High Five

15

"WHAT ARE YOU doing?" I asked Shempsky.

"Good question. I thought I knew. I thought I had it all figured out." He shook his head. "It's all gone to heck in a handbasket."

"You look awful." His face was flushed, his eyes were bloodshot and glassy, and his hair was a mess. He was in a suit, but his shirt was hanging out, and his tie was twisted to one side. His slacks and jacket were wrinkled. "Have you been drinking?"

"I feel sick," he said.

"Maybe you should put the gun down."

"Can't. I have to kill you. What is it with you anyway? Anyone else would know when to quit. I mean, no one even liked Fred."

"Where is he?"

"Hah! Another good question."

I heard muffled noise coming from my closet.

"It's the dwarf," Shempsky said. "He scared the hell out of me. I thought no one was in here. And all of a sudden this little Munchkin came running in."

I was at the closet in two strides. I opened the door and looked down. Briggs was trussed up like a Christmas goose, his hands tied behind his back with my bathroom clothesline, mailing tape across his mouth. He seemed okay. Very scared and boiling mad.

"Shut the door," Shempsky, said. "He's quieter if you shut the door. I guess I have to kill him, too, but I've been procrastinating. It's like killing Doc or Sneezy, or Grumpy. And I have to tell you I feel real bad about killing Sneezy. I really like Sneezy."

If you've never had a gun pointed at you, you can't imagine the terror. And the regret that life was too short, too unappreciated. "You don't really want to kill Sneezy and me," I said, working hard to keep my voice from shaking.

"Sure I do. Hell, why not. I've killed everybody else." He sniffed and wiped his nose on his jacket sleeve. "I'm getting a cold. Boy, I tell you, when things start going bad . . ." He ran his hand through his hair. "It was such a good idea. Take a few customers and keep them for yourself. Real clean. Except I didn't count on people like Fred stirring things up. We were all making money. Nobody was getting hurt. And then things started to go wrong and people started to panic. First Lipinski and then John Curly."

"So you killed them?"

"What else could I do? It's the only way to really keep someone quiet, you know."

"What about Martha Deeter?"

"Martha Deeter," he said on a sigh. "One of my many regrets is that she's dead, and I can't kill her again. If it wasn't for Martha Deeter . . ." He shook his head. "Excuse my language, but she had a real stick up her ass about the accounts. Everything strictly by the books. Wouldn't budge on the Shutz thing. Even though it was none of her business. She was a stupid receptionist, but she wouldn't keep her nose out of anything. After you left the office she decided she was going to make an example out of you and your aunt. Sent a fax off to the home office suggesting they look into the matter and prosecute you for making fraudulent claims. Can you imagine what that could lead to? Even if they just called to pacify you, it could start an investigation."

"So you killed her?"

"It seemed like the prudent thing to do. Looking back it might have been a little extreme, but like I said before, it's really the only way you can be sure of keeping someone quiet. Human nature, such as it is, is not dependable. And you know, I discovered this amazing thing. It's not that hard to kill someone."

"Where did you learn about bombs?"

"The library. Actually, I'd built the bomb for Curly, but by chance I happened to see him crossing the street to get to his car. It was late at night, and he was coming out of a bar. Nobody around. Couldn't believe how lucky I was. So I ran him over a bunch of times. I had to make sure he was dead, you know. Didn't want him to suffer. He wasn't such a bad guy. It was just he was a loose end."

I gave an involuntary shiver.

"Yeah," he said, "it was kind of creepy the first time I ran over him. I tried to pretend it was a bump in the road. So anyway, I had this bomb all ready to go, and then I found out you were going over to RGC again. I called Stemper and gave him some baloney about delaying you for a half hour so the bank could run the check through the system."

"Then you had to kill Stemper."

"Stemper was your fault. Stemper'd still be alive if you hadn't been so compulsive about that check. Two dollars," Shempsky said, sniffling. "All these people are dead, and my life is unraveling because of two fucking dollars."

"Seems to me it started with Laura Lipinski."

"You figured that out?" He slumped a little. "She was giving Larry a hard time. He'd made the mistake of telling her about the money, and she wanted it. She was leaving him, and she wanted the money. Said if she didn't get it, she'd go to the police."

"So you killed her?"

"The mistake we made was in getting rid of the body. I'd never done anything like that before, so I figured chop it up, stuff it in a couple garbage bags, leave them spread out over town the night before garbage pickup. First off, let me tell you, it isn't easy to chop up a body. And second, cheapskate Fred was out, trying to save a buck on his leaves, and saw Larry and me with the bag. I mean, what are the chances?"

"I don't get Fred's part in this."

"He saw us dump the bag and didn't think anything of it. I mean he was out there doing the same thing. The next morning Fred goes to RGC, and Martha pisses him off and sends him packing. Fred gets a block away and thinks to himself that he knows Martha's office partner. He thinks about it for another block and realizes he's the guy who dumped the bag. So Fred goes to the real estate office alongside the deli with a camera and starts taking pictures. I guess he was going to wave them in Larry's face, trying to embarrass him enough to give him his money. Only after a couple pictures Fred thinks the bag looks too lumpy and smells pretty bad. And Fred opens the bag."

"Why didn't Fred report this to the police?"

"Why do you think? Money."

"He was going to blackmail you." That's why Fred left the canceled check on his desk. He didn't need it. He had the pictures.

"Fred said he didn't have any retirement account. Worked at the button factory for fifty years and had hardly any retirement account. Said he read where you needed ninety thousand to get into a decent nursing home. That's what he wanted. Ninety thousand."

"What about Mabel? Didn't he want nursing home money for her, too?"

Shempsky shrugged. "He didn't say anything about Mabel."

Cheap bastard.

"Why did you kill Larry?" Not that I actually cared at this point. What I cared about was time. I wanted more of it. I didn't want him to pull the trigger. If it meant I had to talk to him then that's what I was going to do.

"Lipinski got cold feet. He wanted out. Wanted to take his money and run. I tried to talk to him, but he was really freaked out. So I went over to see if I could calm him down."

"You succeeded. You can't get much calmer than dead."

"He wouldn't listen, so what could I do? I thought I did a good job of making it look like a suicide."

"You have a nice life—a nice house, a nice wife and kids, a good job. Why were you skimming?"

"In the beginning it was just fun money. Tipp and me used to play poker with a bunch of guys on Monday nights. And Tipp's wife would never give Tipp any money. So Tipp started skimming. Just a couple accounts for poker money. But then it was so easy. I mean, nobody knew the money was gone. So we enlarged until we had a nice chunk of Vito's accounts. Tipp knew Lipinski and Curly, and he brought them in." Shempsky wiped his nose again. "It wasn't like I was ever going to make money at the bank. I'm in a dead-end job. It's my face, you know. I'm not stupid. I could have been somebody, but nobody pays attention to me.

"God gives everybody a special talent. And you know what my talent is? Nobody remembers me. I have a forgettable face. It took me a bunch of years, but I finally figured out how to use my gift." He gave a crazy little laugh that sent all the hairs on my arm standing at attention. "My talent is that I can rob people blind, kill them on the street, and nobody remembers."

Allen Shempsky was drunk or crazy or both. And at the rate we were going he wouldn't even have to shoot me, because he was scaring me to death. My heart was pounding in my chest, echoing in my ears.

"What will you do now?" I asked him.

"You mean after I kill you? I guess I'll go home. Or maybe I'll just get in my car and drive somewhere. I have lots of money. I don't need to go back to the bank if I don't want to."

Shempsky was sweating, and under the flush on his cheeks his face was pale. "Christ," he said. "I really feel sick." He stood up and pointed the gun at me. "You got any cold medicine?"

"Just aspirin."

"I need more than aspirin. I'd like to sit and talk some more, but I gotta get some cold medicine. I bet I have a fever."

"You don't look good."

"I bet my face is all flushed."

"Yeah, and your eyes are glassy."

There was a scraping sound on the fire escape outside my window, and we both swiveled our heads to look. We saw only darkness beyond the broken pane.

Shempsky turned back to me and cocked the hammer on his revolver. "Now hold still so I kill you with the first bullet. It's better that way. There's a lot less mess. And if I shoot you in the heart, you can have an open casket. I know everybody likes that."

We both took a deep breath—me to die, and Shempsky to aim. And in that instant the air was pierced with a bloodcurdling roar of rage and lunacy. And Ramirez filled the window, his face contorted, his eyes small and evil.

Shempsky instinctively whirled and fired, emptying his gun in Ramirez.

I wasted no time running. I flew out of the room, through my living room, and out my front door. I sprinted down the hall, leaped down two flights of stairs, and almost bashed in Mrs. Keene's door.

"Goodness," Mrs. Keene said, "you certainly are having a full night. What now?"

"Your gun! Give me your gun!"

I called the police and went back upstairs with the gun in my hand. My apartment door was wide open. Shempsky was gone. And Briggs was still alive in my closet.

I ripped the tape off. "Are you okay?"

"Shit," he said. "I messed my pants."

* * * * *

THE UNIFORMS CAME first, then the paramedics and finally the homicide detectives and the medical examiner. They had an easy time finding my apartment. Most of them had been there before. Morelli had arrived with the uniforms.

It was now three hours later, and the party was winding down. I'd given my statement, and the only thing left was to get Ramirez into a body bag and haul him off my fire escape. Rex and I had set up camp in the kitchen while the professionals did their thing. Randy Briggs gave his statement and left, deciding his apartment without a door was safer than living with me.

Rex still looked perky, but I was exhausted. I was all out of adrenaline, and I felt like my blood level was a pint low.

Morelli wandered in, and for the first time all night we had a moment alone together. "You should be relieved," he said. "You don't have to worry about Ramirez anymore."

I nodded. "It's a terrible thing to say, but I'm glad he's dead. Any word on Shempsky?"

"Nobody's seen him or his car. He didn't go home."

"I think he's flipped out. And he has the flu. He looked really bad."

"You'd look bad too if you were wanted for multiple murders. We're leaving a uniform here tonight to make sure no one comes in through your window, but it's going to be cold in your bedroom. Probably you want to stay someplace else. My vote's for my house."

"I'd feel safe at your house," I said. "Thanks."

The gurney with the body clattered over the hall floor and rolled out my door. My stomach lurched, and I reached for Morelli. He pulled me to him and wrapped his arms around me. "You'll feel better tomorrow," he said. "You just need some sleep."

"Before I forget. You left a message on my machine that you needed to talk to me."

"We brought Harvey Tipp in for questioning, and he squealed like a pig. I wanted to warn you about Shempsky."

* * * * *

I WOKE UP to the sun streaming in through Morelli's bedroom window, but no Morelli next to me. I had a dim recollection of falling asleep on the ride to his house. And falling asleep again, next to Morelli. I had no recollection of any kind of sexual encounter. I was wearing a T-shirt and underpants. Since the underpants were on me and not on the floor that probably told me something.

I got out of bed and padded barefoot into the bathroom. There was a damp bath towel hanging on the hook on the door. A set of clean towels had been set out for me, neatly stacked on the tub. A note was taped to the mirror over the sink. "Had to leave for work early," the note said. "Make yourself at home." He also confirmed what I'd suspected—that I'd zonked out the minute my head hit the pillow. And since Morelli appreciated response to his lovemaking, he'd passed on last night's opportunity to collect on his debt.

I took a shower and got dressed and went to the kitchen in search of breakfast. Morelli didn't stock Pop-Tarts, so I settled on a peanut butter sandwich. I was halfway through the sandwich when I remembered the chauffeuring job. I'd never gotten around to reading the notecard, and I had no idea when I was supposed to get the sheik. I shuffled through the mess in my shoulder bag and found the card. It said Tank would drop the limo off at nine. I was to pick the sheik up at ten and drive him to NewarkAirport. It was almost eight, so I finished my sandwich, stuffed yesterday's clothes into the tote, and called Mary Lou to bum a ride.

"Boy, you really get around," Mary Lou said. "When I dropped you off you were with Ranger. You must have had a busy night."

"You don't know the half of it." I explained to her about the kiss, and Ramirez, and Shempsky, and finally about Morelli.

"I can't imagine being too tired to do it with Morelli," Mary Lou said. "Of course, I've never been attacked by a homicidal rapist, held at gunpoint by a screwy banker, and had a guy killed outside my bedroom window."

Mrs. Bestler was waiting by the elevator when I walked into the lobby. "Going up?" she asked. "Second floor. . . belts, handbags, body bags."

"I'm taking the stairs," I told her. "I need the exercise."

I opened my apartment door and surprised a young cop who was feeding Rex Cheerios.

"He looked hungry," the cop said. "I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all. Feel free to join him for breakfast. Just poke around in the fridge until you find something you like."

The cop smiled. "Thanks. There's a guy here fixing your window. Morelli arranged it. I'm supposed to leave as soon as he's done."

"Sounds good."

I went into the bedroom and collected my chauffeur uniform of black suit and stockings and heels. I changed in the bathroom, added some lipstick and a swipe of mascara, and sprayed my hair. When I came out, the window man was gone, and my window looked sparkly clean. The cop was gone, too.

I grabbed my shoulder bag, said good-bye to Rex, and hustled down to the parking lot.

Tank was waiting for me when I swung through the back door at nine o'clock sharp. He had a map and directions.

"Should take you about a half hour from here," Tank said.

"Does he know I'm driving him?"

Tank's face creased in a wide grin. "We thought it would be a nice surprise."

I took the keys to the Town Car and slid in behind the wheel.

"You're carrying, right?" Tank asked.

"Right."

"And you're okay after last night?"

"How do you know about last night?"

"It's in the paper."

Terrific.

I gave Tank a little finger wave and drove away. I got to Hamilton and turned right. I drove several blocks and turned into the Burg. I had no intention of destroying another black car. I parked at my parents' house and went inside to get the garage keys.

"You made the paper again," Grandma said. "And the phone's been ringing off the hook. Your mother's in the kitchen, ironing."

My mother always irons during times of disaster. Some people drink, some take drugs. My mother irons.

"How's Dad?" I asked.

"He's out at the store."

"No problems left over from the stun gun?"

"Well, he isn't the happiest person I ever saw, but aside from that he's doing okay. Looks like you got another car."

"It's a loaner. I have a job as a chauffeur. I'm going to leave the black car here and take the Buick. I feel safer in the Buick."

My mother came out of the kitchen. "What's this about being a chauffeur?"

"It's nothing," I said. "I'm driving a man to the airport."

"Good," my mother said. "Take your grandmother."

"I can't do that!"

My mother pulled me into the kitchen and lowered her voice. "I don't care if you're driving the Pope, your grandmother is going with you. If she says the wrong thing to your father when he gets home, he'll go after her with a steak knife. So unless you want more bloodshed on your hands, you will fulfill your obligation as a granddaughter and get your grandmother out of this house for a few hours until things calm down. This is all your fault anyway." My mother snapped a shirt onto the ironing board and snatched at the iron. "And what kind of a daughter has shootouts on her fire escape? The phone's been ringing all morning. What am I supposed to say to people? How can I explain these things?"

"Just tell people I was looking for Uncle Fred, and things got complicated."

My mother shook the iron at me. "If that man isn't dead I'm going to kill him myself."

Hmm. Mom appeared to be a little stressed. "Okay," I said, "I guess I can take Grandma with me." Might not be a bad idea anyway. I didn't think the pervert sheik would be so fast to flash his johnson with Grandma on board.

"It's a shame we can't take that nice black car," Grandma said. "It looks more like a chauffeur car."

"I'm not taking any chances," I told her. "I don't want anything to happen to the black car. It's getting locked up nice and safe in the garage."

I loaded Grandma into the Buick, backed it out the driveway, and parked it on the street. Then I carefully eased the Lincoln into the garage and secured the doors.

In exactly thirty-five minutes I was at the address Tank had given me. It was in a neighborhood of expensive houses on two- and three-acre lots. Most houses were behind gated drives, tucked into yards filled with mature trees and professionally landscaped shrubs. I pushed the button on the call box and gave my name. The gates opened, and I drove up to the house.

"I guess this is pretty," Grandma said, "but they aren't gonna get many trick-or-treaters up here. I bet Halloween is a big bust."

I told Grandma to stay put and went to the door.

The door opened, and Ahmed looked out at me and frowned. "You!" he said. "What are you doing here?"

"Surprise," I said. "I'm your driver."

He looked over at the car. "And what's that supposed to be?"

"That's a Buick."

"There's an old lady in it."

"That's my grandmother."

"Forget it. I'm not riding with you. You're incompetent."

I put my arm around him and tugged him to me. "I've been having a difficult couple of days here," I said in confidential tones. "And I'm running a little low on patience. So I'd appreciate it if you'd get into the car without a lot of fuss. Because otherwise, I'm going to shoot you."

"You wouldn't shoot me," he said.

"Try me."

A man stood behind Ahmed. He was holding two suitcases, and he was looking uncomfortable.

"Put them in the trunk," I said to the man.

A woman had come to the door.

"Who's that?" I asked the kid.

"My aunt."

"Wave to her and smile and get in the car."

He sighed and waved. I waved, too. Everybody waved. And then I drove away.

"We would have brought the black car," Grandma said to Ahmed, "only Stephanie's been having real bad luck with cars."

He slouched lower, sulking. "No kidding."

"You don't have to worry with this one, though," Grandma told him. "We had this one locked up in the garage so no one could plant a bomb on it. And knock on wood, it hasn't blown up yet."

I picked up Route 1 and followed it to New Brunswick, where I moved over to the turnpike. I got on the turnpike and headed north, barreling along in the Buick, thankful that my passenger was still fully dressed and Grandma had fallen asleep, mouth open, hanging from her shoulder harness.

"I'm surprised you're still working for this company," Ahmed said. "If I had been your employer I would have fired you."

I ignored him and turned the radio on.

He leaned forward. "Perhaps it's difficult to get a competent person to do a menial job like this."

I glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

"I'll give you five dollars if you'll show me your breasts," he said.

I rolled my eyes and raised the volume on the radio.

He slouched back in his seat. "This is boring," he shouted at me. "And I hate this music."

"Are you thirsty?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to stop for a soda?"

"Yes!"

"Too bad."

I had my cell phone plugged into the cigarette lighter and was surprised to hear it chirp.

It was Briggs. "Where are you?" he asked. "This is your cell phone, right?"

"Yeah. I'm on the Jersey Turnpike, exit ten."

"Are you shitting me? That's great! Wait until you hear this. I've been working all night hacking into Shempsky's files, and I've got something. Late last night he made plane reservations. He's supposed to be flying out of Newark in an hour and a half. He's flying Delta to Miami."

"You are the man."

"Hey, don't piss off a little person."

"Call the police. Call Morelli first." I gave him Morelli's numbers. "If you can't get Morelli, call the station. They'll get in touch with the right people in Newark. And I'll watch out for Shempsky on the road."

"I can't tell the police I hacked into the bank!"

"Tell them I got the information and asked you to pass it on."

Fifteen minutes later, I slowed for the tollbooth to exit the turnpike. Grandma was awake, looking for the tan Taurus, and Ahmed was silent in the back, arms sullenly crossed over his chest.

"It's him!" Grandma said. "I see him ahead of us. Look at that tan car that's just leaving the tollbooth all the way to the left."

I paid the toll and glanced at the car. It did sort of look like Shempsky, but it was the fourth time Grandma had been sure she'd seen Shempsky in the last five minutes. There were a lot of tan cars on the Jersey Turnpike.

I put my foot to the pedal and roared up behind the car to check it out. The car was a Taurus, and the hair color seemed right, but I couldn't tell much from the back of his head.

"You've got to get to his side," Grandma said.

"If I come up on his side, he'll see me."

Grandma pulled a .44 magnum out of her purse. "Everybody duck, and I'll shoot out his tires."

"No!" I shouted. "No shooting. You shoot one single thing, and I'll tell Mom on you. We aren't even sure it's Allen Shempsky."

"Who's Allen Shempsky?" Ahmed wanted to know. "What's going on?"

I was riding right on the Taurus's rear. It would be safer to put a car or two between us, but I was afraid I'd lose him in traffic.

"My father hired you to protect me," Ahmed said, "not to go off chasing men."

Grandma leaned forward, keeping her eye on the Taurus. "We think this guy killed Fred."

"Who's Fred?"

"My uncle," I told him. "He's married to Mabel."

"Ah, so you're avenging a murder in the family. This is a good thing."

Nothing like a little avenging to bridge the culture gap.

The Taurus took the airport turnoff, and the driver checked his mirror as he merged with traffic, then turned in his seat and took a quick, disbelieving look back. It was Shempsky. And I was made. Not many people in Jersey driving a '53 powder blue and white Buick. Probably wondering how the devil I found him.

"He sees us," I said.

"Ram him," Ahmed said. "Disable his car. Then we'll all rush out and subdue the murdering dog."

"Yeah," Grandma said, "plow this baby right up his behind."

In theory, that sounded like a reasonable idea. In practice, I was afraid it'd result in a twenty-three-car pileup, and headlines that read BOMBSHELL BOUNTY HUNTER CAUSES CATASTROPHE.

Shempsky swerved in front of me, jumping out of his lane. He passed two cars, then swerved back. He was approaching the terminal, and he was panicking, determined to lose me. He changed lanes again and sideswiped a blue van. He overcorrected and crashed into the back of an SUV. Everyone stopped behind the accident. I was four cars back, and I couldn't get closer. No one was moving.

Shempsky was boxed in with his right front fender smashed into his right front wheel. I saw his door open. He was going to bolt. I hurled myself out of the car and hit the pavement running. Ahmed was behind me. And behind him was Grandma.

Shempsky pushed through the curbside check-in, dodging people with kids and bags. I lost him for a moment in the crowded terminal, then picked him out just ahead of me. I ran as fast as I could, not caring who I knocked over. I lunged when I was almost on Shempsky's heels, and I snagged his jacket. Ahmed grabbed Shempsky half a second after me, and the three of us went down. We rolled around a little, but Shempsky didn't put up much of a fight.

Ahmed and I had Shempsky pinned to the ground when Grandma came clattering up on her patent pumps. She had her gun in her hand and both our handbags tucked into the crook of her arm. "You should never leave your purse in the car," she said. "Do you need a gun?"

"No," I told her. "Put the gun away and give me my cuffs."

She searched through my bag, found the cuffs, handed them to me, and I clapped them on Shempsky.

Ahmed and I got to our feet, and we all did a high five with each other. And then we did a down low. And then Ahmed and Grandma did some complicated hand thing that I couldn't get the hang of.

* * * * *

CONSTANTINE STIVA STOOD at the entrance to the viewing room, keeping a close watch on the casket at the far end. Grandma Mazur and Mabel stood at the head of the casket, accepting condolences and making apologies.

"We're real sorry," Grandma Mazur said to Mrs. Patucci. "We had to have a closed casket on account of Fred was in the ground two weeks before we found him and the worms had eaten a lot of his face."

"That's such a shame," Mrs. Patucci said. "It takes something away when you can't see the deceased."

"I feel just like that, too," Grandma said. "But Stiva couldn't do nothing with him, and he wouldn't let us leave the lid up."

Mrs. Patucci turned and looked at Stiva. Stiva gave a small sympathetic nod and smiled.

"That Stiva," Mrs. Patucci said.

"Yeah, and he's watching us like a hawk," Grandma told her.

Allen Shempsky had buried Fred in a shallow grave in a little patch of woods across from the pet cemetery on Klockner Road. He'd claimed he'd shot Fred by accident, but that was hard to believe since the fatal bullet had gone dead center between Fred's eyes.

Fred had been exhumed early Friday morning, the autopsy had been done on Monday, and now it was Wednesday and Fred was having an evening viewing. Mabel seemed to be enjoying herself, and Fred would have been pleased by the crowd he got, so I guess everything turned out okay.

I was at the back of the room, to one side of the door, counting the minutes until I could leave. I was trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, staring down at the carpet, not especially anxious to engage in conversation about Fred or Shempsky.

A pair of motorcycle boots entered my field of vision. They were attached to Levi's-clad legs I knew all too well.

"Hey, Hotstuff," Morelli said. "Having fun?"

"Yeah. I love viewings. The Rangers are playing Pittsburgh, but that can't compare to a viewing. Long time, no see."

"Not since you went into a coma fully dressed in my bedroom."

"I didn't wake up fully dressed."

"You noticed."

I felt my face flush. "I guess you've been busy."

"I had to wrap up the case with Treasury. They wanted Vito in Washington, and Vito wanted me to go with him. I just got back this afternoon."

"I caught Shempsky."

This brought a smile. "I heard. Congratulations."

"I still don't understand why he felt it necessary to kill people. Wasn't he just doing his banker thing by opening accounts for clients?"

"He was supposed to pass the money through to a bank in the Caymans and establish tax-free accounts. The trouble was Shempsky was skimming the skimmers. When Lipinski and Curly panicked and wanted their money, the money wasn't there."

Shempsky hadn't told me that part. "Why didn't Shempsky just replace the money?"

"He'd spent it on venture investments that didn't pay off. I think it was just something that got away from him, and it got worse and worse, until it was so bad it was out of control. There were a couple banking irregularities, too. Shempsky knew it was dirty money."

I felt hot breath on my neck. Morelli looked at the person doing the breathing and gave a grunt of disgust.

It was Bunchy. "Nice collar, Cutie Pie," he said.

His hair was cut and clean and his face was freshly shaved. He was wearing a button-down shirt, crewneck sweater, and tan slacks. If it wasn't for the eyebrows I might not have recognized him.

"What are you doing here?" I said. "I thought the case was over. Don't you go back to Washington now?"

"Not all of Treasury works in Washington. I happen to be a Jersey Treasury guy." He looked around the room. "I thought Lula might be here since you two are such good friends."

I raised an eyebrow. "Lula?"

"Yeah. Well, you know, she looked like she might be fun."

"Listen, just because she used to be a hooker—"

He raised his hands. "Hey, it isn't like that. I just like her, that's all. I think she's okay."

"So call her."

"You think I could? I mean, would she hang up on me because of that tire thing?"

I dug a pen out of my bag and wrote Lula's number on the back of Bunchy's hand. "Take your chances."

"How about me," Morelli said when Bunchy left. "Do I get a number on the back of my hand?"

"You have enough numbers to last you a lifetime."

"You owe me," Morelli said.

A thrill skittered through my stomach. "Yes, but I didn't say when I'd pay off."

"The ball's in your court," Morelli said.

I'd heard that before!

Grandma was waving to me from the other end of the room. "Yoo-hoo," she called, "come here a minute."

"I have to go," I said to Morelli.

He took the pen from my bag and wrote his number on the back of my hand. "Ciao," he said. And then he left.

"The viewing is almost over," Grandma said. "We're all going over to Mabel's house to see her new bedroom set and have some coffee cake. Do you want to come with us?"

"Thanks, but I think I'll pass. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Thank you for everything," Mabel said to me. "I like this new garbage company you got me much better."

* * * * *

I PARKED THE Buick and took a moment to enjoy the night. The air was crisp and the sky was starless and black. Lights were on in my building. The seniors were watching TV. The bombers and rapists were gone, and this little part of Trenton felt safe again. I walked into the building and went to the bank of mailboxes to collect my mail. A credit card bill, a dental reminder, and an envelope from RangeMan. The RangeMan envelope contained a check for the chauffeuring job. A note was included with the check. It was hand-written from Ranger. "Glad the Lincoln survived, but locking it in a garage is cheating." I remembered his kiss, and I got another one of those skittery thrills.

I ran up the stairs, let myself into my apartment, locked the door behind me, and took stock. My apartment was nice and neat. I'd spent the weekend cleaning. No dishes on the counter. No socks on the floor. Rex had a clean cage, and the pine shavings smelled foresty. It all felt welcoming. And safe. And private. And intimate.

"I should invite someone over," I said to Rex. "After all, the apartment's all cleaned. I mean, how often does that happen, right? And my legs are shaved. And I have this great dress that I've never worn."

Rex gave me a look that told me in no uncertain terms he knew exactly what I was after.

"Okay," I said. "So what's the big deal? I'm an adult. I have adult urges."

I thought about Ranger again, and tried to imagine what he'd be like in bed. And then I thought about Joe. I knew exactly what Joe was like.

This was a dilemma.

I got two pieces of paper, wrote Joe's name on one and Ranger's on the other. I dumped the two names into a bowl, closed my eyes, mixed them up, and picked one. Let God decide, I thought.

I read the name and cracked my knuckles. I hoped God knew what he was doing. I showed the paper to Rex, and he looked disapproving, so I covered his cage with a dish towel.

I did the speed-dial thing before I lost my nerve.

"I have this dress I'd like your opinion on," I said when he answered.

A beat went by. "When would you like this opinion?"

"Now."

* * * * *

I SUPPOSE THERE'S a time and place for everything—and this was the time for the slinky black dress. I tugged it over my head and smoothed it out. The fit was perfect. I shook my head to fluff up my hair, and I sprayed some Dolce Vita on my wrist. I slipped my feet into the sexy ankle-strap heels and retouched my lipstick. Bright red. Yow!

I lit a candle on the coffee table and another in the bedroom. I dimmed the lights. I heard the elevator doors open down the hall, and my heart jumped in my chest. Get a grip, I told myself. No reason to be nervous. This is the will of God.

Baloney, a voice whispered in my head. You cheated. You peeked when you picked.

Okay, so I cheated. Big deal. The important thing is that I picked the right man. Maybe he wasn't right forever and ever, but he was right for tonight.

I opened the door on the second knock. Didn't want to seem overly anxious! I stepped back and our eyes met, and he showed no sign of the nervousness I felt. Curiosity, maybe. And desire. And something else—maybe the need to know this was what I wanted.

"Howdy," I said.

He looked amused at that, but not amused enough to smile. He stepped forward into the foyer, closed the door, and locked it. His breathing was slow and deep, his eyes were dark, his expression serious as he studied me.

"Nice dress," he said. "Take it off."