, and hustled down to the parking
lot.

Tank
was waiting for me when I swung through the back door at nine o'clock sharp. He
had a map and directions.

Should
take you about a half hour from here, Tank said.

Does
he know I'm driving him?

Tank's
face creased in a wide grin. We thought it would be a nice
surprise.

I
took the keys to the Town Car and slid in behind the wheel.

You're
carrying, right? Tank asked.

Right.

And
you're okay after last night?

How
do you know about last night?

It's
in the paper.

Terrific.

I
gave Tank a little finger wave and drove away. I got to Hamilton and turned
right. I drove several blocks and turned into the Burg. I had no intention of
destroying another black car. I parked at my parents' house and went inside to
get the garage keys.

You
made the paper again, Grandma said. And the phone's been ringing
off the hook. Your mother's in the kitchen, ironing.

My
mother always irons during times of disaster. Some people drink, some take
drugs. My mother irons.

How's
Dad? I asked.

He's
out at the store.

No
problems left over from the stun gun?

Well,
he isn't the happiest person I ever saw, but aside from that he's doing okay.
Looks like you got another car.

It's
a loaner. I have a job as a chauffeur. I'm going to leave the black car here
and take the Buick. I feel safer in the Buick.

My
mother came out of the kitchen. What's this about being a
chauffeur?

It's
nothing, I said. I'm driving a man to the airport.

Good,
my mother said. Take your grandmother.

I
can't do that!

My
mother pulled me into the kitchen and lowered her voice. I don't care if
you're driving the Pope, your grandmother is going with you. If she says the
wrong thing to your father when he gets home, he'll go after her with a steak
knife. So unless you want more bloodshed on your hands, you will fulfill your
obligation as a granddaughter and get your grandmother out of this house for a
few hours until things calm down. This is all your fault anyway. My
mother snapped a shirt onto the ironing board and snatched at the iron.
And what kind of a daughter has shootouts on her fire escape? The phone's
been ringing all morning. What am I supposed to say to people? How can I explain
these things?

Just
tell people I was looking for Uncle Fred, and things got complicated.

My
mother shook the iron at me. If that man isn't dead I'm going to kill him
myself.

Hmm.
Mom appeared to be a little stressed. Okay, I said, I guess I
can take Grandma with me. Might not be a bad idea anyway. I didn't think
the pervert sheik would be so fast to flash his johnson with Grandma on board.

It's
a shame we can't take that nice black car, Grandma said. It looks
more like a chauffeur car.

I'm
not taking any chances, I told her. I don't want anything to happen
to the black car. It's getting locked up nice and safe in the garage.

I
loaded Grandma into the Buick, backed it out the driveway, and parked it on the
street. Then I carefully eased the Lincoln into the garage and secured the
doors.

In
exactly thirty-five minutes I was at the address Tank had given me. It was in a
neighborhood of expensive houses on two- and three-acre lots. Most houses were
behind gated drives, tucked into yards filled with mature trees and
professionally landscaped shrubs. I pushed the button on the call box and gave
my name. The gates opened, and I drove up to the house.

I
guess this is pretty, Grandma said, but they aren't gonna get many
trick-or-treaters up here. I bet Halloween is a big bust.

I
told Grandma to stay put and went to the door.

The
door opened, and Ahmed looked out at me and frowned. You! he said.
What are you doing here?

Surprise,
I said. I'm your driver.

He
looked over at the car. And what's that supposed to be?

That's
a Buick.

There's
an old lady in it.

That's
my grandmother.

Forget
it. I'm not riding with you. You're incompetent.

I
put my arm around him and tugged him to me. I've been having a difficult
couple of days here, I said in confidential tones. And I'm running
a little low on patience. So I'd appreciate it if you'd get into the car
without a lot of fuss. Because otherwise, I'm going to shoot you.

You
wouldn't shoot me, he said.

Try
me.

A
man stood behind Ahmed. He was holding two suitcases, and he was looking
uncomfortable.

Put
them in the trunk, I said to the man.

A
woman had come to the door.

Who's
that? I asked the kid.

My
aunt.

Wave
to her and smile and get in the car.

He
sighed and waved. I waved, too. Everybody waved. And then I drove away.

We
would have brought the black car, Grandma said to Ahmed, only
Stephanie's been having real bad luck with cars.

He
slouched lower, sulking. No kidding.

You
don't have to worry with this one, though, Grandma told him. We had
this one locked up in the garage so no one could plant a bomb on it. And knock
on wood, it hasn't blown up yet.

I
picked up Route 1 and followed it to New Brunswick, where I moved over to the
turnpike. I got on the turnpike and headed north, barreling along in the Buick,
thankful that my passenger was still fully dressed and Grandma had fallen
asleep, mouth open, hanging from her shoulder harness.

I'm
surprised you're still working for this company, Ahmed said. If I
had been your employer I would have fired you.

I
ignored him and turned the radio on.

He
leaned forward. Perhaps it's difficult to get a competent person to do a
menial job like this.

I
glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

I'll
give you five dollars if you'll show me your breasts, he said.

I
rolled my eyes and raised the volume on the radio.

He
slouched back in his seat. This is boring, he shouted at me.
And I hate this music.

Are
you thirsty?

Yes.

Would
you like to stop for a soda?

Yes!

Too
bad.

I
had my cell phone plugged into the cigarette lighter and was surprised to hear
it chirp.

It
was Briggs. Where are you? he asked. This is your cell phone,
right?

Yeah.
I'm on the Jersey Turnpike, exit ten.

Are
you shitting me? That's great! Wait until you hear this. I've been working all
night hacking into Shempsky's files, and I've got something. Late last night he
made plane reservations. He's supposed to be flying out of Newark in an hour
and a half. He's flying Delta to Miami.

You
are the man.

Hey,
don't piss off a little person.

Call
the police. Call Morelli first. I gave him Morelli's numbers. If
you can't get Morelli, call the station. They'll get in touch with the right
people in Newark. And I'll watch out for Shempsky on the road.

I
can't tell the police I hacked into the bank!

Tell
them I got the information and asked you to pass it on.

Fifteen
minutes later, I slowed for the tollbooth to exit the turnpike. Grandma was
awake, looking for the tan Taurus, and Ahmed was silent in the back, arms
sullenly crossed over his chest.

It's
him! Grandma said. I see him ahead of us. Look at that tan car
that's just leaving the tollbooth all the way to the left.

I
paid the toll and glanced at the car. It did sort of look like Shempsky,
but it was the fourth time Grandma had been sure she'd seen Shempsky in the
last five minutes. There were a lot of tan cars on the Jersey Turnpike.

I
put my foot to the pedal and roared up behind the car to check it out. The car
was a Taurus, and the hair color seemed right, but I couldn't tell much from
the back of his head.

You've
got to get to his side, Grandma said.

If
I come up on his side, he'll see me.

Grandma
pulled a .44 magnum out of her purse. Everybody duck, and I'll shoot out
his tires.

No!
I shouted. No shooting. You shoot one single thing, and I'll tell Mom on
you. We aren't even sure it's Allen Shempsky.

Who's
Allen Shempsky? Ahmed wanted to know. What's going on?

I
was riding right on the Taurus's rear. It would be safer to put a car or two
between us, but I was afraid I'd lose him in traffic.

My
father hired you to protect me, Ahmed said, not to go off chasing
men.

Grandma
leaned forward, keeping her eye on the Taurus. We think this guy killed
Fred.

Who's
Fred?

My
uncle, I told him. He's married to Mabel.

Ah,
so you're avenging a murder in the family. This is a good thing.

Nothing
like a little avenging to bridge the culture gap.

The
Taurus took the airport turnoff, and the driver checked his mirror as he merged
with traffic, then turned in his seat and took a quick, disbelieving look back.
It was Shempsky. And I was made. Not many people in Jersey driving a '53 powder
blue and white Buick. Probably wondering how the devil I found him.

He
sees us, I said.

Ram
him, Ahmed said. Disable his car. Then we'll all rush out and
subdue the murdering dog.

Yeah,
Grandma said, plow this baby right up his behind.

In
theory, that sounded like a reasonable idea. In practice, I was afraid it'd
result in a twenty-three-car pileup, and headlines that read BOMBSHELL BOUNTY
HUNTER CAUSES CATASTROPHE.

Shempsky
swerved in front of me, jumping out of his lane. He passed two cars, then
swerved back. He was approaching the terminal, and he was panicking, determined
to lose me. He changed lanes again and sideswiped a blue van. He overcorrected
and crashed into the back of an SUV. Everyone stopped behind the accident. I
was four cars back, and I couldn't get closer. No one was moving.

Shempsky
was boxed in with his right front fender smashed into his right front wheel. I
saw his door open. He was going to bolt. I hurled myself out of the car and hit
the pavement running. Ahmed was behind me. And behind him was Grandma.

Shempsky
pushed through the curbside check-in, dodging people with kids and bags. I lost
him for a moment in the crowded terminal, then picked him out just ahead of me.
I ran as fast as I could, not caring who I knocked over. I lunged when I was
almost on Shempsky's heels, and I snagged his jacket. Ahmed grabbed Shempsky
half a second after me, and the three of us went down. We rolled around a
little, but Shempsky didn't put up much of a fight.

Ahmed
and I had Shempsky pinned to the ground when Grandma came clattering up on her
patent pumps. She had her gun in her hand and both our handbags tucked into the
crook of her arm. You should never leave your purse in the car, she
said. Do you need a gun?

No,
I told her. Put the gun away and give me my cuffs.

She
searched through my bag, found the cuffs, handed them to me, and I clapped them
on Shempsky.

Ahmed
and I got to our feet, and we all did a high five with each other. And then we
did a down low. And then Ahmed and Grandma did some complicated hand thing that
I couldn't get the hang of.

CONSTANTINE
STIVA STOOD at the entrance to the viewing room, keeping a close watch on the
casket at the far end. Grandma Mazur and Mabel stood at the head of the casket,
accepting condolences and making apologies.

We're
real sorry, Grandma Mazur said to Mrs. Patucci. We had to have a
closed casket on account of Fred was in the ground two weeks before we found
him and the worms had eaten a lot of his face.

That's
such a shame, Mrs. Patucci said. It takes something away when you
can't see the deceased.

I
feel just like that, too, Grandma said. But Stiva couldn't do
nothing with him, and he wouldn't let us leave the lid up.

Mrs.
Patucci turned and looked at Stiva. Stiva gave a small sympathetic nod and
smiled.

That
Stiva, Mrs. Patucci said.

Yeah,
and he's watching us like a hawk, Grandma told her.

Allen
Shempsky had buried Fred in a shallow grave in a little patch of woods across
from the pet cemetery on Klockner Road. He'd claimed he'd shot Fred by
accident, but that was hard to believe since the fatal bullet had gone dead
center between Fred's eyes.

Fred
had been exhumed early Friday morning, the autopsy had been done on Monday, and
now it was Wednesday and Fred was having an evening viewing. Mabel seemed to be
enjoying herself, and Fred would have been pleased by the crowd he got, so I
guess everything turned out okay.

I
was at the back of the room, to one side of the door, counting the minutes
until I could leave. I was trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, staring
down at the carpet, not especially anxious to engage in conversation about Fred
or Shempsky.

A
pair of motorcycle boots entered my field of vision. They were attached to
Levi's-clad legs I knew all too well.

Hey,
Hotstuff, Morelli said. Having fun?

Yeah.
I love viewings. The Rangers are playing Pittsburgh, but that can't compare to
a viewing. Long time, no see.

Not
since you went into a coma fully dressed in my bedroom.

I
didn't wake up fully dressed.

You
noticed.

I
felt my face flush. I guess you've been busy.

I
had to wrap up the case with Treasury. They wanted Vito in Washington, and Vito
wanted me to go with him. I just got back this afternoon.

I
caught Shempsky.

This
brought a smile. I heard. Congratulations.

I
still don't understand why he felt it necessary to kill people. Wasn't he just
doing his banker thing by opening accounts for clients?

He
was supposed to pass the money through to a bank in the Caymans and establish
tax-free accounts. The trouble was Shempsky was skimming the skimmers. When
Lipinski and Curly panicked and wanted their money, the money wasn't
there.

Shempsky
hadn't told me that part. Why didn't Shempsky just replace the
money?

He'd
spent it on venture investments that didn't pay off. I think it was just
something that got away from him, and it got worse and worse, until it was so
bad it was out of control. There were a couple banking irregularities, too.
Shempsky knew it was dirty money.

I
felt hot breath on my neck. Morelli looked at the person doing the breathing
and gave a grunt of disgust.

It
was Bunchy. Nice collar, Cutie Pie, he said.

His
hair was cut and clean and his face was freshly shaved. He was wearing a
button-down shirt, crewneck sweater, and tan slacks. If it wasn't for the
eyebrows I might not have recognized him.

What
are you doing here? I said. I thought the case was over. Don't you
go back to Washington now?

Not
all of Treasury works in Washington. I happen to be a Jersey Treasury
guy. He looked around the room. I thought Lula might be here since
you two are such good friends.

I
raised an eyebrow. Lula?

Yeah.
Well, you know, she looked like she might be fun.

Listen,
just because she used to be a hooker—

He
raised his hands. Hey, it isn't like that. I just like her, that's all. I
think she's okay.

So
call her.

You
think I could? I mean, would she hang up on me because of that tire
thing?

I
dug a pen out of my bag and wrote Lula's number on the back of Bunchy's hand.
Take your chances.

How
about me, Morelli said when Bunchy left. Do I get a number on the
back of my hand?

You
have enough numbers to last you a lifetime.

You
owe me, Morelli said.

A
thrill skittered through my stomach. Yes, but I didn't say when I'd
pay off.

The
ball's in your court, Morelli said.

I'd
heard that before!

Grandma
was waving to me from the other end of the room. Yoo-hoo, she
called, come here a minute.

I
have to go, I said to Morelli.

He
took the pen from my bag and wrote his number on the back of my hand.
Ciao, he said. And then he left.

The
viewing is almost over, Grandma said. We're all going over to
Mabel's house to see her new bedroom set and have some coffee cake. Do you want
to come with us?

Thanks,
but I think I'll pass. I'll see you tomorrow.

Thank
you for everything, Mabel said to me. I like this new garbage
company you got me much better.

I
PARKED THE Buick and took a moment to enjoy the night. The air was crisp and
the sky was starless and black. Lights were on in my building. The seniors were
watching TV. The bombers and rapists were gone, and this little part of Trenton
felt safe again. I walked into the building and went to the bank of mailboxes
to collect my mail. A credit card bill, a dental reminder, and an envelope from
RangeMan. The RangeMan envelope contained a check for the chauffeuring job. A
note was included with the check. It was hand-written from Ranger. Glad
the Lincoln survived, but locking it in a garage is cheating. I
remembered his kiss, and I got another one of those skittery thrills.

I
ran up the stairs, let myself into my apartment, locked the door behind me, and
took stock. My apartment was nice and neat. I'd spent the weekend cleaning. No
dishes on the counter. No socks on the floor. Rex had a clean cage, and the
pine shavings smelled foresty. It all felt welcoming. And safe. And private.
And intimate.

I
should invite someone over, I said to Rex. After all, the
apartment's all cleaned. I mean, how often does that happen, right? And my legs
are shaved. And I have this great dress that I've never worn.

Rex
gave me a look that told me in no uncertain terms he knew exactly what I was
after.

Okay,
I said. So what's the big deal? I'm an adult. I have adult urges.

I
thought about Ranger again, and tried to imagine what he'd be like in bed. And
then I thought about Joe. I knew exactly what Joe was like.

This
was a dilemma.

I
got two pieces of paper, wrote Joe's name on one and Ranger's on the other. I
dumped the two names into a bowl, closed my eyes, mixed them up, and picked
one. Let God decide, I thought.

I
read the name and cracked my knuckles. I hoped God knew what he was doing. I
showed the paper to Rex, and he looked disapproving, so I covered his cage with
a dish towel.

I
did the speed-dial thing before I lost my nerve.

I
have this dress I'd like your opinion on, I said when he answered.

A
beat went by. When would you like this opinion?

Now.

I
SUPPOSE THERE'S a time and place for everything—and this was the time for the
slinky black dress. I tugged it over my head and smoothed it out. The fit was
perfect. I shook my head to fluff up my hair, and I sprayed some Dolce Vita on
my wrist. I slipped my feet into the sexy ankle-strap heels and retouched my
lipstick. Bright red. Yow!

I
lit a candle on the coffee table and another in the bedroom. I dimmed the
lights. I heard the elevator doors open down the hall, and my heart jumped in
my chest. Get a grip, I told myself. No reason to be nervous. This is the will
of God.

Baloney,
a voice whispered in my head. You cheated. You peeked when you picked.

Okay,
so I cheated. Big deal. The important thing is that I picked the right man.
Maybe he wasn't right forever and ever, but he was right for tonight.

I
opened the door on the second knock. Didn't want to seem overly anxious! I
stepped back and our eyes met, and he showed no sign of the nervousness I felt.
Curiosity, maybe. And desire. And something else—maybe the need to know this
was what I wanted.

Howdy,
I said.

He
looked amused at that, but not amused enough to smile. He stepped forward into
the foyer, closed the door, and locked it. His breathing was slow and deep, his
eyes were dark, his expression serious as he studied me.

Nice
dress, he said. Take it off.

eBook Info

Identifier:

LFLPHSDICW

Title:

Test

Date:

10/25/2002