High Five

11

RANGER HAD THE Mercedes double-parked outside Mike's Place. I got in, and we took off before Perin made it through the door to the sidewalk.

Ranger glanced over at me. "Are you okay?"

"Never been better."

This brought another appraising look from Ranger.

"Well, maybe I'm a little buzzed," I said. "Think I shouldn't have drunk that whole drink." I leaned closer to Ranger, as he was looking very fine, and I was finding him superior to that rat-fink Morelli.

Ranger downshifted at a light. "Want to tell me about the gunfire?"

"Perin got one off. It didn't hit anybody, though." I smiled at him. Ranger wasn't nearly so scary when I was tanked on Bombay.

"Perin was shooting at you?"

"Well, no. There was this other guy who sort of didn't like Perin talking to me. And there was an altercation." I touched Ranger's diamond stud earring. "Pretty," I said.

Ranger grinned. "How many drinks did you have?"

"One. But it was a big one. And I'm not much of a drinker."

"Something to remember," Ranger said.

I wasn't sure exactly what he meant by that, but I hoped it had to do with sex and taking advantage of me.

He turned into my lot and rolled to a stop at the door. Major disappointment, because it meant he was dropping me off, as opposed to parking and coming in for a nightcap . . . or something.

"You have a visitor," he said.

"Moi?"

"That's Morelli's bike."

I swiveled to look. Sure enough, Morelli's Ducati was parked next to Mr. Feinstein's Cadillac. Damn. I stuck my hand in my shoulder bag and fished around.

"What are you looking for?" Ranger asked.

"My gun."

"Probably it's not a good idea to shoot Morelli," Ranger said. "Cops are real touchy about that sort of thing."

I wrenched myself out of the car, straightened my skirt, and huffed into the building.

Morelli was sitting in the hall when I got upstairs. He was dressed in black jeans, black motorcycle boots, a black T-shirt, and a black leather motorcycle jacket. He had a two-day beard and his hair was long, even by Morelli standards. If I hadn't been mad at him I'd have had my clothes off before I got to my door. Now, I realize I'd just had the same thought about Ranger, but there it was. What can I say? Pretty soon Bunchy and Briggs would be looking good to me.

"Boy, you have a lot of nerve coming here," I said to Morelli, fumbling for my key.

He took his key ring from his pocket and opened my door.

"Since when do you have a key to my apartment?" I asked him.

"Since you gave it to me back when we were friendlier." He looked down at me and amusement softened the set of his mouth. "Have you been drinking?"

"Occupational hazard. I had this job to do for Ranger, and drinking seemed like the right thing to do at the time."

"You want some coffee?"

"No way, that would ruin everything. Anyway, I wouldn't drink your coffee. And you can leave now, thank you."

"I don't think so." Morelli opened the refrigerator, searched around and discovered the bag of Mocha Java I'd bought at Grand Union. He measured out water and coffee and tripped the switch on my coffeemaker. "Let me take a winger here. You're mad at me, right?"

I rolled my eyes so far into the back of my head I saw myself thinking. And while my eyes were all the way back there, I looked for Briggs. Where was the little devil?

"You want to give me a clue?" Morelli said.

"You don't deserve a clue."

"That's probably true, but how about giving me one anyway."

"Terry Gilman."

"Yeah?"

"That's it. That's your entire clue, you creep."

Morelli got two mugs from the over-the-counter cabinet and filled the mugs with coffee. He added milk and handed one of the mugs to me. "I need more to go on than a name."

"No you don't. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

His pager went off, and he did some creative swearing. He looked at the read-out and made a call on my phone. "I have to leave," he said. "I'd like to stay and settle this, but something's come up."

He got to the door and turned and came back. "I almost forgot. Have you seen Ramirez?"

"Yes. And I want to get a restraining order and have his parole revoked."

"His parole has already been revoked. He picked up a hooker on Stark Street last night and almost killed her. Brutalized her and left her for dead in a Dumpster. Somehow she managed to climb out, and two kids found her this morning."

"Is she going to be okay?"

"Looks like it. She's still on critical, but she's holding her own. When did you see him?"

"About a half hour ago."

I told him about the repo and the incident with Ramirez.

I could see emotion bubbling inside Morelli. Frustration, mostly. And some anger. "I don't suppose you'd consider moving back in with me?" he asked. "Just until Ramirez is found."

Be a little crowded what with Terry there, too. "Don't suppose I would," I said.

"How about if I marry you?"

"Now you want to marry me? What happens after they catch Ramirez? We get a divorce?"

"There's no divorce in my family. Grandma Bella wouldn't hear of it. You have to die to get out of a marriage in my family."

"Gosh, that's cheery." And true. I understood some of Joe's attitude about marriage. The Morelli men had a bad track record. They drank too much. They cheated on their wives. They beat their kids. And the misery lasts 'til death do them part. Fortunately for many of the Morelli wives, death visited the Morelli men early. They were shot in bar brawls, killed themselves in DUI car crashes, and exploded their livers. "We'll talk some other time," I said. "You'd better get moving. And don't worry, I'll be careful. I've been keeping my doors and windows locked, and I'm carrying a gun."

"You have a permit to carry concealed?"

"Got it yesterday."

"I didn't hear any of this," Morelli said. He bent his head and kissed me lightly on the lips. "Make sure the gun's loaded."

He was actually a very nice guy. Some of the less desirable Morelli genes had passed him by. He had the Morelli good looks and charm and none of the abusive qualities. The womanizing part was in question.

I smiled and said thanks. Although I'm not sure what I was thanking him for. For being a decent person about the gun, I guess. Or maybe for caring about my safety. At any rate, the smile and the thanks were encouragement enough for Morelli. He pulled me to him and kissed me again, hot and serious this time. Not a kiss I'd easily forget, nor want to end.

When he broke from the kiss, still holding me close, the grin returned. "That's better," he said. "I'll call when I can."

And he was gone.

Damn! I locked the door behind him and thunked myself on the forehead with the heel of my hand. I was such a dope. I'd just kissed Morelli like there was no tomorrow. Not the message I'd wanted to give him at all. What about Terry? What about Bunchy? What about Ranger? Never mind Ranger, I thought. Ranger wasn't part of this problem. Ranger was a different problem.

Briggs stuck his head out from my bathroom doorway. "Is it safe to come out?"

"What are you doing in there?"

"I heard you in the hall and didn't want to screw it up for you. Sounded like you finally had a live one."

"Thanks, but he wasn't all that live."

"So I see."

* * * * *

AT ONE O'CLOCK I was still awake. It was the kiss. I couldn't stop thinking about the kiss, and the way I'd felt when Morelli had taken me in his arms. And then I got to thinking about the way I'd have felt if he'd ripped my clothes off and kissed me in other places. And then there was Morelli naked. And Morelli naked and aroused. And Morelli doing something about being naked and aroused. And that's why I couldn't sleep. Again.

At two o'clock I was no closer to sleep. Damn Morelli. I rolled out of bed and padded barefoot into the kitchen. I went through the cupboards and fridge, but I couldn't find exactly the right thing to satisfy my hunger. Morelli was what I wanted, of course, but if I couldn't have Morelli, what I wanted was an Oreo. Lots of Oreos. I should have thought to get Oreos when I was at the store.

Grand Union was open twenty-four hours. Tempting, but a bad idea. Ramirez could be out there. Bad enough to worry about him during the day when there are people around and visibility is good. Going out at night seemed foolishly risky.

I went back to bed and instead of thinking about Joe Morelli, I found myself thinking about Ramirez, wondering if he was out there, parked in the lot or on one of the side streets. I knew all the cars that belonged in the lot. If an odd car was there, I'd spot it.

Curiosity had me now. And the excitement of a possible capture. If Ramirez was sitting in my lot, I could have him picked up. I slipped from under the covers and crept to the window. The lot was well-lit. Not a place where a car could be hidden in shadow. I grabbed hold of the curtain and drew it open. I expected to look down at the lot. Instead I looked into the obsidian eyes of Benito Ramirez. He was on my fire escape, leering in at me, his face illuminated in ambient light, his massive body shadowed and threatening against the night sky, his arms outspread, and his hands flat to the window frame.

I jumped back and yelped, and terror filled every part of me. I couldn't breath. I couldn't move. I couldn't think.

"Stephanie," he sang, his voice muffled through the black glass. He laughed softly and sang my name out again. "Stephanieeeee."

I wheeled around and flew out of the room and into the kitchen, where I fumbled in my bag for my gun. I found the gun and ran back to the bedroom, but Ramirez was gone. My window was still closed and locked, the curtains half open. The fire escape was empty. No sign of him in the lot. No strange car that I could see. For a moment I thought I'd imagined the whole thing. And then I saw the paper taped to the outside of my window. There was a hand-printed message on the paper.

God is waiting. Soon it will be your time to see Him.

I ran back to the kitchen to dial police dispatch. My hand was shaking, and my fingers wouldn't go to the right buttons on the phone. I took a calming breath and tried again. Another breath and I was telling the answering officer about Ramirez. I hung up and dialed Morelli. Halfway through the dial I cut the connection. Suppose Terry answered. Stupid thought, I told myself. She'd dropped him off. Don't make more of it than it is. There could be an explanation. And even if Joe wasn't the world's best boyfriend, he was still a damn good cop.

I redialed and waited while the phone rang seven times. Finally Morelli's machine picked up. Morelli wasn't home. Morelli was working. Ninety percent certainty, 10 percent doubt. It was the 10 percent that kept me from calling his cell phone or pager.

I suddenly realized Briggs was standing next to me.

The usual sarcasm was gone from his voice. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone that scared," he said. "You didn't hear anything I was saying to you."

"There was a man on my fire escape."

"Ramirez."

"Yeah. You know who he is?"

"Boxer."

"More than that. He's a very terrible person."

"Let's make some tea," Briggs said. "You don't look too good."

I brought my pillow and quilt into the living room and settled on the couch with Briggs. Every light in my apartment was on, and I had my gun within reach on the coffee table. I sat like that until daylight, dozing occasionally. When the sun was up, I went back to bed and slept until the phone woke me at eleven.

It was Margaret Burger.

"I found a check," she said. "It was misfiled. It's from that time when Sol was arguing with the cable company. I know Mr. Bunchy was interested in seeing it, but I don't know how to get in touch with him."

"I can get it to him," I told her. "I have a few things to do, and then I'll stop around."

"I'll be here all day," Margaret said.

I didn't know what I was going to get out of the check, but I thought it couldn't hurt to take a look. I made fresh coffee and chugged a glass of orange juice. I took a fast shower, dressed in my usual uniform of Levi's and a long-sleeve T-shirt, drank my coffee, ate a Pop-Tart, and called Morelli. Still no answer, but I left a message this time. The message was that Morelli should page me immediately if Ramirez was caught.

I took the pepper spray out of my shoulder bag and clipped it onto the waistband of my Levi's.

Briggs was in the kitchen when I left. "Be careful," he said.

My stomach knotted when I got to the elevator, and again when I stepped out of the lobby, into the lot. I quickly crossed to the car, powered up the Porsche, and watched my rearview mirror as I drove.

It occurred to me that I was no longer looking around every corner for Uncle Fred. Somehow the Uncle Fred search had morphed into a mystery about a butchered woman and dead office workers and an uncooperative garbage company. I told myself it was all the same. That somehow it all tied to Fred's disappearance. But I wasn't completely convinced. It was still possible that Fred was in Fort Lauderdale, and I was spinning my wheels while Bunchy laughed his ass off. Maybe Bunchy was actually Allen Funt in disguise, and I was on funniest bounty hunter bloopers.

Margaret opened the door on the first knock. She had the canceled check ready and waiting for me. I scrutinized it, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary.

"You can take it if you want," Margaret said. "It's no good to me. Maybe that nice Mr. Bunchy would want to see it too."

I dropped the check in my bag and thanked Margaret. I was still spooked from finding Ramirez on my fire escape, so I drove to the office to see if Lula wanted to ride shotgun for the rest of the day.

"I don't know," Lula said. "You aren't doing anything with that Bunchy guy, are you? He has a sick sense of humor."

We'll take my car, I told her. Nothing to worry about.

"I guess that would be okay," Lula said. "I could wear a hat to disguise myself, so no one recognizes me."

"No need," I said. "I have a new car."

Connie looked up from her computer screen. "What kind of car?"

"Black."

"That's better than powder blue," Lula said. "What is it? Another one of them little jeeps?"

"Nope. It's not a jeep."

Both Connie and Lula looked at me expectantly. "Well?" Lula said.

"It's . . . a Porsche."

"Say what?" Lula said.

"Porsche."

They were both at the door.

"Damned if it doesn't look like a Porsche," Lula said. "What'd you do, rob a bank?"

"It's a company car."

Lula and Connie did some more of the expectant looking at me with their eyebrows up at the top of their heads.

"Well, you know how I've been working with Ranger . . ."

Lula peered into the car's interior. "You mean like getting that guy to blow hisself up? And like the time you lost the sheik? Hold on here," Lula said. "Are you telling me Ranger gave you this car because you're working with him?"

I cleared my throat and polished a thumbprint off the rightrear quarter panel with the hem of my flannel shirt.

Lula and Connie started smiling.

"Dang," Lula said, punching me in the arm. "You go, girl."

"It's not that kind of work," I said.

The smile on Lula had stretched ear to ear. "I didn't say anything about what kind of work. Connie, did you hear me say anything about this kind of work or that kind of work?"

"I know what you were thinking," I said.

Connie jumped in. "Let's see . . . there's oral sex. And then there's regular sex. And then there's—"

"Getting close now," Lula said.

"All the men who work with Ranger drive black cars," I told them.

"He give them SUVs," Lula said. "He don't give them no Porsche."

I bit into my lower lip. "So you think he wants something?"

"Ranger don't do stuff for nothing," Lula said. "Sooner or later he gets his price. You telling me you don't know the price?"

"Guess I was hoping I was one of the guys, and the car was part of my job."

"I've seen the way he looks at you," Lula said. "And I know he don't look at any of the guys like that. Think what you need is a job description. Not that it would matter if it was me. If I could get my hands on that man's body, I'd buy him a Porsche."

We drove to the Grand Union strip mall, and I parked in front of First Trenton.

"What we doing here?" Lula wanted to know.

Good question. The answer was a little vague to me. "I have a couple canceled checks I want to show my cousin. She's a teller here."

"Something special about these checks?"

"Yeah. Only I don't know what." I gave them to Lula. "What do you think?"

"Looks like a couple plain-ass checks to me."

The bank was busy at lunchtime, so we got in line to see Leona. I looked over at Shempsky's office while I waited my turn. The door was open, and I could see Shempsky at his desk, on the phone.

"Hey," Leona said when I got to her window. "What's up?"

"I wanted to ask you about a check." I passed Margaret's check to her. "You see anything unusual here?"

She looked at it front and back. "No."

I gave her Fred's check to RGC. "How about this one?"

"Nope."

"Anything strange about the accounts?"

"Not that I can see." She typed some information into her computer and scanned the screen. "Money comes in and goes out pretty fast on this RGC account. My guess is this is a small liquid account RGC keeps at the local level."

"Why do you say that?"

"RGC is the biggest waste hauler in the area, and I don't see enough transactions here. Besides, I use RGC, and my checks to RGC are canceled through Citibank. When you work at a bank, you notice things like that."

"How about the cable check?"

Leona looked at it again. "Yep. Same thing. My checks are canceled someplace else."

"Is it unusual to assign customers to two different banks?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I guess not, since both these companies are doing it."

I thanked Leona, and dropped the checks back into my bag. I almost collided with Shempsky when I turned to leave.

"Oops," he said, jumping back. "Didn't mean to bumper-ride you. Just thought I'd come over and see how things are going."

"Things are going okay." I introduced Lula and thought it was to Shempsky's credit that he didn't seem to notice Lula's neon-orange hair or the fact that she'd poured over two hundred pounds of woman into a pair of size-nine tights and topped it off with a Cherry Garcia T-shirt and faux-fur jacket that was trimmed in what looked like pink lion mane.

"What ever happened to that check?" Shempsky asked. "Did you solve your mystery?"

"Not yet, but I'm making progress. I found a similar check from another business. And the curious thing is that both checks were canceled here."

"Why is that curious?"

I decided to fib. I didn't want to involve Leona or Margaret Burger. "The checks I write to those companies are canceled elsewhere. Don't you think that's weird?"

Shempsky smiled. "No. Not at all. Businesses often keep small, liquid local accounts, but deposit the bulk of their money somewhere else."

"Heard that before," Lula said.

"Do you have the other check with you?" Shempsky asked. "Would you like me to look at it?"

"No, but thanks for offering."

"Boy," Shempsky said. "You're really tenacious. I'm impressed. I assume you think this all ties in with Fred's disappearance?"

"I think it's possible."

"Where do you go from here?"

"RGC. I still need to get the account straightened out. I was going to do it last Friday, but I got there after Lipinski killed himself."

"Not a good time to take care of business," Shempsky said.

"No."

He gave me a friendly banker smile. "Well, good luck."

"She don't need luck," Lula said. "She's excellent. She always gets her man, you see what I'm saying? She's so good she drives a Porsche. How many bounty hunters you know got a Porsche?"

"It's actually a company car," I told Shempsky.

"It's a great car," he said. "I saw you drive off in it yesterday."

Finally I felt like I was on to something. I had an idea how a lot of stuff might tie together. It was still pretty half-baked, but it was something to think about. I took Klockner to Hamilton and crossed South Broad. I pulled into the industrial area and was relieved at the absence of flashing lights and police cruisers. No human disasters today. The RGC lot was empty of trucks and didn't smell bad. Clearly midday is the preferred time to visit a garbage company.

"They might be a little sensitive in here," I said to Lula.

"I can sensitive your ass off," Lula said. "I just hope they got their wall painted."

The office didn't look freshly painted, but it didn't look bloody either. A man was behind the counter, working at one of the desks. He was somewhere in his forties, brown hair, slim build. He looked up when we approached.

"I'd like to settle an account," I said. "I spoke to Larry about it, but it was never resolved. Are you new here?"

He extended his hand. "Mark Stemper. I'm from the Camden office. I'm filling in temporarily."

"Is that the wall where the brains were splattered?" Lula asked. "It don't look fresh painted. How'd you get it so clean? I never have any luck getting blood off walls like that."

"We had a cleaning crew come in," Stemper said. "I don't know exactly what they used."

"Boy, too bad, because I could use some of that."

He looked at her warily. "You get blood on your walls a lot?"

"Well, not usually on my walls."

"About this account," I said.

"Name?"

"Fred Shutz."

He tapped into the computer and shook his head. "Nobody here by that name."

"Exactly." I explained the problem and showed him the canceled check.

"We don't use this bank," he said.

"Maybe you have a second account there."

"Yeah," Lula said, "a local liquid account."

"No. All the offices are the same. Everything goes through Citibank."

"Then how do you explain this check?"

"I don't know how to explain it."

"Were Martha Deeter and Larry Lapinski the only office workers here?"

"In this office, yes."

"When someone mails in their quarterly payment, what happens to it?"

"It goes through here. It's logged into the system and deposited in the Citibank account."

"You've been very helpful," I said. "Thanks."

Lula followed me out. "Personally, I didn't think he was all that helpful. He didn't know nothing."

"He knew it was the wrong bank," I told her.

"I could tell that turns you on."

"I sort of had a brainstorm while I was talking to Allen Shempsky."

"You want to share that brainstorm?"

"Suppose Larry Lipinski didn't enter all the accounts. Suppose he held out ten percent for himself and deposited them someplace else?"

"Skimming," Lula said. "You think he was skimming RGC money. And then Uncle Fred come along and started making a stink. And so Lipinsky had to get rid of Uncle Fred."

"Maybe."

"You're the shit," Lula said. "Girlfriend, you are smart."

Lula and I did a high five and then a down low and then she tried to do some elaborate hand thing with me, but I got lost halfway through.

Actually, I thought it was more complicated than Fred getting disposed of because he made some noise over his account. It seemed more likely Fred's disappearance was related to the dismembered woman. And I still thought that woman might be Laura Lipinski. So it did sort of tie in together. I could construct a possible scenario up to the point of Fred seeing Lipinski dump the garbage bag at the real estate office. After that, I was lost.

We were about to get in the car when the side door to the building opened, and Stemper stuck his head out and waved at us. "Hey," he yelled. "Hold up a minute. That check is bothering me. Would you mind letting me make a copy?"

I didn't see where that would do any harm, so Lula and I returned to the office with him and waited while he fiddled with the copier.

"Damn thing never works," he said. "Hold on while I change the paper."

Half an hour later, I got my check back with an apology.

"I'm sorry that took so long," he said. "But maybe it'll be worthwhile. I'll send it to Camden and see what they make of it. I think it's pretty strange. I've never run across anything like this."

We got back to the Porsche and sunk into the leather seats.

"I love this car," Lula said. "I feel like the shit in this car."

I knew exactly what she meant. It was a fantasy car. No matter if it was true, when you drove the car you felt prettier, sexier, braver, and smarter. Ranger was on to something with this broader horizon business. When I drove the Porsche I could see myself with broader horizons.

I put the car in gear and headed for the driveway out of the lot. The lot itself was surrounded by a high chain-link fence. Out-of-use trucks parked to the rear in the lot, and office workers and drivers parked in the front. Double gates opened to the street. Probably at night they closed and locked the gates. During the day the gates were open, and it was wide enough for two trucks to pass.

I rolled to a stop at the open gate, looked left and saw the first garbage truck of the day rumble home. It was a colossus of a truck. A green and white behemoth that shook the earth as it thundered closer, its bulk preceded by the stench of rotting everything, its arrival heralded by descending seagulls.

The truck swung wide to enter the lot, and Lula jumped in her seat. "Holy cats, that guy don't see us. He's taking this turn like he owns the road."

I went into reverse, but it was too late. The truck sideswiped the Porsche, shearing fiberglass off half the car. I leaned on the horn, and the truck driver stopped and looked down at us in amazement.

Lula jumped out of the car in full rant, and I followed after her, climbing over the seat because my side was smushed into the monster garbage truck.

"Jeez, lady," the driver said. "I don't know what happened. I didn't see you until you started blowing your horn."

"That don't cut it," Lula yelled. "This here's a Porsche. You know what she had to do to get this Porsche? Well, actually she hasn't done nothing yet, but I think if she gets lucky, she's gonna have to do plenty. This company better be insured." Lula turned to me. "You need to exchange insurance information. That's always the first thing you do. You got your card?"

"I don't know. I guess all that stuff is in the glove compartment," I said.

"I'll get it," Lula told me. "I can't believe this happened to a Porsche. People should be more careful when they see a Porsche on the road." She leaned into the car, rooted around in the glove compartment, and was back in a heartbeat. "This looks like it," she said, handing the card over to me. "And here's your purse. You might need your license."

"Maybe we should get the guy in the office," the driver said. "He fills out the forms for this kind of thing."

I thought that was a good idea. And while we were at it how about if I just slip away unnoticed and get a one-way ticket to Rio. I didn't want to have to explain this to Ranger.

"Yeah, we should get that office guy," Lula said. "Because I might have whiplash or something. I can feel it coming on. Maybe I need to go in and sit down."

I would have rolled my eyes, but I thought I should save my energy in case Lula suddenly got paralyzed from the half-mile-per-hour impact she'd just sustained.

We all went into the building and had just gotten through the door when there was a loud explosion. We stopped in our tracks and looked at each other. There was a moment of stunned immobility, and then we all scrambled to see what had happened.

We burst out the door and faltered when a second explosion went off and flames shot from the Porsche and licked along the undercarriage of the garbage truck.

"Oh shit," the driver said. "Take cover! I've got a full tank of gas."

"Say what?" Lula said.

And then it blew. Barrroooom! Liftoff. The garbage truck jumped off the pavement. Tires and doors flew off like Frisbees, the truck bounced down with a jolt, listed to one side, and rolled over onto the furiously burning Porsche, turning it into a Porsche pancake.

We flattened ourselves against the building while pieces of scrap metal and shreds of rubber rained down around us.

"Uh-oh," Lula said. "All the king's horses and all the king's men aren't gonna put that Porsche back together again."

"I don't get it," the driver said. "It was only a scratch. I hardly scraped against your car. Why would it explode like that?"

"That's what her cars do," Lula said. "They explode. But I gotta tell you this was the best. This here's the first time she exploded a garbage truck. One time her truck got hit with an antitank missile. That wasn't bad either, but it couldn't compare to this."

I hauled the cell phone out of my bag and dialed Morelli.