Eleven on top

I smacked my forehead with the heel of my hand. "With all the excitement I forgot to tell you. I don't have a cello anymore. I gave it away. It was taking up too much space in my closet. You know how it is when you live in an apartment. Never enough closet space."

"But you loved your cello," Grandma said.

I tried to plaster an appropriate expression of remorse on my face. "That's the way it goes. A girl has to have priorities."

"Who got the cello?"

"Who?" My mind was racing. Who got the cello? "My cello teacher," I said. "I gave it to my cello teacher."

"Do we know her?"

"Nope. She lived in New Hope. But she's moved. She moved to South Carolina.

That's another reason I stopped playing. My cello teacher moved, and I didn't feel like finding a new cello teacher. So I gave the cello back to her. It was originally hers, anyway." Sometimes I was really impressed with my ability to come up with this shit. Once I got going, it just rolled out of me. I could compose a whole parallel universe for myself in a matter of seconds. I glanced down at my watch. "Look at the time! I'm late."

I snatched a couple cookies off the plate on the kitchen table and ran through the house to the car. I jumped in the SUV and roared away. Next stop was Valerie. I didn't have any real reason to visit Valerie. It was just that I was her sister and her maid of honor and Val wasn't entirely together these days. I thought it wouldn't hurt to check on her once in a while until she made it through the wedding.

The first thing I noticed when I got to her house was the absence of Kloughn's car. Not surprising since this was a workday. Sort of surprising that he was able to get himself up and out on the road with a raging hangover.

"What?" Val yelled when she opened the door to me.

"I just stopped by to say hello."

"Oh. Sorry I yelled at you. I'm having a problem with volume control. It turns out when you're starving to death you do a lot of yelling."

"Where's Albert? I thought he'd still be in bed with a hangover."

"He decided he was better off at the office. He couldn't stand the galloping and whinnying. You might want to see how he's doing. He left in his pajamas."

"You know, Val, not everyone's cut out to have a big wedding. Maybe you should reconsider the eloping option."

"I wish I'd never started this wedding thing," Val wailed. "What was I thinking?"

"It's not too late to bail."

"It is. And I'm too chicken. Everybody's made all these plans!"

"Yeah, but it's your wedding. It shouldn't be some horrible stressful thing. It should be something you enjoy." Not to mention, if Valerie eloped I wouldn't have to wear the hideous eggplant getup.

I left Valerie and drove to Kloughn's office. There was a CLOSED sign on his door and when I looked in the window I could see Kloughn was stretched out on the floor in his pajamas with a wet towel over his face. I didn't want to make him get up, so I tiptoed away and headed down Route 1 to the personal products plant. I parked in a visitor slot, ran in, and got a job application from the personnel office. I had no illusions of getting an office job here.

I had no references and few skills. I'd be lucky if I could get a job on the line. I'd bring the application back tomorrow and wait for a phone call for an interview.

I slid to a stop in front of Giovichinni's Market and didn't bother to call to check on Macaronis. I figured I had bigger problems than Macaronis. I was being stalked by a homicidal maniac. Spiro was officially over the edge.

I ran through the store gathering together some basic foods. Bread, cheese, Tastykakes, peanut butter, cereal, milk, Tastykakes, eggs, frozen pizza, Tastykakes, orange juice, apples, lunch meat, and Tastykakes. I checked out and muscled my way through the door with bags in my arms.

Ranger was leaning against the SUV, waiting for me. He pushed off, took the bags, and put them in the car. "Looks like you're playing house," he said.

"More like nurse. Morelli needs some help."

"Is that your job application on the front seat?" Yep.

"Personal products plant?"

"It's halfway to New Brunswick. I'm hoping they won't have heard about me. That's Grandmas line, but it's true."

"Babe," Ranger said. He was smiling, but there was a quality to his voice that told me it wasn't actually funny. We both knew that my life wasn't going in the carefree direction I'd hoped for.

NINE

"I HAVE AN office position open," Ranger said. "Are you interested in working for Rangeman?"

"Oh great. A pity position."

"If I gave you a pity position it wouldn't be in the office."

This got a burst of laughter out of me because I knew he was taking a zing at my sex life with Morelli. For the most part, Ranger had a consistent personality.

He wasn't a guy who wasted a lot of unnecessary energy and effort. He moved and he spoke with an efficient ease that was more animal than human. And he didn't telegraph his emotions. Unless Ranger had his tongue in my mouth it was usually impossible to tell what he was thinking. But every now and then, Ranger would step out of the box, and like a little treat that was doled out on special occasions, Ranger would make an entirely outrageous sexual statement.

At least it would be outrageous coming from an ordinary guy . . . from Ranger it seemed on the mark.

"I didn't think you hired women," I said to him. "The only woman you have working for you is your housekeeper."

"I hire people who have the skills I need. Right now I could use someone in the building who can do phone work and paperwork. You'd be an easy hire. You already know the drill. Nine to five, five days a week. You can discuss salary with my business manager. You should consider it. The garage is secure.

You wouldn't have to worry about getting blown up when you leave at the end of the day."

Ranger owns a small seven-story office building in downtown Trenton. The building is unspectacular on the outside. Well maintained but not architecturally interesting. The interior of the building is high tech and slick, equipped with a state-of-the-art control center, offices, a gym, studio apartments for some of Ranger's crew, plus an apartment for Ranger on the top floor. I'd stayed in Ranger's apartment for a short time on a nonconjugal basis not long ago. It had been equal parts pleasure and terror. Terror because it was Ranger's apartment and Ranger could sometimes be a scary guy. Pleasure because he lives well. The job offer was tempting. My car would be safe. I'd be safe. I'd be able to pay my rent. And the chances of rolling in garbage were slim.

"Okay," I said. "I'll take the job."

"Use the intercom at the gate when you come in tomorrow. Dress in black. You'll be working on the fifth floor."

"Any leads on Benny Gorman?"

"No. That's one of the things I want you to do. I want you to see what you can turn up."

Ranger's pager buzzed, and he checked the readout. "Elroy Dish is back at Blue Fish. Do you want to ride along?"

"No thanks. Been there, done that."

"Be careful."

And he was gone.

I looked at my watch. Almost five. Perfect. Stiva would be between afternoon and evening viewings. I drove the short distance up Hamilton and parked on the street. I found Stiva in his office just off the large entrance foyer. I rapped on the doorjamb, and he looked up from his computer.

"Stephanie," he said. "Always nice to see you."

I appreciated the greeting, but I knew it was a big fat lie. Stiva was the consummate undertaker. He was an island of professional calm in an ocean of chaos. And he never alienated a future customer. The ugly truth is, Stiva would rather shove a sharp stick in his eye than see Grandma or me alive on his doorstep. Dead would be something else.

"I hope this visit isn't due to bad news," Stiva said.

"I wanted to talk to you about Spiro. Have you seen him since the fire?" No.

"Spoken to him?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

"He was driving the car that ran over Morelli."

Stiva went as still as stone, and his pale vanilla custard cheeks flushed pink. "Are you serious?"

"Unfortunately, yes. I'm sorry. I saw him clearly."

"How does he look?" Stiva asked.

I felt my heart constrict at his response. He was a concerned parent, anxious to hear word of his missing son. What on earth could I say to Stiva?

"I only saw him briefly," I said. "He seemed healthy. Maybe some scars on his face from the fire."

"He must have been driving by and lost control of his car," Stiva said. "At least I know he's alive. Thank you for coming in to tell me."

"I thought you'd want to know."

No point to saying more. Stiva didn't have information to share, and I didn't want to tell him the whole story. I left the funeral home and returned to the SUV. I drove two blocks to Pino's and got two meatball subs, a tub of coleslaw, and a tub of potato salad. Morelli was going to be in a bad mood after spending the afternoon with Lula. I figured I'd try to mellow him out with the sub before I dropped the news about my new job. Morelli wasn't going to be happy to hear I was working for Ranger.

I went out of my way on the trip home to drive by Anthony Barroni's house. I had no real basis for believing he was involved with Spiro and the missing men. Just a gut feeling. Maybe it was desperation. I wanted to think I had a grip on the problem. The grip loosened when I got to Barroni's house. No lights shining. Curtains drawn. Garage door closed. No car in driveway.

I turned at the corner and wound my way through the Burg to Chambers Street.

I crossed Chambers and two blocks later I pulled the SUV into Morelli's garage.

Big Blue and Lula's Firebird were still at the curb. I made sure the garage door was locked, and I carted the bags in through the back door.

"Is that Stephanie Plum coming through the back door?" Lula yelled. " 'Cause if it's some maniac pervert I'm gonna kick his ass."

"It's me," I yelled back. "Sorry you don't get to do any ass kicking."

I put the bags on the counter and went into the living room to see Lula and Morelli. Morelli was still on the couch. Bob was still on the floor. And Lula was packing up.

"This wasn't so bad," Lula said. "We played poker and I won three dollars and fifty-seven cents. I would have won more, but your boyfriend fell asleep."

"It's the drugs," Morelli said. "You're a sucky poker player. I would have won if I wasn't all drugged up. You took advantage."

"I won fair and square," Lula said. "Anytime you want to get even you let me know. I can always use extra cash."

"Any other fun things happen that I should know about?"

"Yeah," Lula said. "His mother and grandmother came over. And they're nuts. The old lady said she was putting the eye on me. I told her she better not pull any of that voodoo shit with me or I'll beat her like a pinata."

"I bet that went over big."

"They left after that. They brought a casserole, and I put it in the refrigerator. I didn't think it looked all that good."

"No cake?"

"Oh yeah, the cake. I ate the cake."

"All of it?"

"Bob had some. I would have given some to Morelli, but he was sleeping." She had her bag over her shoulder and her car keys in her hand. "I walked Bob about an hour ago, and he pooped twelve times, so he should be good for the night. I didn't feed him, but he ate one of Morelli's sneakers around three o'clock. You might want to go light on the dog crunchies until he hocks the sneaker up."

Morelli waited until he heard Lula's car drive off before speaking. "Another

fifteen minutes and I would have shot her. I would have gone to jail for the rest of my life, and it would have been worth it."

I brought out the subs and the cole slaw and the potato salad. "Don't you want to know how my day went?"

He unwrapped his sub. "How did your day go?"

"I didn't get blown up."

"Speaking of getting blown up, the lab took a look at your Buick. The bomb was very similar to the bomb that killed Mama Mac. The difference being that this bomb was detonated when you turned the key in the ignition, and it was much smaller. It wasn't intended to kill."

"Spiro is still playing with me."

"You're sure it's Spiro?"

"Yes. I stopped in to see Stiva. He had no idea Spiro was back. Said he hasn't heard from him since the fire."

"You believed him?"

"Yeah."

"I talked to Ryan Laski today. He's been working the Barroni case with me. I told him about Spiro, and I asked him to keep an eye on Anthony Barroni. And

I asked my mother about Spiro. So far as I can tell, you're the only one who's seen him. There's no gossip on Spiro circulating in the Burg."

At ten o'clock Morelli and I were still on the couch. We'd watched the news while we ate our subs. And then we watched some sitcom reruns. And then we watched a ball game. And now Morelli was getting that look.

"You have a cast on your leg, and you're full of painkillers," I said to him. "One would think it would slow you down."

"What can I say . . . I'm Italian. And that part of me isn't broken."

"There are some logistical things involved here. Can you get up to the bedroom?"

"I might need motivation to get through the pain . . . like, seeing you naked and gyrating at the top of the stairs."

"And what about a shower?"

"Can't take a shower," Morelli said. "I'm going to have to lie on the bed and let you wash me . . . everywhere."

"I can see you've given this some thought."

"Yeah. That's why it's not just my cast that's hard."

Okay, so this might not be so bad. I thought I could probably get into the naked gyrating and the washing. And it seemed to me I'd pick up some perks from the injury. Morelli wasn't going to be especially mobile with that heavy cast. Once I got him on his back he was going to stay there, and I'd have the top all to myself.

I'd set the alarm for 7:00 A.M. I didn't have to be at work until 9:00, but I had to shower and do the hair and makeup thing, walk and feed Bob, get Morelli set for the day, and make a fast trip back to my apartment in search of black clothes. And I needed to get Rex. He didn't require a lot of care, but I didn't like to leave him alone for more than a couple days.

Morelli threw an arm over me when the alarm went off. "Did you set it for sex?" he asked.

"No, I set it for get up."

"We don't have to get up early this morning."

I slipped out from under the arm and rolled out of bed. "You don't have to get up early. I have lots of things to do."

"Again? You're not going to bring Lula back, are you?"

"No. Based on your performance last night, I'd say you're not in the least impaired."

I didn't want to give details on the day's activities, so I hurried off to the bathroom. I showered, did the blow-dry thing, slathered on some makeup, and bumped into Morelli when I opened the bathroom door.

"Sorry," I said. "Are you waiting to use the bathroom?"

"No, I'm waiting to talk to you."

"Jeez, I'm in kind of a hurry. Maybe we can talk after I walk Bob."

Morelli pinned me to the wall. "Let's talk now. Where are you going today?"

"I need to go back to my apartment for clothes."

"And?"

"And I have a job."

"I hate to ask. Your jobs have been getting progressively worse. I can't imagine who would hire you after the Cluckin-a-Bucket fiasco. Is it the personal products plant?"

"It's Ranger."

"That makes sense," Morelli said. "I should have guessed. I can hardly wait to hear your job description."

"It's a good job. I'm doing phone work from the office. Nothing in the field. And I get to park in the Rangeman garage, so my car will be secure. Is this where you start yelling?"

Morelli released me. "Hard to believe, but I'm actually relieved. I was afraid you were going to be out there trying to find Spiro today."

Go figure this. "You love me," I said to Morelli.

"Yeah. I love you." He looked at me expectantly. "And?"

"I ... 1-1-like you, too." Shit.

"Jesus," Morelli said.

I did a grimace. "I feel it. I just can't say it."

Bob padded out of the bedroom. "Gak," Bob said, and he barfed out a slimy mess on the hall carpet.

"Guess that's what's left of my sneaker," Morelli said.

I parked Morelli's SUV in my lot and ran upstairs to change my clothes. I unlocked my apartment door, rushed inside, and almost stepped on a small, gift-wrapped box. Same wrapping paper Spiro had used for the clock. Same little ribbon bow.

I stared down at the box for a full minute without breathing. I didn't have a gun. I didn't have pepper spray. I didn't have a stun gun. My toys had all gone up in smoke at Cluck-in-a-Bucket.

"Anyone here?" I called out.

No one answered. I knew I should call Ranger and have him go through the apartment, but that felt wimpy. So I backed out, closed the door to my apartment, and called Lula.

Ten minutes later, Lula was standing alongside me in front of the door.

"Okay, open it," Lula said, gun in hand, taser on her hip, pepper spray stuck into her pocket, bludgeoning flashlight shoved under the waistband of her rhinestone-studded spandex jeans, flak vest stretched to the max over her basketball boobs.

I opened the door and we both peeked inside.

"One of us should go through and check for bad guys," Lula said.

"You've got the gun."

"Yeah, but it's your apartment. I could check, but I don't want to be intrusive. It's not that I'm chicken or anything, I just don't want to deprive you of checking."

I rolled my eyes at her.

"Don't you roll eyes at me," Lula said. "I'm being considerate. I'm giving you the opportunity to get shot before me."

"Gee, thanks. Can I at least have the gun?"

"Damn skippy. It's loaded and everything."

I was 99 percent sure the apartment was empty. Still, why take a chance with the 1 percent, right? I crept through the apartment with Lula three steps behind me. We looked in closets, under the bed, behind the shower curtain.

No spooky Spiro. We returned to the front door and stared down at the box.

"I guess you should open it," Lula said.

"Suppose it's a bomb?"

"Then I guess you should open it far away from me."

I cut a look to her.

"Well, if it's a bomb it's a little bitty one," Lula said. "Anyway, maybe it's not a bomb. Maybe it's a diamond bracelet."

"You think Spiro's sending me a diamond bracelet?"

"It would be a long shot," Lula said.

I blew out a sigh and gingerly picked the box up. It wasn't heavy. It wasn't ticking. I shook it. It didn't rattle. I carefully unwrapped the box. I lifted the lid and looked inside.

Lula looked over my shoulder. "What the hell is that?" Lula asked. "It's got hairs growing out of it. Holy fuck! Is that what I think it is?"

It was Mama Mac's mole. I dropped the box and ran into the bathroom and threw up. When I came out of the bathroom, Lula was on the couch, flipping through television channels.

"I scooped the mole up and put it back in the box," Lula said. "And then I put it in a plastic baggie. It doesn't smell all that great. It's on the counter in the kitchen."

"I have to change clothes. I took a job working for Ranger, and I need to wear black."

"Does this job involve fancy underwear? Oral sex? Lap dancing?"

"No. It involves phone investigation."

Lula remoted the television off and stood to leave. "I bet it'll work its way around to one of those other things. You'd tell me, right?"

"You'll be the first to know."

I bolted the door after Lula and got dressed in black jeans, black Puma sneakers, and a stretchy black V-neck T-shirt. I took Mama's mole, shrugged into my denim jacket, and looked out the window at Morellis SUV. No one lurking around, planting bombs. Hooray. I grabbed Rex's cage and vacated the apartment, locking up after me.

Lot of good that did. Everybody and their brother broke into my apartment.

I drove the mole to Morelli's house, handed it over, and took Rex into the kitchen.

"This is disgusting," Morelli said, opening the box, checking the mole out.

"This is sick."

"Yeah. You'd better call Grandma and let her come over to have a look before you turn it in. Grandma will never forgive you if you don't let her see the mole."

Morelli looked at the packet of painkillers on his coffee table. "I need more drugs," he said. "If I have to have your grandmother over here examining the mole I definitely need more drugs."

I gave him a fast kiss and ran back to the SUV. If I got all the lights right I might make work on time.

I parked in the underground garage and took the elevator to the fifth floor.

I already knew most of the guys who worked for Ranger. No one looked surprised to see me when I came onto the floor of the control room. Everyone was dressed in black jeans or cargo pants and black T-shirts. Ranger and I were the only ones without Range-man embroidered on the front of the shirt.

Ranger had been slouched in a chair, watching a monitor, when I stepped out of the elevator. He came to my side and walked me station to station.

"As you can see there are two banks of monitors," Ranger said. "Hal's watching the cameras in the building and listening to police scanners. He also watches the GPS screen that tracks Rangeman vehicles. Woody and Vince are monitoring private security systems. Rangeman provides personal, commercial and residential security to select clients. It's not a large operation in the world of security specialists, but the profit margin is good. I have similar operations in Boston, Miami, and Atlanta. I'm in the middle of a sellout to my Atlanta partner, and I'll probably sell Boston. I like being out on the street. I'm not crazy about running a national empire. Too difficult to control quality."

"I'm going to give you the cubby on the far side of the room. It's the area we set aside for investigation. Silvio has been doing this job, but he's transferring to the Miami office on Monday. He has family there. He'll sit with you today and make sure you know how to get into the search programs. Initially, I want you to concentrate on Benny Gorman. We've already run him through the system. Silvio will give you the file. I want you to read the file and then start over. The gym is open to you. Unfortunately, the locker room is men only. I'm sure they'd be happy to share, but I don't think it's a good idea. If you need to change clothes or shower you can use my apartment. Tank will issue you a key fob similar to mine. It'll get you into the building and into my apartment. My housekeeper, Ella, keeps food in the kitchen at the end of the hall. It's for staff use. There are always sandwiches, raw vegetables, and fruit. You're going to have to bring your own Cheez Doodles and Tastykakes. My business manager will stop by later this morning to discuss salary and benefits. I'll have Ella order some Rangeman shirts for you. If you decide to go back to Vinnie you can keep the shirts." Ranger almost smiled. "I like the idea of you wearing my name on your breast." He had his hand at the back of my waist, and he guided me into the cubby. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll send Silvio in to you. I'll be out of the office all day, but you can reach me on my cell if there's a problem. Are there any new disasters you want to share with me before I take off?"

"Spiro sent me Mama Mac's mole."

"Her mole?"

"Yeah, she had this horrible mutant mole on her face that the crime lab was never able to find. Spiro left it for me in my apartment. He had it all gift wrapped in a little box."

"Walk me through this."

"I went back to my apartment this morning to find something black to wear to work. I opened my locked door and the little gift-wrapped package was on the floor in the foyer. I was worried Spiro might still be in the apartment, so I called Lula and we went through together."

"Why didn't you call me?"

"It felt wimpy."

"Do you honestly think Lula would protect you against Spiro?"

"She had a gun."

There was an awkward pause while Ranger came to terms with the possibility that I didn't have my own gun.

"My gun melted down in the Cluck-in-a-Bucket fire," I told him. Not nearly so much of a loss as my lip gloss.

"Tank will also outfit you with a gun," Ranger said. "I expect you to carry it. And I expect it to be loaded. We have a practice range in the basement. Once a week I expect you to visit the practice range."

I snapped him a salute. "Aye, aye, sir!"

"Don't let the rest of the men see you being a smartass," Ranger said.

"They're not allowed."

"I'm allowed?"

"I have no illusions over my ability to control you. Just try to keep the power play private, so you don't undermine my authority with my men."

"You're assuming we'll have private time?"

"It would be nice." The almost smile turned into a for-sure smile. "Are you flirting with me?"

"I don't think so. Did it feel like flirting?" Of course I was flirting with him. I was a horrible person. Morelli was home with a broken leg and a mutant mole, and I was flirting with Ranger. God, I was such a slut.

"Finish walking me through your latest disaster."

"Okay, so Lula and I went through the apartment and there was no Spiro. So we went back to the box, and I opened it."

"You weren't worried that it was a bomb?"

"It would have been a little bomb."

Ranger looked like he was trying hard not to grimace. "What happened after you opened it?"

"I threw up."

"Babe," Ranger said.

"Anyway, I gave the mole to Morelli. I figured he'd know what to do with it."

"Good thinking. Anything else you want to share?"

"Maybe later."

"You're flirting again," Ranger said.

And he left.

I saw him stop to talk to Tank on his way out. Tank nodded and looked my way. I gave Tank a little finger wave and both men smiled.

The cubby walls were corkboard. Good for deadening sound, and also good for posting notes. I could see holes where Silvio had tacked messages and whatever, but the messages had all been removed, and only the pushpins remained. I had a workstation desk, a comfy-looking leather desk chair, a computer that could probably e-mail Mars, a phone that had too many buttons, a headset to go with the phone, file cabinets, in/out baskets that were empty, a second chair for guests, and a printer.

I sat in my chair and swiveled around. If I leaned back I could see out of the cubby, into the control room. The computer was different from the one I had at home. I hadn't a clue how to work the darn thing. Ditto the multiline phone. Maybe I shouldn't throw the personal products plant application away.

Maybe overseeing the boxing machine was more my speed. I looked in the desk drawers. Pens, sticky-note pads, tape, stapler, lined pads, Advil. The Advil might not be a good sign. I was dying to go to the kitchen for coffee, but I didn't want to leave my cubby. It felt safe in the cubby. I didn't have to make eye contact with any of the guys. Some of Ranger's men looked like they should be wearing orange jumpsuits and ankle monitors. Five minutes after Ranger left, Tank came into my cubicle with a small box. He set the box on my desk and removed the contents. Key fob for the garage and Rangers apartment, Sig Sauer 9 with extra mag, stun gun, cell phone, laminated photo ID on a neck chain identifying me as a Rangeman employee. I hadn't posed for the photo and decided not to ask how it was obtained.

"I don't know how to work this kind of gun," I told Tank. "I use a revolver."

"Ranger has practice time reserved for you tomorrow at ten a.m. You're required to carry the gun, the phone, and the ID with you at all times. You don't have to wear the ID. It's for fieldwork. It's a good idea to keep it on you in case you're questioned about the gun."

Silvio arrived with a cup of coffee, and Tank disappeared. "I brought you cream, no sugar," he said, setting the coffee on the desk in front of me.

"If you want sugar there are some packets in the left-hand drawer." He pulled the extra chair next to mine. "Okay," he said. "Let's see what you know about computers."

Oh boy.

By noon I had the phone figured out, and I could navigate the Net. I was already familiar with most of the search programs used by Rangeman. I'd used them from time to time on Connie's computer. Beyond the standard search programs that Connie used, Rangeman had a few extra that were frighteningly invasive.

Just for the heck of it, I typed my name in on one of the super searchers and blanched at what appeared on my screen. I had no secrets. The file stopped just short of a Webcam view of my last gyn exam.

I followed Silvio to the kitchen and took a food survey. Fresh fruit and vegetables, cut and washed. Turkey, roast beef, tuna sandwiches on seven-grain bread. Low-fat yogurt. Energy bars. Juice. Skim milk. Bottles of water.

"No Tastykakes," I said to Silvio.

"Ella used to set out trays of cookies and brownie bars, but we started to get fat so Ranger banned them."

"He's a hard man."

"Tell me about it," Silvio said. "He scares the crap out of me."

I took a turkey sandwich and a bottle of water and returned to my cubicle.

Hal, Woody, and Vince were watching their screens. Silvio went off to clean out his locker. So I was now officially Miz Computer Wiz. Three requests for security searches were sitting in my in-box. Mental note. Never leave cubby.

Work appears when cubby is left unattended. I looked at the name requesting the search requests. Frederick Rodriguez. Didn't know him. Didn't see him out and about in the control room. There was another floor of offices. I guessed Frederick Rodriguez was in one of those offices.

I called my mom on my new cell phone and gave her the number. I could hear my grandmother yelling in the background.

"Is that Stephanie?" Grandma Mazur hollered. "Tell her the Macaroni funeral is tomorrow morning, and I need a ride."

"You're not going to the funeral," my mother said to Grandma Mazur.

"It's gonna be the big event of the year," Grandma said. "I have to go."

"Joseph let you see the mole before he gave it over to the police," my mother said. "You're going to have to be satisfied with that." My mother's attention swung back to me. "If you take her to that funeral there's no more pineapple upside-down cake for the rest of your life."

I disconnected from my mother, ate my sandwich, and ran the first name. It was close to three by the time I was done running the second name. I set the third request aside and paged through the Gorman file. Then I did as Ranger suggested and ran Gorman through all the searches again. I called Morelli to make sure he was okay and to tell him I might be late. There was a stretch of silence while he wrestled with trust, and then he put in a request for a six-pack of Bud and two chili dogs.

"And by the way," Morelli said. "The lab guy called and told me the mole was made out of mortician's putty."

"Don't tell Grandma," I said. "It'll ruin everything for her."

TEN

I printed the Gorman search, and then I searched Louis Lazar. Both men yielded volumes of information. Date of birth, medical history, history of employment, military history, credit history, history of residence, class standings through high school. Neither man attended college. Personal history included photos, wives, kids, assorted relatives.

I printed Lazar and moved to Michael Barroni. Most of this information I already knew. Some was new and felt embarrassingly intrusive. His wife had miscarried two children. He'd gotten psychiatric counseling a year ago for anxiety. He'd had a hernia operation when he was thirty-six. He'd been asked to repeat the third grade.

I'd just started a credit check on Barroni when my cell rang.

"I'm hungry," Morelli said. "It's seven o'clock. When are you coming home?"

"Sorry. I lost track of the time."

"Bob is standing by the door."

"Okay! I'll be right there."

I put the Barroni search on hold and dropped the Lazar file and the Gorman file into my top desk drawer. I grabbed my bag and my jacket and dashed out of my cubby. There was an entirely new crew in the control room. Ranger ran the control room in eight-hour shifts around the clock. A guy named Ram was at one of the monitor banks. Two other men were at large.

I crossed the room at a run, barreled through the door to take the stairs, and crashed into Ranger. We lost balance and rolled tangled together to the fourth-floor landing. We lay there for a moment, stunned and breathless.

Ranger was flat on his back, and I was on top of him.

"Oh my God," I said. "I'm so sorry! Are you okay?"

"Yeah, but next time it's my turn to have the top."

The door opened above us and Ram stuck his head out. "I heard a crash... oh, excuse me," he said. And he pulled his head back and closed the door.

"I wish this was as bad as it looks," Ranger said. He got to his feet, scooping me up with him. He held me at arm's length and looked me over.

"You're a wreck. Did I do all this damage?"

I had some scratches on my arm, the knee had gotten torn on my jeans, and there was a rip in my T-shirt. Ranger was perfect. Ranger was like Big Blue. Nothing ever touched Ranger.

"Don't worry about it," I said. "I'm fine. I'm late. Gotta go." And I took off, down the rest of the stairs and out the door to the garage.

I crossed town and stopped at Mike the Greek's deli for the hot dogs and beer. Five minutes later, I had the SUV locked up in Morelli's garage. I took his back porch steps two at a time, opened the back door, and Bob rushed past me and tinkled in the middle of Morelli's backyard.

The instant the last drop hit grass, Bob bolted off into the night. I rustled the hot dog bag, pulled out a hot dog, and waved it in Bob's direction. I heard Bob stop galloping two houses down, there was a moment of silence, and then Bob came thundering back. Bob can smell a hot dog a mile away.

I lured him into the house with the hot dog and locked up. Morelli was still on the couch with his foot on the coffee table. The room was trashed around him. Empty soda cans, newspapers, a crumpled fast-food bag, a half-empty potato chip bag, an empty doughnut box, a sock (probably Bob ate the mate), assorted sports and girlie magazines.

"This room is a Dumpster," I said to him. "Where'd all this stuff come from?"

"Some of the guys visited me."

I doled out the hot dogs. Two to Morelli, two to Bob, two to me. Morelli and I got a Bud. Bob got a bowl of water. I kicked through the clutter, brushed potato chip crumbs off a chair, and sat down. "You need to clean up."

"I can't clean up. I'm supposed to stay off my leg."

"You weren't worrying about your leg last night."

"That was different. That was an emergency. And anyway, I wasn't on my leg. I was on my back. And what's with the scratches on your arm and the torn clothes? What the hell were you doing? I thought you were supposed to be working in the office."

"I fell down the stairs."

"At Rangeman?"

"Yep. Do you want another beer? Ice cream?"

"I want to know how you managed to fall down the stairs."

"I was rushing to leave, and I sort of crashed into Ranger, and we fell down the stairs."

Morelli stared at me with his unreadable cop face. I was ready for him to morph into the jealous Italian boyfriend with a lot of arm flapping and yelling, but he gave his head a small shake and took another pull on his Bud. "Poor dumb bastard," he said. "I hope he's got insurance on that building."

I was pretty sure I'd just been insulted, but I thought it was best to let it slide.

Morelli leaned back into the couch and smiled at me. "And before I forget, your cello is in the front hall."

"My cello?"

"Yeah, every great cello player needs a cello, right?"

I ran to the hall and gaped at the big bulbous black case leaning against the wall. I dragged the case into the living room and opened it. There was a large violin sort of thing in it. I supposed it was a cello.

"How did this get here?" I asked Morelli.

"Your mother rented it for you. She said you gave yours away, and she knew how much you were looking forward to playing at Valerie's wedding, so she rented a cello for you. I swear to God, those were her exact words."

I guess the panic showed on my face because Morelli stopped smiling.

"Maybe you should fill me in on your musical accomplishments," Morelli said.

I plunked down on the couch beside him. "I don't have any musical accomplishments. I don't have any accomplishments of any kind. I'm stupid and boring. I don't have any hobbies. I don't play sports. I don't write poetry. I don't travel to interesting places. I don't even have a good job."

"That doesn't make you stupid and boring," Morelli said.

"Well, I feel stupid and boring. And I wanted to feel interesting. And somehow, someone told my mother and grandmother that I played the cello. I guess it was me... only it was like some foreign entity took possession of my body. I heard the words coming out of my mouth, but I'm sure they originated in some other brain. And it was so simple at first. One small mention. And then it took on a life of its own. And next thing, everyone knew."

"And you can't play the cello."

"I'm not even sure this is a cello."

Morelli went back to smiling. "And you think you're boring? No way, Cupcake."

"What about the stupid part?"

Morelli threw his arm around me. "Sometimes that's a tough call."

"My mother expects me to play at Valerie's wedding."

"You can fake it," Morelli said. "How hard can it be? You just make a couple passes with the bow and then you faint or pretend you broke your finger or something."

"That might work," I said. "I'm good at faking it."

This led to a couple moments of uncomfortable silence from both of us.

"You didn't mean... ?" Morelli asked.

"No. Of course not."

"Never?"

"Maybe once."

His eyes narrowed. "Once?"

"It's all that comes to mind. It was the time we were late for your Uncle Spud's birthday party."

"I remember that. That was great. You're telling me you faked it?"

"We were late! I couldn't concentrate. It seemed like the best way to go."

Morelli took his arm away and started flipping through channels with the remote.

"You're mad," I said.

"I'm working on it. Don't push me."

I got up and closed the cello case and kicked it to the side of the room.

"Men!"

"At least we don't fake it."

"Listen, it was your uncle. And we were late, remember? So I made the sacrifice and got us there in time for dessert. You should be thanking me."

Morelli's mouth was open slightly and his face was registering a mixture of astonished disbelief and wounded, pissed-off male pride.

Okay, it wasn't that much of a sacrifice at the time, and I knew he shouldn't be thanking me, but give me a break here... this wasn't famine in Ethiopia.

And it wasn't as if I hadn't tried to have an orgasm. And it wasn't as if we didn't fib to each other from time to time.

"I should be thanking you," Morelli repeated, sounding like he was making a gigantic but futile effort to understand the female mind.

"All right, I'll concede the thanking thing. How about if you're just happy I got you to the party in time for dessert?"

Morelli cut me a sideways look. He wasn't having any of it. He returned his attention to the television and settled on a ball game.

This is the reason I live with a hamster, I thought.

Morelli was still on the couch watching television when I went downstairs to take Bob for his morning walk. I was wearing sweats that I'd found in Morelli's dresser, and I'd borrowed his Mets hat. I clipped the leash on Bob, and Morelli glanced over at me. "What's with the clothes? Trying to fake being me?"

"Get a grip," I said to Morelli.

Bob was dancing around, looking desperate, so I hurried him out the front door. He took a big tinkle on Morelli's sidewalk and then he got all smiley and ready to walk. I like walking Bob at night when it's dark and no one can see where he poops. At night Bob and I are the phantom poopers, leaving it where it falls. By day, I have to carry plastic pooper bags. I don't actually mind scooping the poop. It's carrying it around for the rest of the walk that I hate. It's hard to look hot when you're carrying a bag of dog poop.

I walked Bob for almost an hour. We returned to the house. I fed Bob. I made coffee. I brought Morelli coffee, juice, his paper, and a bowl of raisin bran. I ran upstairs, took a shower, did some makeup and hair magic, got dressed in my black clothes, and came downstairs ready for work.

"Is there anything you need before I leave?" I asked Morelli.

Morelli gave me a full body scan. "Dressing sexy for Ranger?"

I was wearing black jeans, black Chucks, and a stretchy V-neck black T-shirt that didn't show any cleavage. "Is that sarcasm?" I asked.

"No. It's an observation."

"This is not sexy."

"That shirt is too skimpy."

"I've worn this shirt a million times. You've never objected to it before."

"That's because it was worn for me. You need to change that shirt."

"Okay," I said, arms in air, nostrils flaring. "You want me to change my shirt. I'll change my shirt." And I stomped up the stairs and stripped off all my clothes. I'd brought every piece of black I owned to Morelli's house, so I pawed through my wardrobe and came up with skintight black spandex workout pants that rode low and were worn commando. I changed my shoes to black Pumas. And I wriggled into a black spandex wrap shirt that didn't quite meet the top of the workout pants and showed a lot of cleavage... at least as much as I could manage without implants. I stomped back down the stairs and paraded into the living room to show Morelli.

"Is this better?" I asked.

Morelli narrowed his eyes and reached for me, but he couldn't move far without his crutches. I beat him to the crutches and ran to the kitchen with them. I hustled out of the house, backed Morelli's SUV out of the garage, and motored off to work.

I used my new key fob to get into the underground garage and parked in the area reserved for noncompany cars. I took the elevator to the fifth floor, stepped into the control room, and six sets of eyes looked up from the screens and locked onto me. Halfway to work, I'd pulled Morelli's sweatshirt out of my shoulder bag and put it on over my little stretchy top. It was a nice, big shapeless thing that came well below my ass and gave me a safe unisex look. I smiled at the six men on deck. They all smiled back and returned to their work.

I was a half hour early and for the first time in a long time I was excited to get to work. I wanted to finish the Barroni search, and then I wanted to move on to Jimmy Runion. I still had one file left to search for Frederick Rodriguez. I decided to do it first and get it off my desk. I was still working on the Rodriguez file when Ranger appeared in my cubby entrance.

"We have a date," Ranger said. "You're scheduled for ten o'clock practice downstairs."

Here's the thing about guns. I hate them. I don't even like them when they're not loaded. "I'm in the middle of something," I said. "Maybe we could reschedule for some other time." Like never.

"We're doing this now," Ranger said. "This is important. And I don't want to find your gun in your desk drawer when you leave. If you work for me, you carry a gun."

"I don't have permission to carry concealed."

Ranger shoved my chair with his foot and rolled me back from the computer.

"Then you carry exposed."

"I can't do that. I'll feel like Annie Oakley."

Ranger pulled me out of the chair. "You'll figure it out. Get your gun. We have the range for an hour."

I took the gun out of the desk drawer, shoved it into my sweatshirt pocket, and followed Ranger to the elevator. We exited into the garage and walked to the rear. Ranger unlocked the door to the range and switched the light on.

The room was windowless and appeared to stretch the length of the building. There were two lanes for shooters. Remote-controlled targets at the far end. Shelves and a thick bulletproof glass partition that separated the shooters

at the head of each lane.

"With a little effort you could turn this into a bowling alley," I said to Ranger.

"This is more fun," Ranger said. "And I'm having a hard time seeing you in bowling shoes."

"Its not fun. I don't like guns."

"You don't have to like them, but if you work for me you have to feel comfortable with them and know how to use them and be safe."

Ranger took two headsets and a box of ammo and put them on my shelf. "We'll start with basics. You have a nine-millimeter Sig Sauer. It's a semiautomatic."

Ranger removed the magazine, showed it to me, and shoved it back into the gun. "Now you do it," he said.

I removed the magazine and reloaded. I did it ten times. Ranger did a step-by-step demonstration on firing. He gave the gun back to me, and I went through the process ten times. I was nervous, and it felt stuffy in the narrow room, and I was starting to sweat. I put the gun on the shelf, and I took off Morelli's sweatshirt.

"Babe," Ranger said. And he pulled his key fob out of his pocket and hit a button.

"What did you just do?" I asked him.

"I scrambled the security camera in this room. Hal will fall out of his seat upstairs if he sees you in this outfit."

"You don't want to know the long story, but the short story is I wore it to annoy Morelli."

"I'm in favor of anything that annoys Morelli," Ranger said. He moved in close and looked down at me. "This wouldn't be my first choice as a work uniform, but I like it." He ran a finger across the slash of stomach not covered by clothing, and I felt heat rush into private places. He splayed his hand at my hip and turned his interest to my workout pants. "I especially like these pants. What do you wear under them?"

And here's where I made my mistake. I was hot and flustered and a flip answer seemed in order. Problem was the answer that popped out of my mouth was a tad flirty.

"There are some things a man should find out for himself," I said.

Ranger reached for the waistband on the spandex pants, and I shrieked and

jumped back.

"Babe," Ranger said, smiling. I was amusing him, again.

I glanced at my watch. "Actually, I need to leave the building for a while."

"Looking for another job?"

"No. This is personal."

Ranger pushed the button to unscramble the surveillance camera. "Wear the sweatshirt when you're on deck in the control room." "Deal."

A half hour later, I was idling across the street from Stiva's. The hearse and the flower cars were in place at the side entrance. Three black Town Cars lined up behind the flower cars. I sat and watched the casket come out.

Macaronis followed. The flower cars were already loaded. The cars slowly moved out and drove the short distance to the church. I saw no sign of Spiro. I followed at a distance and parked half a block from the church. I had a clear view of the parking lot and the front of the church. I settled back to wait. This would take a while. The Macaronis would want Mass. The parking lot was full and the surrounding streets were bumper-to-bumper cars.

The entire Burg had turned out.

An hour later, I was worrying about my cubicle sitting empty. I was getting paid to do computer searches, not hang out at funerals. And then just as I was thinking about leaving and returning to work, the doors to the church opened and people began to file out. I caught a glimpse of the casket being rolled out a side door to the waiting hearse. Engines caught up and down the street. Stiva's assistants were out, lining up cars, attaching flags to antennae.

I was intently watching the crowd at the church and jumped when Ranger rapped on my side window.

"Have you seen Spiro?" No.

"I'm right behind you. Lock up and we'll take my car."

Ranger was driving a black Porsche Cayenne. I slid onto the passenger seat and buckled up. "How did you find me?"

"Woody picked you up on the screen, realized you were following the funeral, and told me."

"It'll be ugly if Morelli finds out you're tracking his SUV."

"I'll remove the transponder when you stop using the car.

"I don't suppose there's any way I can get you to stop tracking me?"

"You don't want me to stop tracking you, Babe. I'm keeping you safe."

He was right. And I was sufficiently freaked out by Spiro to tolerate the intrusion.

"This isn't personal leave time," Ranger said. "This is work. You should have run it by me. We had to scramble to coordinate this."

"Sorry. It was a last-minute decision ... as you can see from my clothes. My mother will need a pill after she starts getting the reports back on my cemetery appearance."

"We're wearing black," Ranger said. "We're in the ballpark. Just keep your sweatshirt zipped, so the men don't accidentally fall into the grave."

Cars were moving around in front of the church, jockeying for position. The hearse pulled into the street and the procession followed, single file, lights on. Ranger waited for the last car to go by before he fell into line. There'd been no sign of Spiro, but then I hadn't expected him to show up at church, shaking hands and chatting. I'd expected him to do another drive-by or maybe hang in a shadow somewhere. Or maybe he'd be hidden at some distance, waiting for the graveside ceremony, using binoculars to see the results of his insanity.

"Tank's already at the cemetery," Ranger said. "He's watching the perimeter.

He's got Slick and Eddie working with him."

It was a slow drive to Mama Macs final resting place. Ranger wasn't famous for making small talk, so it was also a quiet drive. We parked and got out of the Cayenne. The sky was overcast, and the air was unusually cool for the time of year. I was happy to have the sweatshirt. We'd been the last to arrive, and that meant we had the longest walk. By the time we made it to the grave site, the principals were seated and the large crowd had closed around them.

This was perfect for our purpose. We were able to stand at a distance and keep watch.

Ranger and I were shoulder to shoulder. Two professionals, doing a job. Problem was, one of the professionals didn't do well at funerals. I was a funeral basket case. Possibly the only thing I hated more than a gun was a funeral. They made me sad. Really sad. And the sadness had nothing to do with the deceased.

I got weepy over perfect strangers.

The priest stood and repeated the Lord's Prayer and I felt my eyes well with tears. I concentrated on counting blades of grass at my feet, but the words intruded. I blinked the tears back and swung my thoughts to Bob. I tried to envision Bob hunching. He was going to hock up a sock. The tears ran down my cheeks. It was no good. Bob thoughts couldn't compete with the smell of fresh-turned earth and funeral flowers. "Shit," I whispered. And I sniffed back some snot.

Ranger turned to me. His brown eyes were curious and the corners of his mouth were tipped up ever so slightly. "Are you okay?" he asked.

I found a tissue in one of the sweatshirt pockets, and I blew my nose. "I'm fine. I just have this reaction to funerals!"

Several people on the outermost ring of mourners glanced our way.

Ranger put his arm around me. "You didn't like Mama Mac. You hardly knew her."

"It doesn't m-m-matter," I sobbed.

Ranger drew me closer. "Babe, we're starting to attract a lot of attention. Could you drop the sobbing down a level?"

"Ashes to ashes ..." the priest said.

And I totally lost it. I slumped against Ranger and cried. He was wearing a windbreaker, and he wrapped me in the open windbreaker, hugging me in to him, his face pressed to the side of my head, shielding me as best he could from people turning to see the sobbing idiot. I was burrowed into him, trying to muffle the sobs, and I could feel him shaking with silent laughter.

"You're despicable," I hissed, giving him a punch in the chest. "Stop laughing. This is s-sssad."

Several people turned and shushed me.

"It's okay," Ranger said, still silently laughing, arms wrapped tight around me. "Don't pay any attention to them. Just let it all out."

I hiccupped back a couple small sobs, and I wiped my nose with my sleeve.

"This is nothing. You should see me at a parade when the drums and the flag go by."

Ranger cradled my face in his hands, using his thumbs to wipe the tears from my eyes. "The ceremony is over. Can you make it back to the car?"

I nodded. "I'm okay now. Am I red and blotchy from crying?"

"Yes," Ranger said, brushing a kiss across my forehead. "I love you anyway."

"There's all kinds of love," I said.

Ranger took me by the hand and led me back to the SUV. "This is the kind that doesn't call for a ring. But a condom might come in handy."

"That's not love," I told him. "That's lust."

He was scanning the crowd as we walked and talked, watching for Spiro, watching for anything unusual. "In this case, there's some of both."

"Just not the marrying type?"

We'd reached the car, and Ranger remoted it open. "Look at me, Babe. I'm carrying two guns and a knife. At this point in my life, I'm not exactly family material."

"Do you think that will change?"

Ranger opened the door for me. "Not anytime soon."

No surprise there. Still, it was a teeny, tiny bit of a downer. How scary is that?

"And there are things you don't know about me," Ranger said.

"What kind of things?"

"Things you don't want to know." Ranger rolled the engine over and called Tank. "We're heading back," he said. "Anything on your end?"

The answer was obviously negative because Ranger disconnected and pulled into the stream of traffic. "Tank didn't see any bad guys, but it wasn't a total wash," Ranger said, handing his cell phone over to me. "I managed to take a picture for you while you were tucked into my jacket."

Ranger had a picture phone, exactly like the one I'd been issued. I went to the album option and brought up four photos of Anthony Barroni. The images were small. I chose one and waited while it filled the screen. Anthony appeared to be talking on his phone. Hold on, he wasn't talking... he was taking a picture.

"Anthony's taking photos with his phone," I said. "Omigod, that's so creepy."

"Yeah," Ranger said. "Either Anthony's really into dead people or else he's sending photos to someone not fortunate enough to have a front-row seat."

"Spiro." Maybe.

Most of the cars left the cemetery and turned toward the Burg. The wake at Gina Macaroni's house would be packed. Anthony Barroni peeled away from the herd at Chambers Street. Ranger stuck to him, and we followed him to the store. He parked his Vette in the rear and sauntered inside.

"You should go talk to him," Ranger said. "Ask him if he had a good time."

"You're serious."

"Time to stir things up," Ranger said. "Let's raise the stakes for Anthony.

Let him know he's blown his cover. See if anything happens."

I chewed on my lower lip. I didn't want to face Anthony. I didn't want to do this stuff anymore. "I'm an office worker," I said. "I think you should talk to him."

Ranger parked the SUV in front of the store. "We'll both talk to Anthony. Last time I left you alone in my car someone stole you."

It was early afternoon on a weekday, and there wasn't a lot of activity in the store. There was an old guy behind the counter, waiting on a woman who was buying a sponge mop. No other customers. Two of the Barroni brothers were working together, labeling a carton of nails in aisle four. Anthony was on his cell phone to the rear of the store. He was shuffling around, nodding his head and laughing.

I always enjoy watching Ranger stalk prey. He moves with single-minded purpose, his body relaxed, his gait even, his eyes unswerving and fixed on his quarry.

The eye of the tiger.

I was one step behind Ranger, and I was thinking this wasn't a good idea. We could be wrong and look like idiots. Ranger never worried about that, but I worried about it constantly. Or we could be right, and we could set Anthony and Spiro off on a killing spree.

Anthony saw us approaching. He closed his phone and slipped it into his pants pocket. He looked to Ranger and then to me.

"Stephanie," he said, grinning. "Man, you were really bawling at the cemetery. Guess you got real broken up having Mama Melanoma blown to bits in your car."

"It was a touching ceremony," I said.

"Yeah," Anthony said, snorting and laughing. "The Lord's Prayer always gets to me, too."

Ranger extended his hand. "Carlos Manoso," he said. "I don't believe we've met."

Anthony shook Ranger's hand. "Anthony Barroni. What can I do for you? Need a plunger?"

Ranger gave him a small cordial smile. "We thought we'd stop by to say hello and see if Spiro liked the pictures."

"Waddaya mean?"

"It's too bad he couldn't have been there in person," Ranger said. "So much is lost in a photograph."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you do," Ranger said. "You made a bad choice. And you're going to die because of it. You might want to talk to someone while there's still time."

Someone."

"The police," Ranger said. "They might be able to cut you a deal."

"I don't need a deal," Anthony said.

"He'll turn on you," Ranger said. "You made a bad choice for a partner."

"You should talk. Look who you've got for a partner. Little Miss Cry-Her-Eyes-Out." Anthony rubbed his eyes like he was crying. "Boohoohoo."

"This is embarrassing," I said. "I hate when I cry at funerals."

"Boohooooo."

"Stop. That's enough," I said. "It's not funny."

"Boohoo boohoo boohoo."

So I punched him. It was one of those bypass-the-brain impulse actions. And it was a real sucker punch. Anthony never saw it coming. He had his hands to his eyes doing the boohoo thing, and I guess I threw all my fear and frustration into the punch. I heard his face crunch under my fist, and blood spurted out of his nose. I was so horrified I froze on the spot.

Ranger gave a bark of laughter and dragged me away so I didn't get splattered.

Anthonys eyes were wide, his mouth open, his hands clapped over his nose.

Ranger shoved a business card into Anthonys shirt pocket. "Call me if you want to talk."

We left the store and buckled ourselves into the Cayenne. Ranger turned the engine over and slid a glance my way. "I usually spar with Tank. Maybe next time I should get in the ring with you."

"It was a lucky punch."

Ranger had the full-on smile and there were little laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. "You're a fun date."

"Do you really think Spiro and Anthony are partners?"

"I think it's unlikely."

I left Ranger in the control room and hurried into my cubicle, anxious to finish running the check on Barroni. I came to a skidding stop when I saw my in-box.

Seven new requests for computer background searches. All from Frederick Rodriguez.

I stuck my head out of my cubicle and yelled at Ranger. "Hey, who's this Frederick Rodriguez guy? He keeps filling up my inbox."

"He's in sales," Ranger said. "Let them sit. Work on Gorman."

I finished Barroni, printed his entire file, and dropped it into the drawer with Gorman and Lazar. I entered Jimmy Runion into the first search program and watched as information rushed onto my screen. I'd been scanning the searches as they appeared, taking notes, trying to find the one thing that bound them together in life and probably in death. So far, nothing had jumped out at me. There were a few things that were common to the men, but nothing significant. They were all approximately the same age. They had all owned small businesses. They were all married. When I finished Runion I'd take all the files and read through them more carefully.

I was halfway through Runion when my mom called on my cell.

"Where are you?" she wanted to know.

"I'm at work."

"It's five-thirty. We're supposed to be at the church for rehearsal. You were going to stop here first, and then we were all going over to the church. We've been waiting and waiting."

Crap! "I forgot."

"How could you forget? Your sister's getting married tomorrow. How could you forget?"

"I'm on my way. Give me twenty minutes."

"I'll take your grandmother with me. You can meet us at the church. You just bring Joseph and the cello."

"Joseph and the cello," I dumbly repeated.

"Everyone's waiting to hear you play."

"I might be late. There might not be time."

"We don't have to be at Marsillio's for the rehearsal dinner until seven-thirty. I'm sure there'll be time for you to practice your cello piece."

Crap. Crap. And double crap!

I grabbed my bag and took off, across the control room, down the stairs, into the garage. Ranger had just pulled in. He was getting out of his car as I ran to Morelli's SUV.

"I'm late!" I yelled to him. "I'm frigging late!"

"Of course you are," Ranger said, smiling.

It took me twelve minutes to get across town to the Burg and then into Morellis neighborhood. I'd had to drive on the sidewalk once when there was traffic at a light. And I'd saved two blocks by using Mr. Fedorka's driveway and cutting through his backyard to the alley that led to Morellis house.

I locked the SUV in the garage, ran into the house, into the living room.

"The wedding rehearsal is tonight," I yelled at Morelli. "The wedding rehearsal!"

Morelli was working his way through a bag of chips. "And?"

"And we have to be there. We're in the wedding party. It's my sister. I'm the maid of honor. You're the best man."

Morelli set the chips aside. "Tell me those aren't blood splatters on your shoes."

"I sort of punched Anthony Barroni in the nose."

"Anthony Barroni was at Rangeman?"

"It's a long story. I haven't time to go into it all. And you don't want to hear it anyway. It's . . . embarrassing." I had Bob clipped to his leash.

"I'm taking Bob out, and then I'm going to help you get dressed." I dragged Bob out the back door and walked him around Morelli's yard. "Do you have to go, Bob?" I said. "Gotta tinkle? Gotta poop?"

Bob didn't want to tinkle or poop in Morelli's yard. Bob needed variety. Bob wanted to tinkle on Mrs. Rosario's hydrangea bush, two doors down.

"This is it!" I yelled at Bob. "You don't go here and you're holding it in until I get back from the stupid rehearsal dinner."

Bob wandered around a little and tinkled. I could tell he didn't have his heart in it, but it was good enough, so I dragged Bob inside, fed him some dog crunchies for dinner, and gave him some fresh water. I ran upstairs and got clothes for Morelli. Slacks, belt, button-down shirt. I ran back downstairs and shoved him into the shirt, and then realized he couldn't get the slacks over the cast. He was wearing gray sweatpants with one leg cut at thigh level.

"Okay," I said, "the sweats are good enough." I took a closer look. Pizza sauce on the long leg. Not good enough. I ran upstairs and rummaged through Morelli's closet. Nothing I could use. I rifled his drawers. Nothing there. I went through the dirty clothes basket, found a pair of khaki shorts, and ran downstairs with the shorts.

"Ta-dah!" I announced. "Shorts. And they're almost clean." I had Morelli out of his sweatpants in one fast swoop. I tugged the shorts up and zipped them.

"Jeez," Morelli said. "I can zip my own shorts."

"You weren't fast enough!" I looked at my watch. It was almost six o'clock! Yikes. "Put your foot on the coffee table, and I'll get shoes on you."

Morelli put his foot on the coffee table, and I stared up his shorts at Mr. Happy.

"Omigod," I said. "You're wearing boxers. I can see up your shorts."

"Do you like what you see?"

"Yes, but I don't want the world seeing it!"

"Don't worry about it," Morelli said. "I'll be careful."

I pulled a sock on Morelli's casted foot, and I laced a sneaker on the other. I raced upstairs, and I changed into a skirt and short-sleeved sweater.

I threw my jean jacket over the sweater, grabbed my bag, got Morelli up on his crutches, and maneuvered him to the kitchen door.

"I hate to bring this up," Morelli said. "But aren't you supposed to take the cello?"

The cello. I squinched my eyes closed, and I rapped my head on the wall. Thunk, thunk, thunk. I took a second to breathe. I can do this, I told myself.

Probably I can play a little something. How hard can it be? You just do the bowing thing back and forth and sounds come out. I might even turn out to be

good at it. Heck, maybe I should take some lessons. Maybe I'm a natural talent and I don't even need lessons. The more I thought about it, the more logical it sounded. Maybe I was always meant to play the cello, and I'd just gotten sidetracked, and this was God's way of turning me in the direction of my true calling.

"Wait here," I said to Morelli. "I'll put the cello in the car, and I'll come back to get you."

I ran into the living room and hefted the cello. I carted it into the kitchen, past Morelli, out the door, and crossed the yard with it. I opened the garage door, rammed the cello into the back of the SUV, dropped my purse onto the driver's seat, and returned to the kitchen for Morelli. I realized he was just wearing a cotton shirt. No sweater on him. No jacket. And it was cold out. I ran upstairs and got a jacket. I helped him into the jacket, stuffed the crutches back under his arms, and helped him navigate through the back door and down the stairs.

We started to cross the yard, and the garage exploded with enough force to rattle the windows in Morelli's house.

The garage was wood with an asbestos-shingle roof. It hadn't been in the best of shape, and Morelli seldom used it. I'd been using it to keep the SUV bomb-free, but I now saw the flaw in the plan. It was an old garage without an automatic door opener. So to make things easier, I'd left the garage open when not in use. Easy to pull in and park. Also easy to sneak in and plant a bomb.

Morelli and I stood there, dumbstruck. His garage had gone up like fireworks and had come down like confetti. Splintered boards, shingles, and assorted car parts fell out of the sky into Morelli's yard. It was Mama Mac all over again. Almost nothing was left of the garage. Morelli's SUV was a fireball.

His yard was littered with smoldering junk.

"Omigod!" I said. "The cello was in your SUV." I pumped my fist into the air and did a little dance. "Yes! Way to go! Woohoo! There is a God and He loves me. It's good-bye cello."

Morelli gave his head a shake. "You're a very strange woman."

"You're just trying to flatter me."

"Honey, my garage just blew up, and I don't think it was insured. We're supposed to be upset."

"Sorry. I'll try to look serious now."

Morelli glanced over at me. "You're still smiling."

"I can't help it. I'm trying to be scared and depressed, but it's just not working. I'm just so frigging relieved to be rid of that cello."

There were sirens screaming from all directions, and the first of the cop cars parked in the alley behind Morelli's house. I borrowed Morelli's cell phone and called my mother.

"Bad news," I said. "We're going to be late. We're having car trouble."

"How late? What's wrong with the car?"

"Real late. There's a lot wrong with the car."

"I'll send your father for you."

"Not necessary," I said. "Have the rehearsal without me, and I'll meet you at Marsillio's."

"You're the maid of honor. You have to be at the rehearsal. How will you know what to do?"

"I'll figure it out. This isn't my first wedding. I know the drill."

"But the cello . . ."

"You don't have to worry about that either." I didn't have the heart to tell her about the cello.

Two fire trucks pulled up to the garage. Emergency-vehicle strobes flashed up and down the alley, and headlights glared into Morelli's yard. The garage had been blown to smithereens, and the remaining parts had rained down over a three-house area. Some parts had smoked but none had flamed. The SUV had burned brightly but not long. So the fire had almost entirely extinguished itself before the first hose was unwound.

Ryan Laski crossed the yard and found Morelli. "I'm seeing a disturbing pattern here," Laski said. "Was anyone hurt... or vaporized?"

"Just property damage," Morelli said.

"I've sent some uniforms off to talk to neighbors. Hard to believe no one ever sees this guy. This isn't the sort of place where people mind their own business."

A mobile satellite truck for one of the local television stations cruised into the alley.

Laski cut his eyes to it. "This is going to be a big disappointment. I'm sure they're hoping for disintegrated bodies."

There's something hypnotic about a disaster scene, and time moves in its own frame of reference, lost in a blur of sound and color. When the first fire truck rumbled away I looked at my watch and realized I had ten minutes to get to Marsillio's.

"The rehearsal dinner!" I said to Morelli. "I forgot about the rehearsal dinner."

Morelli was blankly staring at the charred remains of his garage and the blackened carcass of his SUV. "Just when you think things can't get any worse..."

"The rehearsal dinner won't be that bad." This was a blatant lie, but it didn't count since we both knew it was a blatant lie. "We need a car," I said.

"Where's Laski? We can use his car."

"That's a department car. You can't borrow a department car to go to a rehearsal dinner."

I looked at my watch. Nine minutes! Shit. I didn't want to call anyone in the wedding party. I'd rather they read about this in the paper tomorrow. I didn't think Joe would be excited about getting a lift from Ranger. There was Lula, but it would take her too long to get here. I searched the crowd of people still milling around in Morelli's yard. "Help me out here, will you?" I said to Morelli. "I'm running down roads of blind panic."

"Maybe I can get someone to drop us off," Morelli said.

And then it came to me. Big Blue. "Wait a minute! I just had a brain flash. The Buick is still sitting in front of the house."

"You mean the Buick that's been sitting there unprotected? The Buick that's very likely booby-trapped?"

"Yeah, that one."

Now Morelli was seriously looking around. "I'm sure I can find someone..."

I could hear time ticking away. I looked down at my watch. Seven minutes. "I have seven minutes," I said to him.

"This is an extreme circumstance," Morelli said. "It's not every day someone blows up my garage. I'm sure your family will understand."

"They won't understand. This is an everyday occurrence for me."

"Good point," Morelli said. "But I'm not getting in the Buick. And you're not getting in it either."

"I'll be careful," I said. And I ran through the house, locking up behind myself. I got to the Buick, and I hesitated. I wasn't crazy about my life, but I wasn't ready to die. I especially didn't like the idea that my parts could be distributed over half the county. Okay, so what was stronger... my fear of death or my fear of not showing up at the rehearsal dinner? This one was a no-brainer. I unlocked the Buick, jumped behind the wheel, and shoved the key into the ignition. No explosion. I drove around the block, turned into the alley, and parked as close as I could to Morelli. I left the motor running and ran to retrieve him.

"You're a nut," he said.

"I looked it all over. I swear."

"You didn't. I know you didn't. You didn't have time. You just took a deep breath, closed your eyes, and got in."

"Five minutes!" I shrieked. "I've got five friggin' minutes. Are you going with me or what?"

"You're unglued."

"And?"

Morelli blew out a sigh and hobbled over to the Buick. I put the crutches in the trunk and loaded Morelli into the car with his back to the door, his casted leg stretched flat on the backseat.

"I guess you're not that unglued," Morelli said. "You just spared a few seconds to look up my pants leg again."

He was right. I'd taken a few seconds to look up his pants leg. I couldn't help myself. I liked the view.

I got behind the wheel and put my foot to the floor. When I reached the corner the Buick was rolling full-steam-ahead and I didn't want any unnecessary slowdowns, so I simply jumped the curb and cut across Mr. Jankowski's lawn. This was the hypotenuse is shorter than the sum of two sides school of driving, and the only thing I remember from high school trigonometry.

Morelli fell off the backseat when I jumped the curb, and a lot of creative cursing followed.

"Sorry," I yelled to Morelli. "We're late."

"You keep driving like this and we're going to be dead."

I got there with no minutes to spare. And there were no parking places. It was Friday night, and Marsillio's was packed.

"I'm dropping you off," I said. No.

"Yes! I'm going to have to park a mile away, and you can't walk with that cast." I double-parked, jumped out, and hauled Morelli out of the backseat.

I gave him his crutches, and I left him standing on the curb while I ran inside and got Bobby V. and Alan. "Get him up the stairs and into the back room,"

I told them. "I'll be there in a minute."

I roared away, circling blocks, looking in vain for a place to park. I looked for five minutes and decided parking wasn't going to happen. So I parked in front of a fire hydrant. It was very close to Marsillio's, and if there was a fire I'd run out and move the car. Problem solved.

I rolled into the back room just as the antipasto was set on the table. I took my seat beside Morelli and shook out my napkin. I smiled at my mother. I smiled at Valerie. No one smiled back. I looked down the line at Kloughn. Kloughn smiled at me and waved. Kloughn was wasted. Drunk as a skunk.

Grandma didn't look far behind.

Morelli leaned over and whispered in my ear. "Your ass is grass. Your mother's going to cut you off from pineapple upside-down cake."

"This is the big day," Morelli said.

I was slumped in a kitchen chair, staring at my mug of coffee. It was almost eight o'clock, and I wasn't looking forward to what lay in front of me. I was going to have to call my mom and tell her about the cello. Then I was going to have to give her the fire details. Then I was going to dress up like an eggplant and walk down the aisle in front of Valerie.

"Your big day, too," I said. "You're Albert's best man." "Yeah, but I don't have to be a vegetable." "You have to make sure he gets to the church."

"That could be a problem," Morelli said. "He wasn't looking good last night. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I don't think he's hot on marriage."

"He's confused. And he keeps having this nightmare about Valerie smothering him with her wedding gown." Morelli was looking beyond me, out the back window to the place where he used to have a garage.

"Sorry about your garage," I said. "And your SUV." "Tell you the truth, it wasn't much of a loss. The garage was falling apart. And the SUV was boring. Bob and I need something more fun. Maybe I'll buy a Hummer."

I couldn't see Morelli in a Hummer. I thought Morelli was more suited to his Due. But of course, Bob couldn't ride on the Due. "Your Ducati wasn't in the garage," I said.

"Where's the Ducati?"

"Getting new pipes and custom paint. No rush now. By the time I get the cast off it'll be too cold to ride." The phone rang and I froze. "Don't answer it." Morelli looked at the caller ID and handed the phone over to me. "Guess who."

"Stephanie," my mother said. "I have terrible news. It's about your sister. She's gone." "Gone? Gone where?" "Disney World."

I covered the phone with my hand. "My mothers been drinking," I whispered to Morelli.

"I heard that," my mother said. "I haven't been drinking. For goodness sakes, it's eight o'clock in the morning."

"You have too been drinking," Grandma yelled from the background. "I saw you take a nip from the bottle in the cupboard."

"It was either that or kill myself," my mother said. "Your sister just called from the airport. She said they were all on a plane... Valerie, the three girls, and cuddle umpkins. And they were going to Disney World, and she had to disconnect because they were about to take off. I could hear the announcements over the phone. I sent your father over to her apartment, and it's all locked up."

"So there's no wedding?"

"No. She said she didn't lose enough weight. She said she was sixty pounds short. And then she said something about cuddle umpkins having an asthma attack from her wedding gown. I couldn't figure out what that was about."

"What about the reception? Is there a reception?" "No."

"Never?"

"Never. She said if they liked Disney World they were going to live there and never return to Jersey."

"We should get the cake," I said. "Be a shame to waste the cake."

"At a time like this, you're thinking of cake? And what's wrong with your new cell phone?" my mother asked. "I tried to call you, and it's not working."

"It got blown up in Joe's garage."

"Be sure to give me your new number when you replace your phone," my mother said. "I'm sorry you didn't get to play the cello for everyone."

"Yeah, that would have been fun."

I disconnected and looked across the table at Morelli. "Valerie's going to Disney World."

"Good for her," Morelli said. "Guess that leaves the rest of the day open. It'll give you a chance to look up my pants leg again."

Here's a basic difference between Morelli and me. My first thought was always of cake. His first thought was always of sex. Don't get me wrong. I like sex... a lot. But it's never going to replace cake.

Morelli topped off our coffee. "What did your mother say when you told her about your cell phone?"

"She said I should tell her my new number when I got a new phone."

"That was it?"

"Pretty much. Guess your garage wasn't big news."

"Hard to top the Mama Macaroni explosion," Morelli said.

Last night, Morelli's garage had been cordoned off with crime-scene tape, and men were now carefully moving around inside the tape, gathering evidence, photographing the scene. A couple cop cars and crime-scene vans were parked in the alley. A few neighbors were standing, hands in pockets, watching at the edge of Morelli's yard.

I saw Laski cross the yard and come to the back door. Laski let himself in and put a white bakery bag on the table. "Doughnuts," he said. "You got coffee?"

Two uniforms followed Laski into the kitchen.

"Was that a bakery bag I saw come in here?" one of them asked.

I started a new pot of coffee going and excused myself. The house was going to be filled with cops today. Morelli wasn't going to need Nurse Stephanie.

I took a shower, pulled my hair back into a half-assed ponytail, and dressed in black jeans, a black T-shirt, and the Pumas. I grabbed the black sweatshirt and the keys to the Buick and returned to the kitchen to give the good news to Morelli.

"I'm going to work," I told him. "I wasn't able to get through everything yesterday."

Our eyes held and I guess Morelli decided I was actually going in to work and not going in to boff Ranger. "Are you taking the Buick?"

"Yes."

"Let Ryan go over the car before you touch it."

That worked just fine for me. I wasn't in the mood to get exploded.

I had three complete files in front of me. Barroni, Gorman, and Lazar. I had Runion running on the first of the search programs. I had my pad half filled with notes, but so far, nothing had added up to anything resembling a clue.

I knew by the sudden silence that Ranger was in the control room. When the men were alone there was constant low-level chatter. When Ranger appeared there was silence. I rolled back so I could see into the room. Ranger was standing, quietly talking to Tank. He glanced my way and our eyes met. He finished his conversation with Tank, and he crossed the room to speak to me.

His hair was still damp from his shower, and when he entered my cubicle he brought the scent of warm Ranger and Bulgari shower gel with him. He leaned against my desk and looked down at me. "Aren't you supposed to be in a wedding?"

"Valerie took off for Disney World."

"Alone?"

"With Albert and the three kids. It's almost ten o'clock. Aren't you getting a late start? Have a late night?"

"I worked out this morning. I understand you had an interesting evening. You stopped sending signals abruptly at six-oh-four. We heard the fire and police request go out on the scanner at six-ten. Tank reported to me at six-twelve that there were no injuries. Next time call me, so I don't have to send a man out."

"Sorry. My phone went with the garage."

Ranger flipped my top drawer open. I'd left my gun and stun gun and pepper spray in the drawer overnight.

"I forgot to take them," I said.

"Forget them again, and you don't have a job."

"That's harsh."

"Yeah, but you can keep the key to my apartment."

TWELVE

Ranger took my pad and read through my notes. He looked over at the thick printouts on my desk. "Files on Barroni, Gorman, and Lazar?"

"Yes. I'm running Runion now. I think he fits the profile. If you haven't got anything better to do, you might go over the files for me. Maybe you'll see something I missed."

Ranger slouched in the chair next to me and started with Barroni.

I finished Runion a little after noon. I printed him out and pushed back from my station. Ranger looked over at me. He was on the third file.

"How long are you staying?" Ranger asked.

"As long as it takes. I'm going to the kitchen for a sandwich."

"Bring something back for me. I want to keep reading."

"Something?"

"Anything."

"You don't mean that. You have all these rules about eating. No fat. No sugar. No white bread."

"Babe, I don't keep things in my kitchen that I don't eat."

"You want tuna?"

"No. I don't want tuna."

"You see!"

Ranger put the file aside and stood. He crooked an arm around my neck, kissed the top of my head, and dragged me off to the kitchen. We got chicken salad on wheat, bottles of water, and a couple apples and oranges.

"No chips," I said. "Where are the chips?"

"I have chips upstairs in my apartment," Ranger said.

"Are you trying to lure me to your apartment with chips?"

Ranger smiled.

"Okay, tell me the truth. Do you really have chips?"

"There are some things a woman should find out for herself," Ranger said.

I thought that was as far as I wanted to go under the present circumstances. Going upstairs with Ranger, chips or no chips, was a complication I didn't think I could manage right now. So I returned his smile and carted my food back to the cubicle.

I was almost done rereading Runion when it hit me. The one possible thing that would tie the four men to each other. I looked over at Ranger and saw that he was watching me. Ranger had seen it, too. He was a step ahead of me.

"I haven't read Runion yet," Ranger said. "Tell me he was in the army."

"He was in the army."

"Thirty-six years ago he was stationed at Fort Dix." Bingo.

"A lot of people pass through Fort Dix," Ranger said. "But it feels good."

I agreed. It felt good. "I'm tired of sitting," I told him. "I think we need a field trip."

"Babe, you're not going to make me go to the mall, are you?" "I was thinking more along the lines of doing some B and E on Anthony's house."

"I thought you were out of the B and E business."

"Here's the thing, someone keeps blowing up my cars, and it's getting old."

Ranger's cell rang. He answered it and passed it over to me. "It's Morelli," he said.

"I see you're working very closely with the boss," Morelli said.

"Don't start."

"I heard from the crime lab. The bomb was inside the garage, next to a wall, halfway to the rear. It was manually detonated."

"Like the Mama Macaroni bomb."

"Exactly. They found another interesting piece of equipment. Did you know you were being tracked?"

"Yes."

"And last but not least, your mother called and said she was having meatballs and wedding cake for dinner."

"I'll pick you up at six."

"It's amazing what you'll do for a piece of cake," Morelli said.

I gave the phone back to Ranger. "He could have killed me, but he didn't."

"Morelli?"

"The bomber. The bomb was detonated manually, like the bomb that killed Mama Macaroni."

"So this guy is still taking risks to play with you."

"I guess I can sort of understand his motivation. If he thinks I ruined his life, his face, maybe he wants to torment me."

"The notes felt real. The sniping felt real. The first car bomb made sense to me. They were all consistent with increasing harassment and intimidation. After the Mama Macaroni bombing he loses me."

"What's your theory?"

"I don't have a theory. I just think it feels off."

"Do you think there's a copy cat?"

"Possible, but you'd think the crime lab would have noticed differences in the bomb construction." Ranger slid the files into my file cabinet. "Let's roll. If we're going to break into Anthony's house we want to do it before the store closes and he comes home."

I grabbed my jean jacket and got halfway out of my cubby when I was yanked back by my ponytail.

"What did you forget?" Ranger asked.

"My orange?"

"Your gun."

I blew out a sigh, took the gun out of my desk drawer, and then didn't know what to do with it. If I carry a gun, I almost always carry it in my purse, but guess what, no purse. My purse was a cinder in what was left of Morelli's SUV.

Ranger took the gun, pulled me flat against him, and slid the gun under the waistband of my jeans, so that it was nestled at the small of my back.

"This is uncomfortable," I said. "It's going to give me a bruise."

Ranger reached around and removed the gun. And before I realized what he was doing, he had the gun tucked into the front of my jeans at my hipbone. "Is this better?"

"No, but I can't imagine where you'll put it next, so let's just leave it where it is and forget about it."

We rode the elevator to the garage, and Ranger confiscated one of the black Explorers normally set aside for his crew. "Less memorable than a Porsche," he said. "In case we set off an alarm."

We got into the Explorer, and I couldn't sit with the gun rammed into my pants. "I can't do this," I said to Ranger. "This dumb gun is too big. It's poking me."

Ranger closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the wheel. "I can't believe I hired you."

"Hey, it's not my fault. You picked out a bad gun."

"Okay," he said, swiveling to face me. "Where's it poking you?"

"It's poking me in my . . . you know."

"No. I don't know."

"My pubic area."

"Your pubic area?"

I could tell he was struggling with some sort of emotion. Either he was trying hard not to laugh or else he was trying hard not to choke me.

"Give me the gun," Ranger said.

I extracted the gun from my pants and handed it over.

Ranger held the gun in the palm of his hand and smiled. "It's warm," he said. He put the gun in the glove compartment and plugged the key into the ignition.

"Am I fired?"

"No. Any woman who can heat up a gun like that is worth keeping around."

In twenty minutes we were parked across the street and two houses down from Anthony. Ranger cut the engine and dialed Anthony's home number. No answer.

"Try the door," he said to me. "If someone opens it tell them you're selling Girl Scout cookies and keep them talking until I call you. I'm going in through the back. I'm parking one street over."

I swung out of the Explorer and watched Ranger drive away. I waited a couple minutes and then I crossed the street, marched up to Anthony's front door, and rang the bell. Nothing. I rang again and listened. I didn't hear any activity inside. No television. No footsteps. No dog barking. I was about to ring a third time when the door opened, and Ranger motioned me in. I followed him to the second floor, and we methodically worked our way through all three levels.

"I don't see any evidence of a second person living here," Ranger said when we reached the basement.

"This is a real bummer," I said. "No books on how to build a bomb. No sniper rifles. No dirty underwear with "Spiro" embroidered on it."

We were in the kitchen and only the garage remained. We knew there was something in the garage because Anthony never parked his fancy new Vette in the garage.

Ranger drew his gun and opened the door that led to the garage, and we both looked in at wall-to-wall boxes. Never-been-opened cartons containing toaster ovens, ceiling fans, nails, duct tape, grout guns, electric screwdrivers.

"I think the little jerk is stealing from his brothers," I said to Ranger.

"I think you're right. There'd be larger quantities of single items if he was hijacking trucks or legally storing inventory. This looks like he randomly fills his trunk every night when he leaves."

We backed out and closed the garage door.

Ranger looked at his watch. "We have a little time. Let's see what he's got on his computer."

Anthony had a small office on the first floor. Cherry built-ins lined the walls, but Anthony hadn't yet filled them with books or objets d'art. The cherry desk was large and masculine. The cushy desk chair was black leather.

The desktop held a phone, a computer and keyboard, and small printer.

Ranger sat in the chair and turned the computer on. A strip of icons appeared on the screen. Ranger hit one of the icons and Anthonys e-mail program opened.

Ranger scrolled through new mail and sent mail and deleted mail. Not much there. Anthony didn't do a lot of emailing. Ranger opened Anthony's address book.

No Spiro listed. Ranger closed the program and tried another icon.

"Let's see what he surfs," Ranger said. He went to the bookmarked sites.

They were all porn.

Ranger closed the program and returned his attention to the icon strip. He hit iPhoto and worked his way through the photo library. There were a couple pictures of Anthony's Vette. A couple pictures of the front of his town house. And three photos from the Macaroni funeral. The quality wasn't great since they were downloaded from his phone, but the subject matter was clear.

He'd been taking pictures of Carol Zambelli's hooters. Zambelli had just purchased the set, and couldn't get her coat closed at graveside.

Ranger shut the computer down. "Time to get out of here."

We left through the back door and followed a bike path through common ground to the street. Ranger remoted the SUV open, we buckled ourselves in, and Ranger hung a U-turn and headed back to the office.

"This trip doesn't take Anthony Barroni out of the picture," Ranger said, "but it definitely back-burners him."

We pulled into the Rangeman garage at five-thirty. Ranger parked and walked me to the Buick. "You have a half hour to get to Morelli. Where are you taking him?"

"We're having dinner with my parents. They have wedding cake for two hundred."

"Isn't this nice," my mother said, glass in hand, amber liquid swirling to the rim, stopping just short of sloshing onto the white tablecloth. "It's so quiet. I hardly have a headache."

Two leaves had been taken out of the dining room table, and the small dining room seemed strangely spacious. The table had been set for five. My mother and father sat at either end, and Morelli and I sat side by side and across from Grandma, who was lost behind the massive three-tier wedding cake that had been placed in the middle of the table.

"I was looking forward to a party," Grandma said. "If it was me, I would have had the reception anyway. I bet nobody would even have noticed Valerie wasn't there. You could have just told everybody she was in the ladies' room."

Morelli and my father had their plates heaped with meatballs, but I went straight for the cake. My mother was going with a liquid diet, and I wasn't sure what Grandma was eating since I couldn't see her.

"Valerie called when they got off the plane in Orlando, and she said Albert was breathing better, and the panic attacks were not nearly as severe," my mother said.

My father smiled to himself and mumbled something that sounded like "friggin' genius."

"How'd Sally take the news?" I asked my mother. "He must have been upset."

"He was upset at first, but then he asked if he could have the wedding gown. He thought he could have it altered so he could wear it onstage. He thought it would give him a new look."

"You gotta credit him," Grandma said. "Sally's always thinking. He's a smart one."

I had the cake knife in hand. "Anyone want cake?"

"Yeah," Morelli said, shoving his plate forward. "Hit me."

"I heard your garage got blown up," Grandma said to Morelli. "Emma Rhinehart said it went up like a bottle rocket. She heard that from her son, Chester. Chester delivers pizza for that new place on Keene Street, and he was making a delivery a couple houses down from you. He said he was taking a shortcut through the alley, and all of a sudden the garage went up like a bottle rocket. Right in front of him. He said it was real scary because he almost hit this guy who was standing in the alley just past your house. He said the guy looked like his face had melted or something. Like some horror movie."

Morelli and I exchanged glances, and we were both thinking Spiro.

An hour later, I helped Morelli hobble down the porch stairs and cross the lawn. I'd parked the Buick in the driveway, and I'd bribed one of the neighborhood kids into baby-sitting the car. I loaded Morelli into the car, gave the kid five dollars, and ran back to the house for my share of the leftovers.

My mother had bagged some meatballs for me, and now she was standing in front of the cake. She had a cardboard box on the chair and a knife in her hand.

"How much do you want?" she asked.

Grandma was standing beside my mother. "Maybe you should let me cut the cake," Grandma said. "You're tipsy."

"I'm not tipsy," my mother said, very carefully forming her words. It was true. My mother wasn't tipsy. My mother was shitfaced.

"I tell you, we're lucky if we don't find ourselves talking to Dr. Phil one of these days," Grandma said.

"I like Dr. Phil," my mother said. "He's cute. I wouldn't mind spending some time with him, if you know what I mean."

"I know what you mean," Grandma said. "And it gives me the creeps."

"So how much of the cake do you want?" my mother asked me again. "You want the whole thing?"

"You don't want the whole thing," Grandma said to me. "You'll give yourself the diabetes. You and your mother got no control."

"Excuse me?" my mother said. "No control? Did you say I had no control? I am the queen of control. Look at this family. I have a daughter in Disney World with oogly woogly smoochikins. I have a granddaughter who thinks she's a horse. I have a mother who thinks she's a teenager." My mother turned to me.

"And you! I don't know where to begin."

"I'm not so bad," I said. "I'm taking charge of my life. I'm making changes."

"You're a walking disaster," my mother said. "And you just ate seven pieces of cake."

"I didn't!"

"You did. You're a cakeaholic."

"I don't mind thinking I'm a teenager," Grandma said. "Better than thinking I'm an old lady. Maybe I should get a boob job, and then I could wear them sex-kitten clothes."

"Good God," my mother said. And she drained her glass.

"I'm not a cakeaholic," I said. "I only eat cake on special occasions." Like Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. . .

"You're one of them comfort eaters," Grandma said. "I saw a show about it on television. When your mother gets stressed, she irons and tipples. When you get stressed, you eat cake. You're a cake abuser. You need to join one of them help groups, like Cake Eaters Anonymous."

My mother sliced into the cake and carved off a chunk for herself. "Cake Eaters Anonymous," she said. "That's a good one." She took a big bite of the cake and got a smudge of icing on her nose.

"You got icing on your nose," Grandma said.

"Do not," my mother said.

"Do, too," Grandma Mazur said. "You're three sheets to the wind."

"Take that back," my mother said, swiping her finger through the frosting on the top tier and flicking a glob at Grandma Mazur. The glob hit Grandma in the forehead and slid halfway down her nose. "Now you've got icing on your nose, too," my mother said.

Grandma sucked in some air.

My mother flicked another glob at Grandma.

"That's it," Grandma said, narrowing her eyes. "Eat dirt and die!" And Grandma scooped up a wad of cake and icing and smushed it into my mothers face.

"I can't see!" my mother shrieked. "I'm blind." She was wobbling around, flailing her arms. She lost her balance and fell against the table and into the cake.

"I tell you it's pathetic," Grandma said. "I don't know how I raised a daughter that don't even know how to have a food fight. And look at this, she fell into a three-tiered wedding cake. This is gonna put a real crimp in the leftovers." She reached out to help my mother, and my mother latched on to Grandma and wrestled her onto the table.

"You're going down, old woman," my mother said to Grandma.

Grandma yelped and struggled to scramble away, but she couldn't get a grip.

She was as slick as a greased pig, in lard icing up to her elbows.

"Maybe you should stop before someone falls and gets hurt," I told them.

"Maybe you should mind your own beeswax," Grandma said, mashing cake into my mother's hair.

"Hey, wait a minute," my mother said. "Stephanie didn't get her cake."

They both paused and looked over at me.

"How much cake did you want?" my mother asked. "This much?" And she threw a wad of cake at me.

I jumped to dodge the cake, but I wasn't quick enough, and it caught me in the middle of the chest. Grandma nailed me in the side of my head, and before I could move she got me a second time.

My father came in from the living room. "What the devil?" he said.

Splat, splat, splat. They got my father.

"Jesus Marie," he said. "What are you, friggin' nuts? That's good wedding cake. You know how much I paid for that cake?"

My mother threw one last piece of cake. It missed my father and hit the wall.

I had cake and icing in my hair, on my hands and arms, on my shirt, my face, my jeans. I looked over at the cake plate. It was empty. The aroma of sugar and butter and vanilla was enticing. I swiped at the cake sliding down the wall and stuck my finger in my mouth. If I'd been alone I probably would have licked the wall. My mother was right. I was a cakeaholic.

"Boy," my grandmother said to my mother. "You're fun when you've got a snootful."

My mother looked around the room. "Do you think that's how this happened?"

"Do you think you'd do this if you were sober?" Grandma asked. "I don't think so. You got a real stick up your ass when you're sober."

"That's it," my mother said. "I'm done tippling."

I caught myself licking cake off my arm. "And maybe I should cut back on the cake," I said. "I do feel a little addicted."

"We'll have a pact," my mother said. "No more tippling for me and no more cake for you."

We looked at Grandma.

"I'm not giving up nothing," Grandma said.

I took my bag of meatballs and went out to the car. I slid behind the wheel, turned the key in the ignition, and Morelli leaned over the seat at me.

"What the hell happened to you?" he asked.

"Food fight."

"Wedding cake?"

"Yep."

Morelli licked icing off my neck, and I accidentally jumped the driveway and backed out over my parents' front lawn.

"Okay, let me get this correct," Morelli said. "You're giving up sweets."

We were sitting at Morelli's kitchen table, having a late breakfast.

"If it's got sugar on it, I'm not eating it," I told Morelli.

"What about that cereal you've got in front of you?"

"Frosted Flakes. My favorite."

"Coated with sugar."

Shit. "Maybe I got carried away last night. Maybe I was overreacting to Valerie gaining all that weight, and then Kloughn dreaming about her smothering him. And my mother said I ate seven pieces of wedding cake, but I don't actually remember eating anything. I think she must have been exaggerating."

Morelli's phone rang. He answered and passed it to me. "Your grandmother."

"Boy, that was some mess we made last night," Grandma said. "We're gonna have to put up new paper in the dining room. It was worth it, though. Your mother got up this morning and cleaned the bottles out of the cupboard.

'Course, I still got one in my closet, but that's okay on account of I can handle my liquor. I'm not one of them anxiety-ridden drunks. I just drink because I like it. Anyway, your mother's not drinking so long as you're off the sugar. You're

off the sugar, right?"

"Right. Absolutely. No sugar for me."