High Five

4

"YIKES!" I JUMPED back and clapped my hand to my chest, tightening my towel. "What are you doing here?" I yelled at Ranger.

His eyes dropped to the towel and then back to my face. "Returning your hat, Babe." He put the SEALS hat on my head and adjusted it over my damp hair. "You left it in the lobby."

"Oh. Thanks."

Ranger smiled.

"What?" I asked.

"Cute," Ranger said.

I narrowed my eyes. "Anything else?"

"You doing the shift with Tank tonight?"

"You're still policing that building?"

"It's got a big hole in it, Babe. Gotta keep the bad guys out."

"I'll pass on that one."

"No problem. I have other jobs you can try on."

"Oh, yeah? Like what?"

Ranger shrugged. "Things turn up." He reached behind him and came up with a gun. My gun. "Found this in the lobby, too." He tucked the gun under the top edge of my towel, wedging it between my breasts, his knuckles brushing against me.

My breath caught in my throat, and for a moment I thought my towel might catch fire.

Ranger smiled again. And I did more eye narrowing.

"I'll be in touch," Ranger said.

And then he was gone.

Dang. I carefully extracted the gun from the towel and put it in the cookie jar in the kitchen. Then I went back to my door to examine the locks. Worthless pieces of junk. I locked them anyway, including the bolt. I didn't know what more I could do.

I went into the bedroom, dropped the towel, and shimmied into a sports bra and jockey bikinis. This wasn't going to be one of those silk and lace days. This was going to be a no-nonsense jockey day all the way through.

Half an hour later, I was out the door, dressed in jeans and a denim shirt. I buckled myself into Big Blue and motored out of the lot. Two blocks later, I turned onto Hamilton and noticed a car close on my tail. I swiveled in my seat and looked at the driver. Bunchy. I pressed my lips together, getting a smile and a wave from him. This guy was unreal. He'd pulled a gun on me, and probably he had something to do with the body in the garbage bag, but I was having a hard time working up any real fear of him. In all honesty, he was sort of likeable . . . in an annoying kind of way.

I swerved to the curb, yanked the emergency brake up, got out, and stomped over. "What are you doing?" I shouted into his window.

"Following you."

"Why?"

"I don't want to miss anything. In case you get lucky and find Fred, I want to be there."

"I don't know how to break this to you, but between you and me, I think it's unlikely that Fred is going to be in any shape to repay your money if and when I find him."

"You think he's fish food?"

"It's a possibility."

He shrugged. "Call me crazy, but I'm an optimist."

"Fine. Go be an optimist someplace else. I don't like you following me around. It's creepy."

"I won't be any bother. You won't even know I'm here."

"You're driving six inches from my rear. How am I going to not know you're here?"

"Don't look in your mirror."

"And I don't think you're a bookie, either," I said. "Nobody knows you. I've been asking around."

He smiled, like this was pretty funny. "Oh, yeah? Who do you think I am?"

"I don't know."

"Let me know when you find out."

"Asshole."

"Sticks and stones," Bunchy said. "And I bet your mother wouldn't like you using that language."

I huffed off to the Buick, jammed myself behind the wheel, and drove to the office.

"You see that guy parked behind me?" I asked Lula.

"The one in the piece-of-shit brown Dodge?"

"His name's Bunchy, and he says he's a bookie."

"He don't look like no bookie to me," Lula said. "And I never heard of anyone named Bunchy."

Connie squinted out the window, too. "I don't recognize him, either," she said. "And if he's a bookie, he's not doing all that good."

"He says Fred owes him money, and he's following me in case I find Fred."

"Does that float your boat?" Lula wanted to know.

"No. I need to get rid of him."

"Permanently? 'Cause I got a friend—"

"No! Just for the rest of the day."

Lula took another look at Bunchy. "If I shoot out his tires, will he shoot back?"

"Probably."

"I don't like when they shoot back," Lula said.

"I thought maybe I could trade cars with you."

"Trade my Firebird for that whale you drive? I don't think so. Friendship don't go that far."

"Fine! Great! Forget I asked!"

"Hold on," Lula said. "Don't have to go getting all snippy. I'll have a talk with him. I can be real persuasive."

"You aren't going to threaten him, are you?"

"I don't threaten people. What kind of woman you think I am?"

Connie and I watched her sashay out the office over to the car. We knew what kind of woman she was.

Lula was wearing a canary-yellow spandex miniskirt and a stretchy top that was at least two sizes too small. Her hair was orange. Her lipstick was bright pink. And her eyelids were gold glitter.

We heard her say, "Hello, handsome," to Bunchy, and then she lowered her voice, and we couldn't hear any more.

"Maybe you should try to sneak away while Lula's got his attention," Connie said. "Maybe you could roll the Buick back nice and easy, and he won't notice."

I thought chances of Bunchy not noticing were pretty slim, but I was willing to try. I quickly walked to the car, snuck in on the curb side, and slid behind the wheel. I released the emergency brake, held my breath, and turned the key in the ignition. Varoooom. A V8 does not sneak.

Bunchy and Lula both turned to look at me. I saw Bunchy say something to Lula. And Lula grabbed Bunchy by the shirt-front and yelled "Go!" to me. "I got him," she said. "You can count on me!"

Bunchy slapped at her hand, and Lula squashed herself into the car window with her big yellow ass hanging out, looking from the outside like Pooh Bear stuck in the rabbit hole. She had Bunchy by the neck, and when I drove by I saw her plant a kiss square on his mouth.

* * * * *

MABEL WAS IN the kitchen making tea when I got there.

"Anything new in the investigation?" she asked.

"I talked to the man who was looking for Fred. He says he's Fred's bookie. Did you know Fred was gambling?"

"No." She paused with the tea bag in her hand. "Gambling," she said, testing the word. "I had no idea."

"He could be lying," I said.

"Why would he do that?"

Good question. If Bunchy wasn't a bookie, then what? What was his involvement?

"About those pictures," I said to Mabel. "Do you have any idea when they might have been taken?"

Mabel added water to her teapot. "I think it must have been recently because I never saw them before. I don't go into Fred's desk all the time, but every now and then I need something. And I never saw any pictures. Fred doesn't take pictures. Years ago, when the kids were little, we used to take pictures. Now Ronald and Walter bring us pictures of the grandchildren. We don't even own a camera anymore. Last year we had to take pictures of the roof for the insurance company, and we got one of those disposable cameras."

I left Mabel to her tea and got back behind the wheel. I looked up and down the street. So far, so good. No Bunchy.

My next stop was the strip mall where Fred did his shopping. I parked in the same area where Fred's car was found. It was about the same time of day. Weather was similar. Seventy and sunny. There were enough people moving around that a scuffle would be noticed. A man walking around dazed would probably be noticed too, but I didn't think that's what I was looking for.

First Trenton was located at the end of the strip mall. It was a branch office with a drive-through window outside and full-service banking inside. Leona Freeman was a teller at First Trenton. She was a second cousin on my mother's side, a couple years older than me, and she had a head start on the family thing, with four kids, two dogs, and a nice husband.

Business was slow when I walked in, and Leona waved at me from behind the counter. "Stephanie!"

"Hey, Leona, how's it going?"

"Pretty good. What's with you? You want some money? I gotta lot."

I grinned.

"Bank joke," Leona said.

"Did you hear about Fred going missing?"

"I heard. He was in here right before it happened."

"Did you see him?"

"Yeah, sure. He got money from the machine, and then he went in to see Shempsky."

Leona and I went to school with Allen Shempsky. He was an okay guy who'd worked his way up the ladder and was now a VP. And this was a new development. No one had said anything about Fred going to see Shempsky. "What'd Fred want with Allen?"

Leona shrugged. "Don't know. He was in there talking to Allen for about ten minutes. He didn't stop to say hello or anything when he came out. Fred was like that. Not the most sociable person."

Shempsky had a small private office tucked between two other small private offices. His door was open, so I stuck my head in.

"Knock, knock," I said.

Allen Shempsky looked at me blank-faced for a moment, and then I saw recognition kick in. "Sorry," he said, "my mind was someplace else. What can I do for you?"

"I'm looking for my uncle Fred. I understand he talked to you just before he disappeared."

"Yeah. He was thinking of taking out a loan."

"A loan? What kind of a loan?"

"Personal."

"He say what he needed the money for?"

"No. Wanted to know what interest rates were and how long would it take. That sort of thing. Preliminary stuff. No paperwork or anything. I think he was only in here for maybe five minutes. Ten tops."

"Did he seem upset?"

"Not that I remember. Well, not any more than usual. Fred was sort of a grumpy guy. The family ask you to look for Fred?"

"Yeah." I stood and gave Shempsky my card. "Let me know if you think of anything significant."

A loan. I couldn't help wondering if it was to pay off Bunchy. I didn't think Bunchy was a bookie, but I wouldn't be shocked to find he was a blackmailer.

The dry cleaner was in the middle of the strip of buildings, next to Grand Union. I knew the woman behind the counter by sight, but not by name. I brought my cloths here too, sometimes.

She remembered Fred, but not much else. He'd picked up his clothes and that was it. No conversation. They'd been busy at the time. She hadn't paid a lot of attention to Fred.

I went back to the Buick and stood there, looking around, trying to imagine what might have happened. Fred had parked in front of Grand Union, anticipating that he'd have groceries to carry. He'd laid the cleaning neatly on the backseat, then closed and locked the car. Then what? Then he'd disappeared. The mall opened to a four-lane highway on one side. Behind the mall was an apartment complex and the neighborhood of single-family houses where I'd searched for Fred.

The RGC office was down by the river, on the other side of Broad. It was an industrial area of warehouses and mom-and-pop factories. Not especially scenic. Perfect for a waste hauler.

I eased into traffic and pointed Big Blue's nose west. Ten minutes and seven lights later, I rolled down Water Street, squinting at the somber brick buildings, looking for numbers. The road was cracked and pocked with potholes. Parking lots associated with businesses were ringed by chain-link fences. Sidewalks were empty. Windows were dark and lifeless. I didn't need to see the numbers, RGC was easy to spot. Large sign. Lots of garbage trucks parked in the lot. There were five visitor slots next to the building. They were all empty. No surprise there. It didn't exactly smell like roses outside.

I parked in one of the slots and scurried inside. The office was small. Linoleum floor, death-pallor-green walls, and a counter cut the room in half. There were two desks and file cabinets in the back half of the room.

A woman got up from one of the desks and stood at the counter. A plaque on the counter read MARTHA DEETER, RECEPTIONIST, and I assumed this was Martha.

"Can I help you?" Martha asked.

I introduced myself as Fred's niece and told her I was looking for Fred.

"I remember speaking to him," she said. "He went home to get his canceled check and never returned. It never occurred to me that something might have happened to him. I just assumed he'd given up. We get a lot of people in here trying to get something for nothing."

"Go figure."

"Exactly. That's why I sent him home for the check. The old ones are the worst. They're all on fixed incomes. They'll say anything to hang on to a dollar."

There was a man sitting at the second desk. He got up and moved next to Martha. "Perhaps I can be of assistance here. I'm the bookkeeper, and I'm afraid this is my problem. Truth is, this has happened before. It's the computer. We just can't get it to recognize certain customers."

Martha tapped a finger on the counter. "It's not the computer. There are people out there who'll take advantage. People think it's okay to gyp big business."

The man gave me a tight smile and extended his hand. "Larry Lipinski. I'll make sure the account is set straight."

Martha didn't look happy. "We really should see the canceled check."

"For goodness' sakes," Lipinski said to Martha, "the man disappeared in the middle of his errands. He probably had the check on him. How do you expect them to show you the check?"

"Supposedly the Shutzes have been customers for years. They must have canceled checks from previous quarters," she said.

"I don't believe this," Lipinski said. "Give it a rest. It's the computer. Remember last month? We had the same problem."

"It isn't the computer."

"It is."

"Isn't."

"Is."

I backed out of the office and slipped out the door. I didn't want to be around for the bitch-slapping and hair-pulling. If Fred was going to "make out in spades," it seemed unlikely he'd make his killing with these two.

Half an hour later I was back at Vinnie's. His door was shut and there were no bond seekers at Connie's desk. Lula and Connie were discussing meatloaf.

"That's disgusting," Lula said, eyeballing Connie's sandwich. "Whoever heard of mayonnaise on meatloaf ? Everybody knows you gotta put ketchup on meatloaf. You can't put no dumb-ass mayonnaise on it. What is that, some Italian thing?"

Connie gave Lula a stiff middle finger. "This is an Italian thing," she said.

I snitched a corn chip from the bag on Connie's desk. "So what happened?" I asked Lula. "You and Bunchy going steady now?"

"He's not such a bad kisser," Lula said. "He had a hard time giving it his full attention at first, but after a while I think he was into it."

"I'm going after Briggs," I said. "You want to ride shotgun?"

"Sure," Lula said, pulling a sweatshirt over her head. "Better than sitting around here. It's damn boring in here today." She had keys in her hand. "And I'm driving. You have a pipsqueak sound system in that Buick, and I need Dolby. I need mood music. I gotta get myself ready to kick some butt."

"We're not kicking butt. We're finessing."

"I could do that, too," Lula said.

I followed Lula out the door to her car. We buckled ourselves in, the CD player clicked on, and the bass almost lifted us off the ground.

"So what's the plan?" Lula asked, pulling into Briggs' parking lot. "We need a plan."

"The plan is that we knock on his door and lie."

"I could get into that," Lula said. "I like to lie. I could lie your ass off."

We crossed the lot and took the stairs. The hall was empty, and there was no noise coming from Briggs' apartment.

I flattened against the wall, out of sight, and Lula knocked twice on Briggs' door.

"How's this?" she asked. "I look okay? This here's my nonthreatening look. This look says, Come on, motherfucker, open your door."

If I saw Lula on the other side of my apartment door, wearing her nonthreatening look, I'd hide under my bed. But hey, that's me.

The door opened with the security chain in place and Briggs peeked out at Lula.

"Howdy," Lula said. "I'm from downstairs, and I got a petition for you to sign on account of they're gonna raise our rent."

"I didn't hear anything about a rent raise," Briggs said. "I didn't get any notice."

"Well, they're gonna do it all the same," Lula said.

"Sons of bitches," Briggs said. "They're always doing something in this building. I don't know why I stay here."

"Cheap rent?" Lula asked.

The door closed, the chain slid off, and the door opened wide.

"Hey!" Briggs said when Lula and I pushed past him into the apartment. "You can't just barge in like this. You tricked me."

"Look again," Lula said. "We're bounty hunters. We can barge if we want to. We got rights."

"You have no rights," Briggs said. "It's a bogus charge. I was carrying a ceremonial knife. It was engraved."

"A ceremonial knife," Lula said. "Seems like a little dude like you should be able to carry a ceremonial knife."

"Exactly," Randy said. "I'm unjustly accused."

" 'Course it don't matter," Lula said. "You still gotta go to the pokey with us."

"I'm in the middle of a big project. I don't have time."

"Hmmm," Lula said. "Let me explain to you how this works. Bottom line is, we don't give a doody."

Briggs pressed his lips together and folded his arms tight across his chest. "You can't make me go."

"Sure we can," Lula said. "You're just a little pipsqueak. We could make you sing 'Yankee Doodle' if we wanted. 'Course, we wouldn't do that on account of we're professionals."

I pulled a pair of cuffs out of my back pocket and clamped one of the bracelets on Briggs.

Briggs looked at the cuff like it was the flesh-eating virus. "What's this?"

"Nothing to be alarmed about," I said. "Standard procedure."

"Eeeeeeeee," Briggs shrieked. "Eeeeeeeee."

"Stop that!" Lula yelled. "You sound like a girl. You're creeping me out."

He was running around the room now, waving his arms and still shrieking. "Eeeeeeeee."

"Get a grip!" Lula said.

"Eeeeeeee."

I made a grab for the cuff but missed. "Stand still," I ordered.

Briggs bolted past Lula, who was dumbstruck, rooted to the floor, and then ran out the door.

"Get him," I yelled, rushing at Lula. "Don't let him get away!" I pushed her into the hall, and we thundered down the stairs after Briggs.

Briggs sprinted through the small lobby, through the front door, and into the parking lot.

"Well, damn," Lula said, "I can hear his little feet going, but I can't see him. He's lost in between all these cars."

We separated and walked into the lot, Lula going one way and me the other. We stopped and listened for footsteps when we got to the outer perimeter.

"I don't hear him anymore," Lula said. "He must be going tippytoe."

We started to walk back when we saw Briggs round the corner of the apartment building and race inside.

"Holy cow!" Lula said. "He's going back to his apartment."

We ran across the lot, barreled through the door, and took the stairs two at a time. When we got to Briggs' apartment the door was closed and locked.

"We know you're in there," Lula yelled. "You better open this door."

"You can huff and you can puff, but you'll never get through this door," Briggs said.

"The hell we won't," Lula told him. "We could shoot the lock off. And then we're gonna come in there and root you out like a rodent."

No answer.

"Hello?" Lula called.

We listened at the door and heard the computer boot up. Briggs was going back to work.

"Nothing I hate more than a wise-ass dwarf," Lula said, hauling a .45 out of her purse. "Stand back. I'm gonna blast this door open."

Drilling Briggs' door held a lot of appeal, but probably it wasn't practical to shoot up an apartment building for a guy who was only worth seven hundred dollars.

"No shooting," I said. "I'll get the key from the super."

"That isn't gonna do you no good if you're not willing to shoot," Lula said. "He's still gonna have the security chain on."

"I saw Ranger pop a door open with his shoulder."

Lula looked at the door. "I could do that too," she said. "Only I just bought this dress with them little spaghetti straps, and I wouldn't want to have a bruise."

I looked at my watch. "It's almost five, and I'm having dinner with my parents tonight."

"Maybe we should do this some other time."

"We're leaving," I hollered through Briggs' door, "but we'll be back. And you'd better be careful of those handcuffs. They cost me forty dollars."

"We would have been justified to shoot our way in on account of he's in possession of stolen property," Lula said.

"Do you always carry a gun?" I asked Lula.

"Don't everybody?"

"They released Benito Ramirez two days ago."

Lula stumbled on the second step down. "That's not possible."

"Joe told me."

"Piece-of-shit legal system."

"Be careful."

"Hell," Lula said. "He already cut me. You're the one who has to be careful."

We swung through the door and stopped in our tracks.

"Uh-oh," Lula said. "We got company."

It was Bunchy. He was parked behind us in the lot. And he didn't look happy.

"How do you suppose he found us?" Lula asked. "We aren't even in your car."

"He must have followed us from the office."

"I didn't see him. And I was looking."

"I didn't see him either."

"He's good," Lula said. "He might be someone to worry about."

* * * * *

"HOW'S THE POT roast?" my mother wanted to know. "Is it too dry?"

"It's fine," I told her. "Just like always."

"I got the green bean casserole recipe from Rose Molinowski. It's made with mushroom soup and bread crumbs."

"Whenever there's a wake or a christening, Rose always brings this casserole," Grandma said. "It's her signature dish."

My father looked up from his plate. "Signature dish?"

"I got that from the shopper's channel on TV. All the big designers got signature this and that."

My father shook his head and bent lower over his pot roast.

Grandma helped herself to some of the casserole. "How's the manhunt going? You got any good leads on Fred yet?"

"Fred is a dead end. I've talked to his sons and his girlfriend. I've retraced his last steps. I've talked to Mabel. There's nothing. He's disappeared without a trace."

My father muttered something that sounded a lot like "lucky bastard" and continued to eat.

My mother rolled her eyes.

And Grandma spooned in some beans. "We need one of them psychics," Grandma said. "I saw on television where you can call them up, and they know everything. They find dead people all the time. I saw a couple of them on a talk show, and they were saying how they help the police with these serial murder cases. I was watching that show, and I was thinking that if I was a serial murderer I'd chop the bodies up in little pieces so those psychics wouldn't have such an easy job of it. Or maybe I'd drain all the blood out of the body and collect it in a big bucket. Then I'd bury a chicken, and I'd take the victim's blood and make a trail to the chicken. Then the psychic wouldn't know what to make of it when the police dug up a chicken." Grandma helped herself to the gravy boat and poured gravy over her pot roast. "Do you think that'd work?"

Everyone but Grandma paused with forks in midair.

"Well, I wouldn't bury a live chicken," Grandma said.

No one had much to say after that, and I felt myself nodding off halfway through my second piece of cake.

"You look all done in," Grandma said. "Guess getting blown up takes it out of you."

"I didn't get much sleep last night."

"Maybe you want to take a nap while your grandmother and I clean up," my mother said. "You can use the guest room."

Ordinarily, I'd excuse myself and go home early, but tonight Bunchy was sitting across the street, two houses down, in the Dodge. So leaving early didn't appeal to me. What appealed to me was to make Bunchy's night as long as possible.

My parents have three bedrooms. My grandma Mazur sleeps in my sister's room, and my room is used as a guest room. Of course, I'm the only guest who ever uses the guest room. All my parents' friends and family live within a five-mile radius and have no reason to stay overnight. I also live within five miles, but I've been known to have the occasional disaster that sends me in search of temporary residence. So my bathrobe hangs in the guest room closet.

"Maybe just a short nap," I said. "I'm really tired."

* * * * *

THE SUN WAS slanting through the break in the curtains when I woke up. I had a moment of disorientation, wondering if I was late for school, and then realized I'd been out of school for a lot of years, and that I'd crawled into bed for a short nap and ended up sleeping through the night.

I rolled out of bed fully dressed and shuffled down to the kitchen. My mother was making vegetable soup, and my grandmother was sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper, scrutinizing the obituaries.

Grandma looked up when I came in. "Weren't you at the garbage company yesterday, checking on Fred?"

I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat across from her. "Yep."

"It says here this woman, Martha Deeter, who was the receptionist at RGC, was shot to death last night. Says they found her in the parking lot of her apartment building." Grandma slid the paper over to me. "Got a picture of her and everything."

I stared goggle-eyed at the picture. It was Martha, all right. With the way she was going at it with her office mate, I'd expected she might have fingerprint marks on her neck. A bullet in the brain never occurred to me.

"Says she's being laid out at Stiva's tomorrow night," Grandma said. "We should go on account of it was our garbage company."

The Catholic church held bingo parties only twice a week, so Grandma and her friends enlarged their social life by attending viewings.

"No suspects," I said, reading the article. "The police think it was robbery. Her purse was missing."

* * * * *

THE BROWN DODGE was still parked down the street when I left my parents' house. Bunchy was asleep behind the wheel, his head back, mouth open. I rapped on the window, and he jumped awake.

"Shit," he said, "what time is it?"

"Were you here all night?"

"Sure looks like it."

Looked like it to me, too. He looked even worse than usual. He had dark circles under his eyes, he needed a shave, and his hair looked like it had been styled by a stun gun.

"So, you didn't kill anybody last night?"

Bunchy blinked at me. "Not that I remember. Who bought the farm?"

"Martha Deeter. She worked at RGC Waste Haulers."

"Why would I want to kill her?"

"I don't know. I saw it in the paper this morning and just thought I'd ask."

"Never hurts to ask," Bunchy said.

* * * * *

I LET MYSELF into my apartment and saw the light flashing on my phone machine.

"Hey, Babe," Ranger said, "got a job for you."

The second message was from Benito Ramirez. "Hello, Stephanie," he said. Quiet-voiced. Articulate, as always. "I've been away for a little while . . . as you know." There was a pause and in my mind I could see his eyes. Small for his face and terrifyingly insane. "I came by to see you, but you weren't at home. That's okay. I'll try some other time." He gave a small, girlish giggle and disconnected.

I erased Ranger's message and saved Ramirez's. Probably I should have a restraining order issued. Ordinarily I didn't hold much stock in restraining orders, but in this case, if Ramirez continued to harass me I might be able to get his parole revoked.

I connected with Ranger on his car phone. "What's the job?" I asked.

"Chauffeur. I have a young sheik flying in to Newark at five."

"He carrying drugs? Delivering guns?"

"Negative. He's visiting relatives in BucksCounty. Long weekend. Probably he won't even blow himself up."

"What's the catch?"

"No catch. You wear a black suit and white shirt. You meet him at the gate and escort him safely to his destination."

"I guess that sounds okay."

"You'll be driving a Town Car. You can pick it up at the garage on Third and Marshall. Be there at three o'clock and talk to Eddie."

"Anything else?"

"Make sure you're dressed."

"You mean the suit—"

"I mean the gun."

"Oh."

I disconnected and went back to Fred's photos. I spread the color copies out on the table just as I did the first time. Two of the pictures were of the bag all tied up. I was guessing that was how Fred found it. He took a couple pictures, then he opened the bag. The big question was, did he know what was inside before he opened it, or was it a surprise?

I went upstairs to Mrs. Bestler, who had failing eyesight, and borrowed a magnifying glass. I returned to my apartment, took the pages closer to the window, and looked at them with the glass. The glass wasn't much help, but I was almost sure it was a woman. Short dark hair. No jewelry on her right hand. There seemed to be newspapers crumpled into the bag with her. A crime lab might be able to pick something out to help date the photo. The bag with the woman was sitting with other bags. I could count four. They were on asphalt. Garbage stacked outside a business, maybe. A business too small to need a Dumpster. Lots of those around. Or it could be a driveway belonging to a family who made tons of garbage.

Part of a building was visible in the background. Hard to tell what it was. It was out of focus and in shade. A stucco wall was my best guess.

That was all the pictures were going to offer up to me.

I took a shower, scrounged for lunch, and set off to talk to Mabel.