High Five

12

ONLY ONE FIRE truck was left on the scene, and the remaining firemen were directing the cleanup. A crane had been brought in to move the RGC truck. When they got the truck up and off the Porsche, I'd be able to put the Porsche in my pocket. Connie had picked Lula up and taken her back to work, and most of the returning truck drivers had lost interest and dispersed.

Morelli had arrived seconds after the first fire truck and was now standing threateningly close to me, fist on hip, eyes narrowed, giving me the third degree.

"Tell me again," Morelli said, "why Ranger gave you a Porsche."

"It's a company car. Everyone who works with Ranger drives a black car, and since my car is blue—"

"He gave you a Porsche."

I narrowed my eyes back at him. "Just what is the problem here?"

"I want to know what's going on with you and Ranger is the problem."

"I told you. I'm working with him." And I supposed I was flirting with him, but I didn't think it was necessary to report flirting. Anyway, talk about the pot calling the kettle black.

Morelli didn't look satisfied, and he definitely didn't look happy. "I don't suppose you bothered to check the registration number on your Porsche."

"Don't suppose I did." And it was unlikely anyone was going to check it now, being that the Porsche was blown up, and its remnants were only three inches thick.

"You weren't worried that you might be driving a hot car?"

"Ranger wouldn't give me a hot car."

"Ranger would give his mother a hot car," Morelli said. "Where do you think he gets all those cars he gives away? You think he gets them from the car fairy?"

"I'm sure there's an explanation."

"Such as?"

"Such as, I don't know. And anyway there are other things that are more important to me right now. Like why did my car explode?"

"Good question. I think it's unlikely the garbage truck side-swiping you caused the explosion. If you were a normal person I'd be hard-pressed to find an explanation. Since you're who you are . . . my guess is someone planted a bomb."

"Why did it take so long? Why didn't it go off when I started the car?"

"I asked Murphy. He's the demo expert. He thinks it might have been set on a timer, so it would go off when you were on the street, not in the lot."

"So maybe the bomber is someone from the garbage company, and he didn't want the explosion so close to home."

"We looked for Stemper, but he's nowhere."

"Did you check for his car?"

"It's still here."

"Are you kidding me? He's just disappeared?"

Morelli shrugged. "Doesn't mean much. He could have gone out for a drink with a friend. Or he could have gotten fed up with waiting for the lot to get cleared enough to get the cars out and found some other way to go home."

"But you guys are going to look for him, right?"

"Right."

"And he isn't home yet?"

"Not yet."

"I have a theory," I said.

Morelli smiled. "I love this part."

"I think Lipinski was skimming. And maybe Martha Deeter was in on it, or maybe she found out about it, or maybe she was just a pain in the ass. Anyway, I think Lipinski might have been keeping some accounts for himself." I showed Morelli the checks and told him about the banks.

"And you think this other guy who worked for the cable company, John Curly, was skimming, too?"

"There are some similarities."

"And Fred might have disappeared because he was making too much noise?"

"More than that." I told him about the Mega Monster flyer in the garbage bag, and about Laura Lipinski, and finally about Fred and the leaves.

"I'm not liking this picture," Morelli said. "I wish I'd known about these things sooner."

"I just put it together."

"Two steps in front of me. I've been really stupid on this one. Tell me about the fake bookie."

"Bunchy."

"Yeah. Whoever."

I raised an eyebrow. "I figured you two were working together."

"What's Bunchy look like?"

"A fireplug with eyebrows. About my height. Brown hair. Needs a cut. Receding hairline. Looks like a street person. Walks and talks like a cop. Drinks Corona."

"I know him, but I'd be hard-pressed to say I was working with him. He doesn't work with anybody."

"I don't suppose you want to share what you know with me?"

"Can't."

Wrong answer. "Okay, let me get this straight," I said. "Some Fed has been following me around for days, camping out on my doorstep, breaking into my apartment, and you think that's okay?"

"No, I don't think it's okay. I think it's grounds for beating the shit out of him. I didn't know he was doing it, and I intend to make sure it stops. I just can't tell you what it's all about right now. What I can tell you is that you should back off and let us take it from here. Obviously we're both going down the same road."

"Why should I be the one to back off ?"

"Because you're the one who's getting bombed. You notice my car exploding?"

"The day isn't over."

Morelli's pager went off. Morelli looked at the read-out and sighed. "I have to go. You want a ride home?"

"Thanks, but I need to stay. I have a call in to Ranger. I'm not sure what he wants to do with the Porsche."

"Some time soon we need to talk about Ranger," Morelli said.

Oh boy. I'll look forward to that conversation.

Morelli skirted the crane and got into the dusty maroon Fairlane that was his company car. He cranked the engine over and pulled out of the lot.

My attention swung back to the crane operator. He was maneuvering the boom over the truck. A cable was attached, and the truck was slowly hauled upright, exposing what was left of the Porsche.

I caught a flash of black beyond the crane. It was Ranger's Mercedes.

"Just in time," I said when he strolled over.

He looked down at the flattened, charred piece of scrap metal pressed into the macadam.

"That's the Porsche," I said. "It exploded and caught fire and then the garbage truck fell over on it."

"I especially like the part about the garbage truck."

"I was afraid you might be mad."

"Cars are easy to come by, Babe. People are harder to replace. Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I was lucky. I was just waiting to see what you wanted to do with the Porsche."

"Not much anybody's going to do with that dead soldier," Ranger said. "Think we'll walk away from this one."

"It was a great car."

Ranger took one last look at it. "You might be more the Humvee type," he said, steering me toward the Mercedes.

Streetlights were on when we crossed Broad and the twilight was deepening. Ranger rolled down Roebling and stopped in front of Rossini's. "I have to meet a guy here in a few minutes. Come in and have a drink, and we can have an early dinner when I'm done. This shouldn't take long."

"Is this bounty hunter business?"

"Real estate," Ranger said. "I'm meeting my lawyer. He has papers for me to sign."

"You're buying a house?"

He opened the door for me. "Office building in Boston."

Rossini's is an excellent Burg restaurant. A pleasant mix of cozy but elegant with linen tablecloths and napkins and gourmet food. Several men in suits stood at the small oak bar at the far end of the room. A few of the tables were already occupied, and in a half-hour the room would be filled.

Ranger guided me to the bar and introduced me to his lawyer.

"Stephanie Plum," the lawyer said. "You look familiar."

"I didn't intend to burn down the funeral home," I said. "It was an accident."

He shook his head. "No, that's not it." He smiled. "I've got it. You were married to Dickie Orr. He was briefly with our firm."

"Everything Dickie did was brief," I said. Especially our marriage. The pig.

Twenty minutes later, Ranger had his business concluded, his lawyer finished his drink and left, and we moved to a table. Ranger was black today. Black T-shirt, black cargo pants, black boots, and black Gortex squall jacket. He left his jacket on, and everyone in the room knew why. Ranger wasn't the sort to leave his gun in the glove compartment.

We ordered, and Ranger slouched back in his chair. "You never say much about your marriage."

"You never say much about anything."

He smiled. "Low profile."

"Have you ever been married?"

"Long time ago."

I hadn't expected him to say that. "Any kids?"

He stared at me for a full minute before answering. "I have a daughter. She's nine. Lives with her mother in Florida."

"Do you ever see her?"

"When I'm in the area."

Who was this man? He owned office buildings in Boston. And he was the father of a nine-year-old. I was having a hard time merging this new knowledge into my mental Ranger-the-gunrunner/bounty-hunter file.

"Tell me about the bomb," Ranger said. "I get the feeling I'm not up to speed on your life."

I told him my theory.

He was still slouched back, but the line of his mouth had tightened. "Bombs aren't good, Babe. They're real messy. Give you a real bad hair day."

"You have any ideas?"

"Yeah, you ever think about taking a vacation?"

I wrinkled my nose. "I can't afford a vacation."

"I'll give you an advance on services performed."

I felt my face flush. "About those services—"

He lowered his voice. "I don't pay for the kind of service you're worried about."

Yeeesh.

I dug into my pasta. "I wouldn't go anyway. I'm not giving up on Uncle Fred. And where would I leave Rex? And Halloween is coming up. I love Halloween. I couldn't miss Halloween."

Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. I love the crisp air and the pumpkins and spooky decorations. I never cared about the candy I collected when I was a kid. I got psyched over the dress-up part. Maybe this says something about my personality, but put me behind a mask, and I'm a happy person. Not one of those ugly, sweaty rubber things that fit over your whole head. I like the kind that just fits around the eyes and makes you look like the Lone Ranger. And face paint is very cool, too.

"Of course, I don't go out trick-or-treating anymore," I said, stabbing a piece of sausage. "I go over to my parents' house now and give out candy. Grandma Mazur and I always get dressed up for when the kids come around. Last year I was Zorro, and Grandma was Lily Munster. I think this year she's going to be a Spice Girl."

"I could see you as Zorro," Ranger said.

Zorro is actually one of my favorite people. Zorro is the shit.

I had tiramisù for dessert because Ranger was paying, and because Rossini's made orgasmic tiramisù. Ranger skipped dessert, of course, not wanting to pollute his body with sugar, not desiring an extra ripple in his washboard stomach. I scarfed up the last smidgens of cake and custard and reached under the tablecloth to discreetly pop the top snap on my jeans.

I'm not a fanatic about weight. Truth is, I don't even own a scale. I judge my weight by the way my jeans fit. And unpleasant as it is to admit, these jeans weren't fitting at all. I needed a better diet. And I needed an exercise program. Tomorrow. Starting tomorrow, no more taking the elevator to the second floor, no more doughnuts for breakfast.

I studied Ranger as he drove me home, details seen in the flash of oncoming headlights and overhead streetlights. He wore no rings. A watch on his left wrist. Wide nylon band. No studs in his ears today. He had a network of fine lines around his eyes. The lines were from sun, not age. My best guess was that Ranger was somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five. No one knew for sure. And no one knew much of his background. He moved easily through the underbelly of Trenton, speaking the language, walking the walk of the projects and minority neighborhoods. There'd been no trace of that Ranger tonight. Tonight he'd sounded more Wall Street than Stark Street.

The ride back to my building was quiet. Ranger pulled into my lot, and I did a quick scan for creepy people. Finding none, I had my door open before the car came to a complete stop. No sense lingering in the dark, alone with Ranger, tempting fate. I'd made enough of an ass of myself last time when I was half snockered.

"You in a hurry?" Ranger said, looking amused.

"Things to do."

I moved to get out of the car, and he grabbed me by the scruff of my neck. "You're going to be careful," he said.

"Y-y-yes."

"And you're going to carry your gun."

"Yes."

"Loaded."

"Okay, loaded."

He released my neck. "Sweet dreams."

I ran into the building and up the stairs, rushed into my apartment, and dialed Mary Lou.

"I need help with a stakeout tonight," I told Mary Lou. "Can Lenny sit with the kids?"

Lenny is Mary Lou's husband. He's a nice guy, but he hasn't got much upstairs. That's fine with Mary Lou because she's more interested in what's downstairs, anyway.

"Who are we staking out?"

"Morelli."

"Oh, honey, you heard!"

"I heard what?"

"Uh-oh. You didn't hear?"

"What? What?"

"Terry Gilman."

Argh. Direct shot to the heart. "What about Terry?"

"The rumor is she's been seen with Joe late at night."

Man, you can't get away with anything in the Burg. "I know about the late-night stuff. Anything else?"

"That's it."

"Besides seeing Terry, he's also involved in a project that ties in with Uncle Fred's disappearance, and he won't tell me anything."

"Asshole."

"Yeah. And after I gave him some of the best weeks of my life. Anyway, it seems like he works nights, so I thought I'd see what he was up to."

"You going to pick me up in the Porsche?"

"The Porsche is out of commission. I was hoping you could drive," I said. "I'm afraid Morelli might recognize the Buick."

"No problemo."

"And wear sneakers and something dark."

Last time we went snooping together Mary Lou wore ankle boots with spike heels and gold earrings the size of dinner plates. Not exactly the invisible snooper.

Briggs was standing behind me. "You're going to spy on Morelli? This should be good."

"He's leaving me no choice."

"I bet you five dollars he spots you."

"Deal."

* * * * *

"THERE COULD BE a perfectly good explanation for the Terry thing," I said to Mary Lou.

"Yeah, like he's a prick?"

That's one of the things I like about Mary Lou. She's willing to believe the worst about anyone. Of course it's easy to believe the worst about Morelli. He's never cared a whole lot about public opinion and has never made much of an attempt to improve his rogue reputation. And in the past, his reputation was well deserved.

We were in Mary Lou's Dodge minivan. It smelled like Gummi Bears and grape lollipops and McDonald's cheeseburgers. And when I turned to look out the back window I was confronted with two kiddie car seats that made me feel sort of left out of things. We were idling in front of Morelli's house, staring into his front windows, seeing nothing. The lights were on, but the curtains were drawn. His truck was parked at the curb, so probably he was home, but there was no guarantee. He lived in a rowhouse and that made surveillance difficult because we couldn't creep around the entire house and easily do our Peeping Tom thing.

"We can't see anything like this, " I said. "Let's park on the cross street and go on foot."

Mary Lou had followed my instructions and was dressed in black. Black leather jacket with fringe running down the sleeves, tight black leather slacks—and as a compromise between my suggestion of sneakers and her preferred four-inch heels, she was wearing black cowboy boots.

Morelli's house was halfway down the block, his narrow yard backed up to a one-lane service road, and the side borders of his yard were delineated by bedraggled hedgerows. Morelli hadn't yet discovered gardening.

The sky was overcast. No moon. No streetlights lining the back alley. This was all fine by me. The darker the better. I was wearing a utility belt that held pepper spray, a flashlight, a Smith and Wesson .38, a stun gun, and a cell phone. I'd constantly watched our tail for signs of Ramirez and had seen nothing. That didn't fill me with security, since spotting Ramirez clearly wasn't one of my talents.

We walked the alley and paused when we reached Morelli's yard. Lights were on in the kitchen. Shades were up at the single kitchen window and at the back door. Morelli passed in front of the window, and Mary Lou and I took a step back, further into shadow. He returned and worked at the counter, probably fixing something to eat.

The sound of the phone ringing carried out to us. Morelli answered the phone and paced in the kitchen while he talked.

"Not someone he's happy to hear from," Mary Lou said. "He hasn't cracked a smile."

Morelli hung up and ate a sandwich, still standing at the counter. He washed it down with a Coke. I thought the Coke was a good sign. If he was in for the night he probably would have had a beer. He flipped the light off and left the kitchen.

Now I had a problem. If I chose to watch the wrong half of the house I might miss Morelli leaving. And by the time I ran to the car and took off after him, it could be too late. Mary Lou and I could split up, but that would negate my reason for inviting Mary Lou along. I'd wanted another set of eyes looking for Ramirez.

"Come on," I said, creeping toward the house. "We need to get closer."

I pressed my nose to the windowpane on Morelli's back door. I could see clear to the front, looking through the kitchen and dining room. I could hear the television, but I couldn't see it. And I couldn't see any sign of Morelli.

"Do you see him?" Mary Lou wanted to know.

"No."

She peered through the back door window with me. "Too bad we can't see the front door from here. How will we know if Morelli goes out?"

"He shuts his lights off when he goes out."

Blink. The lights went out, and the sound of the front door opening and shutting carried back to us.

"Shit!" I sprang away from the door and took off for the car.

Mary Lou ran after me, doing pretty good considering the tight pants and cowboy boots and the fact that she had legs several inches shorter than mine.

We piled into the car. Mary Lou rammed the key into the ignition, and the mom car jumped into chase mode. We whipped around the corner and saw Morelli's taillights disappear as he made a right-hand turn two blocks down.

"Perfect," I said. "We don't want to be so close that he sees us."

"Do you think he's going to see Terry?"

"It's possible. Or maybe he's relieving someone on stakeout." Now that the first rush of emotion was behind me, I found it hard to believe Joe was romantically or sexually involved with Terry. It had nothing to do with Joe the man. It had to do with Joe the cop. Joe wouldn't get himself entangled with the Grizollis.

He'd told me he had something in common with Terry—that they were both in vice. And I suspected that was the connection. I thought it possible that Joe and Terry were working together, although I couldn't imagine in what capacity. And since the Feds were in town, I guessed Vito Grizolli was involved. Maybe Joe and Terry were acting as intermediaries between Vito and the Feds. And Bunchy's interest in the checks might support my skimming theory. Although I didn't know why the government would be interested in skimming.

Joe turned onto Hamilton, drove a quarter mile, and pulled into the 7-Eleven. Mary Lou zipped past him, circled a block, and waited at the side of the road with her lights off. Joe came out of the store carrying a bag and got back into his car.

"Oh, man, I'm dying to know what's in the bag," Mary Lou said. "Do they sell condoms at the 7-Eleven? I never noticed."

"He's got dessert in that bag," I said. "My money's on ice cream. Chocolate."

"And I bet he's taking the ice cream to Terry!"

His engine caught, and he retraced his route down Hamilton.

"He's not going to Terry's," I said. "He's going home."

"What a rip. I thought I was going to see some action."

I didn't actually want to see a whole lot of action. I just wanted to find Uncle Fred and get on with my life. Unfortunately, I wasn't going to learn anything new if Morelli sat in front of his television eating ice cream all night.

Mary Lou dropped a block behind Morelli, keeping him in sight. He parked in front of his house, and Mary Lou and I parked on the cross street again. We got out of the mom car, skulked back down the alley, and stopped short at the edge of Morelli's yard. The light was on in his kitchen, and Morelli was moving in front of the window.

"What's he doing?" Mary Lou asked. "What's he doing?"

"Getting a spoon. I was right—he went out to buy ice cream."

The light blinked out, and Morelli disappeared. Mary Lou and I scuttled across Morelli's backyard and squinted into his window.

"Do you see him?" Mary Lou asked.

"No. He's disappeared."

"I didn't hear the front door open."

"No, and he's got the television on. He's just out of sight somewhere."

Mary Lou crept closer. "Too bad he's got the shades pulled on his front windows."

"I'll try to be more considerate next time," Morelli said, standing inches behind us.

Mary Lou and I yelped and instinctively sprang away, but Morelli had both of us by the back of our jackets.

"Look who we have here," Morelli said. "Lucy and Ethel. Is this the girls' night out?"

"We were looking for my cat," Mary Lou said. "It's been lost, and we thought we saw it run through your yard."

Morelli grinned at Mary Lou. "Nice to see you, Mary Lou. It's been a while."

"The kids keep me busy," Mary Lou said. "Soccer and preschool and Kenny keeps getting these ear infections—"

"How's Lenny doing?"

"He's great. He's thinking about hiring someone else. His father's going to retire, you know."

Lenny had graduated from high school and had gone directly into the family business, Stankovik and Sons, Plumbing and Heating. He made a good living at it, but he frequently smelled like stagnant water and metal piping.

"I need to talk to Stephanie," Morelli said.

Mary Lou started backing up. "Hey, don't let me get in the way. I was just leaving. I've got my car parked around the corner."

Morelli opened his back door. "You," he said, releasing my jacket. "Go in the house. I'll be right back. I'm going to walk Mary Lou to her car."

"Not necessary," Mary Lou said, looking nervous, like she was going to run like hell at any moment. "I can find my own way."

"It's dark back here," Morelli said to Mary Lou. "And you've just been contaminated by Calamity Jane. You're not getting out of my sight until you're safely locked in your car."

I did as I was told. I scurried into the house while Morelli walked Mary Lou to her car. And as soon as they cleared his yard I scrolled back through his caller ID. I scribbled the numbers on a pad by the phone, ripped the page off, and stuffed it into my pocket. The last number to come in had an identification block on it. No number available. If I'd known the number hadn't registered I might not have been so fast to jump to Morelli's command.

The ice cream was still sitting on the counter. And it was melting. Probably I should eat it, so it didn't get totally melted and have to get thrown away.

I was savoring the last spoonful when Morelli returned. He closed and locked the door behind him and pulled the shades.

I raised my eyebrows.

"Nothing personal," Morelli said, "but you've got bad people following you around. I don't want someone sniping at you through my kitchen window."

"You think it's that serious?"

"Honey, your car was bombed."

I was starting to get used to it. "How did you spot Mary Lou and me?"

"Rule number one, when you've got your nose pressed to someone's window . . . don't talk. Rule number two, when doing surveillance don't use a car with vanity plates that have your best friend's name on them. Rule three, never underestimate nosy neighbors. Mrs. Rupp called and wanted to know why you were standing in the alley, looking into her windows, and she was wondering if she should call the police. I explained it was most likely my windows you were looking in and reminded her that I was the police, so she needn't bother with another phone call."

"Well, it's all your fault because you won't tell me anything," I said.

"If I told you what was going on, you'd tell Mary Lou, and she'd tell Lenny, and Lenny would tell the guys down at the plumbing supply house, and the next day it'd be in the newspaper."

"Mary Lou doesn't tell Lenny anything," I said.

"What the hell was she wearing? She looked like the friendly neighborhood dominatrix. The only things missing were a whip and a pimp."

"She was making a fashion statement."

Morelli looked down at my utility belt.

"What kind of a statement is this?"

"Fear."

He gave his head a disbelieving shake. "You know what my biggest fear is? I worry that someday you might be the mother of my children."

I wasn't sure if I should be pleased or annoyed, so I changed the subject. "I deserve to know about this investigation," I said. "I'm sitting right in the middle of it." He was just implacably staring at me, so I hit him with the heavy stuff. "And I know about your late-night meetings with Terry. And not only that, but I am not going away. And I will continue to harass and follow you until I figure this out." So there.

"I'd tie you up and wrap you in a rug and drive you to the landfill," Morelli said, "but Mary Lou would probably finger me."

"Okay, so how about sex? Maybe we can make a deal?"

Morelli grinned. "You've got my attention."

"Start talking."

"Not so fast. I want to know what I'm going to get for this information."

"What do you want?"

"Everything."

"Not working tonight?"

He looked at his watch. "Shit. Yeah, I'm working. In fact I'm late. I need to relieve Bunchy on a surveillance watch."

"Who are you watching?"

He stared at me for a moment. "Okay, I'm going to tell you, because I don't want you riding all over Trenton looking for me. But if I find out you leaked this to anyone I swear I'll come get you."

I held my hand up. "Scout's honor. My lips are sealed."