One for the Money

I straightened my apartment, trying not to notice the empty spaces where appliances had been, trying to ignore the phantom furniture indentations persisting in the living room carpet. Morelli’s $10,000 recovery fee would go a long way toward restoring some semblance of normalcy to my life, but it was a stopgap measure. Probably I should still be applying for jobs.

Who was I kidding. I’d covered all the bases in my field.

I could stay with skip tracing, but it seemed risky at best. And at worst… I didn’t even want to think about worst. Besides getting used to being threatened, hated, and possibly molested, wounded, or God forbid killed, I’d have to establish a self-employed mind-set. And I’d have to invest in martial arts coaching and learn some police techniques for subduing felons. I didn’t want to turn myself into the Terminator, but I didn’t want to continue to operate at my present Elmer Fudd level, either. If I had a television I could watch reruns of Cagney and Lacey.

I remembered my plan to get another dead bolt installed and decided to visit Dillon Ruddick, the super. Dillon and I were buds, being that we were just about the only two people in the building who didn’t think Metamusil was one of the four major food groups. Dillon moved his lips when he read the funnies, but put a tool in the man’s hand and he was pure genius. He lived in the bowels of the building, in a carpeted efficiency that never saw the natural light of day. There was a constant backround seranade as boilers and water heaters rumbled and water swished through pipes. Dillon said he liked it. Said he pretended it was the ocean.

“Hey Dillon,” I said when he answered the door. “How’s it going?”

“Going okay. Can’t complain. What can I do for you?”

“I’m worried about crime, Dillon. I thought it would be a good idea to get another dead bolt put on my door.”

“That’s cool,” he said. “A person can never be too careful. In fact, I just finished putting a dead bolt on Mrs. Luger’s door. She said some big, huge guy was yelling in the halls, late at night, couple days ago. Said it scared the whatever out of her. Maybe you heard him, too. Mrs. Luger’s just two doors down from you.”

I resisted the urge to swallow and go “gulp.” I knew the name of the big, huge guy.

“I’ll try to get the lock on tomorrow,” Dillon said. “In the meantime, how about a beer.”

“A beer would be good.”

Dillon handed me a bottle and a can of mixed nuts. He boosted the sound back up on the TV, and we both plopped down on the couch.

I’D SET MY ALARM FOR EIGHT, but I was up at seven, anxious to find the van. I took a shower and spent some time on my hair, doing the blow-drying thing, adding some gel and some spray. When I was done I looked like Cher on a bad day. Still, Cher on a bad day wasn’t all that bad. I was down to my last clean pair of spandex shorts. I tugged on a matching sports bra that doubled as a halter top and slid a big, loose, purple T-shirt with a large, droopy neck over my head. I laced up my hightop Reeboks, crunched down my white socks, and felt pretty cool.

I ate Frosted Flakes for breakfast. If they were good enough for Tony the Tiger, they were good enough for me. I swallowed down a multivitamin, brushed my teeth, poked a couple of big gold hoops through my earlobes, applied glow-in-the-dark Cherry Red lipstick, and I was ready to go.

Cicadas droned their early warning of another scorcher day, and the blacktop steamed with what was left of morning dew. I pulled out of the lot into the steady stream of traffic on St. James. I had the map spread out on the seat next to me, plus a steno pad I’d begun to use for phone numbers, addresses, and miscellaneous bits of information relating to the job.

Ramirez’s apartment building was set in the middle of the block, its identity lost in a crush of four-story walk-ups built cheek by jowl for the working poor. Most likely the building had originally held immigrant laborers—Irish, Italian, Polish hopefuls barged up the Delaware to work in Trenton’s factories. It was difficult to tell who lived here now. There were no old men loitering on front stoops, no children playing on the sidewalk. Two middle-aged Asian women stood waiting at a bus stop, their purses held tight against their chests, their faces expressionless. There were no vans in sight, and no place to hide one. No garages or alleys. If Morelli was keeping tabs on Ramirez, it would have to be from the rear or from an adjacent apartment.

I drove around the corner and found the single-lane service road that cut the block. There were no garages back here, either. An asphalt slab had been laid tight to the rear of Ramirez’s building. Diagonal parking for six cars had been lined off on the slab. Only four cars were parked. Three old clunkers and a Silver Porsche with a license plate holder that had “The Champ” printed on it in gold. None of the cars were occupied.

Across the service road were more tenement-type apartments. This would be a reasonable place for Morelli to watch or listen, I thought, but there was no sign of him.

I drove through the service road and circled the block, methodically enlarging the area until I’d covered all drivable streets for a nine-block square. The van didn’t turn up.

I headed for Stark Street and repeated the procedure, looking for the van. There were garages and alleys here, so I parked the Cherokee and set out on foot. By twelve-thirty I’d snooped in enough broken-down, smelly garages to last me a lifetime. If I crossed my eyes I could see my nose peeling, my hair was sticking to the back of my sweaty neck, and I had bursitis from carrying my hulking shoulder bag.

By the time I got back to the Cherokee, my feet felt like they were on fire. I leaned against the car and checked to make sure my soles weren’t melting. A block away I could see Lula and Jackie staking out their corner. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to talk to them again.

“Still looking for Morelli?” Lula asked.

I shoved my dark glasses to the top of my head. “Have you seen him?”

“Nope. Haven’t heard nothing about him, either. Man’s keeping a low profile.”

“How about his van?”

“Don’t know nothing about a van. Lately, Morelli’s been driving a red and gold Cherokee… like the one you’re driving.” Her eyes widened. “Sheee-it, that ain’t Morelli’s car, is it?”

“I sort of borrowed it.”

Lula’s face split in a grin. “Honey, you telling me you stole Morelli’s car? Girl, he gonna kick your skinny white butt.”

“Couple days ago I saw him driving a faded blue Econoline,” I said. “It had antennae sticking out all over the place. You see anything like that cruise by?”

“We didn’t see nothing,” Jackie said.

I turned to Lula. “How about you, Lula? You see a blue van?”

“Tell me the truth now? You really pregnant?” Lula asked.

“No, but I could have been.” Fourteen years ago.

“So what’s going on here. What you really want with Morelli?”

“I work for his bondsman. Morelli is FTA.”

“No shit? There any money in that?”

“Ten percent of the bond.”

“I could do that,” Lula said. “Maybe I should change my profession.”

“Maybe you should stop talking and look like you want to give some before your old man beats the crap out of you,” Jackie said.

I drove back to my apartment, ate some more Frosted Flakes, and called my mother.

“I made a nice big pot of stuffed cabbages,” she said. “You should come for supper.”

“Sounds good, but I have things to do.”

“Like what? What’s so important you can’t take time to eat some stuffed cabbages?”

“Work.”

“What kind of work? Are you still trying to find the Morelli boy?”

“Yeah.”

“You should get a different job. I saw a sign at Clara’s Beauty Salon they need a shampoo girl.”

I could hear my Grandma Mazur yelling something in the background.

“Oh yeah,” my mother said. “You had a phone call this morning from that boxer you went to see, Benito Ramirez. Your father was so excited. Such a nice young man. So polite.”

“What did Ramirez want?”

“He said he’d been trying to get in touch with you, but your phone had been disconnected. I told him it was okay now.”

I mentally banged my head against the wall. “Benito Ramirez is a sleaze. If he calls up again, don’t talk to him.”

“He was polite to me on the phone.”

Yeah, I thought, the most courteous homicidal rapist in Trenton. And now he knew he could call me.

MY APARTMENT BUILDING was pre-laundry room vintage, and the present owner felt no compulsion to add amenities. The nearest coin-op, Super Suds, was about a half mile away on Hamilton. Not a journey of insurmountable proportions, but a pain in the ass all the same.

I tucked the stack of FTAs I’d received from Connie into my pocketbook and slung my pocketbook over my shoulder. I lugged my laundry basket into the hall, locked my door, and hauled myself out to the car.

As far as laundromats went, Super Suds wasn’t bad. There was parking in a small lot to the side of the building and a luncheonette next door where a person could get a tasty chicken salad sandwich if a person had cash on hand. I happened to be low on cash on hand, so I dumped my laundry into a machine, added detergent and quarters, and settled down to review my FTAs.

Lonnie Dodd was at the top of the stack and seemed like the easiest apprehension. He was twenty-two and lived in Hamilton Township. He’d been charged with auto theft. A first-time offender. I used the laundromat pay phone to call Connie to verify that Dodd was still outstanding.

“He’s probably in his garage, changing his oil,” she said. “Happens all the time. It’s one of those man things. Hell, they say to themselves, nobody’s gonna push me around. All I did was steal a few cars. What’s the big fuckin‘ deal? So they don’t show up for their court date.”

I thanked Connie for her insight and returned to my chair. As soon as my laundry was done, I’d mosey on over to Dodd’s place and see if I could find him.

I slid the files back into my pocketbook and transferred my clothes to the dryer. I sat down, looked out the big plate glass front window, and the blue van rolled by. I was so startled I froze, mouth open, eyes glazed, mind blank. Not what you would call a quick draw. The van disappeared down the street, and in the distance I could see the brake lights go on. Morelli was stopped in traffic.

Now I moved. Actually, I think I flew, because I don’t remember my feet touching pavement. I peeled out of the lot, smoking rubber. I got to the corner and the alarm went off. In my haste I’d forgotten to punch in the code.

I could barely think for the noise. The key was on my key ring, and the key ring was attached to the key in the ignition. I slammed my foot on the brake, fishtailing to a stop in the middle of the road. I looked in the rearview mirror after the fact, relieved to find there were no cars behind me. I deactivated the alarm and took off again.

Several cars were between me and Morelli. He turned right, and I gripped the wheel tighter, creeping along, inventing colorful new expletives as I made my way to the intersection. By the time I turned he was gone. I slowly worked my way up and down the streets. I was ready to quit when I spotted the van parked in the back lot to Manni’s Deli.

I stopped at the entrance to the lot and stared at the van, wondering what to do next. I had no way of knowing if Morelli was behind the wheel. He could be stretched out in back, taking a snooze, or he could be in Manni’s ordering tuna on a kaiser to go. Probably I should park and investigate. If it turned out he wasn’t in the van, I’d hide behind one of the cars and gas him when he came into range.

I pulled into a slot at the back of the lot, four cars down from the van, and cut the engine. I was about to reach for my bag when suddenly the driver’s side door was ripped open, and I was yanked from behind the wheel. I stumbled forward, slamming into the wall of Morelli’s chest.

“Looking for me?” he asked.

“You might as well give up,” I told him, “because I never will.”

The line of his mouth tightened. “Tell me about it. Suppose I lay down on the pavement and you run over me a few times with my own car… just for old times. Would you like that? Do you get your money dead or alive?”

“No reason to get testy about it. I have a job to do. It’s nothing personal.”

“Nothing personal? You’ve harassed my mother, stolen my car, and now you’re telling people I’ve gotten you pregnant! In my opinion, getting someone pregnant is pretty fucking personal! Jesus, isn’t it enough I’m accused of murder? What are you, the bounty hunter from hell?”

“You’re overwrought.”

“I’m beyond overwrought. I’m resigned. Everyone has a cross to bear… you’re mine. I give up. Take the car. I don’t care anymore. All I ask is that you try not to get too many dings on the door and you change the oil when the red light goes on.” His eyes flicked to the car interior. “You’re not making phone calls, are you?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Phone calls are expensive.”

“Not to worry.”

“Shit,” he said. “My life is shit.”

“Probably this is just a phase.”

His expression softened. “I like this outfit you’re wearing.” He hooked a finger around the wide neck of my Tshirt and looked inside at the black spandex sports bra. “Very sexy.”

A flash of heat shot through my stomach. I told myself it was anger, but I suspect carnal panic would be closer to the truth. I smacked his hand away. “Don’t be rude.”

“Well hell, I’ve made you pregnant, remember? One more little intimacy shouldn’t bother you.” He moved closer. “I like the lipstick, too. Cherry red. Very tempting.”

He lowered his mouth and kissed me.

I know I should have kneed him in the groin, but the kiss was delicious. Joe Morelli still knew how to kiss. It had started out slow and tender in the beginning, and it had ended up hot and deep. He pulled back and smiled, and I knew I’d been had.

“Gotcha,” he said.

“Dick breath.”

He reached around me and removed the keys from the ignition. “I don’t want you following.”

“Furthest thought from my mind.”

“Yeah, well I’m going to slow you down a little, anyway.” He walked to the deli’s Dumpster and pitched the keys inside. “Happy hunting,” he said, heading for the van. “Make sure you wipe your feet before you get in my car.”

“Wait a minute,” I yelled after him. “I have some questions. I want to know about the murder. I want to know about Carmen Sanchez. And is it true there’s a contract out on you?”

He hitched himself up into the van and drove out of the lot.

The Dumpster was industrial-sized. Five feet high, five feet wide, and six feet long. I stood on tiptoe and peered over the side. It was one-quarter full and smelled like dead dog. I couldn’t see the keys.

A lesser woman would have burst into tears. A smarter woman would have had an extra set of keys. I dragged a wooden crate to the side of the Dumpster and stood on it for a better look. Most of the garbage was bagged. Some of the bags had split on impact, spewing out half-eaten subs, globs of potato salad, coffee grounds, grill grease, unrecognizable slop, and heads of lettuce turning to primordial ooze.

I was reminded of road kill. Ashes to ashes… mayo to its various components. Doesn’t matter whether it’s cats or cole slaw, death is not attractive.

I did a rundown of everyone I knew, but I couldn’t think of anyone dumb enough to climb into the Dumpster for me. Okay, I told myself, now or never. I swung my leg up and over the side and hung there for a moment, gathering courage. I lowered myself slowly, upper lip curled. If I smelled even the hint of rat breath, I was out of there.

Cans rolled underfoot, giving way to soft, squishy gunk. I felt myself slide and hooked a hand onto the Dumpster rim, cracking my elbow against the side in the process. I swore and blinked back tears.

I found a plastic bread bag that was relatively clean and used it like a glove to carefully paw through the slop, moving cautiously, scared to death I’d fall face first into the artichoke and calf brains vinaigrette. The amount of discarded food was sobering, the wastefulness almost as revolting as the all-pervasive odor of rot that seared the inside of my nose and clung to the roof of my mouth.

After what seemed like an eternity I discovered the keys sunk into some yellow-brown glop. I didn’t see any Pampers nearby, so I hoped the glop was mustard. I stuck my bagged hand in whatever-it-was and gagged.

I held my breath, tossed the keys over the edge onto the blacktop, and didn’t waste any time following. I wiped off the keys as best I could with the bread bag. Most of the yellow stuff came off, rendering the keys good enough for emergency driving. I got out of my shoes by stepping on the heels, and I used the two-fingers sissy approach to peel my socks away. I inspected the rest of me. Aside from some Thousand Island dressing smeared on the front of my shirt, I seemed unscathed.

Newspapers had been stacked for recycling beside the Dumpster. I covered the driver’s seat with the sports section, just in case I’d missed seeing some noxious substance stuck to my ass. I spread paper over the passengerside floor mat and gingerly set my shoes and socks in the center.

I glanced at the remaining section of paper, and a headline jumped out at me. “Local Man Killed in Drive-by Shooting.” Beneath the headline was a picture of John Kuzack. I’d seen him on Wednesday. Today was Friday. The paper in my hand was a day old. I read the story without breathing. Kuzack had been gunned down late Wednesday night in front of his apartment building. It went on to say how he’d been a hero in Nam, getting the purple heart, and how he was a colorful, well-liked neighborhood figure. As of press time, the police had no suspect and no motive.

I leaned against the Cherokee, trying to absorb the reality of John Kuzack’s death. He’d been so big and alive when I’d spoken to him. And now he was dead. First Edleman, the hit and run, and now Kuzack. Of the three people who’d seen and remembered the missing witness, two were dead. I thought about Mrs. Santiago and her children and shivered.

I carefully folded the paper and slid it into the map pocket. When I got back to my apartment I’d call Gazarra and try to get some reassurance of Mrs. Santiago’s safety.

I was beyond being able to smell myself, but I drove with the windows down as a precaution.

I parked in the laundromat lot and slipped in barefoot to get my clothes. Only one other person was in the room, an elderly woman at the folding table on the far wall.

“Oh my goodness,” she said, looking bewildered. “What is that smell?”

I felt my cheeks heat up. “Must be outside,” I said. “Must have followed me in when I opened the door.”

“It’s awful!”

I sniffed, but I couldn’t smell anything. My nose had shut down in self-defense. I glanced at my shirt. “Does it smell like Thousand Island dressing?”

She had a pillowcase pressed to her face. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

I rammed my laundry into the basket and made my exit. Halfway home I stopped for a light and noticed my eyes were watering. Ominous, I thought. Fortunately, no one was afoot when I swung into the parking lot to my apartment building. The foyer and the elevator were both empty. So far so good. The elevator doors opened to the second floor and no one was about there, either. I breathed a sigh of relief, dragged my laundry to my door, slunk into my apartment, stripped off my clothes, and tied them up in a big black plastic garbage bag.

I jumped into the shower and lathered and scrubbed and shampooed thrice. I dressed in clean clothes and went across the hall to Mr. Wolesky as a test.

He opened the door and instantly clamped a hand over his nose. “Whoa,” he gasped. “What’s that smell?”

“That’s what I was wondering,” I said. “It seems to be hanging in the hall here.”

“Smells like dead dog.”

I sighed. “Yeah. That was my first impression, too.”

I retreated back to my apartment. I needed to rewash everything, and I’d run out of quarters. I was going to have to go home to do my laundry. I looked at my watch. It was almost six. I’d call my mother on the car phone and warn her I’d be there for dinner after all.

I parked in front of the house, and my mother appeared like magic, driven by some mysterious maternal instinct always to know when her daughter set foot on the curb.

“A new car,” she said. “How nice. Where did you get it?”

I had the basket under one arm and the plastic trash bag under the other. “ I borrowed it from a friend.”

“Who?”

“You don’t know him. Someone I went to school with.”

“Well, you’re lucky to have friends like that. You should bake him something. A cake.”

I pushed past her, heading for the cellar stairs. “I brought my laundry. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course I don’t mind. What’s that smell? Is that you? You smell like a garbage can.”

“I accidentally dropped my keys in a Dumpster, and I had to climb in and get them out.”

“I don’t understand how these things happen to you. They don’t happen to anyone else. Who else do you know dropped their keys in a Dumpster? No one, that’s who. Only you would do such a thing.”

Grandma Mazur came out of the kitchen. “I smell throw-up.”

“It’s Stephanie,” my mother said. “She was in a Dumpster.”

“What was she doing in a Dumpster? Was she looking for bodies? I saw a movie on TV where the mob splattered some guy’s brains all over the place and then left him for rat food in a Dumpster.”

“She was looking for her keys,” my mother told Grandma Mazur. “It was an accident.”

“Well that’s disappointing,” Grandma Mazur said. “I expected something better from her.”

When we were done eating, I called Eddie Gazarra, put the second load of laundry in the washer, and hosed down my shoes and my keys. I sprayed the inside of the Jeep with Lysol and opened the windows wide. The alarm wasn’t usable with the windows open, but I didn’t think I was running much risk of the car being reclaimed from in front of my parents’ house. I took a shower and dressed in clean clothes fresh from the dryer.

I was spooked over John Kuzack’s death and not anxious to walk into a dark apartment, so I made a point of getting home early. I’d just locked the door behind me when the phone rang. The voice was muffled, so that I had to strain to hear, squinting at the handset as if that would help.

Fear is not a logical emotion. No one can physically hurt me on the phone, but I flinched all the same when I realized it was Ramirez.

I immediately hung up, and when the phone rang again I snapped the plug from the wall jack. I needed an answering machine to monitor my calls, but I couldn’t afford to buy one until I made a recovery. First thing in the morning I was going to have to go after Lonnie Dodd.

I AWOKE TO THE STEADY DRUMMING OF RAIN on my fire escape. Wonderful. Just what I needed to complicate my life further. I crawled out of bed and pulled the curtain aside, not pleased at the sight of an all-day soaker. The parking lot had slicked up, reflecting light from mysterious sources. The rest of the world was gunmetal gray, the cloud cover low and unending, the buildings robbed of color behind the rain.

I showered and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, letting my hair dry on its own. No sense fussing when I was going to get drenched the instant I stepped out of the building. I did the breakfast thing, brushed my teeth, and applied a nice thick line of turquoise eyeliner to offset the gloom. I was wearing my Dumpster shoes in honor of the rain. I looked down and sniffed. Maybe I smelled a hint of boiled ham, but all things considered I didn’t think that was so bad.

I did a pocketbook inventory, making sure I had all my goodies—cuffs, bludgeoning baton, flashlight, gun, extra ammo (not much good to me since I’d already forgotten how to load the gun—still, you never knew when you might need something heavy to throw at an escaping felon). I crammed Dodd’s file in along with a collapsible umbrella and a package of peanut butter crackers for emergency snacking. I grabbed the ultracool black and purple Gore-Tex jacket I’d purchased when I was of the privileged working class, and I headed for the parking lot.

This was the sort of day to read comic books under a blanket tent and eat the icing from the middle of the Oreos. This was not the sort of day to chase down desperados. Unfortunately, I was hard up for money and couldn’t be choosy about selecting desperado days.

Lonnie Dodd’s address was listed as 2115 Barnes. I hauled my map out and looked up the coordinates. Hamilton Township is about three times the size of Trenton proper and roughly shaped like a wedge of pie that’s suffered some nibbles. Barnes ran with its back pressed to the Conrail tracks just north of Yardville, the beginning of the lower third of the county.

I took Chambers to Broad and cut up on Apollo. Barnes struck off from Apollo. The sky had lightened marginally, and it was possible to read house numbers as I drove. The closer I got to 2115 the more depressed I became. Property value was dropping at a frightening rate. What had begun as a respectable blue-collar neighborhood with trim single-family bungalows on good-sized lots had deteriorated to neglected low-income to no-income housing.

Twenty-one fifteen was at the end of the street. The grass was overgrown and had gone to seed. A rusted bike and a washing machine with its top lid askew decorated the front yard. The house itself was a small cinder block rancher built on a slab. It looked to be more of an outbuilding than a home. Something intended for chickens or porkers. A sheet had been tacked haphazardly over the front picture window. Probably to afford the inhabitants privacy while they crushed cans of Bull’s-Eye beer against their foreheads and plotted mayhem.

I told myself it was now or never. Rain pattered on the roof and sluiced down the windshield. I pumped myself up by applying fresh lipstick. There was no great surge of power, so I deepened the blue liner and added mascara and blush. I checked myself out in the rearview mirror. Wonder Woman, eat your heart out. Yeah, right. I studied Dodd’s picture one last time. Didn’t want to overwhelm the wrong man. I dropped my keys into into my pocketbook, pulled my hood tip, and got out of the car. I knocked on the door and caught myself secretly hoping no one was home. The rain and the neighborhood and the prim little house were giving me the creeps. If the second knock goes unanswered, I thought, I’ll consider it the will of God that I’m not destined to catch Dodd, and I’ll get the hell out of here.

No one answered on the second knock, but I’d heard a toilet flush, and I knew someone was in there. Damn. I gave the door a few good shots with my fist. “Open up,” I yelled at the top of my voice. “Pizza delivery.”

A skinny guy with dark, tangled shoulder-length hair answered the door. He was a couple inches taller than me. He was barefoot and shirtless, wearing a pair of filthy, lowslung jeans that were unsnapped and only half zipped. Beyond him I could see a trash-filled livingroom. The air drifting out was pungent with cat fumes.

“I didn’t order no pizza,” he said.

“Are you Lonnie Dodd?”

“Yeah. What’s with the pizza delivery shit?”

“It was a ploy to get you to answer your door.”

“A what?”

“I work for Vincent Plum, your bond agent. You missed your trial date, and Mr. Plum would like you to reschedule.”

“Fuck that. I’m not rescheduling nothing,.”

The rain was running off my jacket in sheets, soaking my jeans and shoes. “It would only take a few minutes. I’d be happy to drive you.”

“Plum doesn’t have no limo service. Plum only hires two kinds of people… women with big pointy tits and scumbag bounty hunters. Nothing personal, and it’s hard to see with that raincoat on, but you don’t look like you got big pointy tits. That leaves scumbag bounty hunter.”

Without warning he reached out into the rain, grabbed my pocketbook off my shoulder, and tossed the contents onto the tan shag carpet behind him. The gun landed with a thunk.

“You could get into a lot of crap carrying concealed in this state,” he said.

I narrowed my eyes. “Are you going to cooperate here?”

“What do you think?”

“I think if you’re smart you’ll get a shirt and some shoes and come downtown with me.”

“Guess I’m not that smart.”

“Fine. Then just give me my stuff, and I’ll be more than happy to leave.” Truer words were never spoken.

“I’m not giving you nothing. This here stuff looks like my stuff now.”

I was debating kicking him in the nuts when he gave me a shove to the chest, knocking me backward off the small cement pad. I came down hard on my ass in the mud.

“Take a hike,” he said, “or I’ll shoot you with your own fucking gun.”

The door slammed shut and the bolt clicked into place. I got up and wiped my hands on my jacket. I couldn’t believe I’d just stood there flat-footed and let him take my shoulder bag. What had I been thinking?

I’d been thinking about Clarence Sampson and not about Lonnie Dodd. Lonnie Dodd wasn’t a fat drunk. I should have approached him with a much more defensive posture. I should have stood farther back, out of his reach. And I should have had my defense spray in my hand, not in my pocketbook.

I had a lot to learn as a bounty hunter. I lacked skills, but even more problematic, I lacked attitude. Ranger had tried to tell me, but it hadn’t taken hold. Never let your guard down, he’d said. When you walk the street, you have to see everything, every second. You let your mind wander, and you could be dead. When you go after your FTA, always be prepared for the worst.

It had seemed overly dramatic at the time. Looking at it in retrospect, it had been good advice.

I stomped back to the Jeep and stood there fuming, swearing at myself and Dodd and E.E. Martin. I threw in a few choice thoughts about Ramirez and Morelli and kicked a tire.

“Now what?” I yelled in the rain. “Now what are you going to do, girl genius?”

Well, I sure as hell wasn’t going to leave without Lonnie Dodd shackled and stuffed into my back seat. As I saw it, I needed help, and I had two choices. The police or Ranger. If I called the police I might be in trouble with the gun. It’d have to be Ranger.

I closed my eyes. I really didn’t want to call Ranger. I’d wanted to do this myself. I’d wanted to show everyone I was capable.

“Pride goeth before the fall,” I said. I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but it felt right.

I took a deep groaning breath, shucked the muddy, drippingwet raincoat, slid behind the wheel, and called Ranger.

“Yo,” he said.

“I have a problem.”

“Are you naked?”

“No, I’m not naked.”

“Too bad.”

“I have an FTA cornered in his house, but I’m not having any luck making an apprehension.”

“You want to be more specific about the not having any luck part.”

“He took my pocketbook and kicked me out of the house.”

Pause. “I don’t suppose you managed to keep your gun.”

“Don’t suppose I did. On the bright side, the gun wasn’t loaded.”

“You have ammo in your pocketbook?”

“I might have had a few loose bullets rolling around.”

“Where are you now?”

“In front of the house, in the Jeep.”

“And you want me to come over there and persuade your FTA to behave.”

“Yeah.”

“Good thing for you I’m into this Henry Higgins shit. What’s the address?”

I gave him the address and hung up feeling disgusted with myself. I’d virtually armed my FTA, and now I was sending Ranger in to clean up the mess I’d made of things. I was going to have to get smarter faster. I was going to learn how to load the damn gun, and I was going to learn how to shoot it. I might not ever have the guts to shoot Joe Morelli, but I was pretty sure I could shoot Lonnie Dodd.

I watched the clock on the dash, waiting for Ranger, anxious to resolve this unfinished business. Ten minutes passed before his Mercedes appeared at the end of the street, gliding through the rain, sleek and sinister, water not daring to adhere to the paint finish.

We simultaneously got out of our cars. He wore a black baseball cap, tight black jeans, and a black T-shirt. He strapped on his black nylon gun belt and holster, the gun held tight to his leg by a black Velcro strap. At first glance he’d pass for a SWAT cop. He shrugged into a Kevlar vest. “What’s the FTA’s name?”

“Lonnie Dodd.”

“You got a photo?”

I ran to the Jeep, pulled out Dodd’s picture, and gave it to Ranger.

“What’d he do?” Ranger wanted to know.

“Auto theft. First-time offender.”

“He alone?”

“As far as I know. I can’t guarantee it.”

“This house have a back door?”

“Don’t know.”

“Let’s find out.”

We took a direct route to the back, cutting through the tall grass, keeping our eyes on the front door, watching the windows for movement. I hadn’t bothered with my jacket. It seemed like an unnecessary encumbrance at this point. My energies were directed at catching Dodd. I was soaked to the skin, and it was liberating to know I couldn’t get any wetter. The backyard was similar to the front: tall grass, a rusted swing set, two garbage cans overflowing with garbage, their dented lids lying on the ground nearby. A back door opened to the yard.

Ranger pulled me close to the building, out of window sight. “You stay here and watch the back door. I’m going in the front. I don’t want you to be a hero. You see anybody run for the train tracks, you keep out of their way. Got that?”

Water dripped from the tip of my nose. “Sorry to put you through this.”

“This is partly my fault. I haven’t been taking you serious enough. If you’re really going to do this job, you’re going to need somebody to help you with the takedown. And we need to spend some time talking about apprehension techniques.”

“I need a partner.”

“Yeah. You need a partner.”

He moved off, rounding the house, his footsteps muffled by the rain. I held my breath, straining to hear, catching his knock on the door, hearing him identify himself.

There was obviously a reply from within, but it was lost to me. What followed after that was a blur of sound and action on fast forward. Warnings from Ranger that he was coming in, the door crashing open, a lot of shouting. A single report from a gun.

The back door banged open and Lonnie Dodd charged out, heading not for the tracks, but for the next house down. He was still clad only in jeans. He was running blind in the rain, clearly panicked. I was partially hidden by a shed, and he ran right by me without a sideways glance. I could see the silver glint of a gun stuck in his waistband. Wouldn’t you know it? On top of every other insult, now the creep was making off with my gun. Four hundred dollars shot to hell, and just when I’d decided to learn how to use the damn thing.

No way was I going to let this happen. I yelled for Ranger and took off after Dodd. Dodd wasn’t that far in front of me, and I had the advantage of shoes. He was sliding in the rain-slicked grass, stepping on God-knows-what. He went down to one knee, and I body-slammed into the back of him, knocking us both to the ground. He hit with an “unh!” thanks to 125 pounds of angry female landing on top of him. Well okay, maybe 127, but not an ounce more, I swear.

He was laboring to breathe, and I grabbed the gun, not from any defensive instinct, but out of shear possessiveness. It was my gun, dammit. I scrambled to my feet and pointed the .38 in Dodd’s direction, holding it with both hands to minimize the shaking. It never occurred to me to check for bullets. “Don’t move!” I yelled. “Don’t fucking move or I’ll shoot.”

Ranger appeared in my peripheral vision. He put his knee to the small of Dodd’s back, snapped cuffs on him, and jerked him to his feet.

“The sonofabitch shot me,” Ranger said. “Do you believe this shit? A lousy car thief shot me.” He shoved Dodd ahead of him toward the road. “I’m wearing a fucking Kevlar vest. You think he could shoot me in the vest? No way. He’s such a lousy shot, he’s so chicken-shit scared, he shoots me in my fucking leg.”

I looked down at Ranger’s leg and almost keeled over.

“Run ahead and call the police,” Ranger said. “And call Al at the body shop to come get my car.”

“You sure you’re going to be okay?”

“Flesh wound, babe. Nothing to worry about.”

I made the calls, retrieved my pocketbook and assorted goods from Dodd’s house, and waited with Ranger. We had Dodd trussed up like a Christmas goose, facedown in the mud. Ranger and I sat on the curb in the rain. He didn’t seem concerned about the seriousness of his wound. He said he’d had worse, but I could see the pain wearing him down, pinching his face.

I wrapped my arms tight around myself and clamped my teeth together to keep them from chattering. Outwardly I was keeping a stiff upper lip, trying to be as stoic as Ranger, trying to be confidently supportive. Inside, I was shaking so bad I could feel my heart shivering in my chest.

THE COPS CAME FIRST, then the paramedics, then Al. We gave preliminary statements, Ranger was trundled off to the hospital, and I followed the squad car to the station.

It was close to five by the time I reached Vinnie’s office. I asked Connie to write out separate checks. Fifty dollars to me. The remainder to Ranger. I wouldn’t have taken any money at all, but I really needed to screen my calls, and this was the only way I could buy an answering machine.

I dearly wanted to go home, take a shower, change into clean, dry clothes, and have a decent meal. I knew once I got settled in, I wasn’t going to want to go out again, so I detoured to Kuntz Appliances before heading back to my apartment.

Bernie was using a small roller device to paste price stickers onto a carton of alarm clocks. He looked up when I walked in the door.

“I need an answering machine,” I told him. “Something under fifty dollars.”

My shirt and my jeans were relatively dry by now, but my shoes still leaked water when I walked. Everywhere I stood, amoeba-like puddles formed around me.

Bernie politely pretended not to notice. He shifted into salesman mode and showed me two models of answering machines, both in my price range. I asked which he recommended and followed his advice.

“MasterCard?” he asked.

“I just got a fifty-dollar check from Vinnie. Can I sign it over to you?”

“Sure,” he said. “That’d be okay.”

From where I was standing I could look out the front window, across the street, into Sal’s Meat Market. There wasn’t much to see—a shadowy display window with the name lettered in black and gold and the single glass door with the red and white OPEN sign affixed by a small suction cup halfway up. I imagined Bernie spending hours peering out his window, numbly staring at Sal’s door.

“You said Ziggy Kulesza shopped at Sal’s?”

“Yeah. Of course, there’s all kinds of shopping you can do at Sal’s.”

“So I hear. What kind of shopping do you think Ziggy was doing?”

“Hard to say, but I didn’t notice him coming out with bags of pork chops.”

I tucked my answering machine under my shirt and ran to my car. I took a last wondering look at Sal’s, and I pulled away.

Traffic was slow in the rain, and I found myself mesmerized by the beat and the swish of the wiper and the smear of red brake lights appearing in front of me. I was driving on autopilot, reviewing the day, worrying about Ranger. It’s one thing to see someone shot on television. It’s quite another to see the destruction firsthand. Ranger kept saying it wasn’t a bad wound, but it was bad enough for me. I owned a gun, and I was going to learn how to use it correctly, but I’d lost some of my earlier enthusiasm for pumping lead into a body.

I turned into my lot and found a spot close to the building. I set the alarm and dragged myself out of the car and up the stairs. I left my shoes in the foyer and put the answering machine and my pocketbook on the kitchen counter. I cracked open a beer and called the hospital to check on Ranger. I was told he’d been treated and released. That was good news.

I stuffed myself full of Ritz crackers and peanut butter, washed them down with a second beer, and staggered into my bedroom. I peeled my damp clothes away, half expecting to see that I’d started to mildew. I didn’t check everywhere, but the body parts I saw looked mold-free. Hot dog. What luck. I dropped a T-shirt-type nightgown over my head, hiked up a clean pair of undies, and crashed into bed.

I woke with my heart racing and not knowing why. The cobwebs parted, and I realized the phone was ringing. I fumbled for the receiver and stared stupidly at the bedside clock. Two o’clock. Someone must have died, I thought. My Grandma Mazur or my Aunt Sophie. Or maybe my father passed a kidney stone.

I answered breathless, expecting the worst. “Hello.”

There was silence on the other end. I heard labored breathing, scuffling noises, and then someone moaned. A woman’s voice carried from a distance. “No,” she begged. “Oh God, no.” A terrible scream split the air, jolting the phone from my ear, and I broke out in a cold sweat as I realized what I was hearing. I slammed the receiver down and switched on my bedside light.

I got out of bed on shaky legs and stumbled to the kitchen. I hooked up the answering machine and set it to answer on one ring. My recording said to leave a message. That was it. I didn’t give my name. I went to the bathroom and brushed my teeth and returned to bed.

The phone rang, and I heard the machine snap on. I sat up and listened. The caller crooned to me, half song, half whisper. “Stephanie,” he chanted. “Stephanie.”

My hand instinctively went to my mouth. It was a reflex action designed to control a scream in primal man, but the scream had been bred out of me. What was left was a quick intake of air. Part gasp, part sob.

“You shouldn’t have hung up, bitch,” he said. “You missed the best part. You gotta know what the champ can do, so you can look forward to it.”

I ran to the kitchen, but before I could disconnect the machine, the woman came on the line. She sounded young. Her words were barely audible, thick with tears and trembling with the effort of speech. “It was g-g-good,” she said. Her voice broke. “Oh God help me, I’m hurt. I’m hurt something awful.”

The connection was severed, and I immediately called the police. I explained the tape and told them it was originating with Ramirez. I gave them Ramirez’s home address. I gave them my number if they wanted to institute a call trace. I hung up and padded around the apartment, triple-checking locked doors and windows, thankful that I’d had the dead bolt installed.

The phone rang, and the machine answered. No one came on the line, but I could feel the vibrations of evil and insanity pulsing in the silence. He was out there, listening, savoring the contact, trying to get a bead on my fear. Far off, almost too faint to discern, I heard a woman softly crying. I ripped the phone plug out of the wall jack, splintering the little plastic clip, and then I threw up in the sink. Thank God for garbage disposals.

I AWOKE AT DAYBREAK, relieved to have the night behind me. The rain had stopped. It was too early for bird chatter. There were no cars traveling St. James. It was as if the world was holding its breath, waiting for the sun to burst upon the horizon.

The phone call replayed in my mind. I didn’t need the recorder to remember the message. The good, sensible Stephanie wanted to file for a restraining order. Stephanie the neophyte bounty hunter was still worried about credibility and respect. I could hardly go running to the police every time I was threatened and then expect them to accept me as an equal. I was on record for requesting help for the abused woman on my tape. I thought about it for a while, and I decided to leave it at that for now.

Later in the day I’d give Jimmy Alpha a call.

I’d intended to ask Ranger to take me to the firing range, but since he was recovering from the gunshot wound I would have to lay the burden on Eddie Gazarra. I glanced at the clock again. Gazarra should be at work. I dialed the station and left a message for a call back.

I dressed in T-shirt and shorts and laced up my running shoes. Running isn’t one of my favorite activities, but it was time to get serious about the job, and keeping in shape seemed like part of it.

“Go for it,” I said by way of a pep talk.

I trotted down the hall, the stairs, through the front door. I heaved a large sigh of resignation and pushed off on my three-mile route, mapped out with great care to avoid hills and bakeries.

I slogged through the first mile, and then it got really bad. I’m not one of those people who find their stride. My body was not designed to run. My body was designed to sit in an expensive car and drive. I was sweating and breathing hard when I turned the corner and saw my building half a block away. So near and yet so far. I sprinted the last piece as best I could. I came to a ragged stop at the door and bent at the waist, waiting for my vision to clear, feeling so fucking healthy I could hardly stand myself.

Eddie Gazarra pulled up to the curb in a patrol car. “I got your message,” he said. “Jesus, you look like shit.”

“I’ve been running.”

“Maybe you should check with a doctor.”

“It’s my fair skin. It flushes easily. Did you hear about Ranger?”

“Only every detail. You’re a real hot topic. I even know what you were wearing when you came in with Dodd. I take it your T-shirt was real wet. I mean real wet.”

“When you first started out as a cop, were you afraid of your gun?”

“I’ve been around guns most of my life. I had an air rifle when I was a kid, and I used to go hunting with my dad and my Uncle Walt. I guess guns were always just another piece of hardware to me.”

“If I decide to keep working for Vinnie, you think it’s necessary for me to carry a gun?”

“It depends what kind of cases you take. If you’re just doing skip tracing, no. If you’re going after crazies, yes. Do you have a gun?”

“Smith and Wesson .38. Ranger gave me about ten minutes of instruction on it, but I don’t feel comfortable. Would you be willing to baby-sit me while I do some target practice?”

“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

“There’s no other way to be.”

He nodded. “I heard about your phone call last night.”

“Anything come of it?”

“Dispatch sent someone out, but by the time they got there Ramirez was alone. Said he didn’t call you. Nothing came in from the woman, but you can register a harassment charge.”

“I’ll think about it.”

I waved him off and huffed and puffed my way up the stairs. I let myself into my apartment, dug out an auxiliary phone cord, put a new tape in the answering machine, and took a shower. It was Sunday. Vinnie had given me a week, and the week was up. I didn’t care. Vinnie could give the file to someone else, but he couldn’t stop me from dogging Morelli. If someone else bagged him before I did, that was the breaks, but until that happened I intended to keep at it.

Gazarra had agreed to meet me at the pistol range behind Sunny’s Gun Shop when he got off work at four o’clock. That left me with a whole day of snooping. I started out by driving past Morelli’s mother’s house, his cousin’s house, and various other relatives’ houses. I circled the parking lot to his apartment, noting that the Nova was still where I’d left it. I cruised up and down Stark Street and Polk. I didn’t see the van or anything else that might indicate Morelli’s presence.

I drove by the front of Carmen’s building, and then I went around back. The service road cutting the block was narrow and badly maintained, pocked with holes. There was no tenant parking back here. The single rear door opened onto the service road. Across the way, asphalt-shingled row houses also butted up to the road.

I parked as close to the apartment building as possible, leaving barely enough room for a car to squeeze by me. I got out and looked up, trying to place Carmen’s second-floor apartment, surprised to see two boarded and fire blackened windows. The windows belonged to the Santiago apartment.

The street-level back door was propped open, and the acrid odor of smoke and charred wood hung in the air. I heard the sweep of a broom and realized someone was working in the narrow corridor that led to the front foyer.

A trickle of sooty water tumbled over the sill, and a darkskinned, mustached man looked out at me. He cut his eyes to my car, and jerked his head in the direction of the road. “No parking here.”

I gave him my card. “I’m looking for Joe Morelli. He’s in violation of his bond agreement.”

“Last I saw him he was flat on his back, out cold.”

“Did you see him get hit?”

“No. I didn’t get there until after the police. My apartment’s in the cellar. Sound doesn’t carry good.”

I looked up at the damaged windows. “What happened?”

“Fire in the Santiago apartment. Happened on Friday. I guess if you wanted to be picky you’d say it happened Saturday. Was about two in the morning. Thank God no one was home. Mrs. Santiago was at her daughter’s. She was babysitting. Usually the kids come here, but on Friday she went to their place.”

“Anybody know how it started?”

“Could have started a million ways. Not everything’s up to code in a building like this. Not that this building’s so bad compared to some others, but it’s not new, you know what I mean?”

I shaded my eyes and took one last look and wondered how hard it’d be to lob a firebomb through Mrs. Santiago’s bedroom window. Probably not hard, I decided. And, at two in the morning, in an apartment this size, a fire started in a bedroom would be a bitch. If Santiago had been home, she’d have been toast. There were no balconies and no fire escapes. All of these apartments had only one way out—through the front door. Although it didn’t seem as though Carmen and the missing witness had left through the front door.

I turned and stared into the dark windows of the row houses across the way and decided it wouldn’t hurt to question the residents. I got back into the Cherokee and drove around the block, finding a parking place one street over. I rapped on doors and asked questions and showed pictures. The responses were all similar. No, they didn’t recognize Morelli’s picture, and no, they hadn’t seen anything unusual from their back windows on the night of the murder or the fire.

I tried the row house directly across from Carmen’s apartment and found myself face to face with a stooped old man wielding a baseball bat. He was beady-eyed and hooked-nosed and had ears that probably kept him indoors when the wind was blowing.

“Batting practice?” I asked.

“Can’t be too careful,” he said.

I identified myself and asked if he’d seen Morelli.

“Nope. Never seen him. And I got better things to do than to look out my damn windows. Couldn’t‘ve seen anything anyway on the night of the murder. It was dark. How the hell was I supposed to see anything?”

“There are streetlights back there,” I said. “It looks to me like it would be pretty well lit.”

“The lights were out that night. I told this to the cops that come around. The damn lights are always out. Kids shoot them out. I know they were out because I looked to see what all the noise was about. I could hardly hear my TV what with all the noise from the cop cars and the trucks.

“The first time I looked out it was because of the motor running on one of them refrigerator trucks… like from a food store. Damn thing was parked right behind my house. I tell you the neighborhood’s going to hell. People got no consideration. They park trucks and delivery cars here in the alley all the time while they do personal visits. Shouldn’t be allowed.”

I nodded in vague affirmation, thinking it was a good thing I owned a gun because if I ever got this crotchety I’d want to kill myself.

He took my nod as encouragement and kept going. “Then the next truck to come along was a police wagon about the same size as the refrigerator truck, and they left their motor running too. These guys must have gas to burn.”

“So then you didn’t really see anything suspicious?”

“Was too damn dark, I’m telling you. King Kong could have been climbing up that wall and nobody would’ve seen.”

I thanked him for his help and walked back to the Jeep. It was close to noon, and the air was crackling hot. I drove to my Cousin Roonie’s bar, snagged an ice-cold six-pack, and headed for Stark Street.

Lula and Jackie were hawking wares on the corner, just like always. They were sweating and swaying in the heat, yelling out intimate pet names and graphic suggestions to potential customers. I parked close by, set the six-pack on the hood, and popped one open.

Lula eyed the beer. “You tryin‘ to lure us away from our corner, girl?”

I grinned. I sort of liked them. “Thought you might be thirsty.”

“Sheeit. Thirsty ain’t the half of it.” Lula sauntered over, took a beer, and chugged some. “Don’t know why I’m wasting my time standing out. Nobody want to fuck in this weather.”

Jackie followed. “You shouldn’t be doing that,” she warned Lula. “Your old man gonna get mad.”

“Hunk,” Lula said. “I suppose I care. Dumbass prick pimp. Don’t see him standing out here in the sun, do you?”

“So what’s the word on Morelli?” I asked. “Anything happening?”

“Haven’t seen him,” Lula said. “Haven’t seen the van neither.”

“You hear anything about Carmen?”

“Like what?”

“Like is she around somewhere?”

Lula was wearing a halter top with a lot of boob hanging out. She rolled the cold can of beer across her chest. I figured it was wasted effort. She’d need a keg to cool off a chest that size.

“Don’t hear nothing about Carmen.”

An ugly thought flashed through my mind. “Carmen ever spend time with Ramirez?”

“Sooner or later everybody spend time with Ramirez.”

“You ever spend time with him?”

“Not me. He like to do his magic on skinny pussy.”

“Suppose he wanted to do his magic on you? Would you go with him?”

“Honey, nobody refuses Ramirez nothing.”

“I hear he abuses women.”

“Lots of men abuse women,” Jackie said. “Sometimes men get in a mood.”

“Sometimes they’re sick,” I said. “Sometimes they’re freaks. I hear Ramirez is a freak.”

Lula looked down the street to the gym, her eyes locked on the second-story windows. “Yeah,” she said softly. “He’s a freak. He scares me. I had a friend go with Ramirez, and he cut her bad.”

“Cut her? With a knife?”

“No,” she said. “With a beer bottle. Broke the neck and then used it to… you know, do the deed.”

I felt my head go light, and time stood still for a moment. “How do you know it was Ramirez?”

“People know.”

“People don’t know nothing,” Jackie said. “People shouldn’t be talking. Somebody gonna hear, and you be in for it. Be all your own fault, too, ‘cause you know better’n to go shootin’ your mouth. I’m not staying here and being party to this. Nuh unh. Not me. I’m going back to my corner. You know what’s good for you, you’ll come too.”

“I know what’s good for me I wouldn’t be standing out here at all, would I?” Lula said, moving off.

“Be careful,” I called after her.

“Big woman like me don’t gotta be careful,” she said. “I just stomp on them weird-ass motherfuckers. Nobody mess with Lula.”

I stashed the rest of the beer in the car, slid behind the wheel, and locked the doors. I started the engine and turned the air on full blast, positioning all the vents so the cold hit me in the face. “Come on, Stephanie,” I said. “Get a grip.” But I couldn’t get a grip. My heart was racing, and my throat was closed tight with grief for a woman I didn’t even know, a woman who must have suffered terribly. I wanted to get as far away from Stark Street as was humanly possible and never come back. I didn’t want to know about these things, didn’t want the terror of it creeping into my consciousness at unguarded moments. I hung onto the wheel and looked down the street at the second-floor gym and was rocked with rage and horror that Ramirez hadn’t been punished, and that he was free to mutilate and terrorize other women.

I lunged out of the car, slammed the door closed, and stalked across the street to Alpha’s office building, taking the stairs two at a time. I barreled past his secretary and threw the door to Alpha’s inner office open with enough force to make it crash against the wall.

Alpha jumped in his chair.

I leaned palms down on his desk top and got right in his face. “I got a phone call last night from your fighter. He was brutalizing some young woman, and he was trying to terrorize me with her suffering. I know all about his previous rape charges, and I know about his fondness for sexual mutilation. I don’t know how he’s managed to escape prosecution this far, but I’m here to tell you his luck has run out. Either you stop him, or else I’ll stop him. I’ll go to the police. I’ll go to the press. I’ll go to the fight commissioner.”

“Don’t do that. I’ll take care of it. I swear, I’ll take care of it. I’ll get him into counseling.”

“Today!”

“Yeah. Today. I promise, I’ll get him some help.”

I didn’t believe it for a second, but I’d said my piece, so I left in the same whirlwind of bad temper that I’d entered. I forced myself to breathe deep on the stairs and cross the street with a calmness I didn’t feel. I pulled out of the parking space and very slowly, very carefully drove away.

It was still early in the day, but I’d lost my energy for the hunt. My car headed home of its own volition, and next thing I knew I was in my parking lot. I locked up, climbed the stairs to my apartment, flopped down on the bed, and assumed my thinking position.

I woke up at three and felt better. While I was sleeping, my mind had obviously been hard at work finding secluded repositories for my latest collection of depressing thoughts. They were still with me, but they were no longer forcefully pressing against my forehead.

I made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, gave a bite of it to Rex, and scarfed the rest down while I accessed Morelli’s messages.

A photo studio had called with an offer of a free eight by ten if Morelli came in for a sitting. Someone wanted to sell him light bulbs, and Charlene called with an indecent suggestion, did some heavy panting, and either had a hell of an orgasm or else stepped on her cat’s tail. Unfortunately, she also ran the tape out, so there were no more messages. It was just as well. I couldn’t have managed listening to much more.

I was straightening the kitchen when the phone rang and the machine picked it up.

“Are you listening, Stephanie? Are you home? I saw you talking to Lula and Jackie today. Saw you drinking beer with them. I didn’t like that, Stephanie. Made me feel bad. Made me feel like you liked them better than me. Made me angry because you don’t want what the champ want to give you.

“Maybe I’ll give you a present, Stephanie. Maybe I’ll deliver it to your door when you’re sleeping. Would you like that? All women like presents. ‘Specially the kind of presents the champ gives. Gonna be a surprise, Stephanie. Gonna be just for you.”

With that promise ringing in my ears I made sure my gun and my bullets were in my pocketbook, and I took off for Sunny’s. I got there at four and waited in the lot until Eddie showed up at four-fifteen.

He was out of uniform, and he had his off-duty .38 clipped to his waist.

“Where’s your gun?” he asked.

I patted my pocketbook.

“That’s considered carrying concealed. It’s a serious offense in New Jersey.”

“I have a permit.”

“Let me see it.”

I pulled the permit out of my wallet.

“This is a permit to own, not to carry,” Eddie said.

“Ranger told me it was multipurpose.”

“Ranger gonna come visit you when you’re making license plates?”

“Sometimes I think he stretches the limits of the law a trifle. Are you going to arrest me?”

“No, but it’s going to cost you.”

“Dozen donuts?”

“Dozen donuts is what it takes to fix a parking ticket. This is worth a six-pack and a pizza.”

It was necessary to go through the gun shop to get to the rifle range. Eddie paid the range fee and bought a box of shells. I did the same. The range was directly behind the gun shop and consisted of a room the size of a small bowling alley. Seven booths were partitioned off, each booth with a chesthigh shelf. Beyond the booths was known as downrange. Standard targets of ungendered humans cut off at the knees, with bull’s-eye rings radiating out from the heart, were hung on pulleys. Range etiquette was never to point the gun at the guy standing next to you.

“Okay,” Gazarra said, “let’s start at the beginning. You have a Smith and Wesson .38 Special. It’s a 5-shot revolver, which puts it into the category of small gun. You’re using hydroshock bullets to cause maximum pain and suffering. This little doohickey here gets pushed forward with your thumb, the cylinder releases, and you can load your gun. A bullet is a round. Load a round in each chamber and click the cylinder closed. Never leave your trigger finger resting on the trigger. It’s a natural reflex to squeeze when surprised, and you could end up blowing a hole in your foot. Stretch your trigger finger straight toward the barrel until you’re ready to shoot. We’re going to use the most basic stance today. Feet shoulder-width apart, weight on the balls of your feet, hold the gun in both hands, left thumb over right thumb, arms straight. Look at the target, bring the gun up and sight. The front sight is a post. The rear sight is a notch. Line the sights up on the desired spot on the target and fire.

“This revolver is double action. You can fire by pulling the trigger or by cocking the hammer and then pulling the trigger.” He’d been demonstrating while he talked, doing everything but fire the gun. He released the cylinder, spilled the bullets out onto the shelf, laid the gun on the shelf, and stepped back. “Any questions?”

“No. Not yet.”

He handed me a pair of ear protectors. “Go for it.”

My first shot was single action, and I hit the bull’s-eye. I shot several more rounds single action, and then switched over to double action. This was more difficult to control, but I did pretty well.

After a half hour, I’d used up all my ammo, and I was shooting erratically from muscle fatigue. Usually when I go to the gym I spend most of my time working abdominals and legs because that’s where my fat goes. If I was going to be any good at shooting, I was going to have to get more upper body strength.

Eddie pulled my target in. “Damn fair shooting, Tex.”

“I’m better at single action.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re a girl.”

“You don’t want to say stuff like that when I’ve got a gun in my hand.”

I bought a box of shells before I left. I dropped the shells into my pocketbook along with my gun. I was driving a stolen car. Worrying about carrying concealed at this point seemed like overkill.

“So do I get my pizza now?” Eddie wanted to know.

“What about Shirley?”

“Shirley’s at a baby shower.”

“The kids?”

“Mother-in-law.”

“What about your diet?”

“You trying to get out of buying this pizza?”

“I’ve only got twelve dollars and thirty-three cents distinguishing me from the bag lady at the train station.”

“Okay, I’ll buy the pizza.”

“Good. I need to talk. I have problems.”

Ten minutes later, we met at Pino’s Pizzeria. There were several Italian restaurants in the burg, but Pino’s was the place to get pizza. I was told at night cockroaches as big as barn cats came out to raid the kitchen, but the pizza was first rate—crust that was crisp and puffy, homemade sauce, and enough grease from the pepperoni to run down your arm and drip off your elbow. There was a bar and a family room. Late at night the bar was filled with off-duty cops trying to wind down before they went home. At this time of the day the bar was filled with men waiting for take-out.

We got a table in the family room and asked for a pitcher while we waited for the pizza. There was a shaker of crushed hot pepper in the middle of the table, and another shaker of Parmesan. The tablecloth was red-and-white checked plastic. The walls were paneled and lacquered to a shiny gloss and decorated with framed photos of famous Italians and a few non-Italian locals. Frank Sinatra and Benito Ramirez were the dominant celebs.

“So what’s the problem?” Eddie wanted to know.

“Two problems. Number one. Joe Morelli. I’ve run into him four times since I’ve taken on this assignment, and I’ve never once come close to making an apprehension.”

“Are you afraid of him?”

“No. But I am afraid to use my gun.”

“Then do it the ladies’ way. Spray him and cuff him.”

Easier said than done, I thought. It’s hard to spray a man when he has his tongue down your throat. “That was my plan, too, but he always moves faster than I do.”

“You want my advice? Forget Morelli. You’re a beginner, and he’s a pro. He has years of experience behind him. He was a smart cop, and he’s probably even better at being a felon.”

“Forgetting Morelli isn’t an option. I’d like you to run a couple car checks for me.” I wrote the van’s license number on a napkin and gave it to him. “See if you can find out who owns this. I’d also like to know if Carmen Sanchez owns a car. And if she does own a car, has it been impounded?”

I drank some beer and slouched back, enjoying the cold air and the buzz of conversation around me. Every table was filled now, and there was a knot of people waiting at the door. No one wanted to cook when it got this hot.

“So what’s the second problem?” Eddie asked.

“If I tell you, you have to promise not to get overwrought.”

“Christ, you’re pregnant.”

I stared at him, nonplussed. “Why would you think that?”

His expression was sheepish. “I don’t know. It just popped out. It’s what Shirley always says to me.”

Gazarra had four kids. The oldest was nine. The youngest was a year. They were all boys, and they were all monsters.

“Well, I’m not pregnant. It’s Ramirez.” I gave him the full story on Ramirez.

“You should have filed a report on him,” Gazarra said. “Why didn’t you call the police when you got roughed up in the gym?”

“Would Ranger have filed a report if he got roughed up?”

“You’re not Ranger.”

“That’s true, but you see my point?”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I guess if I suddenly disappear, I want you to know where to start looking.”

“Jesus. If you think he’s that dangerous, you should get a restraining order.”

“I don’t have a lot of confidence in a restraining order. Besides, what am I going to tell the judge… that Ramirez threatened to send me a present? Look around you. What do you see?”

Eddie sighed. “Pictures of Ramirez, side by side with the Pope and Frank Sinatra.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I said. “I just needed to tell someone.”

“If you have any more problems I want you to call me right away.”

I nodded.

“When you’re home alone, make sure your gun is loaded and accessible. Could you use it on Ramirez if you had to?”

“I don’t know. I think so.”

“Scheduling got screwed up, and I’m working days again. I want you to meet me at Sunny’s every day at four-thirty. I’ll buy the ammo and pay the range fee. The only way to feel comfortable with a gun is to use it.”

I WAS HOME BY NINE, and for lack of something better to do, I decided to clean my apartment. There were no messages on my machine and no suspicious packages on my doorstep. I gave Rex new bedding, vacuumed the carpet, scrubbed the bathroom, and polished the few pieces of furniture I had left. This brought me up to ten. I checked one last time to make sure everything was locked, took a shower, and went to bed.

I awoke at seven feeling elated. I’d slept like a brick. My machine was still gloriously message free. Birds were warbling, the sun was shining, and I could see my reflection in my toaster. I pulled on shorts and shirt and started coffee brewing. I opened the living room curtains and gasped at the magnificence of the day. The sky was a brilliant blue, the air was still washed clean from the rain, and I had an overwhelming desire to belt out something from The Sound of Music. I sang, “The hills are alüüive with the sound of muuusic,” but then I didn’t know any more words.

I twirled myself into my bedroom and threw the curtain open with a flourish. I froze at the sight of Lula tied to my fire escape. She hung there like a big rag doll, her arms crooked over the railing at an unnatural angle, her head slumped forward onto her chest. Her legs were splayed so that she seemed to be sitting. She was naked and bloodsmeared, the blood caked in her hair and clotted on her legs. A sheet had been draped behind her to hide her from view of the parking lot.

I shouted her name and clawed at the lock, my heart hammering so hard in my chest that my vision blurred. I heaved the window open and half fell onto the fire escape, reaching out for her, tugging ineffectually at her bindings.

Lula didn’t move, didn’t utter a sound, and I couldn’t collect myself enough to tell if she was breathing. “You’re going to be okay,” I cried, my voice sounding hoarse, my throat closed tight, my lungs burning. “I’m going to get help.” And under my breath I sobbed, “Don’t be dead. God Lula, don’t be dead.”

I floundered back through the window to call for an ambulance, caught my foot on the sill, and crashed to the floor. There was no pain, only panic as I scrambled on hands and knees to the phone. I couldn’t remember the emergency number. My mind had shut down in the face of hysteria, leaving me to cope helplessly with the confusion and denial accompanying sudden and unexpected tragedy.

I punched 0 and told the operator Lula was hurt on my fire escape. I had a flashback of Jackie Kennedy crawling over the car seat to get help for her dead husband, and I burst into tears, crying for Lula and Jackie and for myself, all victims of violence.

I clattered through the cutlery drawer, looking for my paring knife, finally finding it in the dish drainer. I had no idea how long Lula had been tied to the railing, but I couldn’t bear her hanging there seconds longer.

I ran back with the knife and sawed at the ropes until they were severed, and Lula collapsed into my arms. She was almost twice my size, but somehow I dragged her inert, bloodied body through the window. My instincts were to hide and protect. Stephanie Plum, mother cat. I heard the sirens wailing from far away, getting closer and closer, and then the police were pounding on my door. I don’t remember letting them in, but obviously I did. A uniformed cop took me aside, into the kitchen, and sat me down on a chair. A medic followed.

“What happened?” the cop asked.

“I found her on the fire escape,” I said. “I opened the curtains and there she was.” My teeth were chattering, and my heart was still racing in my chest. I gulped in air. “She was tied to keep her up, and I cut her down and dragged her through the window.”

I could hear the medics shouting to bring the stretcher. There was the sound of my bed being shoved aside to make room. I was afraid to ask if Lula was alive. I sucked in more air and clenched my hands in my lap until my knuckles turned white and my nails dug into the fleshy part of my palm.

“Does Lula live here?” the cop wanted to know.

“No. I live here. I don’t know where Lula lives. I don’t even know her last name.”

The phone rang and I automatically reached out to answer.

The caller’s voice whispered from the handset. “Did you get my present, Stephanie?”

It was as if the earth suddenly stopped rotating. There was a moment of feeling off balance, and then everything snapped into focus. I pushed the record button on the machine and turned up the volume so everyone could hear.

“What present are you talking about?” I asked.

“You know what present. I saw you find her. Saw you drag her back through the window. I’ve been watching you. I could have come and got you last night when you were asleep, but I wanted you to see Lula. I wanted you to see what I can do to a woman, so you know what to expect. I want you to think about it, bitch. I want you to think about how it’s going to hurt, and how you’re going to beg.”

“You like to hurt women?” I asked, control beginning to return.

“Sometimes women need to be hurt.”

I decided to take a winger. “How about Carmen Sanchez? Did you hurt her?”

“Not as good as I’m going to hurt you. I have special things planned for you.”

“No time like the present,” I said, and I was shocked to realize that I meant it. There was no bravado in the statement. I was in the grip of cold, hard, sphincter-cramping fury.

“The cops are there now, bitch. I’m not coming when the cops are there. I’m going to get you when you’re alone and you’re not expecting me. I’m going to make sure we have lots of time together.”

The connection was broken.

“Jesus Christ,” the uniform said. “He’s crazy.”

“Do you know who that was?”

“I’m afraid to guess.”

I popped the tape out of the machine, and wrote my name and the date on the label. My hand was shaking so badly the writing was barely readable.

A handheld radio crackled from the living room. I could hear the murmur of voices in my bedroom. The voices were less frantic, and the rhythm of activity had become more orderly. I looked at myself and realized I was covered with Lula’s blood. It had soaked into my shirt and shorts, and it was coagulating on my hands and the bottoms of my bare feet. The phone was tacky with blood smears, as was the floor and the counter.

The cop and the medic exchanged glances. “Maybe you should get that blood washed off,” the medic said. “How about we get you into the shower real fast.”

I looked in at Lula on my way to the bathroom. They were getting ready to move her out. She was strapped to the stretcher, covered with a sheet and blanket. She was hooked up to an IV. “How is she?” I asked.

A squad member tugged the stretcher forward. “Alive,” he said.

The medics were gone when I got out of the shower. Two uniformed cops had stayed, and the one who’d talked to me in the kitchen was conferring with a PC in the living room, the two of them going over notes. I dressed quickly and left my hair to dry on its own. I was anxious to make my statement and be done with it. I wanted to get to the hospital to see about Lula.

The PC’s name was Dorsey. I’d seen him before. Probably at Pino’s. He was medium height, medium build, and looked to be in his late forties. He was in shirtsleeves and slacks and penny loafers. I could see my recorder tape tucked into his shirt pocket. Exhibit A. I told him about the incident in the gym, omitting Morelli’s name, leaving Dorsey to think the identity of my rescuer was unknown. If the police wanted to believe Morelli’d left town, that was fine with me. I still had hopes of bringing him in and collecting my money.

Dorsey took a lot of notes and looked knowingly at the patrolman. He didn’t seem surprised. I suppose if you’re a cop long enough, nothing surprises you.

When they left I shut off the coffeemaker, closed and locked the bedroom window, grabbed my pocketbook, and squared my shoulders to what I knew awaited me in the hall. I was going to have to make my way past Mrs. Orbach, Mr. Grossman, Mrs. Feinsmith, Mr. Wolesky, and who knows how many others. They would want to know the details, and I wasn’t up to imparting details.

I put my head down, shouted apologies, and went straight for the stairs, knowing that would slow them. I bolted out of the building and ran to the Cherokee.

I took St. James to Olden and rut across Trenton to Stark. It would have been easier to go straight to St. Francis Hospital, but I wanted to get Jackie. I barreled down Stark and passed the gym without a sideways glance. As far as I was concerned, Ramirez was finished. If he slipped through the loopholes of the law on this one, I’d get him myself. I’d cut off his dick with a carving knife if I had to.

Jackie was just corning out of the Corner Bar, where I imagine she’d had breakfast. I screeched to a stop and half hung out the door. “Get in!” I yelled to Jackie.

“What’s this about?”

“Lulu’s in the hospital. Ramirez got to her.”

“Oh God.” she wailed. “I was so afraid. I knew something was wrong. How bad is it?”

“I honestly don’t know. I found her on my fire escape just now. Ramirez had left her tied there as a message to me. She’s unconscious.”

“I was there when he come for her. She didn’t want to go, but you don’t say no to Bonito Ramirez. Her old man would’ve beat her bloody.”

“Yeah. Well, she’s been beaten bloody anyway.”

I found a parking place on Hamilton one block from the emergency entrance. I set the alarm, and Jackie and I took off at a trot. She had about two hundred pounds on the hoof, and she wasn’t even breathing hard when we pushed through the double glass doors. I guess humping all day keeps you in shape.

“A woman named Lula was just brought in by ambulance,” I told the clerk.

The clerk looked at me, and then she looked at Jackie. Jackie was dressed in poison green shorts with half her ass hanging out, matching rubber sandals, and a hot pink tank top. “Are you family?” she asked Jackie.

“Lulu don’t got any family here.”

“We need someone to fill out forms.”

“I guess I could do that,” she said.

When we were done with the forms, we were told to sit and wait. We did this in silence, aimlessly thumbing through torn magazines, watching with inhuman detachment as one tragedy after another rolled down the hall. After a half hour I asked about Lula and was told she was in X ray. How long would she be in X ray? I asked. The clerk didn’t know. It would be a while, but then a doctor would come out to talk to us. I reported this to Jackie.

“Hunh,” she said. “I bet.”

I was a quart down on caffeine, so I left Jackie to wait and went in search of the cafeteria. I was told to follow the footprints on the floor, and darned if they didn’t bring me to food. I loaded a take-out carton with pastries, two large coffees, and added two oranges just in case Jackie and I felt the need to be healthy. I thought it was unlikely, but I figured it was like wearing clean panties in case of a car crash. It never hurt to be prepared.

An hour later, we saw the doctor.

He looked at me, and he looked at Jackie. Jackie hiked up her top and tugged at her shorts. It was a futile gesture.

“Are you family?” he asked Jackie.

“I guess so,” Jackie said. “What’s the word?”

“The prognosis is guarded but hopeful. She’s lost a lot of blood, and she’s suffered some head trauma. She has multiple wounds that need suturing. She’s being taken to surgery. It will probably be a while before she’s brought to her room. You might want to go out and come back in an hour or two.”

“I’m not going nowhere,” Jackie said.

Two hours dragged by without further information. We’d eaten all the pastries and were forced to eat the oranges.

“Don’t like this,” Jackie said. “Don’t like being cooped up in institutions. Whole fucking place smells like canned green beans.”

“Spend much time in institutions, have you?”

“My share.”

She didn’t seem inclined to elaborate, and I didn’t actually want to know anyway. I fidgeted in my chair, looked around the room, and spotted Dorsey talking to the clerk. He was nodding, getting answers to questions. The clerk pointed to Jackie and me, and Dorsey ambled over.

“How’s Lula?” he asked. “Any news?”

“She’s in surgery.”

He settled himself into the seat next to me. “We haven’t been able to pick up Ramirez yet. You have any idea where he might be? He say anything interesting before you started recording?”

“He said he was watching me pull Lula through the window. And he knew the police were in my apartment. He must have been close.”

“Probably on a car phone.”

I agreed.

“Here’s my card.” He wrote a number on the back. “This is my home phone. You see Ramirez, or you get another call, get in touch right away.”

“It’ll be hard for him to hide,” I said. “He’s a local celebrity. He’s easy to recognize.”

Dorsey returned his pen to an inside jacket pocket, and I got a glimpse of his hip holster. “There are a lot of people in this city who’ll go out of their way to hide and protect Benito Ramirez. We’ve been this route with him before.”

“Yes, but you’ve never had a tape.”

“True. The tape might make a difference.”

“Won’t make no difference,” Jackie said when Dorsey left. “Ramirez do what he want. Nobody cares about him beating on a whore.”

“We care,” I said to Jackie. “We can stop him. We can get Lula to testify against him.”

“Hunh,” Jackie said. “You don’t know much.”

It was three before we were allowed to see Lula. She hadn’t regained consciousness and was in ICU. Our visit was restricted to ten minutes each. I squeezed her hand and promised her she’d be okay. When my time was up, I told Jackie I had an appointment I needed to keep. She said she was staying until Lula opened her eyes.

I got to Sunny’s a half hour before Gazarra. I paid my fee, bought a box of shells, and went back to the range. I shot a few with the hammer pulled back, and then settled in for serious practice. I envisioned Ramirez in front of the target. I aimed for his heart, his balls, his nose.

Gazarra came on the range at four-thirty. He dropped a new box of shells on my loading table and took the booth next to me. By the time I was done with both boxes I was pleasantly relaxed and feeling comfortable with my gun. I loaded five rounds and slid the gun back into my bag. I tapped Gazarra on the shoulder and motioned that I was done.

He holstered his Glock and followed me out. We waited until we were in the parking lot to talk.

“I heard the call come in,” he said. “Sorry I couldn’t get to you. I was in the middle of something. I saw Dorsey at the station. He said you were cool. Said you switched on the recorder when Ramirez came on the line.”

“You should have seen me five minutes before. I couldn’t remember 911.”

“I don’t suppose you’d consider taking a vacation?”

“It’s crossed my mind.”

“You got your gun in your pocketbook?”

“Hell no, that would be breaking the law.”

Gazarra sighed. “Just don’t let anyone see it, okay? And call me if you get spooked. You’re welcome to stay with Shirley and me for as long as you want.”

“I appreciate it.”

“I checked on the plate number you gave me. The plates belong to a vehicle seized for a parking violation, impounded, and never retrieved.”

“I saw Morelli driving said vehicle.”

“He probably borrowed it.”

We both smiled at the thought of Morelli driving a vehicle stolen from the impound yard.

“What about Carmen Sanchez? Does she have a car?”

Gazarra dug a piece of paper out of his pocket. “This is the make and her license number. It hasn’t been impounded.

“You want me to follow you home? Make sure your apartment’s safe?”

“Not necessary. Half the building’s population is probably still camped out in my hall.”

What I really dreaded was facing the blood. I was going to have to walk into my apartment and face the grisly aftermath of Ramirez’s handiwork. Lula’s blood would still be on the phone, the walls, the countertops, and the floor. If the sight of that blood triggered a renewed rush of hysteria, I wanted to deal with it alone, in my own way.

I parked in the lot and slipped into the building unnoticed. Good timing, I thought. The halls were clear. Everyone was eating dinner. I had my defense spray in my hand and my gun wedged under my waistband. I turned the key in the lock and felt my stomach lurch. Just get it over with, I told myself. Barge right in, check under the bed for rapists, pull on some rubber gloves, and clean up the mess.

I took a tentative step into my foyer, and realized someone was in my apartment. Someone was cooking in the kitchen, making cozy cooking sounds, clanking pots and running water. Under the clanking I could hear food sizzling in a frying pan.

“Hello,” I called, gun now in hand, barely able to hear myself over the pounding of my heart. “Who’s here?”

Morelli sauntered out of the kitchen. “Just me. Put the gun away. We need to talk.”

“Jesus! You are so fucking arrogant. Did it ever occur to you I might shoot you with this gun?”

“No. It never occurred to me.”

“I’ve been practicing. I’m a pretty good shot.”

He moved behind me, closed and locked the door. “Yeah, I’ll bet you’re hell on wheels blasting the shit out of those paper men.”

“What are you doing in my apartment?”

“I’m cooking dinner.” He went back to his sautéing. “Rumor has it you’ve had a tough day.”

My mind was spinning. I’d been wracking my brain, trying to find Morelli, and here he was in my apartment. He even had his back turned to me. I could shoot him in the butt.

“You don’t want to shoot an unarmed man,” he said, reading my thoughts. “The state of New Jersey frowns on that sort of thing. Take it from someone who knows.”

All right, so I wouldn’t shoot him. I’d zap him with the Sure Guard. His neurotransmitters wouldn’t know what hit them.

Morelli added some fresh sliced mushrooms to the pan and continued to cook, sending heavenly food smells wafting my way. He was stirring red and green peppers, onions, and mushrooms, and my killer instincts were weakening in direct proportion to the amount of saliva pooling in my mouth.

I found myself rationalizing a decision to hold off on the spray, telling myself I needed to hear him out, but the ugly truth was my motives weren’t nearly so worthy. I was hungry and depressed, and I was a lot more frightened of Ramirez than I was of Joe Morelli. In fact, I suppose in a bizarre way, I felt safe with Morelli in my apartment.

One crisis at a time, I decided. Have some dinner. Gas him for dessert.

He turned and looked at me. “You want to talk about it?”

“Ramirez almost killed Lula and hung her on my fire escape.”

“Ramirez is like a fungus that feeds on fear. You ever see him in the ring? His fans love him because he goes the distance unless the referee calls the fight. He plays with his opponent. Loves to draw blood. Loves to punish. And all the time he’s punishing, he’s talking to his victim in that soothing voice of his, telling them how much worse it’s going to get, telling them he’ll only stop when they beg to get knocked out. He’s like that with women. Likes to see them squirm in fear and pain. Likes to leave his mark.”

I dumped my pocketbook on the counter. “I know. He’s very large on mutilation and begging. In fact, you might say he’s obsessed with it.”

Morelli turned the heat down. “I’m trying to scare you, but I don’t think it’s working.”

“I’m all scared out. I don’t have any more scare left in me. Maybe tomorrow.” I looked around and realized someone had cleaned up the blood. “Did you scrub the kitchen?”

“The kitchen and the bedroom. You’re going to have to have your carpet professionally cleaned.”

“Thank you. I wasn’t looking forward to seeing more blood today.”

“Was it bad?”

“Yeah. Her face is battered almost beyond recognition, and she was bleeding… everywhere.” My voice broke and hitched in my throat. I looked down at the floor. “Shit.”

“I have wine in the refrigerator. Why don’t you trade in that gun for a couple glasses?”

“Why are you being nice to me?”

“I need you.”

“Oh boy.”

“Not that way.”

“I wasn’t thinking ‘that way.’ All I said was oh boy. What are you making?”

“Steak. I put it in when you pulled into the parking lot.” He poured the wine and gave me a glass. “You’re living a little Spartan here.”

“I lost my job and couldn’t get another. I sold off my furniture to keep going.”

“That’s when you decided to work for Vinnie?”

“I didn’t have a lot of options.”

“So you’re after me for the money. It’s nothing personal.”

“In the beginning it wasn’t.”

He was moving around my kitchen like he’d lived there all his life, setting plates on the counter, pulling a bowl of salad from the refrigerator. It should have seemed invasive and pushy, but it was actually very comfortable.

He flipped a rib steak onto each plate, covered them with the peppers and onions, and added a foil-wrapped baked potato. He set out salad dressing, sour cream, and steak sauce, shut the broiler off, and wiped his hands on a kitchen towel. “Why is it personal now?”

“You chained me to the shower rod! Then you made me go rooting around in a Dumpster to get my keys! Every time I catch up to you, you do everything possible to humiliate me.”

“They weren’t your keys. They were my keys.” He took a sip of wine, and our eyes locked. “You stole my car.”

“I had a plan.”

“You were going to snag me when I came after my car?”

“Something like that.”

He carried his plate to the table. “I hear Macy’s has openings for make-over ladies.”

“You sound like my mother.”

Morelli grinned and dug into his steak.

The day had been exhausting, and the wine and good food were mellowing me out. We were eating at the table, sitting across from each other, absorbed in the meal like an old married couple. I cleaned my plate and pushed back in my chair. “What do you need from me?”

“Cooperation. And in return for that cooperation, I’ll see to it that you collect your bounty money.”

“You’ve got my attention.”

“Carmen Sanchez was an informant. One night I’m sitting home watching television, and I get a call from her asking for help. She says she’s been raped and beaten. She says she needs money, and she needs a safe place to stay, and in return she’s going to give me something big.

“When I get to her apartment Ziggy Kulesza answers the door, and Carmen is nowhere in sight. Another guy, better known as the missing witness, comes out of the bedroom, recognizes me from who-knows-where, and panics. ‘This guy’s a cop,’ he yells to Ziggy. ‘I can’t believe you opened the door to a goddamn cop.’

“Ziggy draws a gun on me. I return fire and shoot him almost point-blank. Next thing I know, I’m staring at the ceiling. The second guy is gone. Carmen’s gone. Ziggy’s gun is gone.”

“How could he have missed you at such close range? And if he missed you, where’d the bullet go?”

“The only explanation I can come up with is that the gun misfired.”

“And now you want to find Carmen so Carmen can back up your story.”

“I don’t think Carmen’s going to be backing up anyone’s story. My guess is she was beaten up by Ramirez, and Ziggy and his pal were sent to finish the job. Ziggy did all Ramirez’s dirty work.

“When you’re out on the street like I am, you hear things. Ramirez likes to punish women. Sometimes women last seen in his company are known to disappear. I think he gets carried away and kills them, or maybe he hurts them so bad he has to send someone to finish the job to keep things quiet. Then the body vanishes. No body. No crime. I think Carmen was dead in the bedroom when I arrived. That’s why Ziggy freaked.”

“There’s only one door,” I said, “and no one saw her leave… dead or alive.”

“There’s a window in the bedroom that overlooks the service road.”

“You think Carmen was pitched out the window?”

Morelli took his plate into the kitchen and started coffee brewing. “I’m looking for the guy who recognized me. Ziggy dropped the gun when he hit the floor. I saw it skitter to the side. When I got hit from behind, Ziggy’s partner must have taken the gun, slipped off into the bedroom, dumped Carmen out the window, and followed her.”

“I’ve been back there. It’s a long drop if you’re not dead.”

Morelli shrugged. “Maybe he was able to slide through the crowd hovering over Ziggy and me. Then he went out the back door, collected Carmen, and drove off.”

“I want to hear the part about me getting the $10,000.”

“You help me prove I shot Kulesza in self-defense, and I’ll let you bring me in.”

“I can hardly wait to hear how I’m going to do this.”

“The only link I have to the missing witness is Ramirez. I’ve been watching him, but nothing’s come of it. Unfortunately, my movements are getting restricted. I’ve called in just about every favor I had out there. Lately, I’ve been spending more hours hiding than looking. I feel like I’m running out of time and ideas.

“You’re the one person no one would suspect of helping me,” Morelli said.

“Why would I want to help you? Why don’t I just use the opportunity to turn you in?”

“Because I’m innocent.”

“That’s your problem, not mine.” It was a hardass answer and not entirely the truth. The truth was, I’d actually started to feel kind of soft on Morelli.

“Then let’s up the ante for you. While you’re helping me find my witness, I’ll be protecting you from Ramirez.”

I almost said I didn’t need protection, but that was absurd. I needed all the protection I could get. “What happens when Dorsey picks up Ramirez and I no longer need your protection?”

“Ramirez will be out on bail and twice as hungry. He has some powerful friends.”

“And how are you going to protect me?”

“I’m going to guard your body, Sweet Cakes.”

“You’re not sleeping in my apartment.”

“I’ll sleep in the van. Tomorrow I’ll wire you up for sound.”

“What about tonight?”

“It’s your decision,” he said. “Probably you’ll be okay. My guess is Ramirez wants to play with you a while. This is like a fight for him. He’s going to want to go all ten rounds.”

I agreed. Ramirez could have come crashing through my bedroom window any time he wanted, but he chose to wait.

“Even if I wanted to help you, I wouldn’t know where to begin,” I said. “What could I do that you haven’t already done? Maybe the witness is in Argentina.”

“The witness isn’t in Argentina. He’s out there killing people. He’s killing everyone who can place him at the scene. He’s killed two people from Carmen’s apartment building and failed in his attempt to murder a third. I’m also on his list, but he can’t find me while I’m in hiding, and if I go public to draw him out, the police will get me.”

The light bulb went on. “You’re going to use me as bait. You’re going to dangle me in front of Ramirez and expect me to extract information from him while he’s coaching me on his torture techniques. Jesus, Morelli, I know you’re pissed because I scored you with the Buick, but don’t you think this is carrying revenge too far?”

“It’s not revenge. The truth is… I like you.” His mouth softened into a seductive smile. “If circumstances were different, I might even try to right some past wrongs.”

“Oh boy.”

“I can see when this is all over, we’re going to have to do something about that streak of cynicism you’ve acquired.”

“You’re asking me to put my life on the line to help save your ass.”

“Your life is already on the line. You’re being stalked by a very large man who rapes and mutilates women. If we can find my witness, we can link him to Ramirez and hopefully, put them both away for the rest of their unnatural lives.”

He had a point.

“I’ll put a bug in your foyer and bedroom,” Morelli said, “and I’ll be able to hear throughout your apartment, with the exception of the bathroom. If you close the bathroom door, I probably won’t be able to hear. When you go out we’ll hide a wire under your shirt, and I’ll follow at a distance.”

I took a deep breath. “And you’ll let me collect the finder’s fee on you when we get the missing witness?”

“Absolutely.”

“You said Carmen was an informant. What sort of stuff was she informing about?”

“She sold whatever scraps came her way. Mostly low-level drug stuff and names of posse members. I don’t know what she had for me when she called. I never got it.”

“Posse members?”

“Jamaican gang members. Striker is the parent posse, based in Philly. It’s got its finger in every drug deal in Trenton. Striker makes the mob look like a bunch of pussies. They’re bringing in shit faster than they can sell it, and we can’t figure out how they get it here. We had twelve deaths from heroin overdose this summer. The stuff is so available the dealers aren’t bothering to cut it down to the standard.”

“You think Carmen had information on Striker?”

Morelli stared at me for a few beats. “No,” he finally said. “I think she had something to tell me about Ramirez. She probably picked something up while she was with him.”

MY PHONE RANG AT SEVEN A.M. The machine got it, and I recognized Morelli’s voice. “Rise and shine, Badass,” he said. “I’ll be at your door in ten minutes to install equipment. Put the coffeepot on.”

I started the coffee, brushed my teeth, and pulled on running shorts and a shirt. Morelli arrived five minutes early, carrying a toolbox. His short-sleeved shirt had an official-looking patch on the pocket that suggested he worked for Long’s Service.

“What’s Long’s Service?” I asked.

“It’s anything you want it to be.”

‘Ah hah,“ I said. ”A disguise.“

He tossed his shades onto my kitchen counter and headed for the coffee. “People don’t notice repairmen. They remember the color of the uniform and that’s it. And if you do it right, a uniform’ll get you into almost any building.”

I poured myself coffee and dialed the hospital for a progress report on Lula. I was told she was in stable condition and had been moved out of ICU.

“You need to talk to her,” Morelli said. “Make sure she presses charges. They picked Ramirez up last night and questioned him for aggravated sexual assault. He’s out already. Released on his own recognizance.”

He put his coffee down, opened the toolbox, and took out a small screwdriver and two plates for covering electrical outlets. “These look like ordinary wall plugs,” he said, “but they have listening devices built in. I like to use them because they don’t require battery replacement. They run off your wires. They’re very dependable.”

He took the plate off my hall outlet and clamped off wires, working with rubber-tipped pliers. “I have the ability to listen and record from the van. If Ramirez breaks in, or if he shows up at your door, you’re going to have to go with your instincts. If you think you can engage him in conversation and pull information out of him without endangering yourself, you should give it a shot.”

He finished up in the foyer and moved on to the bedroom, repeating the procedure. “Two things you need to remember. If you play the radio, I can’t hear what’s going on up here. And if I have to break in, it’s most likely going to be through your bedroom window. So leave your curtains closed to give me some cover.”

“You think it’ll come to that?”

“I hope not. Try to get Ramirez to talk on the phone. And remember to record.” He put the screwdriver back in the box and took out a roll of surgical tape and a small plastic case about the size of a pack of gum. “This is a miniature body transmitter. It’s got two nine-volt lithium batteries in it, which gives you fifteen hours of usable operating time. It has an external electric microphone, it weighs seven ounces, and it costs about $1200. Don’t lose it and don’t wear it in the shower.”

“Maybe Ramirez will be on good behavior now that he’s been charged with assault.”

“I’m not sure Ramirez knows good from bad.”

“What’s the plan for the day?”

“I thought we’d put you back on Stark Street. Now that you don’t have to worry about driving me crazy, you can concentrate on driving Ramirez crazy. Push him into making another move.”

“Gosh, Stark Street. My favorite place. What am I supposed to do there?”

“Stroll around and look sexy, ask annoying questions, in general get on everyone’s nerves. All those things that come naturally to you.”

“You know Jimmy Alpha?”

“Everybody knows Jimmy Alpha.”

“What do you think of him?”

“Mixed feelings. He’s always been an okay guy in my dealings with him. And I used to think he was a great manager. He did all the right things for Ramirez. Got him the right fights. Got him good trainers.” Morelli topped his coffee. “Guys like Jimmy Alpha spend their whole life hoping to get someone the caliber of Ramirez. Most of them never even come close. Managing Ramirez is like holding the winning ticket to the million-dollar lottery… only better because Ramirez will keep paying off. Ramirez is a gold mine. Unfortunately, Ramirez is also fucking nuts, and Alpha is caught between a rock and a hard spot.”

“That was my opinion, too. I guess holding that winning ticket would tempt a person to turn a blind eye to some of Ramirez’s personality faults.”

“Especially now when they’re just starting to make big money. Alpha supported Ramirez for years while he was just a punk kid. Now Ramirez has the title and has signed a contract for televised fights. He’s literally worth millions to Alpha in future payoffs.”

“So your opinion of Alpha is tarnished.”

“I think Alpha is criminally irresponsible.” He looked at his watch. “Ramirez does road work first thing in the morning, then he eats breakfast at the luncheonette across from the gym. After breakfast he works out and usually he stays at it until four.”

“That’s a lot of training.”

“It’s all half-assed. If he had to fight anybody decent he’d be in trouble. His last two opponents have been handpicked losers. He has a fight in three weeks with another bum. After that he’ll start to get serious for his fight with Lionel Reesey.”

“You know a lot about boxing.”

“Boxing is the ultimate sport. Man against man. Primal combat. It’s like sex… puts you in touch with the beast.”

I made a strangled sound in the back of my throat.

He selected an orange from the bowl of fruit on the counter. “You’re just pissed off because you can’t remember the last time you saw the beast.”

“I see the beast plenty, thank you.”

“Honey, you don’t see the beast at all. I’ve been asking around. You have no social life.”

I gave him a stiff middle finger. “Oh yeah, well social life this.”

Morelli grinned. “You’re damn cute when you act stupid. Any time you want me to unleash the beast, you just let me know.”

That did it. I was going to gas him. I might not turn him in, but I’d enjoy watching him pass out and throw up.

“I have to split,” Morelli said. “One of your neighbors saw me come in. I wouldn’t want to soil your reputation by staying too long. You should come onto Stark Street around noon and strut around for an hour or two. Wear your transmitter. I’ll be watching and listening.”

I had the morning to kill, so I went out for a run. It wasn’t any easier, but at least Eddie Gazarra didn’t show up and tell me I looked like death warmed over. I ate breakfast, took a long shower, and planned how I was going to spend my money after I bagged Morelli.

I dressed in strappy sandals, a tight black knit miniskirt, and a stretchy red top with a low scoop neck that showed as much cleavage as was possible, given my bra size. I did the mousse and the spray thing with my hair so that I had a lot of it. I lined my eyes in midnight blue, gunked them up with mascara, painted my mouth whore red, and hung the biggest, brassiest earrings I owned from my lobes. I lacquered my nails to match my lips and checked myself out in the mirror.

Damned if I didn’t make a good slut.

It was eleven o’clock. A little early, but I wanted to get this strutting around over with so I could visit Lula. After Lula I figured I’d do some shooting and then go home and wait for my phone to ring.

I parked a block from the gym and started down the street with my pocketbook hung from my shoulder and my hand wrapped around the Sure Guard. I’d discovered that the transmitter showed under the stretchy top, so I had it snug inside my bikini underpants. Eat your heart out, Morelli.

The van was parked almost directly across from the gym. Jackie stood between me and the van. She looked even more sullen than usual.

“How’s Lula?” I asked. “Have you seen her today?”

“They don’t have no visiting hours in the morning. I don’t got time to see her anyway. I gotta earn a living, you know.”

“The hospital said her condition was stable.”

“Yeah. They got her in a regular room. She gotta stay there awhile on account of she’s still bleeding inside, but I think she’ll be okay.”

“She have a safe place to stay when she gets out?”

“Ain’t no place gonna be safe for Lula to stay when she gets out unless she get smart. She gonna be telling the police some white motherfucker cut her.”

I glanced down the street at the van and felt Morelli’s telepathic grunt of exasperation. “Someone’s got to stop Ramirez.”

“Ain’t gonna be Lula,” Jackie said. “What kind of witness you think she gonna make, anyway? You think people gonna believe a whore? They gonna say she got what she deserved and probably her old man beat her and leave her for you to see. Maybe they say you been doing some whoring and not paying the price and this be a lesson to you.”

“Have you seen Ramirez today? Is he in the gym?”

“Don’t know. These eyes don’t see Ramirez. He the invisible man far as I’m concerned.”

I’d expected as much from Jackie. And she was probably right about Lula on the witness stand. Ramirez would hire the best defense lawyer in the state, and he wouldn’t even have to work up a sweat to discredit Lula.

I moved on down the street. Has anyone seen Carmen Sanchez? I asked. Is it true she was seen with Benito Ramirez the night Ziggy Kulesza was shot?

No one had seen her. No one knew anything about her and Ramirez.

I paraded around for another hour and capped the effort with a trip across the street to lay some grief at Jimmy Alpha’s feet. I didn’t barge into his office this time. I waited patiently while his secretary announced me.

He didn’t seem surprised. Probably he’d been watching from his window. He had dark circles under his eyes, the kind a person gets from sleepless nights and problems with no solutions. I stood in front of his desk, and we stared at each other for a full minute without talking.

“You know about Lula?” I asked him.

Alpha nodded.

“He almost killed her, Jimmy. He cut her and beat her and left her tied to my fire escape. Then he called and asked me if I’d received his present and told me I could look forward to an even worse fate.”

Alpha’s head was nodding again. This time it was nodding “no” in denial. “I talked to him,” Alpha said. “Benito admits he spent some time with Lula, and maybe he got a little rough, but he said that was it. He said someone must have got to her after him. He says someone’s trying to make him look bad.”

“I talked to him on the phone. I know what I heard. I have it on tape.”

“He swears it wasn’t him.”

“And you believe him?”

“I know he goes a little crazy with women. Got this tough-guy macho attitude. Got this thing about being disrespected. But I can’t see him hanging a woman on a fire escape. I can’t see him making that phone call. I know he’s not Einstein, but I just can’t see him being that dumb.”

“He’s not dumb, Jimmy. He’s sick. He’s done terrible things.”

He ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. Look, do me a favor and stay away from Stark Street for a while. The cops are going to investigate what happened to Lula. Whatever they find… I’m going to have to live with. In the meantime, I’ve got to get Benito ready to fight. He’s going up against Tommy Clark in three weeks. Clark isn’t much of a threat, but you have to take these things seriously all the same. The fans buy a ticket, they deserve a fight. I’m afraid Benito sees you, he gets all stirred up, you know? It’s hard enough to get him to train…”

It was about forty degrees in his office, but Alpha had dark stains under his armpits. If I was in his place I’d be sweating, too. He was watching his dream turn into a nightmare, and he didn’t have the guts to face up.

I told him I had a job to do and couldn’t stay away from Stark Street. I let myself out and walked down the single flight of stairs. I sat on the bottom step and talked to my crotch. “Damn,” I said. “That was fucking depressing.”

Across the street, Morelli was listening in his van. I couldn’t imagine what he was thinking.

MORELLI KNOCKED ON MY DOOR at ten-thirty that night. He had a six-pack and a pizza and a portable TV tucked under his arm. He was out of uniform, back to wearing jeans and a navy T-shirt.

“Another day in that van, and I might be glad to go to jail,” he said.

“Is that a Pino’s pizza?”

“Is there any other kind?”

“How’d you get it?”

“Pino delivers to felons.” He looked around. “Where’s your cable hookup?”

“In the living room.”

He plugged the TV in, set the pizza and the beer on the floor, and hit the remote. “You get any phone calls?”

“Nothing.”

He opened a beer. “It’s early yet. Ramirez does his best work at night.”

“I talked to Lula. She’s not going to testify.”

“Big surprise.”

I sat on the floor next to the pizza box. “Did you hear the conversation with Jimmy Alpha?”

“Yeah, I heard it. What the hell kind of outfit were you supposed to be wearing?”

“It was my slut outfit. I wanted to speed things up.”

“Christ, you had guys running their cars up on the curb. And where did you hide the mike? It wasn’t under that top. I’d have seen Scotch tape under that top.”

“I stuck it in my underpants.”

“Dang,” Morelli said. “When I get it back I’m going to have it bronzed.”

I popped open a beer and helped myself to a piece of pizza. “What do you make of Alpha? You think he could be pushed into testifying against Ramirez?”

Morelli flipped through the channels, clicked onto a ballgame, and watched it for a few seconds. “Depends how much he knows. If he’s got his head deep in the sand, he’s not going to have hard facts. Dorsey paid him a visit after you left, and he got less than you did.”

“You have Alpha’s office bugged?”

“No. Bar talk at Pino’s.”

There was one piece of pizza left. We both eyeballed it.

“It’ll go straight to your hips,” Morelli said.

He was right, but I took it anyway.

I kicked him out a little after one and dragged myself to bed. I slept through the night, and in the morning there were no messages on my machine. I was about to start coffee when the car alarm went off in the lot below. I grabbed my keys and ran from my apartment, taking the steps three at a time. The driver’s door was open when I got to the Jeep. The alarm was wailing away. I deactivated and reset the alarm, locked the car, and returned to my apartment.

Morelli was in the kitchen, and I could tell the effort to stay calm was jacking his blood pressure into the red zone.

“I didn’t want anyone to steal your car,” I said. “So I had an alarm installed.”

“It wasn’t ‘anyone’ you were worried about. It was me. You had a goddamn alarm installed in my goddamn car so I couldn’t snatch it out from under you!”

“It worked, too. What were you doing in our car?”

“It’s not our car. It’s my car. I’m allowing you to drive it. I was going to get some breakfast.”

“Why didn’t you take the van?”

“Because I wanted to drive my car. I swear, when this mess gets cleared up, I’m moving to Alaska. I don’t care what sort of sacrifice I have to make, I’m putting miles between us, because if I stay I’ll strangle you, and they’ll get me for murder one.”

“Jesus, Morelli, you sound like you have PMS. You have to learn to lighten up a little. It’s just a car alarm. You should be thanking me. I had it installed with my own money.”

“Well shit, what was I thinking of?”

“You’re under a lot of strain lately.”

There was a knock on the door, and we both jumped.

Morelli beat me to the peephole. He stepped back several paces and pulled me with him. “It’s Morty Beyers,” he said.

There was another knock on the door.

“He can’t have you,” I said. “You’re mine, and I’m not sharing.”

Morelli grimaced. “I’ll be under the bed if you need me.”

I went to the door and took a look for myself. I’d never seen Morty Beyers before, but this guy looked like he’d just had an appendectomy. He was close to forty, overweight, ashen-faced, and he was stooped over, holding his stomach. His sandy hair was thin, combed over the top of his balding dome, and slick with sweat.

I opened the door to him.

“Morty Beyers,” he said, extending his hand. “You must be Stephanie Plum.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in the hospital?”

“An exploded appendix only gets you a couple hours’ stay. I’m back to work. They tell me I’m good as new.”

He didn’t look good as new. He looked like he had met Vampira on the stairs. “Your stomach still hurt?”

“Only when I straighten up.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Vinnie said you had my FTAs. I thought now that I was feeling okay…”

“You want the paperwork back.”

“Yeah. Listen, I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you.”

“It wasn’t a complete bust. I brought two of them in.”

He nodded. “Didn’t have any luck with Morelli?”

“None at all.”

“I know this sounds weird, but I could’ve sworn I saw his car in your parking lot.”

“I stole it. I thought maybe I could flush him out by making him come after his car.”

“You stole it? No shit? Jesus, that’s great.” He was leaning against the wall with his hand pressed to his groin.

“You want to sit down for a minute? You want some water?”

“Nah, I’m fine. I gotta get to work. I just wanted the pictures and stuff.”

I ran to the kitchen, gathered up the files, and rushed back to the door. “This is it.”

“Great.” He tucked the folders under an arm. “So are you gonna keep the car a while?”

“I’m not sure.”

“If you spotted Morelli walking down the street, would you bring him in?”

“Yeah.”

He smiled. “If I was you, I’d do the same thing. I wouldn’t pack it in just because my week was up. Just between you and me, Vinnie would pay out to anyone brought Morelli back. Well, I’ll be on my way. Thanks.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“Yeah. I’m gonna use the elevator.”

I closed the door, slid the bolt home, and latched the security chain. When I turned around, Morelli was standing in the bedroom doorway. “Do you think he knew you were here?” I asked.

“If he knew I was here, he’d have his gun aimed at my forehead by now. Don’t underestimate Beyers. He’s not as stupid as he looks. And he’s not nearly as nice as he’d like you to believe. He was a cop. Got kicked off the force for demanding favors from prostitutes of both genders. We used to call him Morty the Mole because he’d bury his doodah in whatever hole was available.”

“I bet he and Vinnie get along just great.”

I went to the window and stared down at the parking lot. Beyers was examining Morelli’s car, peering into the windows. He tried the door handle and the trunk latch. He wrote something on the outside of a folder. He straightened slightly and looked around the lot. His attention caught on the van. He slowly walked over and pressed his nose against the windows in an attempt to see the interior; then he laboriously climbed on the front bumper and tried to see through the windshield. He stepped back and stared at the antennae. He stood to the rear and copied the tag. He turned and looked up at my building, and I jumped back from the window.

Five minutes later, there was another knock on my door.

“I was wondering about that van in your lot,” Beyers said. “Have you noticed it?”

“The blue one with the antennae?”

“Yeah. Do you know the owner?”

“No, but it’s been here for a while.”

I closed and locked the door and watched Beyers through the peephole. He stood thinking for a moment, and then he knocked on Mr. Wolesky’s door. He showed Morelli’s picture and asked a few questions. He thanked Mr. Wolesky, gave him his card, and backed away.

I returned to the window, but Beyers didn’t appear in the lot. “He’s going door-to-door,” I said.

We continued to watch from the window, and eventually Beyers limped to his car. He drove a late-model dark blue Ford Escort equipped with a car phone. He left the lot and turned toward St. James.

Morelli was in the kitchen with his head in my refrigerator. “Beyers is going to be a real pain in the ass. He’s going to check on the van plates and put it together.”

“What’s this going to do for you?”

“It’s going to knock me out of Trenton until I get a different vehicle.” He took a carton of orange juice and a loaf of raisin bread. “Put this on my tab. I’ve got to get out of here.” He stopped at the door. “I’m afraid you’re going to be on your own for awhile. Stay locked up in the apartment here, don’t let anyone in, and you should be okay. The alternative is to come with me, but if we get caught together, you’ll be an accessory.”

“I’ll stay here. I’ll be fine.”

“Promise me you won’t go out.”

“I promise! I promise!”

Some promises are meant to be broken. This was one of them. I had no intention of sitting on my hands, waiting for Ramirez. I wanted to hear from him yesterday. I wanted the whole ugly affair to be done. I wanted Ramirez behind bars. I wanted my apprehension money. I wanted to get on with my life.

I looked out the window to make sure Morelli was gone. I got my pocketbook and locked up after myself. I drove to Stark Street and parked across from the gym. I didn’t have the nerve to move freely on the street without Morelli backing me up, so I stayed in the car with the windows closed and the doors locked. I was sure by this time Ramirez knew my car. I figured it was better than no reminder at all.

Every half hour I ran the air-conditioning to get the temperature down and break the monotony. Several times I’d looked up at Jimmy Alpha’s office and seen a face at a window. The gym windows showed less activity.

At twelve-thirty Alpha trotted across the street and knocked on my window.

I powered it down. “Sorry to have to park here, Jimmy, but I need to continue my surveillance for Morelli. I’m sure you understand.”

A wrinkle creased his brow. “I don’t get it. If I was looking for Morelli, I’d watch his relatives and his friends. What’s this thing with Stark Street and Carmen Sanchez?”

“I have a theory about what happened. I think Benito abused Carmen just like he abused Lula. Then I think he panicked and sent Ziggy and some other guy over to Carmen’s to make sure she didn’t make noise. I think Morelli walked in on it and probably shot Ziggy in self-defense just like he said. Somehow Carmen and the other guy and Ziggy’s gun managed to disappear. I think Morelli’s trying to find them. And I think Stark Street is the logical place to look.”

“That’s crazy. How’d you come up with such a crazy idea?”

“From Morelli’s arrest statement.”

Alpha looked disgusted. “Well what’d you expect Morelli to say? That he shot Ziggy for the hell of it? Benito’s an easy target. He has a reputation for being a little too aggressive with the ladies, and Ziggy worked for him, so Morelli took it from there.”

“How about the missing witness? He must have worked for Benito, too.”

“I don’t know anything about the missing witness.”

“People tell me he had a nose that looked like it had been smashed with a frying pan. That’s pretty distinctive.”

Alpha smiled. “Not in a third-rate gym. Half the bums who work out here have noses like that.” He looked at his watch. “I’m late for a lunch. You look hot in there. You want me to bring something back for you? A cold soda? A sandwich, maybe?”

“I’m okay. I think I’m going to break for lunch soon, too. Have to use the little girl’s room.”

“There’s a john on the second floor. Just get the key from Lorna. Tell her I said it was okay.”

I thought it was decent of Alpha to offer the use of his facilities, but I didn’t want to take a chance on Ramirez cornering me while I was on the toilet.

I took one last look up and down the street and drove off in search of fast food. A half hour later I was back in the very same parking space, feeling much more comfortable and twice as bored. I’d brought a book back with me, but it was hard to read and sweat at the same time, and sweating took precedence.

By three my hair was wet against my neck and face and had frizzed out to maximum volume. My shirt was plastered to my back, and perspiration stained over my chest. My legs were cramped, and I’d developed a nervous twitch to my left eye.

I still hadn’t seen a sign of Ramirez. Pedestrian traffic was restricted to pockets of shade and had disappeared into smoky air-conditioned bars. I was the only fool sitting baking in a car. Even the hookers had disappeared for a midafternoon crack break.

I palmed my defense spray and got out of the Cherokee, whimpering as all my little spine bones decompressed and realigned themselves. I stretched and jogged in place. I walked around the car and bent to touch my toes. A breeze trickled down Stark Street, and I felt inordinately blessed. True, the air index was lethal and the temperature hovered at blast-furnace range, but it was a breeze all the same.

I leaned against the car and pulled the front of my shirt away from my sweaty body.

Jackie emerged from the Grand Hotel and lumbered down the street toward me, en route to her corner. “You look like heat stroke,” she said, handing me a cold Coke.

I popped the tab, drank some soda, and held the cold can against my forehead. “Thanks. This is great.”

“Don’t think I’m getting soft on your skinny white ass,” she said. “It’s just you’re gonna die sitting in that car, and you’re gonna give Stark Street a bad name. People gonna say it a race murder, and my white trash pervert business’ll get ruined.”

“I’ll try not to die. God forbid I should ruin your pervert business.”

“Fucking A,” she said. “Them little white perverts pay fine money for my big nasty ass.”

“How’s Lula?”

Jackie shrugged. “She’s doing as good as she can. She appreciated that you sent flowers.”

“Not much activity here today.”

Jackie slid her eyes up to the gym windows. “Thank sweet Jesus for that,” she said softly.

I followed her gaze to the second floor. “You better not be seen talking to me.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I gotta get back to work, anyway.”

I stood there for a few minutes longer, enjoying the soda and the luxury of being fully vertical. I turned to get back in the car and gasped at the sight of Ramirez standing next to me.

“Been waiting all day for you to get out of this car,” he said. “Bet you’re surprised at how quiet I move. Didn’t even hear me come up on you, did you? That’s how it’s always gonna be. You’re never gonna hear me until I pounce. And then it’s gonna be too late.”

I took a slow breath to quiet my heart. I waited a moment longer to steady my voice. When I felt some control, I asked him about Carmen. “I want to know about Carmen,” I said. “I want to know if she saw you coming.”

“Carmen and me, we had a date. Carmen asked for what she got.”

“Where is she now?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know. She split after Ziggy got offed.”

“What about the guy that was with Ziggy that night? Who was he? What happened to him?”

“Don’t know nothing about that either.”

“I thought they worked for you.”

“Why don’t we go upstairs and talk about this? Or we could go for a ride. I got a Porsche. I could take you for a ride in my Porsche.”

“I don’t think so.”

“See, there you go again. Refusing the champ. You’re always refusing the champ. He don’t like that.”

“Tell me about Ziggy and his friend… the guy with the smashed nose.”

“Be more interesting to tell you about the champ. How he gonna teach you some respect. How he gonna punish you so you learn not to refuse him.” He stepped closer, and the heat coming off his body made the air feel cool by comparison. “Think maybe I’ll make you bleed before I fuck you. You like that? You want to get cut, bitch?”

That’s it. I’m out of here. “You’re not going to do anything to me,” I said. “You don’t scare me, and you don’t excite me.”

“You lie.” He wrapped his hand around my upper arm and squeezed hard enough to make me cry out.

I kicked him hard in the shin, and he hit me. I never saw his hand move. The crack rang in my ears and my head snapped back. I tasted blood and blinked hard several times to clear the cobwebs. When most of the stars faded, I shot him square in the face with the Sure Guard.

He howled in pain and rage and reeled into the street with his hands to his eyes. The howling metamorphosed to choking and gasping, and he went down on all fours like some monstrous animal—a big, pissed-off, wounded buffalo.

Jimmy Alpha came running from across the street, followed by his secretary and a man I’d never seen before.

The man went down on the ground with Ramirez, trying to calm him, telling him he’d be okay in a minute, to take deep breaths.

Alpha and the secretary rushed over to me.

“Jesus,” Jimmy Alpha said, pressing a clean handkerchief into my hand. “Are you okay? He didn’t break anything, did he?”

I put the handkerchief to my mouth and held it there while I ran my tongue over my teeth to see if any were missing or loose. “I think I’m okay.”

“I’m really sorry,” Jimmy said. “I don’t know what’s the matter with him, the way he treats women. I apologize for him. I don’t know what to do.”

I wasn’t in the mood to accept an apology. “There are lots of things you can do,” I said. “Get him psychiatric help. Lock him up. Take him to the vet and get him neutered.”

“I’ll pay for a doctor,” Jimmy Alpha said. “Do you want to go to a doctor?”

“The only place I’m going is to the police station. I’m pressing charges, and nothing you can say is going to stop me.”

“Think about it for a day,” Jimmy pleaded. “At least wait until you’re not so upset. He can’t take another assault charge now.”

I WRENCHED THE DRIVER’S DOOR OPEN and jammed myself behind the wheel. I eased away from the curb, being careful not to run over anyone. I drove at a moderate speed, and I didn’t look back. I stopped for a light and assessed the damage in the rearview mirror. My upper lip was split on the inside and still bleeding. I had a purple bruise forming on my left cheek. My cheek and my lip were beginning to swell.

I was holding tight to the wheel, and I was using every strength I possessed to stay calm. I drove south on Stark to State Street and followed State to Hamilton. When I reached Hamilton I felt as if I was safe in my own neighborhood and could allow myself to stop and think. I pulled into a convenience store lot and sat there for a while. I needed to go to the police station to report the assault, but I didn’t want to leave the security and comfort of home turf, and I wasn’t sure how the police would regard this latest incident with Ramirez. He’d threatened me, and then I’d deliberately provoked him by parking across from the gym. Not smart.

I’d been on adrenaline overdose ever since Ramirez appeared at my side, and now that the adrenaline was slacking out, exhaustion and pain were creeping in. My arm and my jaw ached and my pulse rate felt like it had dropped to twelve.

Face up, I said to myself, you’re not going to make it to the police station today. I shuffled through my shoulder bag until I found Dorsey’s card. Might as well keep some continuity and whine to Dorsey. I dialed his number and left a message to call back. I didn’t specify the problem. I didn’t think I could go through it twice.

I hauled myself into the store and got myself a grape popsicle. “Hadda akthident,” I said to the clerk. “My lip ith thwollen.”

“Maybe you should see a doctor.”

I ripped the paper off the popsicle and put the ice to my lip. “Ahhh.” I sighed. “Thas bedda.”

I returned to the car, put it into gear, and backed into a pickup truck. My whole life flashed in front of me. I was drowning. Please God, I prayed, don’t let there be a dent.

We both got out and examined our cars. The pickup didn’t have a scratch. No dent, no paint chipped, not even a smudge in the wax. The Cherokee looked like someone had taken a can opener to its right rear fender.

The guy driving the pickup stared at my lip. “Domestic quarrel?”

“A akthident.”

“Guess this just isn’t your day.”

“No day ith my day,” I said.

Since the accident had been my fault, and there’d been no damage to his car, we didn’t do the ritual of trading insurance information. I took one last look at the damage, shuddered violently, and slunk away, debating the value of suicide as opposed to facing Morelli.

The phone was ringing as I came through my front door. It was Dorsey.

“I haf an assault charge againth Ramireth,” I said. “He hit me in the mouff.”

“Where’d this happen?”

“Thark Threet.” I gave him the details and refused his offer to come to my apartment to get my statement. I didn’t want to chance his running into Morelli. I promised I’d stop in tomorrow to complete the paperwork.

I took a shower and had ice cream for supper. Every ten minutes I’d look out the window to see if there was any sign of Morelli in the lot. I’d parked in a far corner where the lighting was poor. If I could just get through the night, tomorrow I’d take the Cherokee to Al at the body shop and see if he could do an instant repair. I had no idea how I’d pay for it.

I watched television until eleven and went to bed, lugging Rex’s cage into the bedroom to keep me company. There’d been no phone calls from Ramirez and no sign of Morelli. I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or disappointed. I had no idea if Morelli was listening, protecting me as agreed, so I slept with my defense spray, my portable phone, and my gun on the nightstand.

My phone rang at six-thirty. It was Morelli.

“Time to get up,” he said.

I checked my bedside clock. “It’s practically the middle of the night.”

“You’d have been up hours ago if you had to sleep in a Nissan Sentra.”

“What are you doing in a Sentra?”

“I’m having the van painted a different color and the antennae removed. I’ve managed to ‘find’ a new set of plates. In the meantime, the body shop gave me a loaner. I waited until dark and then parked on Maple, just behind the lot.”

“So you could guard my body?”

“Mostly I didn’t want to miss hearing you get undressed. What was that weird squeaking sound all night?”

“Rex on his wheel.”

“I thought he lived in the kitchen.”

I didn’t want Morelli to know I’d been scared and lonely, so I lied. “I cleaned the sink, and he didn’t like the smell of the cleanser, so I brought him into the bedroom.”

The silence stretched for a couple beats.

“Translation,” Morelli said. “You were scared and lonely, and you brought Rex in for company.”

“These are difficult times.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I suppose you need to get out of Trenton before Beyers returns.”

“I suppose I do. I’m too visible in this car. I can get the van at six tonight, and then I’ll be back.”

“Catch you later.”

“Ten-four, Captain Video.”

I went back to bed, and two hours later I was jolted awake by the car alarm blaring away in the lot below me. I flew out of bed, rushed to the window, and threw the curtains open in time to see Morty Beyers smash the alarm to smithereens with his gun butt.

“Beyers!” I bellowed from my open window. “What the hell do you thing you’re doing?”

“My wife left me, and she took the Escort.”

“So?”

“So I need a car. I was gonna rent one, and then I thought of Morelli’s Jeep sitting here, and I figured it’d save me some money to use it until I tracked Mona down.”

“Christ, Beyers, you can’t just come into a lot and take someone’s car! That’s stealing. You’re a goddamn car thief.”

“So?”

“Where’d you get the keys?”

“Same place you did. Morelli’s apartment. He had an extra set in his dresser.”

“You won’t get away with this.”

“What are you gonna do, call the police?”

“God will get you for this.”

“Fuck God,” Beyers said, sliding behind the wheel, taking time to adjust the seat and fiddle with the radio.

Arrogant bastard, I thought. Not only is he stealing the damn car, but he’s sitting there flaunting his ability to take it. I grabbed my defense spray and bolted out the door and down the stairs. I was barefoot, wearing a Mickey Mouse nightshirt and a pair of Jockey string bikinis, and I could have cared less.

I was through the back door with my foot on the pavement when I saw Beyers turn the key and step on the accelerator. A split second later the car exploded with a deafening blast, sending doors flying off into space like Frisbees. Flames licked up from the undercarriage and instantly consumed the Cherokee, turning it into a brilliant yellow fireball.

I was too astonished to move. I stood open-mouthed and speechless while parts of roof and fender reversed their trajectory and clanked down to earth.

Sirens sounded in the distance, and tenants poured from the building to stand beside me and stare at the burning Jeep. Clouds of black smoke boiled into the morning sky, and searing heat rippled across my face.

There’d never been any possibility of saving Morty Beyers. Even if I’d immediately responded, I couldn’t have gotten him out of the car. And probably he was dead from the blast, not the fire. It occurred to me that chances of this being an accident were slim. And that chances of this being meant for me were large.

On the positive side, I didn’t have to sweat Morelli finding out about yesterday’s accident damage.

I backed away from the fire and eased my way through the small crowd that had formed. I took the stairs two at a time and locked myself in my apartment. I’d carelessly left the front door wide open when I’d dashed out after Beyers, so I did a thorough search with my gun drawn. If I came on the guy who roasted Morty Beyers, I wasn’t going to fool around with his neurotransmitters—I was going to go for a bullet in the gut. The gut made a nice big target.

When I was sure my apartment was secure, I got dressed in shorts and shirt. I took a fast bathroom break and checked my appearance in the bathroom mirror. I had a purple bruise on my cheekbone and a small gash in my upper lip. Most of the swelling had gone down. As a result of the morning’s fire, my complexion looked like it had been sunburned and sandblasted. My eyebrows and the hair around my face had gotten singed and stuck out in spikes about an eighth of an inch long. Very attractive. Not that I was complaining. I could have been dead and missing a few body parts that had landed in the azaleas. I laced up my Reeboks and went downstairs to take another look.

The parking lot and adjoining streets were filled with fire trucks and police cars and ambulances. Barricades had been set up, holding the curious away from the smoldering remains of Morelli’s Jeep. Oily, sooty water slicked the blacktop, and the air smelled like charred pot roast. I didn’t want to pursue that train of thought. I saw Dorsey standing on the perimeter, talking to a uniform. He looked up and caught my eye and headed over.

“I’m getting a bad feeling about this,” he said.

“You know Morty Beyers?”

“Yeah.”

“He was in the Jeep.”

“No shit. Are you sure?”

“I was talking to him when it blew.”

“I guess that explains your missing eyebrows. What were you talking about?”

“Vinnie had only given me a week to bring Morelli in. My week was up, and Morty took up the hunt. We were sort of talking about Morelli.”

“You couldn’t have been talking too close or you’d be hamburger.”

“Actually I was right about where we’re standing now, and we were yelling at each other. We were sort of… disagreeing.”

A uniform came over with a twisted license plate. “We found this over by the Dumpster,” he said. “You want me to run an ID?”

I took the plate. “Don’t bother. The car belongs to Morelli.”

“Oh boy,” Dorsey said. “I can hardly wait to hear this.”

I figured I’d embellish the truth a little, since the police might not be up on the finer points of bounty hunterism and might not understand about commandeering. “It’s like this,” I said. “I went to see Morelli’s mother, and she was very upset that no one was running Joe’s car. You know how bad it is for the battery to let a car sit. Well one thing led to another and next thing I’d agreed to drive the car around for her.”

“So you’ve been driving Morelli’s car as a favor to his mother?”

“Yes. He’d asked her to take care of it, but she didn’t have time.”

“Very noble of you.”

“I’m a noble person.”

“Go on.”

So I did. I explained about Beyers’s wife leaving him, and about how he tried to steal the car, and how he made the mistake of saying “fuck God,” and then the car blew up.

“You think God got pissed off and fried Beyers?”

“That would be one theory.”

“When you come to the station to complete the report on Ramirez, we might want to talk further on this.”

I watched for a few more minutes and then went back to my apartment. I didn’t especially want to be around when they scooped up the ashes that had been Morty Beyers.

I sat in front of the television until noon, keeping my windows closed and my curtains drawn to the crime scene below. Every once in a while I’d wander into the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror to see if my eyebrows had grown back yet.

At twelve o’clock I parted my curtains and braved a peek at the lot. The Cherokee had been removed, and only two patrolmen remained. From my window it appeared they were filling out property damage forms for the handful of cars that had been pelted with debris from the explosion.

A morning of television had anesthetized me sufficiently that I felt ready to cope, so I took a shower and got dressed, being careful not to dwell on thoughts of death and bombings.

I needed to go down to the police station, but I didn’t have a car. I had a few dollars in my pocket. Nothing in my checking account. My credit cards were in collection. I had to make another apprehension.

I called Connie and told her about Morty Beyers.

“This is going to make a serious hole in Vinnie’s dike,” Connie said. “Ranger’s recovering from gunshot and now Morty Beyers is out of the picture. They were our two best agents.”

“Yeah. It sure is a shame. I guess Vinnie’s left with me.”

There was a pause at the other end of the phone. “You didn’t do Morty, did you?”

“Morty sort of did himself. You have anything easy come in? I could use some fast money.”

“I have an exhibitionist gone FTA on a $2,000 bond. He’s been kicked out of three retirement homes. He’s currently living in an apartment somewhere.” I could hear her shuffling through papers. “Here it is,” she said. “Ommigod, he’s living in your building.”

“What’s his name?”

“William Earling. He’s in apartment 3E.”

I grabbed my pocketbook and locked up. I took the stairs to the third floor, counted off apartments, and knocked on Earling’s door. A man answered, and right off I suspected I had the right person because he was old and he was naked. “Mr. Earling?”

“Yup. That’s me. I’m in pretty good shape, huh chickie? You think I’ve got some fearful equipment?”

I gave myself a mental command not to look, but my eyes strayed south of their own volition. Not only wasn’t he fearful, but his doodles were wrinkled. “Yeah. You’re pretty fearful,” I said. I handed him my card. “I work for Vincent Plum, your bond agent. You failed to appear for a court hearing, Mr. Earling. I need to take you downtown so you can reschedule.”

“Damn court hearings are a waste of time,” Earling said. “I’m seventy-six years old. You think they’re gonna send some seventy-six-year-old guy to prison because he flashed his stuff around?”

I sincerely hoped so. Seeing Earling naked was enough to make me turn celibate. “I need to take you downtown. How about you go put some clothes on.”

“I don’t wear clothes. God brought me into the world naked, and that’s the way I’m going out.”

“Okay by me, but in the meantime I wish you’d get dressed.”

“The only way I’m going with you is naked.”

I took out my cuffs and snaped then on his wrists.

“Police brutality. Police brutality,” he yelled.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” I said. “I’m not a cop.”

“Well what are you?”

“I’m a bounty hunter.”

“Bounty hunter brutality. Bounty hunter brutality.”

I went to the hall closet, found a full-length raincoat, and buttoned him into it.

“I’m not going with you,” he said, standing rigid, his hands cuffed under the coat. “You can’t make me go.”

“Listen, Grandpa,” I said, “either you go peaceably or I’ll gas you and drag you out by your heels.”

I couldn’t believe I was saying this to some poor senior citizen with a snail dick. I was appalled at myself, but what the hell, it was worth $200.

“Don’t forget to lock up,” he said. “This neighborhood’s going to heck in a handbasket. The keys are in the kitchen.”

I got the keys, and one of them had a little Buick insignia on it. What a break. “One more thing,” I said. “Would you mind if I borrowed your car to take you downtown?”

“I guess that’d be okay as long as we don’t use too much gas. I’m on a fixed income, you know.”

I buzzed Mr. Earling through in record time and took care not to run into Dorsey. I stopped at the office on the way home to pick up my check and stopped at the bank to cash it. I parked Mr. Earling’s car as close to the door as possible to cut down on his streaking distance when he got out of jail. I didn’t want to see any more of Mr. Earling than was absolutely unavoidable.

I jogged upstairs and called home, cringing at the thought of what I was about to do.

“Is Daddy out with the cab?” I asked. “I need a ride.”

“He’s off today. He’s right here. Where do you need to go?”

“An apartment complex on Route 1.” Another cringe.

“Now?”

“Yeah.” Very large sigh. “Now.”

“I’m having stuffed shells tonight. Would you like some stuffed shells?”

Hard to believe how much I wanted those stuffed shells. More than good sex, a fast car, a cool night, or eyebrows. I wanted temporary respite from adulthood. I wanted to feel unconditionally safe. I wanted my mom to cluck around me, filling my milk glass, relieving me of the most mundane responsibilities. I wanted to spend a few hours in a house cluttered with awful overstuffed furniture and oppressive cooking smells. “Stuffed shells would be good.”

My father was at the back door in fifteen minutes. He gave a start at the sight of me.

“We had an accident in the parking lot,” I said. “A car caught fire, and I was standing too close.” I gave him the address and asked him to stop at K-Mart on the way. Thirty minutes later he dropped me off in Morelli’s parking lot.

“Tell Mom I’ll be there by six,” I said to him.

He looked at the Nova and the case of motor oil I’d just purchased. “Maybe I should stay to make sure it runs.”

I fed the car three cans and checked the dipstick. I gave my father an A-okay sign. He didn’t seem impressed. I got behind the wheel, gave the dash a hard shot with my fist, and cranked her over. “Starts every time,” I yelled.

My father was still impassive, and I knew he was thinking I should have bought a Buick. These indignities never befell Buicks. We pulled out of the lot together, and I waved him off on Route 1, pointing the Nova in the direction of Ye Olde Muffler Shoppe. Past the orange-peaked roof of the Howard Johnson Motel, past the Shady Grove Trailer Park, past Happy Days Kennels. Other drivers were giving me a wide berth, not daring to enter into my thundering wake. Seven miles down the road I cheered at the sight of the yellow and black muffler shop sign.

I wore my Oakleys to hide my eyebrows, but the counterman still did a double take. I filled out the forms and gave him the keys and took a seat in the small room reserved for the parents of sick cars. Forty-five minutes later I was on my way. I only noticed the smoke when I stopped at an intersection, and the red light only blinked on occasionally. I figured that was as good as I could expect.

My mother started as soon as I hit the front porch. “Every time I see you, you look worse and worse. Bruises and cuts and now what happened to your hair, and ommigod you haven’t got eyebrows. What happened to your eyebrows? Your father said you were in a fire.”

“A car caught fire in my parking lot. It wasn’t anything.”

“I saw it on the TV,” Grandma Mazur said, elbowing her way past my mother. “They said it was a bombing. Blew the car sky high. And some guy was in the car. Some sleazoid named Beyers. Except there wasn’t much left of him.”

Grandma Mazur was wearing a pink and orange print cotton blouse with a tissue waded up in the sleeve, bright blue spandex shorts, white tennies, and stockings rolled just above her knee.

“I like your shorts,” I said to her. “Great color.”

“She went like that to the funeral home this afternoon,” my father yelled from the kitchen. “Tony Mancuso’s viewing.”

“I tell you it was something,” Grandma Mazur said. “The VFW was there. Best viewing I’ve been to all month. And Tony looked real good. They gave him one of those ties with the little horse heads on.”

“We got seven phone calls so far,” my mother said. “I told everyone she forgot to take her medicine this morning.”

Grandma Mazur clacked her teeth. “Nobody knows fashion around here. You can’t hardly ever wear anything different.” She looked down at her shorts. “What do you think?” she asked me. “You think these are okay for an afternoon viewing?”

“Sure,” I said, “but if it was at night I’d wear black.”

“Just exactly what I was thinking. I gotta get me some black ones next.”

By eight o’clock I was sated with good food and overstuffed furniture and ready to once again take up the mantle of independent living. I staggered out of my parents’ house, arms loaded with leftovers, and motored back to my apartment.

For the better part of the day I’d avoided thinking about the explosion, but it was time to face facts. Someone had tried to kill me, and it wasn’t Ramirez. Ramirez wanted to inflict pain and hear me beg. Ramirez was frightening and abhorrent, but he was also predictable. I knew where Ramirez was coming from. Ramirez was criminally insane.

Planting a bomb was a different kind of insanity. A bombing was calculated and purposeful. A bombing was meant to rid the world of a particular, annoying person.

Why me? I thought. Why would someone want me dead? Even articulating the question sent a chill through my heart.

I parked the Nova in the middle of my lot and wondered if I’d have the courage to step on the accelerator tomorrow morning. Morelli’s car had been shoveled away and there was little evidence of the fire. The macadam was pocked and cracked where the Jeep had burned, but there was no crime scene tape or charred debris to further mark the spot.

I let myself into my apartment and found my answering machine light furiously blinking. Dorsey had called three times requesting a call back. He didn’t sound friendly. Bernie had called to say they were having a storewide sale and I should drop by. Twenty percent off blenders and a complimentary bottle of daiquiri mix to the first twenty customers. My eyes glazed over at the thought of a daiquiri. I still had a few dollars left, and blenders had to be pretty cheap in the overall scheme of things, right? The last call was from Jimmy Alpha with another apology and his hopes that I hadn’t been badly hurt by Ramirez.

I looked at my watch. It was almost nine. I couldn’t get to Bernie before closing. Too bad. I was pretty sure if I had a daiquiri I could think much more clearly and probably figure out who tried to send me into orbit.

I turned the television on and sat in front of it, but my mind was elsewhere. It was scanning for potential assassins. Of my captures only Lonnie Dodd was a possibility, and he was in jail. More likely this had to do with the Kulesza murder. Someone was worried about me poking around. I couldn’t imagine anyone being worried enough to want to kill me. Death was very serious shit.

There had to be something I was missing here. Something about Carmen or Kulesza or Morelli… or maybe the mystery witness.

An ugly little thought wriggled around in a back corner of my brain. So far as I could see, I was a genuine, mortal threat to only one person. That person was Morelli.

The phone rang at eleven, and I caught it before the machine picked up.

“Are you alone?” Morelli asked.

I hesitated. “Yes.”

“Why the hesitation?”

“How do you feel on the subject of murder?”

“Whose murder are we talking about?”

“Mine.”

“I feel warm all over.”

“Just wondering.”

“I’m coming up. Watch for me at the door.”

I tucked the defense spray into the waistband of my shorts and covered it with my T-shirt. I glued my eye to the peephole and opened the door when Morelli strolled down the hall. Every day he looked a little bit worse. He needed a haircut, and he had a week’s worth of beard that probably had only taken him two days to grow. His jeans and T-shirt were street-person quality.

He closed and locked the door behind himself. He took in my scorched, bruised face and the bruises on my arm. His expression was grim. “You want to tell me about it?”

“The cut lip and the bruises are from Ramirez. We had a tussle, but I think I won. I gassed him and left him throwing up in the road.”

“And the singed eyebrows?”

“Mmmm. Well, that’s a little complicated.”

His face darkened. “What happened?”

“Your car blew up.”

There was no reaction for several beats. “You want to run that by me again?” he finally said.

“The good news is… you don’t have to worry about Morty Beyers anymore.”

“And the bad news?”

I took his license plate from the kitchen counter and handed it to him. “This is all that’s left of your car.”

He stared down at the plate in shocked silence.

I told him about Morty Beyers’s wife leaving him, and the bomb, and the three phone calls from Dorsey.

He drew the same conclusion I’d drawn. “It wasn’t Ramirez.”

“I made a mental list of people who might want me dead, and your name was at the top.”

“Only in my dreams,” he said. “Who else was on the list?”

“Lonnie Dodd, but I think he’s still in prison.”

“You ever get death threats? How about ex-husbands or ex-boyfriends? You run over anyone recently?”

I had no intention of dignifying that question with a reaction.

“Okay,” he said. “So you think this is associated with the Kulesza murder?”

“Yes.”

“Are you scared?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then you’ll be careful.” He opened my refrigerator door, pulled out the leftovers my mom had sent home with me, and ate them cold. “You need to be careful when you talk to Dorsey. If he finds out you’ve been working with me, he could charge you with aiding and abetting.”

“I have this very disturbing suspicion that I’ve been talked into an alliance that’s not in my best interest.”

He cracked a beer open. “The only way you’re going to collect that $10,000 is if I allow you to bring me in. And I’m not going to allow you to bring me in if I can’t prove myself innocent. Any time you want to call the deal off, just let me know, but you can kiss your money good-by.”

“That’s a rotten attitude.”

He shook his head. “Realistic.”

“I could have gassed you any number of times.”

“I don’t think so.”

I whipped the spray out, but before I could aim he’d knocked the canister from my hand and sent it flying across the room.

“Doesn’t count,” I said. “You were expecting it.”

He finished his sandwich and slid his dish into the dishwasher. “I’m always expecting it.”

“Where do we go from here?”

“We keep doing more of the same. Obviously we’re hitting a nerve.”

“I don’t like being a target.”

“You aren’t going to whine about this, are you?” He settled himself in front of the television and starting working the channel changer. He looked tired, sitting with his back against the wall, one leg bent at the knee. He locked in a late night show and closed his eyes. His breathing grew deep and even and his head slumped to his chest.

“I could gas you now,” I whispered.

He raised his head, but he didn’t open his eyes. A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “It’s not your style, Cupcake.”

HE WAS STILL SLEEPING ON THE FLOOR in front of the television when I got up at eight. I tiptoed past him and went out to run. He was reading the paper and drinking coffee when I returned.

“Anything in there about the bombing” I asked.

“Story and pictures on page three. They’re calling it an unexplained explosion. Nothing especially interesting.” He looked over the top of the paper at me. “Dorsey left another message on your machine. Maybe you should see what he wants.”

I took a fast shower, dressed in clean clothes, slathered some aloe cream on my blistered face, and followed my scaly nose to the coffeepot. I drank half a cup while I read the funnies, and then I called Dorsey.

“We’ve got the analysis back from the lab,” he said. “It was definitely a bomb. Professional job. Of course, you can get a book out of any library that will tell you how to do a professional bombing. You could build a fucking nuke if you wanted to. Anyway, I thought you’d want to know.”

“I suspected as much.”

“You have any ideas who would do such a thing?”

“No names.”

“How about Morelli?”

“That’s a possibility.”

“I missed you at the station yesterday.”

He was fishing. He knew there was something screwy about all of this. He just hadn’t figured it out yet. Welcome to the club, Dorsey. “I’ll try to get there today.”

“Try real hard.”

I hung up and topped off my coffee. “Dorsey wants me to come in.”

“Are you going?”

“No. He’s going to ask questions I can’t answer.”

“You should put in some time on Stark Street this morning.”

“Not this morning. I have things to do.”

“What things?”

“Personal things.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I have some loose ends to tie up… just in case,” I said.

“Just in case what?”

I made an exasperated gesture. “Just in case something happens to me. For the past ten days I’ve been stalked by a professional sadist, and now I’m on the happy bomber’s hit list. I feel a little insecure, okay? Give me a break, Morelli. I need to see some people. I have a few personal errands to run.”

He gently peeled a strip of loose skin off my nose. “You’re going to be okay,” he said softly. “I understand that you’re scared. I get scared too. But we’re the good guys, and the good guys always win.”

I really felt like a jerk, because here was Morelli being nice to me, and what I actually wanted to do was hop on over to Bernie’s to buy a blender and get my free daiquiri mix.

“How were you planning on running these errands without the Jeep?” he asked.

“I retrieved the Nova.”

He winced. “You didn’t park it in the lot, did you?”

“I was hoping the bomber wouldn’t know it was my car.”

“Oh boy.”

“I’m sure I have nothing to worry about,” I said.

“Yeah. I’m sure, too. I’ll go down with you just to make double sure.”

I collected my gear, checked the windows, and reset the answering machine. Morelli was waiting for me at the door. We walked downstairs together, and we both paused when we reached the Nova.

“Even if the bomber knew this was your car, he’d have to be stupid to try the same thing twice,” Morelli said. “Statistically the second hit comes from a different direction.”

Made perfect sense to me, but my feet were stuck to the pavement and my heart was rocketing around in my chest. “All right. Here I go,” I said. “Now or never.”

Morelli had dropped to his belly and was looking under the Nova.

“What do you see?” I asked him.

“A hell of an oil leak.” He crawled out and got to his feet.

I raised the hood and checked the dipstick. Wonder of wonders, the car needed oil. I fed it two cans and slammed the hood down.

Morelli had taken the keys from the door handle and angled himself behind the wheel. “Stand back,” he said to me.

“No way. This is my car. I’ll start it up.”

“If one of us is going to get blown apart it might as well be me. I’m as good as dead if I don’t find that missing witness, anyway. Move away from the car.”

He turned the key. Nothing happened. He looked at me.

“Sometimes you have to smack it around,” I said.

He turned the key again and brought his fist down hard on the dash. The car coughed and caught. It idled rough and then settled in.

Morelli slumped against the wheel, eyes closed. “Shit.”

I looked in the window at him. “Is my seat wet?”

“Very funny.” He got out of the car and held the door for me. “Do you want me to follow?”

“No. I’ll be fine. Thanks.”

“I’ll be on Stark Street if you need me. Who knows… maybe the witness will show up at the gym.”

When I got to Bernie’s store I noticed people weren’t standing in line to go through the door, so I assumed I was in good shape for the daiquiri mix.

“Hey,” Bernie said, “look who’s here.”

“I got your message about the blender.”

“It’s this little baby,” he said, patting a display blender. “It chops nuts, crushes ice, mashes bananas, and makes a hell of a daiquiri.”

I looked at the price affixed to the blender. I could afford it. “Sold. Do I get my free daiquiri mix?”

“You bet.” He took a boxed blender to the register, bagged it, and rang it up. “How’s it going?” he asked cautiously, his eyes fixed on the singed stumps of hair that had once been eyebrows.

“It’s been better.”

“A daiquiri will help.”

“Without a shadow of a doubt.”

On the other side of the street, Sal was Windexing his front door. He was a pleasant-looking man, thick-bodied and balding, wrapped in his white butcher’s apron. So far as I knew, he was a small-time bookie. Nothing special. I doubted he was connected. So why would a guy like Kulesza, whose entire life centered on Stark Street, drive all the way across town to see Sal? I knew a few of Kulesza’s vital statistics, but I didn’t know anything of his personal life. Shopping at Sal’s was the only moderately interesting piece of information I had about Kulesza. Maybe Ziggy was a betting man. Maybe he and Sal were old friends. Maybe they were related. Now that I thought about it, maybe Sal would know about Carmen or the guy with the flat nose.

I chatted with Bernie for a few more minutes while I settled in to the idea of interviewing Sal. I watched a woman enter the shop and make a purchase. This seemed like a good approach to me. It would give me an opportunity to look around.

I promised Bernie I’d be back for bigger and better appliances and walked across the street to Sal’s.

I PUSHED THROUGH SAL’S FRONT DOOR and went to the long case filled with steaks and ground meat patties and twine-bound roasts.

Sal gave me a welcoming smile. “What can I do for you?”

“I was at Kuntz’s, buying a blender…” I held the bag up for him to see. “And I thought I’d get something for supper while I was here.”

“Sausage? Fresh fish? Nice piece of chicken?”

“Fish.”

“I got some flounder just caught off the Jersey shore.”

Probably it glowed in the dark. “That’ll be fine. Enough for two people.”

Somewhere in the back a door opened, and I could hear the drone of a truck motor. The door clanged shut, and the motor noise disappeared.

A man entered from the hallway beside the walk-in, and my heart jumped into triple time. Not only was the man’s nose smashed, but his entire face looked as if it had been pressed flat… as if it had been hit with a frying pan. I couldn’t know for sure until Morelli took a look, but I suspected I’d found the missing witness.

I was torn between wanting to jump up and down and make sounds of excitement and wanting to bolt and run before I was hacked up into chops and roasts.

“Got a delivery for you,” the man said to Sal. “You want it in the lockup?”

“Yeah,” Sal said. “And take the two barrels set by the door. One of them’s heavy. You’ll need the dolly.”

Sal’s attention turned back to the fish. “How you gonna cook these fillets?” he asked me. “You know you can pan fry them, or bake them, or stuff them. Personally, I like them fried. Heavy batter, deep fat.”

I heard the back door close after the guy with the flat face. “Who was that?” I asked.

“Louis. Works for the distributor in Philly. He brings up meat.”

“And then what does he take back in the barrels?”

“Sometimes I save up trim. They use it for dog food.”

I had to grit my teeth to keep from flying out the door. I’d found the witness! I was sure of it. By the time I got to the Nova I was dizzy with the effort of restraint. I was saved! I was going to be able to pay my rent. I’d succeeded at something. And now that the missing witness was found, I’d be safe. I’d turn Morelli in and have nothing more to do with Ziggy Kulesza. I’d be out of the picture. There’d be no reason for anyone to want to kill me… except, of course, Ramirez. And, hopefully Ramirez would be implicated sufficiently to put him away for a long, long time.

The old man across from Carmen’s apartment had said he’d been bothered by the noise from a refrigerator truck. Dollars to donuts it had been a meat truck. I couldn’t know for sure until I did another check on the back of Carmen’s apartment building, but if Louis had parked close enough he might have been able to ease himself down onto the roof of the refrigerator truck. Then he put Carmen on ice and drove away.

I couldn’t figure the connection with Sal. Maybe there was no connection. Maybe it was just Ziggy and Louis working as cleanup for Ramirez.

I had a decent view of Sal’s from where I sat. I shoved the key into the ignition and took one last look. Sal and Louis were talking. Louis was cool. Sal was agitated, throwing his hands into the air. I decided to watch awhile. Sal turned his back on Louis and made a phone call. Even from this distance I could see he wasn’t happy. He slammed the receiver down, and both men went into the walk-in freezer and reappeared moments later rolling out the trim drum. They shunted the drum down the hallway leading to the back exit. Louis reappeared a short while later with what appeared to be a side of beef slung over his shoulder. He deposited the meat in the freezer and rolled out the second drum. He paused at the back hallway and stared toward the front of the store. My heart skipped in my chest, and I wondered if he could see the snooping. He walked forward, and I reached for my Sure Guard. He stopped at the door and turned the little OPEN sign to CLOSED.

I hadn’t expected this. What did this mean? Sal was nowhere in sight, the store was closed, and so far as I knew it wasn’t a holiday. Louis left through the back hallway, and the lights went out. I got a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. The bad feeling escalated to panic, and the panic told me not to lose Louis.

I put the Nova in gear and drove to the end of the block. A white refrigerator truck with Pennsylvania plates eased into traffic ahead of me, and two blocks later we turned onto Chambers. I would have liked nothing better than to drop the whole thing in Morelli’s lap, but I hadn’t a clue how to get in touch with him. He was north of me on Stark Street, and I was heading south. He probably had a phone in the van, but I didn’t know the number, and besides, I couldn’t call him until we stopped somewhere.

The refrigerator truck picked up Route 206 at Whitehorse. Traffic was moderately heavy. I was two car lengths back, and I found it fairly easy to stay hidden and at the same time keep sight of Louis. Just past the junction of Route 70 my oil light went on and stayed on. I did some vigorous swearing, screeched to a stop on the shoulder, poured two cans of oil with breakneck precision, slammed the hood, and took off.

I pushed the Nova up to eighty, ignoring the shimmy in the front end and the startled looks of other drivers as I rattled past them in my pussymobile. After an agonizing couple of miles I caught sight of the truck. Louis was one of the slower drivers on the road, holding his speed down to only ten miles an hour over the limit. I breathed a sigh of relief and fell into place. I prayed he wasn’t going far. I only had a case and a half of oil in the back seat.

At Hammonton Louis left turned onto a secondary road and drove east. There were fewer cars on this road, and I had to drop farther back. The countryside was rolling farmland and patches of woods. After about fifteen miles, the truck slowed and pulled into a gravel drive that led to a corrugated metal warehouse-type building. The sign on the front of the building said this was the Pachetco Inlet Marina and Cold Storage. Beyond the building I could see boats and beyond the boats the glare of sun on open water.

I sailed by the lot and made a U-turn a quarter mile up the road where it dead-ended at the Mullico River. I returned and did a slow drive-by. The truck was parked at the board walkway that led to the boat slips. Louis and Sal were out of the truck, leaning against the back step bumper, looking like they were waiting for something or someone. They were alone in the lot. It was a small marina, and it seemed that even though it was summer, most of the activity was still weekend-based.

I’d passed a gas station a few miles back. I decided it would be an inconspicuous place to wait. If Sal or Louis left the marina they’d go in this direction, back to civilization, and I could follow. There was the added advantage of a public phone and the possibility of getting in touch with Morelli.

The station was pre-computer age with two old-fashioned gas pumps on a stained cement pad. A sign propped on one of the pumps advertised live bait and cheap gas. The single-level shack behind the pumps was brown shingle patched with flattened jerry cans and assorted pieces of plywood. A public phone had been installed next to the screen door.

I parked, partially hidden, behind the station, and walked the short distance to the phone, happy for the opportunity to stretch my legs. I called my own number. It was the only thing I could think to do. The phone rang once, the machine answered, and I listened to my own voice tell me I wasn’t home. “Anybody there?” I asked. No reply. I gave the public phone number and suggested if anyone needed to get in touch with me I’d be at that number for an indeterminate number of minutes.

I was about to get back into my car when Ramirez’s Porsche sped by. This is curiouser and curiouser, I thought. Here we have a butcher, a shooter, and a boxer, meeting at the Pachetco Inlet Marina. It seemed unlikely that they were just three guys going fishing. If it had been anyone other than Ramirez who had driven down the road, I might have ventured closer to take a peek. I told myself I was holding back because Ramirez might recognize the Nova. This was only part of the truth. Ramirez had succeeded in his goal. The mere sight of his car sent me into a cold sweat of terror that left serious doubts about my ability to function through another confrontation.

A short time later, the Porsche hummed past me, en route to the highway. The windows were tinted, obscuring vision, but at best it could only seat two men, so that left at least one man at the marina. Hopefully, that one man was Louis. I made another call to my answering machine. This message was more urgent. “CALL ME!” I said.

It was close to dark before the phone finally rang.

“Where are you?” Morelli asked.

“I’m at the shore. At a gas station on the outskirts of Atlantic City. I’ve found the witness. His name is Louis.”

“Is he with you?”

“He’s down the road.” I briefed Morelli on the day’s events and gave him directions to the marina. I bought a soda from an outside machine and went back to do more waiting.

It was deep twilight when Morelli finally pulled up next to me in the van. There’d been no traffic on the road since Ramirez, and I was sure the truck hadn’t slipped by. It had occurred to me that Louis might be on a boat, possibly spending the night. I couldn’t see any other reason for the truck to still be in the marina lot.

“Is our man at the marina?” Morelli asked.

“So far as I know.”

“Has Ramirez come back?”

I shook my head no.

“Think I’ll take a look around. You wait here.”

No way was I doing any more waiting anywhere. I was fed up with waiting. And I didn’t entirely trust Morelli. He had an annoying habit of making beguiling promises and then waltzing out of my life.

I followed the van to the water’s edge and parked beside it. The white refrigerator truck hadn’t been moved. Louis wasn’t out and about. The boats tied up to the wharf were dark. The Pachetco Inlet Marina was not exactly a bustling hub of activity.

I got out of the Nova and walked around to Morelli.

“I thought I told you to wait at the gas station,” Morelli said. “We look like a fucking parade.”

“I thought you might need help with Louis.”

Morelli was out of the van and standing beside me, looking disreputable and dangerous in the dark. He smiled, and his teeth were startlingly white against his black beard. “Liar. You’re worried about your $10,000.”

“That too.”

We stared at each other for a while, making silent assessments.

Morelli finally reached through the open window, snatched a jacket off the front seat, pulled a semiautomatic from the jacket pocket, and shoved it into the waistband of his jeans. “I suppose we might as well look for my witness.”

We walked to the truck and peered inside the cab. The cab was empty and locked. No other cars were parked in the lot.

Nearby, water lapped at pilings, and boats groaned against their moorings. There were four board docks with fourteen slips each, seven to a side. Not all of the slips were in use.

We quietly walked the length of each dock, reading boat names, looking for signs of habitation. Halfway down the third dock we stopped at a big Hatteras Convertible with a flying bridge, and we both mouthed the boat’s name. “Sal’s Gal.”

Morelli boarded and crept aft. I followed several feet behind. The deck was littered with fishing gear, long-handled nets and gaffs. The door to the salon was padlocked on the outside, telling us Louis was probably not on the inside. Morelli pulled a penlight from his pocket and shone it into the cabin window. The largest portion of the boat interior appeared to have been stripped down for serious fishing, similar to a head boat, with utilitarian benches in place of more luxurious accommodations. The small galley was cluttered with crushed beer cans and stacks of soiled paper plates. The residue from some sort of powder spill glittered under the penlight.

“Sal’s a slob,” I said.

“You sure Louis wasn’t in the car with Ramirez?” Morelli asked.

“I have no way of knowing. The car has tinted glass—But it only seats two, so at least one person is left here.”

“And there were no other cars on the road?”

“No.”

“He could have gone in the other direction,” Morelli said.

“He wouldn’t have gone far. It dead-ends in a quarter mile.”

The moon was low in the sky, spilling silver dollars of light onto the water. We looked back at the white refrigerator truck. The cooler motor hummed quietly in the darkness.

“Maybe we should take another look at the truck,” Morelli said.

His tone gave me an uneasy feeling, and I didn’t want to voice the question that had popped into my head. We’d already determined Louis wasn’t in the cab. What was left?

We returned to the truck, and Morelli scanned the outside thermostat controls for the refrigeration unit.

“What’s it set at?” I asked.

“Twenty.”

“Why so cold?”

Morelli stepped down and moved to the back door. “Why do you think?”

“Somebody’s trying to freeze something?”

“That would be my guess, too.” The back door to the truck was held closed by a heavy-duty bolt and padlock. Morelli weighed the padlock in the palm of his hand. “Could be worse,” he said. He jogged to the van and returned with a small hacksaw.

I nervously looked around the lot. I didn’t especially want to get caught hijacking a meat truck. “Isn’t there a better way to do this?” I stage whispered over the rasp of the saw. “Can’t you just pick the lock?”

“This is faster,” Morelli said. “Just keep your eyes peeled for a night watchman.”

The saw blade lunged through the metal, and the lock swung open. Morelli threw the bolt back and pulled on the thick, insulated door. The interior of the truck was stygian black. Morelli hauled himself up onto the single-step bumper, and I scrambled after him, wrestling my flashlight out of my shoulder bag. The frigid air pressed against me and took my breath away. We both trained our lights on the frost-shrouded walls. Huge, empty meathooks hung from the ceiling. Nearest the door was the large trim barrel I’d seen them roll out earlier in the afternoon. The empty barrel stood nearby, its lid slanted between the barrel and the truck wall.

I slid my spot of light farther to the rear and dropped it lower. My eyes focused, and I sucked in cold air when I realized what I was seeing. Louis was sprawled spread-eagle on his back, his eyes impossibly wide and unblinking, his feet splayed. Snot had run out of his nose and frozen to his cheek. A large urine stain had crystallized on the front of his work pants. He had a large, dark dot in the middle of his forehead. Sal lay next to him with an identical dot and the same dumbstruck expression on his frozen face.

“Shit,” Morelli said. “I’m not having any luck at all.”

The only dead people I’d ever seen had been embalmed and dressed up for church. Their hair had been styled, their cheeks had been rouged, and their eyes had been closed to suggest eternal slumber. None of them had been shot in the forehead. I felt bile rise in my throat and clapped a hand over my mouth.

Morelli yanked me out the door and onto the gravel. “Don’t throw up in the truck,” he said. “You’ll screw up the crime scene.”

I did some deep breathing and willed my stomach to settle.

Morelli had his hand at the back of my neck. “You going to be okay?”

I nodded violently. “I’m fine. Just’t-t-took me b-b-by surprise.”

“I need some stuff from the van. Stay here. Don’t go back in the truck and don’t touch anything.”

He didn’t have to worry about me going back into the truck. Wild horses couldn’t drag me back into the truck.

He returned with a crowbar and two pairs of disposable gloves. He gave one pair to me. We snapped the gloves on, and Morelli climbed up the step bumper. “Shine the light on Louis,” he ordered, bending over the body.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m looking for the missing gun.”

He stood and tossed a set of keys at me. “No gun on him, but he had these keys in his pocket. See if one of them opens the cab door.”

I opened the passenger side door and searched the map pockets, the glove compartment and under the seat, but I didn’t come up with a gun. When I went back to Morelli he was working at the sealed drum with a crowbar.

“No gun up front,” I said.

The lid popped off, and Morelli flicked his flashlight on and looked inside.

“Well?” I asked.

His voice was tight when he answered. “It’s Carmen.”

I was hit with another wave of nausea. “You think Carmen’s been in Sal’s freezer all this time?”

“Looks like it.”

“Why would he keep her around? Wouldn’t he be afraid someone would discover her?”

Morelli shrugged. “I suppose he felt safe. Maybe he’s done this sort of thing before. You do something often enough, and you become complacent.”

“You’re thinking about those other women who’ve disappeared from Stark Street.”

“Yeah. Sal was probably just waiting for a convenient time to take Carmen out and dump her at sea.”

“I don’t understand Sal’s connection.”

Morelli hammered the lid back on. “Me either, but I feel pretty confident Ramirez can be pursuaded to explain it to us.”

He wiped his hands on his pants and left smudges of white.

“What’s with all this white stuff?” I asked. “Sal got a thing with baby powder or cleanser or something?”

Morelli looked down at his hands and his pants. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“There was powder on the floor of the boat. And now you picked some up from the drum and wiped it on your pants.”

“Jesus,” Morelli said, staring at his hand. “Holy shit.” He flipped the lid off the drum and ran his finger around the inside rim. He put the finger to his mouth and tasted it. “This is dope.”

“Sal doesn’t strike me as a crackhead.”

“It’s not crack. It’s heroin.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve seen a lot of it.”

I could see him smiling in the dark.

“Sweet Pea, I think we’ve just found ourselves a drop boat,” he said. “All along I’ve been thinking this was about protecting Ramirez, but now I’m not so sure. I think this might be about drugs.”

“What’s a drop boat?”

“It’s a small boat that goes out to sea to rendezvous with a larger ship engaged in drug smuggling.

“Most of the world’s heroin comes from Afghanistan, Pakistan, Burma. It’s usually routed through northern Africa, then up to Amsterdam or some other European city. In the past, the favored method of entry for the northeast has been to body-pack it through Kennedy. For a year now, we’ve been getting tips that the stuff is traveling big time on ships coming into Port Newark. The DEA and Customs have been working overtime and coming up empty.” He held his finger in the air for inspection. “I think this could be the reason. By the time the ship sails into Newark, the heroin’s already been off loaded.”

“Onto a drop boat,” I said.

“Yeah. The drop boat snags the dope from the mother ship and brings it back to a small marina like this where there are no customs inspectors.

“My guess is they load the stuff into these barrels after it’s handed down, and one of the bags broke last time out.”

“Hard to believe someone would be that sloppy about leaving incriminating evidence.”

Morelli grunted. “You work with drugs all the time and they become commonplace. You wouldn’t believe what people leave in full view in apartments and garages. Besides, the boat belongs to Sal, and chances are Sal wasn’t along for the ride. That way if the boat gets busted, Sal says he loaned it to a friend. He didn’t know it was being used for illegal activities.”

“You think this is why there’s so much heroin in Trenton?”

“Could be. When you have a drop boat like this you can bring in large quantities and eliminate the couriers, so you have good availability at low overhead. The cost on the street goes down and the purity goes up.”

“And addicts start dying.”

“Yeah.”

“Why do you think Ramirez shot Sal and Louis?”

“Maybe Ramirez had to burn some bridges.”

Morelli played his light over the back corners of the truck. I could barely see him in the dark, but I could hear the scrape of his feet as he moved.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m looking for a gun. In case you haven’t noticed I’m shit out of luck. My witness is dead. If I can’t find Ziggy’s missing gun with an intact latent, I’m as good as dead, too.”

“There’s always Ramirez.”

“Who may or may not be feeling talkative.”

“I think you’re overreacting. I can place Ramirez at the scene of two execution-type killings, and we’ve uncovered a major drug operation.”

“Possibly this casts some doubt about Ziggy’s character, but it doesn’t alter the fact that I appeared to have shot an unarmed man.”

“Ranger says you’ve got to trust in the system.”

“Ranger ignores the system.”

I didn’t want to see Morelli in jail for a crime he didn’t commit, but I also didn’t want him living the life of a fugitive. He was actually a pretty good guy, and as much as I hated to admit it, I’d become fond of him. When the manhunt was over I’d miss the teasing and the latenight companionship. It was true that Morelli still touched a nerve every now and then, but there was a new feeling of partnership that transcended most of my earlier anger. I found it hard to believe he would be sent to jail in light of all the new evidence. Possibly he would lose his job on the force. This seemed like a minor disgrace to me when compared to spending long years in hiding.

“I think we should call the police and let them sort through this,” I said to Morelli. “You can’t stay in hiding for the rest of your life. What about your mother? What about your phone bill?”

“My phone bill? Oh shit, Stephanie, you haven’t been running up my phone bill, have you?”

“We had an agreement. You were going to let me bring you in when we found the missing witness.”

“I hadn’t counted on him being dead.”

“I’ll be evicted.”

“Listen, Stephanie, your apartment isn’t all that great. Besides, this is wasted talk. We both know you aren’t capable of bringing me in by force. The only way you’re going to collect your money is by my permission. You’re just going to have to sit tight.”

“I don’t like your attitude, Morelli.”

The light whirled, and he lunged toward the door. “I don’t much care what you think of my attitude. I’m not in a good mood. My witness is dead, and I can’t find the damn murder weapon. Probably Ramirez will squeal like a pig, and I’ll be exonerated, but until that happens I’m staying hidden.”

“The hell you are. I can’t believe it’s in your best interest. Suppose some cop sees you and shoots you? Besides, I have a job to do, and I’m going to do it. I should never have made this deal with you.”

“It was a good deal,” he said.

“Would you have made it?”

“No. But I’m not you. I have skills you could only dream about. And I’m a hell of a lot meaner than you’ll ever be.”

“You underestimate me. I’m pretty fucking mean.”

Morelli grinned. “You’re a marshmallow. Soft and sweet and when you get heated up you go all gooey and delicious.”

I was rendered speechless. I couldn’t believe just seconds before I’d been thinking friendly, protective thoughts about this oaf.

“I’m a fast learner, Morelli. I made a few mistakes in the beginning, but I’m capable of bringing you in now.”

“Yeah, right. What are you going to do, shoot me?”

I wasn’t soothed by his sarcasm. “The thought isn’t without appeal, but shooting isn’t necessary. All I have to do is close the door on you, you arrogant jerk.”

In the dim light I saw his eyes widen as understanding dawned a nanosecond before I swung the heavy, insulated door shut. I heard the muffled thud of his body slam against the interior, but he was too late. The bolt was already in place.

I adjusted the refrigeration temperature to forty. I figured that would be cold enough to keep the corpses from defrosting, but not so cold I’d turn Morelli into a popsicle on the ride back to Trenton. I climbed into the cab and cranked the motor over—compliments of Louis’ keys. I lumbered out of the lot and onto the road and headed for the highway.

Halfway home I found a pay phone and called Dorsey. I told him I was bringing Morelli in, but I didn’t provide any details. I told him I’d be rolling into the station’s back lot in about forty-five minutes and it’d be nice if he was waiting for me.

I swung the truck into the driveway on North Clinton right on time and caught Dorsey and two uniforms in my headlights. I cut the engine, did some deep breathing to still my nervous stomach, and levered myself out of the cab.

“Maybe you should have more than two uniforms,” I said. “I think Morelli might be mad.”

Dorsey’s eyebrows were up around his hairline. “You’ve got him in the back of the truck?”

“Yeah. And he isn’t alone.”

One of the uniforms slid the bolt, the door flew open, and Morelli catapulted himself out at me. He caught me midbody, and we both went down onto the asphalt, thrashing and rolling and swearing at each other.

Dorsey and the uniforms hauled Morelli off me, but he was still swearing and flailing his arms. “I’m gonna get you!” he was yelling at me. “When I get outta here I’m gonna get your ass. You’re a goddamn lunatic. You’re a menace!”

Two more patrolmen appeared, and the four uniforms wrestled Morelli through the back door. Dorsey lagged behind with me. “Maybe you should wait out here until he calms down,” he said.

I picked some cinders out of my knee. “That might take a while.”

I gave Dorsey the keys to the truck and explained about the drugs and Ramirez. By the time I was done explaining, Morelli had been moved upstairs, and the coast was clear for me to get my body receipt from the docket lieutenant.

It was close to twelve when I finally let myself into my apartment, and my one real regret for the evening was that I’d left my blender at the marina. I truly needed a daiquiri. I locked my front door and tossed my shoulder bag onto the kitchen counter.

I had mixed feelings about Morelli… not sure if I’d done the right thing. In the end, it hadn’t been the retrieval money that had mattered. I’d acted on a combination of righteous indignation and my own conviction that Morelli should surrender himself.

My apartment was dark and restful, lit only by the light in the hall. Shadows were deep in the living room, but they didn’t generate fear. The chase was over.

Some thought needed to be given to my future. Being a bounty hunter was much more complicated than I’d originally assumed. Still, it had its high points, and I’d learned a lot in the past two weeks.

The heat wave had broken late in the afternoon and the temperature had dropped to a lovely seventy degrees. My curtains were closed, and a breeze played in the lightweight chintz. A perfect night for sleeping, I thought.