To The Nines

CHAPTER 8

MRS. APUSENJA WAS sitting in the office when Ranger dropped me off. She was on the couch, arms crossed over her chest, lips pressed tightly together.

She jumped up when I walked in and pointed her finger at me. "You!" Mrs. Apusenja said. "What do you do all day? Do you look for Samuel Singh? Do you look for poor little Boo? Where are they? Why haven't you found them?"

Connie rolled her eyes.

"Hunh," Lula said from behind a file cabinet.

"I've only been looking for a couple days&" I said.

"This is the fourth day. Do you know what I think? I think you don't know what you're doing. I want someone new on the case. I demand someone new."

We all looked at the door to Vinnie's inner office. It was closed and locked. There was silence behind the door.

Connie got up and rapped on the door. No response. "Hey," Connie yelled. "Mrs. Apusenja wants to talk to you. Open the door!"

The door still didn't open.

Connie returned to her desk, got a key from the middle drawer, and went back and opened Vinnie's door. "Guess you didn't hear me," Connie said, standing hand on hip, looking in at Vinnie. "Mrs. Apusenja wants to talk to you."

Vinnie came to the door and smiled an oily smile out at Mrs. Apusenja. "Nice to see you again," he said. "Do you have some new information for us?"

"I have this for you. The new information is that I will go to the papers if you do not find Samuel Singh. I will ruin you. How does it look for my Nonnie? People will talk. And he owes me two weeks' rent. Who will pay that?"

"Of course we'll find him," Vinnie said. "I've got my best man looking for Singh. And Stephanie's helping him."

"You are a boil on the backside of your profession," Mrs. Apusenja said. And she left.

"How many years have I been in this business? A lot of years, right?" Vinnie asked. "And I'm good at it. I'm good at writing bond. I do a service for the community. Does the honest law-abiding taxpayer have to pay my salary? No. Does the city of Trenton have to hire cops to go find their scofflaws? No. All because of me. I go get the scumbags at no cost to the general population. I risk my neck!"

Connie and Lula and I raised our eyebrows.

"Well, okay, I risk Stephanie's neck," Vinnie said. "But it's all in the family, right?"

"Yeesh," Lula said.

"I should have let Sebring write the damn visa bond," Vinnie said. "What was I thinking?"

Les Sebring was Vinnie's competitor. There were several bail bonds offices in the Trenton area, but Sebring's agency was the largest.

"So what are you doing standing here?" Vinnie asked, flapping his arms. "Go find him, for crissake." Vinnie looked around and sniffed the air. "What's that smell? It smells like roast leg of lamb."

"It was my afternoon snack," Lula said. "I got it delivered from the Greek deli. I'm on the all-you-can-eat meat diet. I didn't eat the whole leg, though. I don't want to go overboard."

"Yeah," Connie said. "She only ate half a leg."

Vinnie stepped back into his office and closed and locked the door.

"Sounds like we should go find this guy," Lula said.

I'd like nothing better than to find Samuel Singh, but I didn't know how. And worse, I was having a hard time focusing on the hunt. I couldn't get Lillian Paressi out of my head. I kept seeing her marching into the Blue Bird, angrily clutching the flowers. Red rose, white carnation. The note was innocuous. Nothing to get angry over. So the flowers had to be part of a continuing harassment. And surely she talked to someone about it. I was hoping Carl Rosen was that someone.

"Earth to Stephanie," Lula said. "You got any ideas?"

"No."

"Me, either," Lula said. "I think this diet's clogging things up inside me. This isn't a creative thinker's diet. You need Cheez Doodles to do that shit. And birthday cake. The kind with the lard icing and the big pink and yellow icing roses."

Connie and I looked at Lula.

"Not that I'm gonna eat anything like that ever again."

Lula said. "I was just saying that's why I haven't got any good ideas."

Since we were all out of how-to-find-Singh ideas, I asked Lula if she'd give me a ride so I could move my car to Joe's house.

"Hell yeah," Lula said. "I could use some air. It's too nice to be inside on a day like today. And besides, it smells like leg of lamb in here. This office needs some ventilation."

WE WERE HALF a block down Hamilton when Lula looked in her rearview mirror. "I think we're being followed. That black SUV pulled out right after us and now he's sitting on our bumper."

"It's Tank. Ranger thinks I need a baby-sitter."

Lula took another look. "He's fine. He's not as hot as Ranger. But he's fine all the same. I wouldn't mind having my way with him."

"I thought you had a new boyfriend?"

"Don't mean I can't think someone else is fine. I'm just going steady, girl. I'm not dead."

In a couple minutes we were at my apartment building and Lula parked in the lot, beside the Escape.

"I think you should go up to your apartment just to check it out and shit," Lula said. "I could go with you and I bet King Kong over there'll go, too. And I'd get a chance to see him up close."

"Sure," I said. "I should probably see if everything's okay, anyway."

We all got out of our cars and walked to the back door. Tank is about six foot six and is built like& a tank. He hasn't an ounce of fat on him. He wears his hair in a Marine buzz cut. He was dressed in desert cammies.

We climbed the stairs and walked down the hall. Tank took the key from me and opened the door. He was the first to step through. He looked around and he motioned us in.

It was cool and quiet inside. No flowers. No photos. No killers. I gathered together some clean shirts and underwear and we left.

"I'd forgotten about Tank following me," I said to Lula. "He can chauffeur me around if you want to get back to the office."

"What are you, crazy? If I go back there I'll have to file. And Vinnies there. Vinnie creeps me out these days. All he does is mope around, worrying about Samuel Singh. It's unnatural. Vinnie's usually out having a nooner with a goat. I hate having him just hang around the office."

Tank smiled at the part about the nooner, but he didn't say anything. He got into his shiny black SUV. Lula got into her red Firebird. And I got into my yellow Escape. And we all motored off to Joe's house.

Lula parked behind me and immediately got out of her car. "Are you going in?" she asked. "I hope you're going in because I've never been in Morelli's house. I'm dying to see the inside. What's the decor? Modern? Traditional? Colonial?"

"Mostly Pizza Hut with a splash of Aunt Rose."

I opened the door and Bob rushed out at us, nose twitching, eyes wild. He looked from Tank to Lula to me and then his head swung back to Lula and he gave a loud woof.

"What the&" Lula said.

Bob gave another woof, chomped down on Lulas purse, ripped it out of her hand, and took off out the door down the street.

"Hey," Lula yelled. "Come back with that! That's my purse." She looked to Tank. "Do something. I paid good money for that purse."

Tank whistled, but Bob paid no attention. Bob was at the end of the block, tearing the purse to shreds. We jogged down to Bob and found him gnawing on a pork chop.

"That was my snack," Lula said. "It was barbecue. I was looking forward to that pork chop."

I took Bob by the collar and dragged him back to Morelli's house.

"I'm on a diet," Lula explained to Tank. "The fat just melts away on this diet, but you've gotta eat lots of pork chops."

I locked Bob in the house and Lula and I drove back to the office with Tank following.

"That was sort of embarrassing," Lula said. "It's hard to explain a pork chop in your purse."

"Sorry it all got destroyed."

"Yeah, I really wanted that pork chop. I don't care so much about the bag. I bought the bag from Ray Smiley, out of the back of his Pontiac. It was one of those things that accidentally fell off a truck." Lulas eyes got bigger. "Hey, we should make a stopover at the mall. I could get a new purse and then just for the hell of it we could go into Victoria's Secret and see if Tank follows us in. That's how you tell what a man's really made of. It's one thing for a man to be big and brave and kill a spider. Any man could do that. Trailin' after a woman when she's shopping for thongs and push-up bras is a whole other category of man. And then if you want to see how far von can go with it, you ask him to carry one of those little pink bags they give you."

I've never been shopping with Ranger so I can't say how he'd do with the Victoria's Secret test. Morelli flunked hands down. Morelli takes off for soft-serve ice cream when I head for Victoria's Secret.

"No time," I told Lula. "Ranger's picking me up at five o'clock." And Ranger doesn't like to be kept waiting.

At precisely five, I saw Ranger's truck ease to a stop in front of the bonds office. I grabbed my bag and my jacket and I went out to meet him. The instant I got in beside Ranger I saw Tank peel away and take off.

"I thought he was supposed to be guarding my body," I said to Ranger.

Ranger looked at me with dark eyes. "It's my turn to guard your body, babe."

Oh boy.

EVER SINCE I could remember I've loved adventure stories and heroes. I guess that's true for all kids. And maybe all adults, too. My best friend Mary Lou Molnar and I would choose up roles when we were kids. I'd be Snake Eyes from GI Joe or Inspector Gadget or Han Solo. I'd run through the neighbors' yards, shouting, Thundercats, ho! And Mary Lou would follow after me, living her own fantasy as Smurfette or Wendy Darling or Marcia Brady. Mary Lou always had a good sense of gender and of her own abilities. Mary Lou's fantasies were close to the reality of her life. I, on the other hand, have never been able to merge the reality with the fantasy. In my mind, I'm still Snake Eyes. In truth, I'm closer to Lucy Ricardo. I don't have a lot of the skills I should have as a crime fighter. I'm not good with guns and I've never found the time to take self-defense. The only black belt in my closet is a narrow snakeskin with a gold buckle.

"Tell me about Bart Cone," I said to Ranger. "Was his house filled with florist bills? Photos of murdered women? Body parts in the freezer?"

"None of the above. He has the minimum furniture. A bed, a chair, a table, a desk. No computer on the desk. No television. He had two books at bedside. Into Thin Air. And a nuts and bolts catalogue. It didn't look to me like he'd cracked the spine on Into Thin Air."

"Sounds like his wife had a good divorce lawyer."

"Cone had minimum food in the refrigerator. His medicine chest was filled with antidepressants and sleeping pills."

"Do you think he's crazy?"

"I think he has no life. I think he's the job."

"Like us."

Ranger looked over at me. "You have a life. You shop for shoes. You eat Butterscotch Krimpets. You have a hamster, half ownership of a dog, thirty percent of a cop. And you have a scary family."

"You think I only have thirty percent of Morelli?"

"I think you have as much as he can give anyone right now."

"How about you?" I asked. "How much can you give?"

Ranger kept his eyes on the road. "You ask a lot of questions."

"So I've been told."

It was close to 5:30 when we reached the apartment house on Market. Ranger pulled into the driveway and parked in a small lot to the rear of the house. We took the back entrance and went directly to the second floor. We knocked on Carl Rosen's door. No one answered. Ranger crossed the hall and knocked on 2A. A woman in her fifties opened the door and peered out.

"We're looking for Carl Rosen," Ranger said. "I don't suppose you've seen him."

"No," the woman said. "I haven't seen him, but he's usually home by now. Sorry."

The woman slipped back into her apartment. Her door closed and three locks tumbled into place. Ranger paced away from the door, called Tank, and asked him to run a basic information check on Rosen. Three minutes later the information came back. Carl Rosen worked at the hospital. He drove a '94 blue Honda Civic. He was unmarried. Tank also had previous addresses and jobs and a list of relatives. Ranger disconnected and knocked one more time on Rosen's door. When no one answered, Ranger slid a slim tool into the lock and opened the door. He left me outside to do lookout and he disappeared into the apartment.

Ten minutes later, Ranger walked out of the apartment and locked the door behind him. "I can't remember the last time I broke into so many places and found so little," Ranger said. "Not even a computer. Just the power cord plugged into the wall. Either Rosen takes his laptop with him to work or else someone's gone through his apartment in front of us."

"Now what?"

"Now we wait."

I called Morelli and told him I'd be late. I was thinking an hour maybe, but we were still waiting at nine o'clock. We were sitting on the floor outside Rosen's apartment, backs to the wall, legs outstretched.

"My ass is asleep," I said to Ranger.

"And you'd like me to do something about it?" Ranger asked.

"Just making conversation."

"There are a lot of reasons why Rosen might not be home yet, but I have a bad feeling in my gut that this isn't going to turn out good," Ranger said.

"How much longer do you want to sit here?" '

"Let's give him until ten."

"OKAY," MORELLI SAID, "tell me again. You were doing what with Ranger?"

"We wanted to talk to Carl Rosen, but he never came home." I told Morelli about the waitress at the Blue Bird and how she remembered about the flowers.

"Christ," Morelli said. "That never came out in any of the investigation. I've read through the file. Carl Rosen was questioned, along with everyone else in that apartment building, but no one ever said anything about flowers."

"I guess they didn't think it related."

"Tomorrow morning I'll talk to Ollie. He was the principal on the case."

Oh great. Blubber-butt Ollie. The Bain of my existence. The guy who once tried to arrest me for impersonating a bounty hunter.

It was late. And I was tired. I'd done nothing for hours and it had sapped my energy. Spending time with Ranger was an odd experience. I was always aware of the sexual pull, magnified by the silence that surrounded him. The attraction had changed since we'd had the one night together. We knew the power of it now. We set boundaries after that night. His were different from mine. My boundaries were physical and Rangers were emotional. I still knew almost nothing about him. And I suspected it would always be that way.

I had one task left before going to bed. I needed to check my email. Not a pleasant experience anymore. I knew there'd be a message from the killer. I had a terrible feeling of dread that it would be about Carl Rosen.

I tapped my code into AOL and waited for my mail to appear. A chill slid along my spine when I saw the subject line tally ho.

Dear prey, the email began, so sorry you couldn't get to talk to Carl, but that might have ruined the hunt. Alas, it's necessary to eliminate participants. After all, this is a survival game, isn't it?

Morelli was reading over my shoulder. "Doesn't sound good for Carl."

"This guy thinks he's playing a game."

"Have you run across any paranoid schizophrenics lately? Any completely wacko nut cases?"

"My path is littered with them. Have you guys had any luck tracking the emails?"

"No. Hiding the origin of an email requires some sophistication, but it's possible. The Mercer County Prosecutors Office is working with us. We'll see what we can do with this new one. I'm going to confiscate your computer for a while."

"Were you able to locate the flower source?"

"They didn't come from any of the local florists. This guy probably picked them up at a supermarket. We have notices up in all the supermarket lunchrooms for checkers to watch for red roses and white carnations going out. We've dusted your apartment for prints, but nothing worthwhile came up."

"This is very creepy."

"Yeah," Morelli said. "Let's go to bed and I'll take your mind off your problems."

I WOKE UP the next morning thinking maybe I only had thirty percent of Morelli, but it was a damn good thirty percent.

My schedule for fighting crime began considerably later in the day than Morelli's, so by the time I wandered into the kitchen Morelli was already at work. I got coffee brewing and dropped a frozen waffle into the toaster. The morning paper was on the table. I did a fast scan, but saw nothing about a body found floating in the Delaware.

I took a mug of coffee and padded out to the living room, opened the door, and looked up and down the street for Tank. No Tank in sight. That didn't mean he wasn't there.

I called Ranger and told him about the latest email. "I don't suppose you've seen Carl Rosen this morning?" I asked.

"No. His car hasn't surfaced. And he didn't show up for work."

"Is Tank out there? I didn't see him."

"He saw you. He said you were frightening."

"I haven't taken a shower yet. My hair might be a little unruly."

"Takes a lot to scare Tank," Ranger said. And he was gone.

I took a shower and I did the full-on hair thing. Hot rollers, gel, the works. I tweezed my eyebrows, painted my toenails, and spent an hour applying makeup. I shrugged into a swirly flowered skirt and finished it all off with a stretchy little white knit top. I was Jersey Girl right down to the strappy sandals with the four-inch heels. Not only did I have to do some image correction for Tank, but I'd be damned if I was going to die needing a pedicure.

I clacked out of the house carrying my big leather shoulder bag and took off for the office in the Escape. I looked great, but I couldn't run for a damn in the shoes so I had sneakers in my shoulder bag& just in case I had to chase down a bad guy.

I turned onto Hamilton and Andrew Cone called.

"I have something for you," he said. "This is really good. Can you stop around?"

Andrew sounded excited. Maybe this was my lucky day. Hot dog.

Connie was at her desk when I swung in. "Uh-oh," she said, "big hair and full face paint, high heels, and a Barbie shirt. What's going on?"

"It's too complicated to explain." And I wasn't sure I understood, anyway. "Where's Lula?"

"She's up the street. She's still on the diet. Went through all her meat in a half hour and had to walk up to the coffee shop for some bacon."

"Lula walked to the coffee shop? That's two blocks away. Lula never walks anywhere."

"She parked in back and got blocked in by someone. I guess she figured it was faster to walk."

"She must have really needed the bacon."

"She was on a mission."

I moseyed over to the door, looked up the street, and spotted Lula at the end of the block. She was walking fast in her Via Spiga heels, holding a white food bag against her chest. Two dogs, a beagle and a golden retriever, trotted close behind Lula. A third dog crossed the street and joined the pack. Every couple steps Lula would turn and yell something at the dogs. When the beagle jumped for the bag when Lula was half a block away, Lula let out a shriek and started running.

"Stop running," I yelled at her. "You're making it worse. They think it's a game."

They were snapping at her heels now and barking.

"Do something," Lula yelled. "Shoot them!"

"Drop the bag! They want the bacon."

"No way I'm giving up my bacon."

Lula was running knees high, arms pumping. She was wearing the Via Spigas and a short black spandex skirt that was hiked up to her waist, showing Hamilton Avenue what a big woman looks like in a red satin thong.

"Open the door!" Lula shouted. "I can make it. I'm almost there. Just hold the damn door open!"

Lula tossed the dogs a slice of bacon from the bag, the dogs dove after the bacon, and Lula rushed past me into the office. I slammed the door shut and we all stood looking at the dogs milling around outside.

Lula tugged her skirt down. "Tank's out there, isn't he?"

"Yep."

"I explained pretty good about the pork chop, but I'm at a loss here."

"It speaks for itself," I said to Lula.

Grease stains were starting to show through the bag. "I love this diet," Lula said. "I love pork chops. And I love ribs. And I love bacon. I love bacon most of all."

Lula was eating bacon like it was popcorn, chomping on it out of the bag, rolling her eyes in gastronomic ecstasy.

"How much bacon do you have there?" Connie wanted to know.

"Three pounds minus the one strip I gave up to the dogs."

"Sounds like a lot of bacon," Connie said.

"I'm pushing the boundaries of science here," Lula said. "I'm gonna be a supermodel with a smile on my face on account of I'm gonna be full of bacon."

"I need to go to TriBro," I said. "I'm looking for someone to ride shotgun."

"That would be me," Lula said.

LULA AND TANK waited in the lot while I went in to talk to Andrew Cone.

"This is really good," Cone said. "I had to tell you this in person. First thing this morning I found an email from one of the people I do business with in Vegas. Bill Weber. He said Samuel Singh filled out a job application and Weber was emailing to check references. I got so excited, I called the guy. Got him out of bed. Forgot about the time change."

"Singh's in Vegas? And he was dumb enough to list you as a reference?"

Cone bobbed his head up and down, smiling wide. "Yes."

"I bet he even gave a street address."

"He did." Cone slid a piece of paper my way with all the information neatly printed out. "I told Weber about the visa bond and he's going to string Singh along until you get there. You're going to go get him, right?"

"Right."

Lula was looking kind of sick when I got back to the car.

"How much of that bacon did you eat?" I asked her.

"I ate it all. It didn't seem like so much while I was eating it, but it doesn't feel like it fits in my stomach now."

I called Ranger and told him about Singh. "He's in Vegas, waiting for you to go get him," I said.

"I'm having a small legal problem with Nevada on a weapons violation," Ranger said. "You're going to have to make the capture. Take Tank. I don't want you to go alone."

Good grief.

CHAPTER 9

LULA WAS UP straight in her seat. "What's this about Vegas?"

"Samuel Singh is in Vegas and Ranger can't make the capture. So either I go or Vinnie farms the capture out to a Vegas agency."

"Don't even suggest farming it out. All my life I've wanted to go to Vegas. I hear there's a shopping center that's just like being in Venice with canals and boats and everything. And there's all those casinos and fancy hotels. There's the Strip. The Strip! I could get to see the Strip." Lula stopped and blinked. "You were gonna take me, right?"

"Ranger wants me to go with Tank."

"Tank? Are you shittin' me?" Lula pulled back, eyes bugged out with the injustice of it all. "Hunh. I get to go along on all the chicken-shit stuff. Sit in the car while you go into TriBro. And I'm the one goes to the back door when you go to the front door on a bust. I always get the back door. Do I complain? Hell no. I guess I know where I stand here."

I narrowed my eyes at her. "Are you done?"

"No way. I'm not done. And I'm feeling anxious now. I need a burger or something."

"You just ate three pounds of bacon!"

"Yeah, but the dogs ate one of those strips."

I drove out of the lot and headed for the office. "Okay, fine. I'll take you to Vegas if you can clear it with Connie."

"I knew it," Lula said. "I knew you wouldn't go without me. We're a team, right? We're like those two cops in the Lethal Weapon movies. We're like Mel Gibson and Danny Glover."

More like Thelma and Louise, driving off a cliff.

The office was quiet when we walked in. No Mrs. Apusenja. No Vinnie. Only Connie, sitting at her desk, reading the latest Nora Roberts.

"I found Singh," I told her. "He's in Vegas."

"Vegas! I love Vegas," Connie said.

"You see? Everybody's been to Vegas but me," Lula said. "It's not fair. I lead a deprived life. Bad enough I grew up underprivileged and all and now I'm the only one not been to Vegas."

"Let me go get my violin," Connie said.

"What do you want to do about this now that I've found him?" I asked Connie. "Can we forcibly bring him back? Has he violated his bond agreement?"

"The bond agreement states that he can't leave the tristate area without permission. So the answer is yes, you can forcibly bring him back. I'll page Vinnie to double-check, but I'm sure he'll want Singh brought back here."

"Ranger can't go to Vegas to make the capture," I told Connie.

Connie nodded. "He's got an outstanding weapons violation. Stepped on a few toes last time he was in Nevada. His lawyer's working on it."

"So that leaves me, I guess," I said. "And Lula."

"I get the picture," Connie said.

"And Tank," I added. "Ranger said I should take Tank."

"Anyone else?" Connie asked, turning to the computer. "You want a permit for a parade?"

"Boy, this here's going to be fun," Lula said. "And what with this new diet, I'll probably be real thin by the time I get there."

"It's only a five-hour flight," I told her.

"Yeah, but this diet works fast."

"Okay, here we go," Connie said. "I've got us on a flight out of Newark at four o'clock. We have a plane change in Chicago and we arrive in Vegas at nine. It's not a direct flight, but it's the best I can do."

"Us?"

"You don't think I'm going to send you and Lula to Vegas without me, do you? I'm feeling lucky. I'm going straight to the craps table. I'm not going to page Vinnie, either. I'm going to leave him a note."

We didn't have a lot of time if we were going to catch a four o'clock flight. "Here's the plan," I said. "It doesn't make sense to take more than one car. I'll tell Tank he's driving and he can pick all of us up. Everyone go home and pack and be ready to go in an hour. And remember, there's tight security now. No guns, no knives, no pepper spray, no nail files."

"What? How am I supposed to travel without a nail file?" Lula wanted to know.

"You have to put it in your suitcase and check your suitcase."

"What if I break a nail getting onto the plane and I got to file it down?"

"You'll have to gnaw it down with your teeth. I'll get you in an hour."

Tank was parked in front of the bonds office and he was being surveillant. I went out to him and gave him the game plan. He said his assignment was to stick to me and he didn't need to pack.

"Not even a toothbrush?" I asked. "Not even an extra pair of tighty whiteys?"

Tank almost smiled.

Okay then. I ran to my car and took off for my apartment. I hit the ground running when I got to my building. I took the stairs two at a time, barefoot with my shoes in my hands. Tank was ahead of me in the hall. He opened my apartment door and stepped inside. Four eight-by-ten glossies were spread across the floor. We bent to look at them without touching anything. They were photos of a man with half his head blown away. Like the first set of photos, they were enlarged to hide the victim's identity. My first thought, of course, was of Carl Rosen.

"Do you recognize him?" Tank asked.

"No."

Tank closed the front door and gave me a gun. "Stay here while I check the rest of the apartment." Moments later he was back. "No one here. No more photos that I can see. I didn't go through your drawers."

"Okay," I said, "here's what we do. We leave these photos exactly where they are. We try not to disturb any prints that might have been left. I pack as fast as possible and we get the hell out. When we're ready to board I'll call Morelli. If I call him now I'll have to stay for questioning and we'll never make the plane."

"Works for me," Tank said.

Ten minutes later I was out of the apartment, a change of clothes and essential makeup in a tote bag slung over my shoulder. We left my car in the lot and took Tank's SUV.

Connie lived in the Burg, so she was next on the pickup list. We beeped once when we pulled to the curb and Connie hustled out to us. Connie's house was a narrow single family, similar to my parents' duplex, but half of Connie's house had been chopped away. Vito Grecci used to live in the adjoining half house. Vito was a Mob bagman who came in with a light bag one time too many. Next day Vito's house mysteriously caught fire and Vito turned up in the Camden landfill. Fortunately for Connie, the fire didn't go beyond the brick firewall between the two adjoining houses. Connie bought Vito's fire-gutted half at a bank auction, tore the trashed house down, and never rebuilt. Connie liked having the empty lot. She put a big free-standing pool with a wraparound cedar deck in the newly created side yard. And she set up a shrine to the Virgin for sparing her house.

Lula lived on the other side of Hamilton, down by the train station. There wasn't a lot of money in the neighborhood, but year after year it held its own. Lula rented a tiny two-room apartment on the second floor of a small house. The house was gray clapboard with touches of Victorian trim. Last year the owner painted the trim pink. In a weird way it seemed just right for Lula.

Lula was on the curb waiting when we drove down her street. She had two huge suitcases with her, a big leather purse hung on her shoulder, and she was holding a large canvas tote.

Tank smiled. "I bet they're all filled with pork chops."

"We're only staying overnight," I told Lula when she climbed into the backseat next to Connie.

"I know that, but I like to be prepared. And I couldn't decide what to wear. I got a whole suitcase filled with shoes. You can't go to Vegas without a change of shoes. How many shoes did you bring?" Lula asked me.

"The shoes I'm wearing and sneakers."

"How about you?" she asked Connie.

"Four pairs of shoes," Connie said.

"Dog," Lula said to Tank. "How many shoes you got?"

Tank looked at Lula in the rearview mirror and didn't say anything.

Lula turned and checked out the luggage in the back of the SUV. "I don't even see any Tank suitcases," Lula said. "Where's your suitcases?"

"Tank hasn't got any suitcases," I said. "Tank's traveling light."

"Where's he keep his extra tighty whiteys?" Lula wanted to know.

Tank cut another look at Lula. "I don't wear tighty whiteys," he said.

"You devil!" Lula yelled. "I bet you go commando."

Lula and Connie fanned themselves in the backseat. Tank kept his eyes on the road, but I could see him smiling.

An hour later, we were in the terminal, standing in line. Seventy-three people in front of us. An airline employee was going person to person, suggesting electronic ticket holders use the automatic ticketing machines. We looked over at the machines with flocks of people gathered around them.

"I don't know," Lula said. "Those people trying to use those machines look pissed off. Don't look to me like they're having a whole lot of luck getting tickets out of those machines. Looks to me like after they waste some time they give up and get back in line over here."

We sent Connie over to investigate and we stayed in line. After a couple minutes Connie came back. "I think they're just decoys," Connie said. "I never saw anybody have any luck getting a ticket out of them."

"I bet I know," Lula said. "You go over there and try to get a ticket and you give them your name and address. And then you don't get a ticket, but you get put on some list for junk mail and telephone solicitors. I bet the airlines make money selling those lists. I bet they get extra on account of they're lists of gullible people who'll buy anything. You didn't give them your name and address, did you, Connie?"

"That's ridiculous," Connie said. And because she was snippy when she said it, we all knew she gave the machine her name and address.

Forty-five minutes later, we got to the counter and got ticketed. Lula checked two of her bags. Tank didn't have any bags. I carried my single tote bag with me. Connie had one small suitcase on rollers, which she checked.

"We're on our way now," Lula said. "Boy, this is gonna be fun. Hold on. What are we doing in another line?"

"This is the line to go through the security check," I told her.

"Say what?"

We inched our way along again. I had a low-grade headache from the terminal noise and the tedium and I had a backache from an hour of carrying the tote on my shoulder. Twenty minutes ago I'd dropped the tote onto the floor and now I kicked it along ahead of me. I suspected I was growing pale and in another twenty minutes I'd look like I'd spent fifteen years at TriBro testing nuts and bolts.

I was first in line. Lula stood behind me. Then Connie. Tank was in line behind Connie. We showed our tickets. We flashed our photo IDs. I approached the conveyor belt leading to the scanner. I placed my tote and my purse on the belt.

A security attendant asked me to place my shoes on the belt, as well. I looked down at the strappy sandals I'd put on first thing this morning. Brown leather and not a single part of the shoe thicker than an eighth of an inch with the exception of the slim wood stacked stiletto heel, which was a quarter of an inch. Guess security thought I had a bomb in the shoe. Bombs must frequently be hidden in women's strappy sandals.

I took the shoes off and shuffled barefoot along the filthy floor, through the metal detector. I didn't set the detector off but the security attendant told me I was a random female, so I was pulled aside and asked to stand spread eagle. I supposed they thought I had box cutters hidden under my skintight, slightly see-through white stretchy shirt. I was wanded and released. My shoes were returned to me after careful scrutiny.

An attendant in rubber gloves extracted all the items from my tote. Two pairs of bikini panties, a pair of jeans, two little white T-shirts, white socks, sneakers, a travel box of tampons (just in case), hair spray, roller brush, assorted cosmetics. Forty or fifty people passing by admired the panties and a couple women suggested a different brand of tampon.

The items were returned to my bag and I was told I could continue on my way. Lula was causing a scene behind me. She had to go through the same routine and they found fried chicken in her purse.

"You're not allowed to take unpackaged food past security," the attendant said to Lula.

"What am I supposed to eat?" Lula wanted to know. "I'm on a diet to be a supermodel. I need this fried chicken. Suppose they don't feed me on the plane?"

"There are kiosks by the gate that sell food," Lula was told.

I looked at the fried chicken displayed on the examining table. A leg and a breast. I guess security was on the lookout for chicken leg bombs.

"I don't like this," Lula said, shouldering her bags. "Had to take my shoes off, my jacket off, got felt up under my bra clip. Had to take my belt off. And look at this, I can't button the top snap on my stretch pants and now everybody knows. This here's been a humiliating experience. And on top of it all they took my chicken."

Connie had breezed through without a hitch. "That's the way it is now," Connie said. "You want to be safe, right? This is just a small thing to keep us safe."

"Shut up," Lula said. "I hate people who don't get searched." Her eyes were wild and her lower lip was jutting out. "I'm feeling a lot of anxiety," Lula said. "If this was supposed to make me feel safe it isn't working. All I can think of now is terrorists. I wasn't thinking of terrorists before. I need some ham. Where's the place they sell ham?"

It was announced that our plane was boarding and Tank still hadn't cleared security. I knew he didn't have weapons on him. He'd locked everything in the truck when we parked. They brought a dog in and two armed guards moved closer. Apparently they were picking up traces of explosives on his shoes and clothes. Wow, big surprise there. He had his identification displayed, including a license to carry, but security was having none of it.

He cut his eyes to me and I sent him a blank-faced look back. No way was I going to come to his rescue. I wasn't taking any chances on guilt by association. I was afraid the airport gestapo would haul my ass off to a back room and give me a body cavity search.

I grabbed Lula and pulled her along. Connie followed. We only had a couple minutes until boarding.

"What about Tank?" Lula asked.

"He'll catch up with us." Maybe.

We got to the gate and Lula was wide-eyed, looking everywhere. "I don't see no kiosk with fried chicken," she said. "I just see doughnuts and ice cream and bagels and big pretzels. I can't eat none of that food. Where's the friggin' meat?"

"Maybe we'll get something on the plane," I said. "We'll be in the air over dinnertime, so maybe we'll get some dinner." Yeah, right. If we were flying first class we might get a bag of peanuts.

We were seated three across, six rows back in coach. Lula was on the aisle. I sat next to her. Tank's seat was empty. Connie sat on the other side of the aisle.

I called Morelli and told him about the photos.

"And here's the thing," I said to Morelli. "I'm sort of on a plane. Singh is in Vegas and I'm going out to apprehend him. So I was thinking maybe you could just let yourself in and, uh, take charge."

Silence.

"Joe?"

"This is the sort of thing Ranger usually takes."

"He has a problem with the state of Nevada."

"Okay, let me rerun this," Morelli said. "You went home to pack and you found more snuff photos. Then you drove to the airport and waited until you were boarded before calling me so it was impossible for me to bring you back to Trenton."

"Yup. That's about it."

The conversation deteriorated pretty quickly after that, so I said good-bye and shut my phone off.

The plane filled and the usual announcements were made. No Tank. I was feeling a little worried without my bodyguard. I had Connie and Lula with me. I liked Connie and Lula, but I suspected they were more liability than asset.

The flight attendants closed the doors and the plane began taxiing. Lula was singing with her headset on and her eyes shut. Connie was talking to the woman next to her.

All right, calm down, I told myself. Probably flying to Vegas was safer than staying in Trenton. Tank would get the next plane and everything would be fine. If I'd stayed with Tank I wouldn't be on the plane. I would have had to call Morelli and he would have insisted I return to Trenton.

Minutes after taking off it was announced that no food or beverages would be served. "What about peanuts?" Lula yelled out. "Don't we even get any freakin' peanuts?" Lula turned to me. "I want to get off this plane. I'm hungry and I'm uncomfortable. And look at the seat in front of me. It's all ripped. How am I supposed to have confidence when they can't even keep their seats sewed up? I bet some terrorist was practicing on that seat."

I put my finger to my eye.

"You getting that nervous eye twitch back?" Lula asked. "It's from this plane, isn't it? I feel nervous, too. I'm just a bundle of nerves."

"It's from you," I said. "Put your headset back on and listen to your music."

An hour into the flight Lula was fidgeting again. "I smell coffee," she said. "I bet they're gonna give us coffee. Probably they feel bad about treating us like a bunch of cows and they're gonna hand out coffee." She sniffed the air. "Hey, I smell real food. I smell something cooking." She hung over the armrest and looked up the aisle at the front of the plane. "It's not first class," she said. "I can see into first class and they're not getting any food, either."

Now I was smelling it. Definitely coffee. And maybe a tomato sauce and pasta dish. And cookies baking!

"It's like there's ghosts up there," Lula said. "I haven't seen a flight attendant walk down the aisle since we took off. It's like they vanished and their ghosts are cooking. I'm dying here. I'm starving. I'm getting weak."

Connie looked over. "What's going on?"

"I smell coffee," Lula said. "I must be hallucinating from hunger."

"Maybe the flight attendants are making coffee for the pilots," Connie said.

"I don't like the sound of that," Lula said. "That sounds like an emergency. Like the pilots are tired. Just my luck I get on a plane with a pilot who was up all night. I'm going to be really pissed off if he falls asleep and we crash and we all die and it's before I get to Vegas."

Connie went back to her magazine, but Lula was still leaning over the armrest into the aisle. "I can see them!" Lula said. "It's the flight attendants. Someone pulled the curtain aside and I can see the flight attendants eating. They're having coffee and fresh-baked cookies. Can you freaking believe it? They're not even going to offer any to us."

I was starting to think crashing and dying might be the way to go. Compared to another two hours in the air, crashing and dying held some appeal.

Lula's eyes were slitty and her forehead was scrunched up. She reminded me of a bull pawing the ground, nostrils flaring, shaggy head steaming. "I'm not calling them flight attendants anymore," Lula said. "I'm calling them stewardesses. See how they like that."

"Keep it down," Connie said. "Maybe they've been working all day and they didn't get a chance to eat."

"I've been working all day," Lula said. "I didn't get a chance to eat. You see anybody feeding me? I guess not. Look at me. I'm beside myself. I feel like the Hulk. Like I'm getting all swollen up with frustration."

"Well, take it easy," I said. "You'll burst something."

"You know what this is?" Lula said. "This here's plane rage."

"Plane rage isn't allowed. It got taken off the allowed activities list along with eating. If you make a scene they'll haul you off in leg irons."

"I'm tired of being strapped in here, too," Lula said. "This seat belt's too tight and it's giving me gas."

"Anything else?"

"There's no movie."

When we landed at Chicago I positioned myself between Lula and the flight attendants.

"Keep your head down and walk," I told Lula. "Don't look at them. Don't talk to them. Don't grab any of them by the throat. We need to get on the next plane. Just keep thinking about Vegas."

Our connecting flight was ten gates down. We started walking and almost immediately we hit fast food. Lula hurried over and ordered seven double cheeseburgers. She threw the buns away and ate the rest.

"I'm impressed," I said to Lula. "You're really sticking to this diet." Hard to believe she was going to lose weight on it, but at least she was trying.

An hour later our row was called to board and Lula, Connie, and I got in line. We reached the gate and I was pulled aside to be searched. Random female.

"Step over here," the security attendant said. "And take your shoes off."

I looked down at the sandals. "What could you possibly be looking for in these sandals?" I asked.

"It's standard procedure."

"I've already gone through this at Newark!"

"Sorry. You're going to have to take your shoes off if you want to get on the plane."

"Uh-oh," Lula said to me. "Your face is getting red. Remember about getting to Vegas. Just take the freakin' shoes off."

"It's not like it's personal," Connie said. "You should be happy security precautions are in place."

"Easy for you to say," I told her. "You're not the one getting picked on. You're not the one getting singled out for a second time. Your tampons and panties aren't getting pawed through." I stared down at the shoes. There wasn't any way to hide a weapon in them, but I thought I could do some pretty good damage if I hit the security idiot in the head with one. Spike heel directly into the eyeball, I thought. I visualized the bleeding eyeball falling out of the woman's head and felt much more calm. I stepped out of my sandals and waited peacefully for them to be scrutinized.

When we were seated on the plane Lula turned to me. "You know, sometimes you can be real scary. I don't know what you were thinking back there when you took those shoes off, but all the hair stood up on the back of my neck."

"I had airport rage."

"Fuckin' A," Lula said.

Lula had airport rage when we landed and her luggage wasn't there.

CONNIE HAD US booked into the Luxor. It was on the Strip, and because the bail bonds conferences were held there every year we got good rates.

"Look at this," Lula said, head tipped back, taking it all in. "It's a freaking pyramid. It's like being in some big-ass Egyptian tomb. I love this. I'm ready to gamble. Outta my way. I'm looking for the slots. Where's the blackjack tables?"

I didn't know where Lula's energy came from. I'd exhausted myself trying to stay calm while mentally maiming airport employees, screaming kids, and security personnel.

"I'm going to bed," I told Lula. "We need to get an early start tomorrow, so don't stay out too late."

"I can't believe I'm hearing this. You're in Vegas and you're going to bed? Unh uh, girlfriend. I don't think so."

"I don't gamble. I'm not good at it."

"You can play slots. There's nothing to slots. You put your money in and you push the button."

"I'm feeling hot for the craps," Connie said. "I'm going to drop my suitcase off in the room and then I'm going to hit the craps tables."

"You see?" Lula said to me. "You don't come with, I'm gonna be all alone on account of Connie's gonna play craps."

Lula had a point. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to have Lula all alone in Vegas. "Okay," I said. "I'll tag along, but I'm not playing. I don't know what I'm doing and I always lose."

"You gotta play once," Lula said. "It wouldn't be right if you came to Vegas and didn't even play one slot. I bet there's even a law that says you gotta play a slot."

Fifteen minutes later, we were checked into our room. We all applied fresh lipstick, and we were ready to roll.

"Look out, Vegas, here I come," Lula said, closing the door behind us.

"I'm wearing my lucky shoes," Connie said, leading the way down the hall. "I can't lose in my lucky shoes."

It was the first time I'd ever walked any distance behind Connie and I was knocked over by the sight in front of me. Connie was a small Italian version of Mae West. Her hips were big and round and her boobs were big and round. And when Connie walked everything was in motion. Connie swung her ass down the hall. Connie was a broad. Connie belonged in a gangster movie set in Chicago during Prohibition.

We got to the elevator and the three of us stood waiting for the doors to open, cackling and preening in front of the hall mirror. We stepped into the elevator, went down one floor, and two guys got on. One was about five foot ten, had a big beer belly, and looked to be in his sixties. The other was average build, early forties, and was short enough that his eyes were even with my breasts. They were both dressed in tight white jumpsuits with bell-bottoms and big stand-up collars. The jumpsuits were decorated with sequins and glittered under the elevator lights. They had huge rings on their fingers and shoe-polish-black pompadour hairdos with long sideburns. They were wearing name tags. The big guy was named Gus and the little guy was named Wayne.

"We're Elvis impersonators," the little guy said.

"No shit, Sherlock," Lula said.

"We're part of a convention. There are fourteen hundred Elvis impersonators here at the hotel."

"We just got here," Lula said. "We're going down to play some slots."

"We're going to the show," Gus said. "We hear Tom Jones is singing in the lounge."

Lula's eyes got the size of duck eggs and popped out of her eye sockets. "Tom Jones! Are you shitting me? I love Tom Jones."

"You should come with us," Wayne said. "We wouldn't mind having a couple chicks tagging along, right, Gus?"

Lula looked down at little Wayne. "Listen up, Shorty," she said. "I don't do that patronizing, sexist chick shit."

"We gotta say things like that," Wayne told her. "We're Elvis impersonators. We're Vegas, baby."

"Oh yeah, I guess I could see that. Sorry," Lula said.

The elevator hit the casino floor and we all got out and hustled across the casino to the lounge. Me, Connie, Lula, and two over-the-hill Elvis impersonators. We reached the lounge and were stopped by a crush of people waiting to get in.

"Oh man," Lula said. "Look at this crowd. We're not gonna get in."

"They always let Elvis in," the big guy said, and he started bumping people out of the way with his belly. "Uh, s'cuze me. The King's comin' through," he'd say. And then he'd sort of snarl and curl his lip the way Elvis used to.

We were packed up behind him, moving in his wake. All of us getting excited about seeing Tom Jones, willing to step on a few toes to do it. Gus got us a position close to the stage, off to the side. The room lights were dim and the stage was washed in red light. A band was playing. We ordered drinks and Tom Jones was introduced.

The minute Jones came onstage Lula went ape-shit. Lula didn't care about anything but Tom Jones. "Hey, Tom, honey, look over here," she yelled out. "Look at Lula!"

All around us women were throwing room keys and panties onto the stage. And then from the corner of my eye I caught sight of Lula pitching a giant hot-pink satin thong at Tom Jones. It was the biggest thong I'd ever seen. It was a King Kong thong. It hit Tom Jones square in the face. Wap!

"Holy crap," Connie said.

Tom Jones staggered back a step, snagged the thong from off his face, looked at it, and forgot the words to the song he was singing. The band was playing, but Tom Jones was just standing there staring at the thong.

"Maybe I should throw my bra, too," Lula said.

"No!" Connie and I said, worried Tom Jones would go into cardiac arrest at the sight. "Not a good idea. Overkill."

Tom Jones snapped out of his coma, stuffed the thong into his tux pocket, and went back to singing.

"I don't think Tom Jones looks all that good," Connie said to me. "He looks different somehow. Like he's had a face-lift that went wrong."

"And he's sort of fat," I said. "And he can't sing anymore."

"That's blasphemous to say about Tom Jones," Lula said. "You can't go dissin' Tom Jones."

Wayne leaned across Lula. "It's not Tom Jones. I thought you knew that. It's a Tom Jones impersonator. They're having a convention here, too."

"What?" Lula yelled. "I gave my underpants to an impostor?"

"He's pretty good, though," Gus said. "He's got a lot of the moves down pretty good."

"I want my underpants back," Lula shouted to the stage. "I don't go giving away perfectly good underpants to impostors. You got my underpants under false pretenses. And you can't even sing! I bet these two Elvis impersonators could sing better than you."

The guy on the stage stopped singing, shaded his eyes against the lights with his hand, and squinted over at us. "Elvis impersonators? I've got some goddamn Elvis impersonators at my show?"

"Uh oh," Wayne said. "Elvis impersonators and Tom Jones impersonators don't get along."

A low rumble went through the crowd. Elvis impersonators, they were grumbling. The nerve!

"Get them," someone shouted. "Get the dirty lousy Elvis impersonators."

Someone reached for little Wayne, and Lula stepped in. "Hold on here," she said. "We came with these guys. They're good guys. They got us in here."

"Get the Elvis impersonators and their bitches," someone yelled. "The Elvis impersonators have bitches!"

The room was packed, and we were getting jostled and shoved. A Cher impersonator with a beard and mustache reached for Connie. Connie cold-cocked him and he went to the floor like a sack of sand. After that it was bedlam.

Lula took to the stage to wrestle Tom Jones for her underpants, and Connie and I scrambled after Lula to help with the thong retrieval. We were getting pelted with beer nuts and wasabi peas, and I could see casino security at the door, trying to make its way through the crowd. Lula ripped the thong out of Tom Jones's hands and we all ran backstage.

"Which way out?" I asked a greasy-haired guy in the wings.

The greasy-haired guy pointed to a door and we all crashed through it, ran down a hall, through another door, and found ourselves back on the casino floor.

Connie smoothed out her skirt and felt to see if she had any beer nuts stuck in her hair. "That was fun," she said. "I'm going to go play craps now."

"Yeah," Lula said, stuffing her thong into her purse. "I'm hitting the slots. I'm gonna start there."

"Wait a minute," I said to Lula. "Where'd you get the thong?"

"I had it in my purse," Lula said. "I read somewhere that you should carry emergency undies when you travel." Lula squinted at my hair. "You got something green slimed in your hair," she said. "It looks like someone got you with one of those fancy drinks."

Great. "I'm going back to the room," I said. "I'm going to wash my hair and go to bed. I've had enough excitement for one day."

"What about the slots?" Lula wanted to know.

"Tomorrow." Maybe.

AT SEVEN IN the morning Lula and Connie still hadn't returned to the room. I pulled on jeans and a Lakewood Blue Claws T-shirt that had the message Got Crabs? printed on the front. I covered my hair with a baseball cap and went downstairs to look for Lula. I found her in the cafe eating breakfast with Connie. Lula had about two dozen scrambled eggs and five pounds of sausage links on her plate. Connie had coffee.

Lula looked wired and not much different from everyday Lula. Connie looked like she'd died and come back from the dead. Connie's black hair was completely frazzled, sticking out at odd places. Her mascara had smudged, making the bags under her eyes more pronounced. Most shocking of all… she was without lipstick. I'd never seen Connie without lipstick.

I took a seat and I snitched a sausage link from Lula.

"What time is it?" Connie asked.

"Seven-thirty," I told her.

"Day or night?"

"Day."

The cafe was located on the perimeter of the casino floor. That's the way it always is in a casino. Everything opens to the floor. The casino was business as usual, but the attendance was light. The tables were populated mostly by bedraggled men in shirtsleeves. Leftovers from the night. The slots had a more alert crowd. Early risers, getting a jump on the day. I wasn't much of a gambler. But I liked the flash and color of the casino. I liked the neon lights, the bells and whistles, and the ka-ching of money being won and lost.

"Las Vegas never closes," Lula said. "Can you believe it? And I haven't been out of the hotel yet, but there's supposed to be an Eiffel Tower out there and the Brooklyn Bridge and all kinds of shit."

"What did you do all night?"

"I started with the slots," Lula said, "but I wasn't having any luck there, so I went over to the blackjack tables. I did pretty good and then I did really bad. And here I am… broke. Good thing Vinnie's buying me breakfast."

Connie had her head down on the table. "I lost all my money. I drank too much. And I lost my shoes."

We all looked under the table. Sure enough, Connie didn't have any shoes.

"I left them someplace," Connie said. "I don't know where."

"That's not even the best part," Lula said to me. "Ask Connie about the photograph."

Connie pulled a cardboard framed photo out of her big leather shoulder bag. It was a picture of Connie and a short guy in a powder blue tuxedo. The short guy had sideburns and an Elvis hairdo. Connie was holding a bouquet of flowers. "I think I might have gotten married to an Elvis impersonator," Connie said, dragging herself to her feet. "I'm going to bed. Wake me up when you get Singh and I'll do the paperwork for the locals."

Lula watched Connie stagger away. "I wouldn't hardly recognize her without lipstick," Lula said. "She sat down and I didn't know who she was at first."

"We have to snatch Singh today," I said to Lula. "Are you going to be up for it?"

"Damn straight I'm up for it. I'm just getting started. I'm like that Energizer Rabbit dude. How we gonna get this guy?"

"Singh applied for a job at a small casino downtown. My contacts name is Louis Califonte. He's the casino manager. Cone said I should call Califonte at nine o'clock. I'm hoping we can get Singh to come into the casino. It'll be easier to apprehend him there."

"Get Singh to come in tonight so I can have the day to go shopping. I gotta see the talking statues at Caesars. And we gotta stay to see the fountains at the Bellagio. It wouldn't be right if we left before we saw the fountains."

Shopping would be fun, but there were other things on my mind. Photos of dead people. Carl Rosen missing. Red roses and white carnations. Plus I've never made an out-of-state apprehension and I was counting on Tank's help.

I ate a second sausage and I punched Ranger's number into my phone.

"Have you heard from Tank?" I asked Ranger.

"Tank's here. By the time he got security straight he couldn't get a flight out. The earliest flight we could get him on is today's four o'clock."

"Probably we don't need him. Connie has me on a seven-thirty out of Vegas. I don't expect problems. Connie will get me the paperwork necessary to bring Singh back restrained and she'll make the arrangements with the local police." Now if I just felt half as confident as I sounded, I'd be in good shape. "Unfortunately the hardwares packed in Lula's suitcase. And the airlines lost both her bags."

"I'll have everything you need delivered to your room by noon."

"Did Tank tell you about the photos?"

"Yeah. And I heard from Morelli, too. He's not happy."

"Did Carl Rosen ever show up?"

"You don't want to know about Rosen, babe."

I blew out a sigh and disconnected. Even at seven in the morning, smoke hung in the air on the casino floor. I squinted into the haze and wondered if they were matching the new photos to Rosen. I called Morelli at home. When he didn't pick up I realized it was ten on the East Coast and I tried his cell.

"Yeah," Morelli answered. Halfway through the morning and sounding pissed off.

"Guess who?"

Silence.

I grimaced at Lula.

"He should chill," Lula said, shoveling eggs. "We're working hard here. We got a job to do."

"I heard that," Morelli said. "Tell Lula I've got an outstanding arrest from when she was on the street."

"Tell me about the photos and Carl Rosen."

"They're working on the photos now, but at first glance they look like a match. We found Rosen late last night. Someone dumped him at the corner of Laurel Drive and River Road. He had a white carnation stuffed down his pants and you've seen the photos, so I don't have to describe his head."

"Any suspects?"

"A few. No arrests, if that's what you're asking."

I wasn't looking forward to returning to Trenton. It felt safer in Vegas. Far away from Carl Rosen and the carnation freak. I could easily stay here and sit by the pool and do a little shopping and tell Vinnie the apprehension was more complicated than expected.

"Connie tells me you have a flight out at seven-thirty tonight," Morelli said. "Do you already have Singh in custody?"

"No. If I have problems today, Connie will change the flight."

There was a moments pause. "Are you expecting problems?"

"I'm hoping for problems. If there are problems I might get to stay another day. Maybe another week. It feels safer here than it does in Trenton."

I disconnected and waited while Lula ate the last sausage.

"From the conversation I just heard between you and Ranger, I'm guessing they didn't deliver my bags yet," Lula said. "So I'm going shopping. I gotta get some clothes. All that dumb-ass airline gave me was a toothbrush."

"I thought you gambled all your money away."

"Yeah, but if I shop here in the hotel it goes on our room bill and Vinnie pays. It's only right he pays anyway, on account of this is a business disaster."

I returned to the room and took a shower while Lula went shopping. We were all packed together to save some money The room had an Egyptian motif and two queen-size beds.

Connie was sound asleep with a pillow over her face. She didn't seem to be bothered by my presence, so I ordered room service coffee and a bakery basket and put a call in to Lou Califonte.

Lou suggested he call Singh and ask him to come in to discuss a job. I was expecting a handcuff delivery sometime this morning, so I asked that Singh be given an early afternoon appointment. Califonte said he'd call back as soon as everything was in place.

I could see the mountains from my room. They were shimmering in the morning heat, smokey blue, lost behind haze. The valley floor leading to the mountains was flat desert broken by roads and strip malls and the backside of the Strip. I could see the billboard and neon sign for the Rio Hotel and Casino.

There was no place else on earth like Vegas. Even Disney couldn't compete with this. I'd been to Vegas twice before. Several years ago and then last year for the PBUS conference. I was always shocked at how fast Vegas grew. Trailer parks, McMansions, artificial lakes and fountains, bigger and more spectacular hotels and malls. They erupted overnight. It was magic. Good old-fashioned American capitalist magic.

It was close to nine when Lula came bustling in. "Just give me a minute to jump in the shower and get dressed and I'm ready to roll," Lula said. "This here's a shopping paradise. They got stuff here that I didn't even know existed. Everything's spandex and sequins. It's a retired ho's dream come true."

By ten we were in a rental Taurus, heading out of town. Lula was reading the map, directing me to the address Singh had given Califonte on his job application. I wasn't making the bust at Singh's house, but I wanted to see it anyway. I wanted to make sure nothing weird was going on.

Much of the sprawl in Vegas is given up to high-end gated golf course communities. We were deep into the sprawl, but we were on the wrong side of the tracks. We were driving past block after block of small dusty Southwest houses, not a ghetto situation of graffiti and uncollected trash, more an area of neglect by necessity. Screen doors were askew, yards were hardscrabble weed and desert dirt, cars had seen a lot of hot, dry miles.

Connie had checked on Singh's address before we left and found he was living with a woman named Susan Lu, a cocktail waitress at Caesars. So here was the Susan in Singh's life. I was guessing Singh met Lu on his business trip, communicated with her by email, and decided to move in.

The house was typical of the neighborhood. It was a modest single-story stucco bungalow. A Joshua tree grew in the front yard. The small backyard was fenced. I didn't see Boo, but then most of the yard wasn't visible from the street.

"Sure would be tempting to knock on his door and drag his boney ass out here," Lula said. "Then we could lock him in the trunk and go shopping."

"We aren't that good," I said to Lula. "We don't even have handcuffs. I'm not taking a chance on screwing this up."

My cell phone rang. It was Lou Califonte. He was calling to tell me that he hadn't been able to get in touch with Singh. He'd spoken to Susan Lu and Lu told him Singh went out early this morning and hadn't yet returned. Lu expected Singh back by lunchtime. Califonte set up a tentative meeting for two o'clock.

"Don't you hate that?" Lula said. "Right in the middle of our time here. How are we supposed to have any fun like that? I hear Siegfried and Roy got their tigers on display. How many chances you think we're gonna get to see Siegfried's tiger?"

"Just help me get Singh back to the hotel room and you can go off for a couple hours. We don't have to leave for the airport until six-thirty."

"Yeah, it's not like I gotta check luggage."

We returned to the room a little after one. Connie was still asleep with the pillow over her face. There was a small sealed cardboard box on the coffee table. The delivery from Ranger. And there was a small floral arrangement next to it. Red roses and white carnations. The card with the flowers read: You're one step behind me again. Singh's been eliminated. The game continues.

I was totally dumbstruck.

"Hey," Lula said. "Are you okay?"

I took a step back, bumped into a chair, and sat down hard. I went lightheaded for a moment. I hadn't been expecting this. I'd been caught totally off guard. The killer knew I was in Vegas. Even worse, he had to be here, too. I was pretty sure he was telling me he'd killed Singh and, according to Susan Lu, Singh was alive this morning.

"I think he's dead," I said.

"Who's dead?"

"Singh."

I'd dropped the card on the floor. Lula picked it up and read it. "I don't get it," she said.

"Just give me a second and I'll explain it to you." I found my way to the bathroom and I stood there until I was sure I wasn't going to throw up. Lula was at the bathroom door, watching. I put a hand up. "I'm getting there," I said. "I was just caught by surprise and it knocked the air out of me." I left the bathroom, walked to the desk, and reread the card. The card was standard hotel stock. The flowers had been sent through the hotel.

I called the concierge and waited on hold while he traced the flowers down. He returned to tell me the order had been phoned in and placed on Carl Rosen's credit card. The hotel wasn't able to access the call origination number.

CHAPTER 10

LULA WAS STANDING over Connie. "Do you think she's dead? She's not moving under the pillow."

"Take the pillow off her."

"Not me. I hate dead. If she's dead, I don't want to see."

I walked over and took the pillow off Connie's face.

Connie opened an eye and looked up at me. "Did you bring Singh in?"

"No. I think Singh might be dead."

"Dead or alive," Connie said. "It's all the same to me." She sat up in the bed. "I can't get any sleep in this hotel. People keep coming in and out delivering stuff. Did you see you got flowers?"

"About the flowers," I said. And I told them about the carnation killer.

"Holy crap," Lula said. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I didn't know what to say. The whole thing is so bizarre. And the police wanted the details kept from the public while they tried to match the photos to a victim."

"Hey, I can keep a secret. Look at me. My mouth is zipped," Lula said.

"You can't keep a secret, ever," I said. "You have no sense of secret."

"That's so not true. I didn't tell you about Joe and Terry Gilman, did I?"

For a couple beats no one in the room said anything. We just stared at each other with our mouths open.

"I didn't say that," Lula said.

I felt my eyebrows pull together. "What about Joe and Terry Gilman?"

"You keep doing that and you're going to need Botox," Lula said.

"Are you talking about the jumping out the window incident?"

"No. I'm talking about the coming out of the motel, looking chummy incident."

"When?"

"I guess it must have been about two weeks ago. It was a Saturday afternoon and I was going shopping at Quaker Bridge and you know how there are a couple motels on Route One that are mostly by the hour? Well, I saw them coming out of one of those skanky motels. It was the one with the blue trim and the wishing well in the front. I almost ran off the road."

"You're sure it was Joe and Terry?"

"I bet they were doing police business," Lula said. "That's why I didn't tell you. I knew you'd get that look that you got now. And you'd get all huffy and make a big thing for nothing."

I used my fingertips to smooth away the frown line in my forehead. "I don't get huffy. Do I look huffy?"

"Fuckin' A," Lula said.

At least she took my mind off the flower freak. It's always nice to have a choice of things to worry about.

"Open the box from Ranger," I said to Lula. "I have to call Morelli and tell him about the flowers."

MORELLI ANSWERED ON a sigh. "Yeah?"

I meant to start out with the facts about the flowers, but the wiring between my brain and my mouth got crossed and I started with Terry Gilman. "So," I said to Morelli as my opening line, "have you seen Terry Gilman lately?"

"I saw her yesterday. Why?"

"You are such a jerk."

There was a beat of silence where I figured Morelli was staring down at his shoe and counting his lucky stars he never married me. "That's what you called to tell me? I'm a jerk?"

"I called to tell you I just got a floral arrangement. Red roses and white carnations." I read the card to him. "The flowers were ordered through the hotel and placed on Carl Rosens credit card. You might want to remind the Rosen family to cancel Carl's cards. It looks like the killer lifted Rosens MasterCard."

"He's loving this," Morelli said. "This is like a chess game. And he's winning. He's taking your pieces one by one."

"This particular piece was with Susan Lu first thing this morning and hasn't been heard from since. I don't suppose you have Bart Cone in custody."

"Not in custody, but he's being watched. He's not in Vegas. I'm almost sure of it."

"What about the other Cones?"

"All three were in for questioning late yesterday afternoon. It's Saturday so they're not at work, but I'll make sure they're tracked down and accounted for."

"I'm going back out to talk to Susan Lu," I said to Morelli. "I'll call you if anything turns up."

"I'd feel better if you just stayed in your hotel room until your plane. Let the Vegas police talk to Susan Lu."

"I'll be fine. Ranger had a care package dropped off for me. And I've got Lula and Connie to watch my back."

"Oh shit," Morelli said.

"THIS IS LIKE Christmas," Lula said, opening the box from Ranger. "I love getting presents. Look at this. Pepper spray. One for each of us. And handcuffs. Not the cheap-ass kind, either. These are good-quality cuffs. And leg shackles. And a thirty-eight Smith and Wesson snubby revolver. Guess that would be yours since I shoot a Glock. And here's a box of rounds for your thirty-eight." Lula pawed through the packing. "Hey, there's no Glock. Where's my gun?" She dumped the box upside down and a note and a stun gun fell out.

I took the note and left the stun gun for Lula.

Call if you need help. I'll come to your room at six to take you to the airport Erik. His phone number was printed at the bottom of the note.

Lula was reading over my shoulder. "Who's Erik?"

"Ranger said he was sending hardware to replace what we lost in luggage. It looks like Erik comes with the hardware."

I loaded the .38 and slipped it into my purse. I stuffed the personal-size pepper spray canister into my jeans pocket, I stuck the cuffs half in and half out of the back of my pants, and then I shrugged into a lightweight zipper-front sweatshirt that was going to make me sweat, but it covered the cuffs. I called to ask that the car be brought around from valet parking.

"I'm going, too," Connie said. "Give me five minutes to jump in the shower."

A half hour later the three of us left the room for the lobby. Lula on one side of me, Connie on the other. Connie had made a phone call to a local bondsman and had arranged for a second arms delivery. As a result, Connie and Lula now wore two guns apiece. They each had a gun at the small of their back and they each had one in their purse. My fear of getting shot by the carnation killer was considerably less than my fear that I'd get shot by Connie or Lula.

"You know what I think?" Lula said in the elevator. "I think we're an accident waiting to happen."

I could ask Erik to ride along with us, but I'd had some past experience with Ranger's men and there was no guarantee that Erik would be any less scary than the carnation killer. "Just keep your eyes open. We'll be fine."

Connie didn't say anything. Connie had some Mafia skeletons in her closet and Connie took soldiering seriously.

It was after noon when we pulled into Susan Lu's driveway. Lula, Connie, and I got out and went to Lu's front door.

Susan Lu was about five feet, four inches with a flat dish face and glossy straight black hair. She looked older than Singh. I placed her somewhere between forty and forty-five.

She was surprised to find us on her porch and immediately bristled. Probably we looked like door-to-door missionaries, so I understood the bristle. I looked over her shoulder at a small curly white dog scratching at a baby gate that confined him to the kitchen. Boo.

I identified myself, introduced Lula and Connie, and I asked if we could come in. Lu said no and we went in anyway. Lu was a lightweight.

I already knew Singh wasn't in the house. The car still wasn't in the driveway. And besides, I was pretty sure he was dead. Still, I asked anyway.

"Is Samuel Singh here?" I asked Susan Lu.

"He isn't," Lu said. "He went out first thing this morning for a pack of cigarettes for me and he hasn't returned. He should have been back hours ago. And he isn't answering his cell phone. Men are such shits. Listen, I'd like to chat, but I have to get ready for work and I'm not feeling all that social without my goddamn cigarettes."

The dog was barking now. Yap yap yap. And every time it yapped its little front paws would come off the ground.

"Is that Samuel's dog?"

"Yeah, I don't know what's wrong with it. Usually the little turd just mopes in the corner. I've never seen it trying to get out like this."

Lula took a step back and nervously shifted foot to foot. God only knows what she had in her purse. Suckling pig, two dozen hamburgers, a twenty-pound turkey.

"Sammy brought the dog with him just to piss off some awful old woman and her daughter. He was boarding with them and he said the old woman was something out of a horror movie. He wanted to take a picture of himself with the dog and send it back to them, but he hasn't gotten around to it. After he gets his picture the dog's going to the pound. Nasty beast."

I gave Susan Lu my card. "Tell Samuel to call me when he comes in."

"Sure."

Lula, Connie, and I left Lu, got into the car, and I backed out of the driveway. I drove around the block and parked three doors down from Lu, behind a van so we could watch the house.

"You think Singh's gonna show up?" Lula wanted to know.

"Nope."

"Me, neither."

"You parking here so you can keep an eye on Lu?"

"Yep."

"You're waiting for her to leave and then you're gonna snatch the dog, aren't you?"

"Yep."

Connie was in the backseat, probably reviewing in her mind which of the local bondsmen she'd use to bail us out after we were arrested for breaking and entering.

After fifteen minutes of no air-conditioning, the car started to bake under the desert sun. Lula immediately fell asleep in the heat. She was head back, mouth open. And she was snoring. Loud.

"Holy mother," Connie said, "I've never heard anyone snore like this. It's like being locked in a car with a jet engine."

I gave Lula a shove. "Wake up. You're snoring."

"The hell I am," Lula said. "I don't snore." And she went back to snoring.

"I can't take it," Connie said. "I've got to get out of the car."

I joined her and we walked down the street. We were wearing baseball hats and dark glasses but no sunblock and I could feel the sun scorching the exposed skin on my arm.

"Let me run through this," Connie said. "Lillian Paressi, Howie at McDonalds, Carl Rosen, and possibly Samuel Singh are all tied to the same serial killer. And now he's targeted you."

"I don't know about Howie, Carl, or Samuel, but Lillian Paressi received red roses and white carnations and a note just before she was killed."

"Like the flowers and notes you've been getting."

"Yeah. So I'm guessing he likes to taunt his victims. Likes to get them afraid before he strikes. Some kind of game for him."

"Are you sure it's a him?"

"I'm not sure of anything. In the beginning I suspected Bart Cone, but the police are keeping a close watch on him. If Cone's still in Trenton and Singh turns up dead, that eliminates Cone from the suspect list."

When we got back to the car, Lula was still snoring and there were two dogs patiently sitting on the curb by the passenger side door.

"I don't know what's more creepy," Connie said. "You getting stalked by a killer or Lula walking around with a purse filled with pork chops. I'm feeling like I'm in Stephen King land."

It was two o'clock so I called Califonte and asked if Singh was there. Califonte said no, sorry. I gave Califonte my cell number and asked him to call me if Singh showed up.

Connie and I got back into the car and put our fingers in our ears. After five minutes my shirt was soaked and sweat was running down the side of my face. This was the glorious life of a bounty hunter.

"Tell me again why we're sitting here, melting," Connie said.

"The dog."

"I need a better reason."

"There's something about that dog that gives me an estrogen attack. He's small and helpless looking. And those little button eyes! The eyes are so trusting. And he's going to the pound. How awful is that? I can't let that happen."

"So you have to save the dog."

"He's counting on me."

"Stephanie to the rescue," Connie said.

"I could call you a cab," I said. "And you could go back to the hotel."

"No way. I'd have to sit around the pool and get a tan and have half-naked waiters bring me cold drinks. Where's the fun in that when I could be sitting here listening to Lula?"

Susan Lu left the house a little after two. She walked to a bus stop on the far corner. After five minutes a bus appeared and Lu got on.

"Thank God," Connie said. "I'm at the end of the line with the snoring and the sweating."

I gave Lula a shove. "Wake up. Susan Lu left the house. We can get the dog now."

Lula squinted at me. "I feel like my eyes are fried. I'm not as young as I used to be. I can't do this all-night shit anymore. And this place is hotter than snot. How can anyone live here?"

I cranked the car over and pulled into Lu's driveway. Lula, Connie, and I got out and walked around to the back kitchen door.

"Door's locked," Lula said. "Too bad you have this thing about busting in."

"This is for a good cause," I said. "I suppose we could force the door if we did it really carefully."

"Hunh," Lula said. She swung her purse into the window beside the door and shattered the window. "Oops," Lula said. "Guess I accidentally broke a window." Then she reached in and opened the door.

"Gripes," Connie said. "Could you make more noise? Maybe there's someone left in the neighborhood who didn't hear that."

I tiptoed over the glass shards, scooped up Boo, and handed him to Lula. I quickly walked through the rest of the house. I took Singh's laptop, but found nothing else of interest. I wiped Lula's prints off the doorknob and we left.

"We're like Robin Hood or something," Lula said. "We rescued this cute little guy. I feel like singing the Robin Hood theme song."

We stopped and thought about that for a second.

"Damn," Lula said. "There's no Robin Hood theme song."

We got into the rental Taurus and hightailed it out of the neighborhood. Best not to delay, in case someone confused us with dognappers and called the police. The police might not understand about Robin Hood.

I stopped at a supermarket and bought a dog leash and collar, and a small bag of dog food for Boo. I bought popsicles for Connie and me and two pounds of sliced deli ham for Lula.

I didn't know if dogs were allowed at the Luxor and I didn't think it was worth the hassle to check. I wrapped the dog in my sweatshirt and smuggled him up to the room.

"Isn't this a pisser," Lula said, going into the room. "Look at what's here. My luggage. Came just in time to lug it back home."

"Hopefully they won't lose it this time."

"Damn right they won't lose it. I'm not flying. I'm done flying. I'm driving home."

"It'll take you days."

"I don't care. Nothing you could say would make me get back on a plane. I got the rental car and I'm driving. And I can take Boo. I don't like the idea of handing him over to those airport people."

Boo was on the floor, snooping around.

"He's a cute little guy," Lula said. "I can see why Nonnie wanted him back."

I had a problem now. There was a small chance that the flowers were a hoax and something other than death had kept Singh from showing for the job interview. I didn't want to take off only to find out down the road that Singh was alive and well in Vegas. I called Morelli and Ranger. Neither had anything to report. I called my family next.

"We're all fine," Grandma said. "Except for Albert, who seems to be in labor. That isn't possible, is it?"

When I was a kid my family seemed so stable. I was the flaky kid and my mom was always right, my sister was perfect, my dad was the rock. It hasn't been until recently that I've come to realize nothing is that simple. People are complicated and chock full of problems. That said, my family's problems don't seem so huge. We're a family of plodders. We put one foot in front of the other and keep going forward. And eventually we get someplace. Maybe the place isn't spectacular, but it's a place all the same. And while we're plodding sometimes the problems solve themselves, sometimes the problems get pushed low on the list of priorities and get forgotten, and sometimes the problems cause little pockets of irritation in our bowels.

Mostly we solve our problems with cake.

I was hungry and I would have liked to order room service, but I was afraid Boo would be discovered. Room service is third on my list of favorite things. Birthday cake is first. Sex is second. And then room service. Room service is better than having a mother. You order what you want and they bring it to your door, guilt free, no strings attached. Pretty amazing, huh?

"I'm going out for something to eat," I said. "And I'm going to check on Susan Lu. I want to make sure she really did go to work."

"I'm with you," Lula said.

Connie was on her feet. "Count me in."

The three Mouseketeers.

We gave Boo a glass of water and told him to be a good dog. We put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, locked up, and left.

According to Connie's information, Susan Lu worked at Caesars. Caesars was exactly the wrong distance from the Luxor. Too short to feel justified taking a cab. Too long to hoof it in the heat.

We stepped outside and sucked in blast furnace-quality air and Connie made the decision for us.

"I'm not walking," she said. "And I'll shoot anyone who tries to make me."

Caesars is everything a casino should be… noisy, smokey, gaudy, and bustling with people who can't wait to throw their money away. And if that isn't enough, it has a terrific shopping center. The waitresses servicing the game tables all wore little toga outfits. Some looked better in their togas than others. I suspected Lu would not look wowie kazowie in her toga. We did a casual walk around the room and didn't spot Susan Lu.

"This isn't gonna work," Lula said. "It's too big. There's too many of the toga women. And there are cocktail lounges on the sides, too. And restaurants."

"I don't know how to break this to you," Connie said, "but I think we're being followed. You see the guy in black over by the statue of Caesar?"

Lula and I turned and looked.

"Don't look!" Connie hissed.

Lula and I stopped looking.

"You have to be sneaky," Connie said.

Lula and I did a sneaky look.

"I don't recognize him," I said.

Connie slid him a sideways glance. "He was in the lobby of the Luxor when we came through."

"Probably just a coincidence," I said.

He was about five feet, ten inches and average build. He wore a black suit, black shirt, and black silk tie. His hair was dark and slicked back behind his ears.

"I bet he's got a purple car with a bobble-head doll on the dash," Lula said. "I bet he's a pimp. I guess I know a pimp when I see one. The question is, why would a pimp be following us?"

Connie and I looked at Lula.

"What?" Lula said.

Lula was wearing a skin-tight pink stretchy T-shirt with sexy written across her boobs in silver sequins. It had a low scoop neck showing an acre of cleavage and it was tucked into a matching spandex miniskirt.

"Hey, I'm not the one wearing a shirt asking if you got crabs," Lula said.

I looked down at my shirt. "It's for the baseball team in Lakewood. Joe bought it for me."

"Hunh," Lula said.

I didn't think the guy in black looked like a pimp. I thought he looked like someone who bought GQ and took it seriously. Probably he was from L.A. and worked in the CAA mailroom.

"Let's go across the room and find a blackjack table," Connie said to me. "See if he follows you."

"Fine, but I can't play blackjack. I'll just stand and watch."

"That's ridiculous," Connie said. "Everyone can play blackjack. All you have to do is count to twenty-one." Connie was pulling me along by my purse strap. "I'll have Vinnie bankroll you."

"You play blackjack."

"That won't work," Connie said. "I want to see if he's after you. Maybe he's the carnation guy. This way, you sit down and Lula and I can sort of fade away, all the while keeping our eyes on you. Then we wait to see what he does."

"Here he comes," Lula said. "He's coming along with us. He's trying not to be noticed, but I'm onto him."

Connie tugged me toward an empty chair. "Sit," she said, "there's an opening at this table."

"This is a twenty-five-dollar table," I said. "Aren't there any loose change tables?"

There were two men and two women already playing at the table. They were drinking and smoking and their faces were without expression. They looked like they knew what they were doing. They'd look at the dealer and tap the table and obviously that meant something. One of the women wanted to double. She lost her chips after that, so I made a mental note not to double.

When the hand was done Connie dropped fifty dollars on the table. The dealer gave me two chips and the fifty bucks got whisked away by the dealer and stuffed into a slot on the table.

Everyone put chips out, so I put one out, too. I looked over my shoulder at Connie. Connie was gone. When I swung my attention back to the table I had two cards face up in front of me. A king and an ace.

"Twenty-one wins," the dealer said. And he gave me a bunch of chips.

Wow. I won. I didn't even have to do anything.

Everyone else played out their hands and then we all started again with new chips on the table. I put mine out, too. The dealer gave me two cards face up. A six and a jack. Panic. I had to add. A jack was worth what? Ten? Okay, ten seemed reasonable for a jack. So I had sixteen. I looked around. Everyone was waiting for me to say something.

The dealer asked me if I wanted a card. More panic. I didn't want to go over twenty-one. I had to subtract. I hate to subtract. "Sure," I said. "Give me another card."

The dealer asked me if I was certain I wanted another card. "You have a six showing and the book says not to take another card," the dealer said.

I didn't know what book he was talking about, but all the other players agreed with the dealer and the book so I decided not to take a card.

The dealer had a six and a ten on the table. He dealt himself another ten. "Dealer busts," he said.

And I got another chip. Hot damn. No wonder people liked to gamble. This was easy.

We started a new game and I got sixteen again with the first two cards. The dealer had a nine showing. I told him I didn't want any more cards. What the hell, it worked the first two times. Now he told me the book didn't like that decision. Well, God forbid I should go against the book. "Okeydokey," I said. "I'll go with the book and take another card."

I got dealt a king of hearts.

"Busts," the dealer said, and he took my chips and my cards.

So much for the book.

I played another hand. Lost another chip. Everyone played their hands out and we started over. Connie was nowhere to be seen. The guy in black was behind me, watching me. I could feel him back there. The photo images of shattered skulls popped into my head. The memory of the heat and numbing blackness that followed the hit from the dart washed over me. I felt a panic attack trying to get a toehold.

The dealer wanted to know if I was going to play.

"What?" I asked.

"You need to put a chip in to play"

I shoved a red chip into my circle.

"Red chips are worth ten," the dealer said. "This table has a twenty-five-dollar minimum."

I pushed a different colored chip at him. The chips had numbers on them, but I was too flustered to make sense of it.

The dealer gave me a ten of spades and a two of hearts. This was easy to add. Twelve. A long way to go to twenty-one, right? I asked for another card. This started a lot of arguing. Apparently the book wasn't clear on this one. The dealer gave me a ten of diamonds. Damn! Busted again.

I didn't know exactly how much I had because I was having a hard time adding up all the different colored chips, but I knew I didn't have a lot. One more hand, maybe.

When the new game started I pushed a couple chips into my ring. The dealer gave me a nine of spades and a three of clubs. I bit into my lower lip, unsure what to do, and I felt a hand settle on my shoulder. I turned and looked. It was the guy in black.

"I'm going to help you," he said.

There was a lot of noise behind me. I heard Lula let out a shriek and the guy in black gasped in surprise, jerked away from me, and went over backward. Everyone at the table stood and gawked, including me.

Lula and the guy in black were on the floor. Lula was ass up, on top of the guy in black. You could hardly see him under the pink spandex. He was squashed spread eagle under Lula so that only his hands and feet stuck out. Connie was standing on one of his hands.

"Don't freakin' move," Connie yelled at the poor smushed guy in black.

From what I could see there wasn't much chance of him moving. I wasn't even sure he was still breathing.

Uniformed and plainclothes security instantly appeared and wrestled Lula off the guy in black.

"He was going for a gun," Lula said. "He's a killer."

The guy in black didn't move. He was still on his back, gasping for air. "I have identification in my inside jacket pocket," he said. "And I think I have a broken back."

"Can you move your toes?" one of the security guards asked him.

"Yeah."

"How about your fingers?"

He wiggled the fingers on one hand. Connie was still standing on the other hand.

"Ow," the guy in black said to Connie.

Connie stepped off his hand. "Sorry," she said.

One of the plainclothes men lifted the identification. "Erik Salvatora. Looks like he's a rent-a-cop."

"I'm a licensed private investigator and a security specialist," Salvatora said. "I'm employed by RangeMan LLC and I was asked to protect Ms. Plum while she's in town. God only knows why when she's got Big Bertha and the Bonecrusher with her."

He was Ranger's man. RangeMan was Ranger's corporate name.

"Hey," Lula said. "Watch who you're calling Big Bertha. Nobody tolerates that political incorrectness anymore, you little candy ass."

"This was a terrible misunderstanding," I told everyone. "My friends and I didn't realize he was assigned to guard me. My usual bodyguard missed his flight."

Now they were all wondering who the hell I was that I needed a bodyguard. And that was fine by me because I wanted this to go away. We were all carrying guns, probably illegally. I had no idea what the gun laws were in Nevada.

"I thought he was going for a gun," Lula said.

Erik struggled to get up. "I was going for my wallet. I was going to buy her some chips. I was supposed to keep my distance, but I couldn't stand watching her play anymore. She's the worst blackjack player I've ever seen."

"Really sorry," I said. "Can we take you to a hospital or something?"

"No! I'll be okay. Probably just a slipped disc and possibly a broken bone or two in my hand."

"Don't worry about six o'clock," I called after him. "I might not be going to the airport."

He looked at me blank faced. As if taking me to the airport was too terrible to contemplate right now. "Okay," he said. And he limped away.

"Sorry," I said to the security people. "I guess we'll be going now, too."

"We'll see you out," one of the uniforms said.

We were escorted out of Caesars, the doors closed behind us, and we stood blinking in the sun, waiting for our eyes to adjust to daylight.

"That was sort of embarrassing," Lula said.

I whipped my phone out and I called Morelli. "Reporting in," I told him. "Anything new?"

"I was just going to call you," Morelli said. "I know a guy on the Vegas police force. I gave him a call when I got off the phone with you and asked him to keep his eyes open for Singh. I just got a call back from him. They found Singh in his car in the airport parking lot about an hour ago. Shot twice in the back of the head, close range. We're checking the passenger lists on all Vegas flights in and out of LaGuardia, Newark, and Philadelphia."

I had a moment's pause where I didn't know what I felt. There was an emotion struggling around inside me. Relief that there was closure on the Singh hunt. Disappointment that I hadn't been able to save him. And dread. The killer's constant presence was wearing me down.

"The Cones?" I asked.

"All present and accounted for."

"Too bad. That would have been so easy. At least I can leave Vegas now. And I'm bringing something home with me that might be helpful… Singh's laptop."

Silence at the other end. "Susan Lu gave it to you?"

"I found it on the sidewalk. I think there might have been a break-in and the laptop got dropped and left behind somehow. And I found it."

I wasn't sure what was going on at the other end of the connection. Either Morelli was smiling or else he was banging his head against his desk. I was going to go with smiling.

"I'll pick you up at the airport," Morelli said. "Try to stay out of trouble. Do you need a police escort when you leave your hotel?"

"No. I've had enough police escorts for one day. Thanks anyway." I disconnected and relayed the information about Singh. "The Vegas police found Singh at the airport an hour ago. Two bullet holes in the back of his head," I told Connie and Lula.

"I was sort of hoping it was a bluff," Lula said. "That the killer wasn't really here and he sent you the flowers to get you to go home. Not that I'm scared or anything."

We all did some mental knuckle cracking and tried not to look nervous.

"We should go back to the hotel," I said. "If we're going to make the plane we need to pack."

Everyone agreed, so we flagged down a cab and we all piled in. I called Ranger on the way. I told him about Singh and then I told him about Salvatora.

"I already talked to Salvatora," Ranger said. "His hand is okay, but he said he needs a chiropractor for his back." Ranger paused and when he continued I could hear the laughter in his voice. "Salvatora said a fat woman in pink spandex and silver sequins fell on him."

"That would be Lula. And she didn't fall on him. She tackled him."

"She did a good job," Ranger said. "I'm sorry I missed it. Salvatora's partner will take you to the airport."

"How will I know him?"

"He looks like Salvatora… but more."

Five minutes later we were walking through the hotel to the elevators and we were being very vigilant. We didn't know what the killer looked like. It didn't seem likely that he would strike in a public place, but there was no guarantee.

We took the elevator to the eighteenth floor, walked halfway down the hall, and Connie unlocked our room door. She stepped in and muffled a scream. Lula and I were directly behind her and we had the same reaction.

The dog had destroyed the room. Pillows were chewed. The blanket was shredded. A corner of the mattress was missing. Toilet paper was everywhere.

Connie closed and locked the door behind us. "Don't anybody panic. Its probably not as bad as it looks. Cheap mattress, cheap blanket, right? How much could a pillow cost?"

"Uh-oh," Lula said. "I think he pissed on the cable wire and shorted the television. This here's like traveling with a metal band," Lula said.

Boo was on the bed, tail wagging.

"But look at him," I said. "He's so cute. And he looks sorry. Don't you think he looks sorry?"

"I think he looks happy," Lula said. "I think he's smiling. I'm glad we saved this little guy. That bag of monkey doody Mrs. Apusenja deserves him."

"We weren't gone that long," Connie said. "How could such a little dog do all this damage?"

"Guess he was feeling anxiety," Lula said. "Poor things been through a lot, what with getting dognapped and everything. And look at him, he's just a puppy. He might even be teething. At least he didn't eat the flowers. It's nice to come back to fresh flowers in the room."

"They were sent by a serial killer! They're death flowers" I said.

"Well, yeah, but they're still nice," Lula said.

I looked at my watch. I had to pack. "Not a lot of time to take care of this mess," I said.

"Here's the plan," Connie said. "We check out and it all goes on Vinnie's bill."

"See that," Lula said. "This dog's nothing but good luck. We get to stick it to Vinnie all because this dog was smart enough to eat the room. I think this here's been a positive experience. That's my new philosophy anyway. Nothing but positive experiences. That's why I'm driving home from here."

"You've got to be kidding," Connie said. "It'll take you days."

"Don't matter. I'm not getting back on a plane. I'm done with planes. They aren't any fun. All that searching and starving and standing around in lines. I don't do lines. That's another part of my new philosophy. No lines. And I can take Boo with me if I drive. Me and Boo can have a road trip. I'm starting to get real excited about this. I always wanted to have a dog when I was a kid, but I never had the chance. I was dog deprived."

"Works for me," Connie said. "If you take Boo we don't have the hassle of crating him and getting him on the plane."

I called valet parking and had the car brought around. I gave Lula the pepper spray and the stun gun and two hundred dollars. Connie contributed another hundred and fifty. It was all the money we had between us. We loaded Lula, Boo, and Lula's luggage into the car and waved good-bye.

"I'm not sure if she's the smart one or the dumb one," Connie said.

There were only two of us now and we each had a loaded gun in our pockets. We stopped at the snack bar, got a bag of food, and returned to the room to finish packing.

My packing was simple. Take all the little complimentary soaps and shampoos from the bathroom and put them in my carry-on bag. Connie's packing was more complicated.

"Oh shit," Connie said, "look at this."

She was holding up the wedding photo. It had a few dog tooth marks in the lower left corner.

"Do you suppose you actually got married?" I asked her.

"I don't know. I don't remember." She closed her eyes and groaned. "Sweet Jesus, please don't let me be married to an Elvis impersonator."

"There must be some way you can find out," I said. "There have to be records. Probably you can have it annulled."

There was a rap on the door and Connie and I went into panic mode for fear it was the maid. I looked out the security peephole and recognized Erik's partner from Rangers description. The guy in the hall looked a lot like Erik, but bigger and weirder and scarier. He looked like a Vegas pit boss on steroids.

"It's our chauffeur," I said.

I opened the door and invited the big scary guy in. He was dark-skinned with slicked-back black hair and dark, heavy-lidded eyes. He was wearing black cowboy boots, black leather pants, a black leather jacket, and a shiny black silk shirt that was unbuttoned half down his chest. He had a colorful crucifixion tattooed onto the back of his left hand. And he had a gun at the small of his back, under the jacket.

"I'm Miguel," he said. "I'm Erik's partner."

"Jeez," I said. "We're all really sorry about Erik. I hope he's okay."

Miguel gave a brief nod, which I took to mean that Erik had his back straightened out and was recovering nicely.

"I'm ready to go," I told him, handing over the cuffs and shackles and guns. "My partner is driving back. She has the rest of the hardware."

Another small nod. Fine by him.

Connie was packed, but she was in the middle of the room with the photo in her hand and she was looking conflicted. "I need to get this straightened out," she said. "I'm going to stay and catch a later flight."

"I can stay with you," I said.

She shook her head. "Not necessary. You'll be safer in Trenton with Morelli."

And Connie would be safer in Vegas without me. I gave her a hug and my room key. Miguel shouldered my bag, stepped aside, and followed me wordlessly to the elevator.

This is the thing about men who never talk. It's easier to assume that they're strong and that they have the sort of wily cunning a woman wants in a bodyguard. I try not to be judgmental, but in all honesty, I'd feel less secure if Miguel had rambled on about how difficult it was to find a decent silk shirt. So no conversation was okay by me because I needed some help being brave. I wanted to think this guy could leap tall buildings in a single bound.

I left the hotel and slipped into the air-conditioned security of a new black Mercedes. "Your car?" I asked Miguel.

"More or less."

He walked me to the security check, waited watchfully while I went through. No hassle this time. And then I was on my own. In theory this was a safe zone. Still, I found a seat with my back to the wall and I boarded last, looking for familiar or suspicious faces.

I was in the last row with three empty seats next to me. Lula's seat, Connie's seat, and a seat reserved for Singh. If Singh had been with me, we would have boarded first and if at all possible through a side door. Walking a guy in chains down the aisle in front of the paying customers doesn't set the tone for a stress-free flight.

I was happy to once again have my back to the wall, but I felt naked without hardware. It was a creepy thought that the killer might be on the plane. He could be the preppy-looking guy across the aisle or the hairy guy three rows up. They'd watched me take my seat. Hard to tell if they wanted to kill me or if they just didn't have anything better to do than to stare.

BY THE TIME I deplaned in Newark I was too tired to be afraid. God bless those lucky souls who can sleep while flying. I've never been one of them.

I'd arranged to meet Morelli at baggage claim. I didn't have any baggage to claim, but it was the easiest pickup point. It was seven in the morning, Jersey time. My teeth felt furry and my eyes ached.

I searched the crowd for Morelli and felt my heart skip a beat when I found him. Morelli never blended. He was movie star handsome and looked like a man you'd avoid in a fight. Women always looked twice at Morelli, but seldom approached. With the possible exception of Terry Gilman.

Morelli's face softened when he saw me. He reached out and drew me to him, wrapping his arms around me. He kissed my neck and held me close for a moment. "You look beat," he said. He stepped back, took my bag, and smiled at me. "But pretty."

I gave him a sideways glance. "You want something."

"The computer for starters."

"Always a cop."

"Not always. It's Sunday. How tired are you?"

I was dog tired until I saw Morelli. Now that I was next to him I was having some non-sleeping thoughts. The non-sleeping thoughts lasted about thirty seconds into the ride home.

I opened my eyes and stared up at Morelli. He was out of the truck, trying to get me awake enough to get me into the house. He had my seat belt off and my bag slung over his shoulder.

"Jeez, Steph," he said, "didn't you sleep on the plane?"

"I never sleep on a plane. I have to be ready in case it crashes." I heaved myself off the seat and shuffled up the sidewalk. Morelli opened the door and I braced myself for the Bob attack. We heard him thundering through the house, coming from the kitchen. He reached the small foyer and Morelli held up a giant dog biscuit. Bob's eyes got wide, Morelli threw the biscuit over Bob's head down the hallway, and Bob turned in mid-gallop and followed the biscuit.

"Pretty smart," I said.

"I should take him to obedience training, but I never seem to get to it."

What Morelli meant was that he should try obedience training again. Bob had flunked out twice before.

Morelli set the bag on the floor at the foot of the stairs and removed the computer. "I'm not going to open this. I'm going to turn it over to the experts first thing tomorrow."

That had been my thought, too. I hadn't fooled with the computer.

"Have you told Vinnie about Singh?" Morelli asked.

"I left that for Connie. She stayed behind to clean some things up."

"Vinnie'll put a good spin on it. You found Singh. That's the important part. The system worked."

"I need more sleep," I said. "Wake me up when it's time for dessert."

"Bad news," Morelli said. "Dessert will be too late. We're expected for dinner at my mom's house. We accepted this invitation two weeks ago," Morelli said. "It's Mary Elizabeth's birthday."

I'd totally forgotten. Mary Elizabeth is Joe's great-aunt. She's a chain-smoking booze hound and she's a retired nun. And no party for Mary Elizabeth would be complete without Grandma Bella because Mary Elizabeth is Bella's younger sister. I got a sharp pain in my right temple and my blood ran cold. I was having dinner with Grandma Bella.

"Are you okay?" Morelli asked. "You look sort of white."

"I'm having dinner with Grandma Bella. My life is passing in front of my eyes. I'm as good as dead. I should just stand outside and let the carnation killer shoot me."

"You have to have the right attitude about Grandma Bella."

"And that would be what?"

Joe shrugged. "She's crazy."

I SLEPT UNTIL late afternoon. When I woke I was in Joe's bed, still dressed in my travel clothes, partially tangled in a lightweight summer patchwork quilt. The sheets were rumpled under me and the pillowcase was damp with sweat and humidity. Aunt Rose's gauzy curtains hung limp against the open window. The air was heavy, but the light was soft. The room felt like Joe and good sex. There were mental imprints of time spent here that didn't get smoothed away with new sheets. If I closed my eyes in this room, even if I was alone, I could feel Morelli's hands on me.

And today the room smelled like popcorn.

The popcorn aroma was drifting up from the living room where Joe and Bob were watching a ball game. I shuffled downstairs and looked in the popcorn bowl. Empty. I checked out the game. Not interesting.

Joe looked over at me. "I could call and cancel."

"You can't do that. It's a birthday!"

"I'd come up with something good. I'd say you broke your leg. Or you had an appendix attack. Or you insisted we stay home and have a lot of sloppy sex."

"Thanks. I appreciate the thought, but I don't think any of those would work."

"The sex would work."

I smiled at him and took the empty popcorn bowl back to the kitchen. "Nice try."

I toasted a bagel, smeared it with too much butter, and ate it with the butter dripping down my arm. Do I know how to eat a bagel, or what? I went back upstairs, took a shower, and got dressed for dinner.

I was halfway through makeup when Morelli appeared in the bathroom doorway. He leaned a shoulder against the jamb, hands in pants pockets. "We're late," he said. "How's it going?"

It wasn't going good. Dinner with Joe's family had me in a state. I'd accidentally poked myself in the eye with the mascara wand and almost gone blind. "It's going great," I said. "Give me another minute."

"You have a big black blob on your eye."

"I know that. Go away!"

Ten minutes later I clattered down the stairs in my high-heeled strappy sandals, the swirly skirt, and a stretchy top. It was the best I could do under the circumstances. I didn't have a lot of clothes at Joe's house.

"Nice," Joe said, eyes on the skirt. "I'm going to have fun this outfit when we get home. You have panties on, right?"

"Right."

"I don't suppose you'd want to take them off."

"I don't suppose."

"Doesn't hurt to ask," Morelli said with a grin. "It would make dinner more interesting."

EVERYONE WAS AT the table when we arrived. Joe's mom was at the head. Grandma Bella was next to her, then Mary Elizabeth. Joe's sister, Cathy, was next to Mary Elizabeth. Joe's Uncle Mario was at the foot of the table. Cathy's husband was seated across from her. Joe and I were seated across from Mary Elizabeth and Bella.

"Sorry we're late," Joe said. "Cop business." Mary Elizabeth was looking very happy. She had an empty highball glass in front of her and a half-empty wineglass. "More like monkey business," she said.

Bella shook her finger at Joe. "All the Morelli men are sex fiends."

"Hey," Uncle Mario said, "how's that to talk?" Mario was Bella's first cousin and the only male Morelli left from Bella's generation. Morelli men weren't especially long-lived. Mario was small and wrinkled, but still had a full head of wiry black hair. It was rumored he colored it with shoe polish.

Grandma Bella fixed an eye on Mario. "Are you telling me you're not a sex fiend?"

"There's a difference between an Italian stallion and a sex fiend. I'm an Italian stallion."

Joe filled our wineglasses. "Salute," he said.

Everyone held their glasses high. "Salute."

"I didn't see you in church today," Grandma Bella said to Joe.

"I had to miss today," Joe said.

And last week. And the week before that. And come to think of it, last time Joe was in church was Christmas.

"I prayed for you," Bella told him.

Joe took a sip of wine and looked at Bella over the rim of his glass. "Thanks."

"And I prayed that the bambinos would get over the death of their mother."

Joe's mother gripped her wineglass and narrowed her eyes at Bella. I stopped breathing. Everyone else slumped in their seat with an oh boy, here it comes sigh.

"The bambinos?" Joe asked.

"You will have many bambinos. The mother will die. It will be very sad. I saw it in a vision."

I bit down hard on my lower lip. My poor little bambinos!

"Don't worry," Bella said to me. "It's not you. The woman in the vision was blond."

CHAPTER 11

JOE DRANK MORE wine and draped an arm around my shoulders. "At least you're not the dead woman in this vision."

Mrs. Morelli threw a dinner roll at him and hit him in the head. "That's a stupid thing to say to a woman. Sometimes you're just like your father." She crossed herself and looked penitent. "God rest his soul."

Everyone at the table crossed themselves except Joe. "God rest his soul," everyone said.

"And you" Mrs. Morelli said to her mother-in-law. "No more with the visions."

"I can't help I have visions," Grandma Bella said. "I'm an instrument of God."

This brought on a lot more crossing and Uncle Mario muttered something that I think included the words devil woman.

Bella turned on Mario. "You watch your step, old man. I'll put the eye on you."

The table went silent. No one wanted to mess with the eye. The eye was Italian voodoo.

While all this was going on, Mary Elizabeth had put away three glasses of wine. "I love a party," Mary Elizabeth said, her words slightly slurred, her eyes slightly crossed. She raised her wineglass. "Here's to me!"

We all raised our wineglasses. "To Mary Elizabeth!"

When we were all stuffed with chicken in red sauce and meatballs and macaroni casseroles, Mrs. Morelli brought out the desserts. Plates of Italian cookies from People's bakery, fresh-filled cannoli from Panorama Musicale, cheeses from Porfirio's, and the birthday cake from Little Italy.

By now it was sweltering in the Morelli dining room. All the windows were open and Mrs. Morelli had brought a fan in to circulate air. Sweat was running down my breastbone, soaking my shirt. My hair was stuck to my face and my mascara was not living up to its waterproof promise. No one cared about the heat. Everyone but Joe and his mom was shit-faced, me included.

Candles were lit on the cake, raising the room temperature by another ten degrees. We all sang "Happy Birthday," Mary Elizabeth blew out the candles, and Mrs. Morelli made the first cut in the cake.

Grandma Bella slammed her hands palms down on the table and tossed her head back. She was having a vision.

Everyone at the table groaned.

"I see death," Grandma Bella said. "A woman."

More groaning from around the table.

"I see white carnations."

"Don't worry about it, honey," Morelli whispered in my ear. "There are always white carnations."

"This woman who died," I asked Grandma Bella. "Is she a blonde?"

Grandma Bella opened her eyes and looked at me. "She has curly brown hair," Bella said. "Shoulder length."

My hair. Good thing I was too drunk to care.

"That's the vision," Bella said. "I'm tired now. I need to lay down."

Bella always got tired after a vision.

We watched her leave the table and go upstairs.

"Good riddance," Mary Elizabeth said. "She's such a downer."

And we all made the sign of the cross and had dessert.

Morelli poured me into his truck and drove me back to his house where he dragged me out of the truck and propped me against the passenger side door. "If you're going to throw up, it'd be good if you could do it out here," he said. "It's supposed to rain. It'll wash away."

I thought about that for a moment and decided I wasn't going to throw up. I took a step and went down to one knee. "Oops," I said. "The curb's in my way."

Morelli hauled me up, slung me over his shoulder, and carried me into the house and up the stairs. I flopped onto Morelli's bed and put one foot on the floor to stop the whirlies. "Wanna have sex?" I asked.

Morelli grinned. "I think I'll take a rain check on that one. I'm still worried you're going to be sick. Do you want me to help you get undressed?"

"No. But it'd be good if you could make the room stand still."

I WAS AWAKE but I was afraid to open my eyes. I suspected hell was lurking just beyond my eyelids. My brain didn't fit in my head and the little devil guys were poking hot sticks in my eyeballs.

I cracked an eye and squinted up at Morelli. "Help," I whispered.

Morelli had a coffee cup in his hand. "You really tied one on last night."

"Did I make an idiot of myself?"

"Honey, you were at a dinner party with my family. On your best day you couldn't even compete in the idiot contest."

"Your mother isn't an idiot."

"My mother likes you."

"Really?" I eased myself into a sitting position, put both hands to my head, and applied pressure in an attempt to prevent my brain from exploding. "I'm never doing this again. Never. I'm done drinking. Okay, maybe a beer once in a while, but that's it!"

"I went out and got the cure," Morelli said. "I have to leave for work, but I want to make sure you're okay first."

I opened my other eye. I sniffed the air. "The cure? Really?"

"Downstairs," Morelli said. "I left them in the kitchen. Do you want me to bring them up?"

Not necessary. I was on my feet. I was moving. Slowly. I was at the stairs. One step at a time. I was going to make it. I put my hands over my eyes to keep my eyeballs from falling out of my head while I worked the stairs. Then I was on firm floor. I inched forward. I was in the kitchen. I squinted into the red haze and I saw it. It was sitting on the little wooden kitchen table. A large bag of McDonalds French fries and a large Coke.

I carefully eased myself onto a kitchen chair and took my first fry. "Ahhhh," I said.

Morelli was slouched in the chair opposite me, finishing his coffee. "Feeling better?"

I sipped some Coke and I ate more fries. "Much better."

"Are you ready for ketchup?"

"Definitely."

Morelli got the ketchup out of the fridge and dumped some on a plate for me. I mushed some fries in the ketchup and tested them out.

"I think the brain swelling is going down," I said to Morelli. "The pounding has stopped."

"Always a good sign," Morelli said. He rinsed his cup and set it in the dish drain. "I'm out of here. I have to get the computer to the lab." He kissed me on the top of my head. "Be careful. Tank's outside, doing his thing. Try not to lose him."

"I owe you," I said.

"Yeah, I know. I already have plans."

And he was gone.

Bob was patiently sitting beside me, waiting for his share. I fed him a couple fries, finished up the rest, and drank the Coke. I gave a big burp and felt pretty decent.

I took a shower and got dressed in a short denim skirt white sneakers, and a white T-shirt. I pulled my hair into a ponytail, applied some lipstick and a single swipe of mascara and I was ready for the day.

I put a call in to Lula and got her at a truck stop.

"I'm fine," she said. "Me and Boo are having breakfast. We're making real good time. We're traveling straight along Route Forty all the way. This here's real interesting. I never drove through anything like this before. This is cowboys and Indians country."

I hung up, dropped a raisin and a small chunk of cheese into Rex's cage, gave Bob a hug, and told everybody I'd be back. I locked up after myself and waved to Tank. Tank gave me a nod back.

I drove the short distance to my parents' house and parked in the driveway. My grandmother was at the door, waiting for me, responding to some mysterious instinct embedded in Burg women… an early warning signal that a daughter or granddaughter was approaching.

"That big guy is following you again," Grandma said, opening the door to me.

"Tank."

"Yeah. I wouldn't mind spending some time with him. You think he could go for an older woman?"

Young women, old women, barnyard animals. "Hard to say with Tank."

"Your mothers at the store and the girls are off playing somewhere," Grandma said. "Valerie's in the kitchen eating us out of house and home."

"How's she doing?"

"Looks like she's going to explode."

I went in and took a chair across from Valerie. She was picking at a bowl of macaroni and chicken salad, not showing much enthusiasm for it.

""What's up?" I asked.

"I dunno. I'm not hungry. I think I'm in a slump. My life is same old, same old."

"You're having a baby. That's pretty exciting."

Valerie looked down at her stomach. "Yeah." She gently rubbed the baby bulge. "I'm excited about that. It's just that everything else is so unsettled. I'm living here with Mom and Dad and Gram. After the baby there'll be four of us in that one small bedroom. I feel like I'm swallowed up and there's no more Valerie. I was always perfect. I was the epitome of well-being and mental health. Remember how I was serene? Saint Valerie? And I adapted when I moved to California. I went from serene to perky. I was cute," Valerie said. "I was really cute. I made birthday cakes and pork tenderloins. I bought my jerk-off husband a grill. I had my teeth bleached."

"Your teeth look great, Val."

"I'm confused."

"About Albert?"

Valerie rested her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand. "Do you think he's boring?"

"He's too funny to be boring. He's like a puppy. Sort of floppy and goofy and wanting to be liked." He could be a little annoying, but that's different from boring, right?

"I feel like I need a hero. I feel like I need to be rescued."

"That's because you weigh four hundred pounds and you can't get out of a chair by yourself. After you have the baby you'll feel different." Okay, so I was being a big fat hypocrite again. I felt the same way as Val. I wanted to be rescued, too. I was tired of being brave and semi-competent. Difference was, I refused to say it aloud. I suspected it was a basic instinct, but it felt wrong somehow. For starters, it felt like a terrible burden to dump on a man.

"Do you think Albert is at all heroic?" Valerie asked me.

"He doesn't look like a hero, but he gave you a job when you needed one and he's stood by you. I guess that's sort of heroic. And I think he'd run into a burning building to save you." Whether he'd get her out of the building is another issue. Probably they'd both die a horrible death. "I think you're doing the right thing by not getting married, Val. I like Albert, but you don't want to marry him just because Mom's in favor of it, or because you need a second income. You should be in love and you should be sure he's the right man for you and the girls."

"Sometimes it's hard to tell what's love and what's only indigestion," Valerie said.

I left Valerie with the macaroni salad and drove to the office.

CONNIE LOOKED AROUND her computer screen at me when I walked in.

"Well?" I asked. "Are you married?"

"No. It turned out to be a joke photo. I caught the ten o'clock out of Vegas."

"And the room damage?"

"It all went on Vinnie's credit card. Vinnie almost popped a vein when he heard. But then the reporters started showing up and Vinnie was distracted. The room bill got pushed on a back burner. You saved Vinnie's ass. You even made him look good. The visa bond worked. The guy fled. We found him."

"Actually, the Vegas cops found Singh."

"Not when Vinnie tells it. Vinnie's made some improvements on the story. So we all still have our jobs. Vinnie's not going to be selling used cars in Scottsdale. Everybody's happy."

Everybody except me. I was being stalked by a lunatic. And it was possible that I was indirectly responsible for causing three murders.

"Now that Singh is off the books, I've got a backlog of skips," Connie said. "What would you like… first-time rapist, repeat domestic violence, assault with a deadly weapon, or possession?"

"What's the possession?"

"Kilo of heroin."

"Whoa! That's a biggy. That's Ranger's. How about the deadly weapon."

"Butchy Salazar and Ryan Mott got into a fight over Candace Lalor. And Butchy ran over Ryan with his Jeep Cherokee. Three times."

"Butchy was drunk?"

"Yep."

"Give me Butchy." Sometimes a drunk is an easy catch if you can get him in the morning.

I took the papers from Connie. I didn't need a photo. I knew Butchy. Went to school with him. Didn't like him back then. Wasn't real crazy about him now.

"I'll give you the rapist, too. It's his first time around. Maybe he just forgot to show for court. I tried calling, but all I get is a machine."

"Have you tried his work number?"

"He's unemployed. Got fired when he got arrested."

I looked around. "It feels strange not to have Lula here."

"Quiet," Connie said.

"Empty."

"Glorious," Vinnie yelled from his inner office. "Freaking glorious."

I hefted my bag higher on my shoulder and I headed out. Tank was standing guard on the sidewalk, in front of my car.

"I have a couple FTAs," I said to Tank. "One's in the Burg and one's in Hamilton Township. I have to stop at my apartment first to get some clean clothes and stuff."

"It might be easier if we took one car for the busts," Tank said.

I agreed. "Do you want to drive or ride shotgun?"

Tank's eyebrows raised a fraction of an inch. Shocked that I would even consider driving. Tank only rode shotgun to Ranger.

"It's the twenty-first century," I told Tank. "Women drive."

"Only in my bed," Tank said. "Never in my car."

I didn't have a reply to that, but I thought it sounded like an okay philosophy. So I beeped the Escape locked, got into Tank's SUV, and we chugged off for my place.

We went through the standard routine at my apartment. Tank went in first and did a safety check. The photos were gone from the floor. Residue remained where the police had checked for prints. I gathered a few things together when Tank gave the all clear. Mostly what I wanted from my apartment was hardware. I took the cuffs and pepper spray from my bedside table and dropped them into my shoulder bag. I went to the cookie jar next and added the .38 to my bag of goodies. I knew Tank was fully armed and probably had fifty pairs of cuffs in the back of his truck, but I wanted my own. Am I a professional, or what?

I locked up and we took the elevator. Two-hundred-year-old Mrs. Bestler was in the elevator joy riding. "Going down," she told us, pressing the button, leaning on her walker. "First floor, ladies' handbags, designer shoes." She looked up at Tank. "My goodness, you're a big one," she said.

Tank smiled at her. Big bad wolf reassures Grandma he's not going to eat her for lunch. The doors opened and we got out.

"Have a nice day, Mrs. Bestler," I said.

"Don't take any wooden nickels," Mrs. Bestler sang out.

ACCORDING TO BUTCHY Salazar's bond agreement, he was renting the top half of a two-family house on Allen Street. For years now, Butchy's worked nights tending bar at a dive on Front Street, so chances were good that he'd be at home.

Tank did a pass in front of the house. No activity. He returned and parked two houses down on the opposite side of the street. I called Butchy on my cell phone and got his machine. I didn't leave a message. Tank and I got out and approached the house. No back door to worry about, so we positioned ourselves to either side of the front door. I rang the bell for the upstairs apartment and waited. No response. I rang again.

The downstairs door opened and an older woman stuck her head out. "Butchy isn't home and my cats hate when people ring his bell," she said. "The bell scares my cats. They're very sensitive."

"Do you know where Butchy is?"

"It's his day off from work. I think he's gone out to do his grocery shopping and stuff. Not that he does a lot of cooking. Mostly he buys beer and filthy magazines. I tell you, this neighborhood's going to hell in a hand-basket."

The woman closed her door and I looked up at Tank. It was strange being on a bust with him. I was used to Lula with her crazy clothes and smart mouth.

"Okay," I said, "let's go for the rapist, Steven Wegan. We can come back to Butchy later. Wegan lives in Hamilton Township in one of those apartment complexes off Klockner Boulevard."

Minutes later we were parked in the lot in front of Steven Wegan's apartment. We sat for a couple minutes, getting the feel of things. A woman left her apartment two doors down, got into her car, and drove off. Aside from that there was no activity.

"One of us should take the back door," I said.

"Can't do that," Tank said. "My first job is to protect you and I can't do that if I can't see you."

"No one followed us here. I was watching."

Tank went stony. An unmovable object.

"Fine," I said, "we'll both take the front door."

We left the truck, crossed the lot, and I rang Wegan's bell.

Wegan answered on the first ring. You've got to love first-time offenders. They don't know the drill. Next time around Wegan will be out the back door, hiding in the Dumpster.

He was a slim five feet, eight inches with close-cut brown hair and dark brown eyes. His papers listed his age as twenty-six. He was unmarried.

"Yes?" Wegan said, looking first to me, then up at Tank. The gears were turning in Wegan's head when he looked at Tank. Tank wasn't someone you wanted to unexpectedly find on your doorstep.

"Steven Wegan?" I asked.

Wegan swallowed. "Un-hunh."

I introduced myself and explained to Wegan that he missed his court date and needed to re-file. Wegan bobbed his head yes, but his eyes were saying no, no, no.

I reached back and took hold of the cuffs secured under my skirt waistband. Wegan went white, turned, and bolted. And before I could make a move, Tank effortlessly grabbed Wegan by the scruff of his neck and held him two inches off the floor. Wegan kicked out and then went limp. Tank gave Wegan a shake, causing Wegan's feet to flop around. "I'm going to put you down now," Tank said. "And you're not going to try anything stupid, right?"

"R-r-r-right," Wegan said.

I cuffed Wegan, we secured his apartment, and we all marched over to Tank's SUV. We put Wegan in the backseat, cuffed and shackled.

I couldn't help thinking it would have played out differently if Tank hadn't been along. Lula and I would have chased Wegan all over his apartment, knocking over lamps and chairs in the process. We would have snagged him eventually, but the capture would have been total Abbott and Costello.

"Do all your captures go like that?" I asked Tank.

"No," he said. "They don't always try to run."

It was mid-afternoon when we left the police station. Wegan was back behind bars. Tomorrow morning he'd go before the judge who would once again set bail, higher this time. Vinnie would get a call from a pleading Wegan, and for another bonding fee, Wegan would walk.

We stopped off at Cluck in a Bucket for a late lunch and then motored over to the Burg to try our luck with Butchy. We parked across the street and looked up at Butchy's open windows. Television sounds drifted out to us. Butchy was home. We crossed the street and took our places on the small stoop that served as a front porch.

"Do you know this guy?" Tank asked.

"Yeah."

"Is he going to shoot at us?"

"Depends how drunk he is."

Tank drew his gun and I rang the bell. No answer to the bell. I rang again. Still no answer.

"He's not coming down," Tank said.

I called Butchy on my cell phone.

"Yeah?" Butchy said,

"It's Stephanie Plum," I told him. "I'm downstairs with my partner and we need to talk to you."

"So go ahead and talk."

"You missed your court date and you need to reschedule."

"And?"

"And you need to do it now. Come downstairs and open the door."

"Suck my dick," Butchy said.

"Sure," I told him. "Just come down and open the door."

"Fuck off," Butchy said. "I don't feel like going to jail today. Why don't you come back next month. Maybe I'll feel like going to jail next month."

I told Tank to back up and stand on the sidewalk where Butchy could see him.

"Look out your window, Butchy," I said. "See the big guy standing on the sidewalk?"

"Yeah."

"That's my partner. If you don't open the door, he's going to put his foot through it. And then he's going to go upstairs and root you out like the rodent you are and put his foot up your ass."

"I've got a gun."

"Is it as big as Tank's?"

Tank was holding a .44 Magnum.

"I swear to God," Butchy said, "if you come in I'll blow your head off." And he disconnected.

"He's not coming down," I told Tank. "And he says he's armed."

Tank walked up to the door, put his boot to it just left of the handle, and the door flipped open. "Wait here," Tank said.

I had my gun in hand, too. "No way. This is my bust."

Tank turned and looked at me. "Anything happens to you, I have to answer to Ranger. Frankly, I'd rather take a bullet from this moron."

Okay, that made sense to me. "I'll wait here," I told him.

"I'm coming up the stairs," Tank called to Butchy. "When I get to the top I want you unarmed, face down on the floor with your hands where I can see them."

I looked up and saw Butchy ass first, half out the window above me. He was waiting for Tank to get to the top of the stairs and then Butchy was going to go out the window, onto the small roof over the stoop, and drop to the ground.

I ducked into the doorway so Butchy wouldn't see me. I held my breath and waited to hear him on the roof. Tank got to the top of the stairs, Butchy's feet scuffed on the roof, and I jumped out. I had my gun two-handed and I yelled for Butchy to stop and freeze.

"I've got him," I yelled to Tank. "He's on the porch roof."

Tank jogged down the stairs and moved to join me on the small patch of front lawn. He cleared the porch just as Butchy catapulted himself off the roof, and the two of them crashed to the ground with Butchy on top of Tank.

I rushed in and grabbed Butchy by the arm, cuffing him behind his back while he still had the air knocked out of him. I rolled him off Tank and shoved him aside. Tank was on his back with his leg twisted at an impossible angle.

"Just shoot me," Tank said. "It'd be less painful."

I called EMS and then I called Ranger. A half hour later, Tank was rolled into the EMS truck, his leg held stable by an inflated cast.

Ranger and I stood side by side and watched the truck disappear around the corner. A big, bald, jug-headed guy, neatly dressed in black jeans and T-shirt, stood by Tank's truck. He had his muscle-bound, bulging arms crossed over his massive chest and his tiny eyes fixed on Ranger and me.

"I need to go to the hospital and get Tank admitted," Ranger said. "I've asked Cal to follow you around."

"Cal has a flaming skull tattooed onto his forehead. And he has muscles in places muscles aren't supposed to grow. Cal looks like… Steroidasaurus."

"Don't underestimate him," Ranger said. "He can spell his name. He's not overly violent as long as he remembers to take his medication. And he gives good shade."

I did a grimace.

Ranger pulled me to him and kissed me on the forehead. "You two are going to get along just fine." Ranger stepped back and turned to Butchy, who was sitting cuffed and shackled on the curb. He grabbed Butchy, dragged him to his feet, and handed him over to Steroidasaurus.

IT WAS ALMOST six when we left the police station. Butchy was chained to a bench across from the docket lieutenant. Steven Wegan was in the lock up. I had body receipts for both of them. Not a bad day in terms of income. Not a great day in terms of Tank's leg. Definitely a weird day, having spent it in the company of Ranger's Merry Men.

Halfway through town my cell phone rang. "Your sister's in labor," Grandma said. "She was working her way through a Virginia baked ham when she started getting contractions."

"Is she going to the hospital?"

"She's trying to decide if it's time. Do you think I should call Albert?"

"Definitely call Albert. It's his baby, too. He's been going to the birthing classes with Valerie."

"It's just that she's not in a good mood. You know how it is when she gets disturbed in the middle of a ham."