11 Eleven On Top (20 page)

“You don't want me to stop tracking you, Babe. I'm keeping you safe.”

He was right. And I was sufficiently freaked out by Spiro to tolerate the intrusion.

“This isn't personal leave time,” Ranger said. “This is work. You should have run it by me. We had to scramble to coordinate this.”

“Sorry. It was a last-minute decision... as you can see from my clothes. My mother will need a pill after she starts getting the reports back on my cemetery appearance.”

“We're wearing black,” Ranger said. “We're in the ballpark. Just keep your sweatshirt zipped, so the men don't accidentally fall into the grave.”

Cars were moving around in front of the church, jockeying for position. The hearse pulled into the street and the procession followed, single file, lights on. Ranger waited for the last car to go by before he fell into line. There'd been no sign of Spiro, but then I hadn't expected him to show up at church, shaking hands and chatting. I'd expected him to do another drive-by or maybe hang in a shadow somewhere. Or maybe he'd be hidden at some distance, waiting for the graveside ceremony, using binoculars to see the results of his insanity.

“Tank's already at the cemetery,” Ranger said. “He's watching the perimeter. He's got Slick and Eddie working with him.”

It was a slow drive to Mama Macs final resting place. Ranger wasn't famous for making small talk, so it was also a quiet drive. We parked and got out of the Cayenne. The sky was overcast, and the air was unusually cool for the time of year. I was happy to have the sweatshirt. We'd been the last to arrive, and that meant we had the longest walk. By the time we made it to the grave site, the principals were seated and the large crowd had closed around them.

This was perfect for our purpose. We were able to stand at a distance and keep watch.

Ranger and I were shoulder to shoulder. Two professionals, doing a job. Problem was, one of the professionals didn't do well at funerals. I was a funeral basket case. Possibly the only thing I hated more than a gun was a funeral. They made me sad. Really sad. And the sadness had nothing to do with the deceased.

I got weepy over perfect strangers.

The priest stood and repeated the Lord's Prayer and I felt my eyes well with tears. I concentrated on counting blades of grass at my feet, but the words intruded. I blinked the tears back and swung my thoughts to Bob. I tried to envision Bob hunching. He was going to hock up a sock. The tears ran down my cheeks. It was no good. Bob thoughts couldn't compete with the smell of fresh-turned earth and funeral flowers. “Shit,” I whispered. And I sniffed back some snot.

Ranger turned to me. His brown eyes were curious and the corners of his mouth were tipped up ever so slightly. “Are you okay?” he asked.

I found a tissue in one of the sweatshirt pockets, and I blew my nose. “I'm fine. I just have this reaction to funerals!”

Several people on the outermost ring of mourners glanced our way.

Ranger put his arm around me. “You didn't like Mama Mac. You hardly knew her.”

“It doesn't m-m-matter,” I sobbed.

Ranger drew me closer. “Babe, we're starting to attract a lot of attention. Could you drop the sobbing down a level?”

“Ashes to ashes...” the priest said.

And I totally lost it. I slumped against Ranger and cried. He was wearing a windbreaker, and he wrapped me in the open windbreaker, hugging me in to him, his face pressed to the side of my head, shielding me as best he could from people turning to see the sobbing idiot. I was burrowed into him, trying to muffle the sobs, and I could feel him shaking with silent laughter.

“You're despicable,” I hissed, giving him a punch in the chest. “Stop laughing. This is s-sssad.”

Several people turned and shushed me.

“It's okay,” Ranger said, still silently laughing, arms wrapped tight around me. “Don't pay any attention to them. Just let it all out.”

I hiccupped back a couple small sobs, and I wiped my nose with my sleeve. “This is nothing. You should see me at a parade when the drums and the flag go by.”

Ranger cradled my face in his hands, using his thumbs to wipe the tears from my eyes. “The ceremony is over. Can you make it back to the car?”

I nodded. “I'm okay now. Am I red and blotchy from crying?”

“Yes,” Ranger said, brushing a kiss across my forehead. “I love you anyway.”

“There's all kinds of love,” I said.

Ranger took me by the hand and led me back to the SUV. “This is the kind that doesn't call for a ring. But a condom might come in handy.”

“That's not love,” I told him. “That's lust.”

He was scanning the crowd as we walked and talked, watching for Spiro, watching for anything unusual. “In this case, there's some of both.”

“Just not the marrying type?”

We'd reached the car, and Ranger remoted it open. “Look at me, Babe. I'm carrying two guns and a knife. At this point in my life, I'm not exactly family material.”

“Do you think that will change?”

Ranger opened the door for me. “Not anytime soon.”

No surprise there. Still, it was a teeny, tiny bit of a downer. How scary is that?

“And there are things you don't know about me,” Ranger said.

“What kind of things?”

“Things you don't want to know.” Ranger rolled the engine over and called Tank. “We're heading back,” he said. “Anything on your end?”

The answer was obviously negative because Ranger disconnected and pulled into the stream of traffic. “Tank didn't see any bad guys, but it wasn't a total wash,” Ranger said, handing his cell phone over to me. “I managed to take a picture for you while you were tucked into my jacket.”

Ranger had a picture phone, exactly like the one I'd been issued. I went to the album option and brought up four photos of Anthony Barroni. The images were small. I chose one and waited while it filled the screen. Anthony appeared to be talking on his phone. Hold on, he wasn't talking... he was taking a picture.

“Anthony's taking photos with his phone,” I said. “Omigod, that's so creepy.”

“Yeah,” Ranger said. “Either Anthony's really into dead people or else he's sending photos to someone not fortunate enough to have a front-row seat.”

“Spiro.” Maybe.

Most of the cars left the cemetery and turned toward the Burg. The wake at Gina Macaroni's house would be packed. Anthony Barroni peeled away from the herd at Chambers Street. Ranger stuck to him, and we followed him to the store. He parked his Vette in the rear and sauntered inside.

“You should go talk to him,” Ranger said. “Ask him if he had a good time.”

“You're serious.”

“Time to stir things up,” Ranger said. “Let's raise the stakes for Anthony. Let him know he's blown his cover. See if anything happens.”

I chewed on my lower lip. I didn't want to face Anthony. I didn't want to do this stuff anymore. “I'm an office worker,” I said. “I think you should talk to him.”

Ranger parked the SUV in front of the store. “We'll both talk to Anthony. Last time I left you alone in my car someone stole you.”

It was early afternoon on a weekday, and there wasn't a lot of activity in the store. There was an old guy behind the counter, waiting on a woman who was buying a sponge mop. No other customers. Two of the Barroni brothers were working together, labeling a carton of nails in aisle four. Anthony was on his cell phone to the rear of the store. He was shuffling around, nodding his head and laughing.

I always enjoy watching Ranger stalk prey. He moves with single-minded purpose, his body relaxed, his gait even, his eyes unswerving and fixed on his quarry.

The eye of the tiger.

I was one step behind Ranger, and I was thinking this wasn't a good idea. We could be wrong and look like idiots. Ranger never worried about that, but I worried about it constantly. Or we could be right, and we could set Anthony and Spiro off on a killing spree.

Anthony saw us approaching. He closed his phone and slipped it into his pants pocket. He looked to Ranger and then to me.

“Stephanie,” he said, grinning. “Man, you were really bawling at the cemetery. Guess you got real broken up having Mama Melanoma blown to bits in your car.”

“It was a touching ceremony,” I said.

“Yeah,” Anthony said, snorting and laughing. “The Lord's Prayer always gets to me, too.”

Ranger extended his hand. “Carlos Manoso,” he said. “I don't believe we've met.”

Anthony shook Ranger's hand. “Anthony Barroni. What can I do for you? Need a plunger?”

Ranger gave him a small cordial smile. “We thought we'd stop by to say hello and see if Spiro liked the pictures.”

“Waddaya mean?”

“It's too bad he couldn't have been there in person,” Ranger said. “So much is lost in a photograph.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Sure you do,” Ranger said. “You made a bad choice. And you're going to die because of it. You might want to talk to someone while there's still time.”

Someone."

“The police,” Ranger said. “They might be able to cut you a deal.”

“I don't need a deal,” Anthony said.

“He'll turn on you,” Ranger said. “You made a bad choice for a partner.”

“You should talk. Look who you've got for a partner. Little Miss Cry-Her-Eyes-Out.” Anthony rubbed his eyes like he was crying. “Boohoohoo.”

“This is embarrassing,” I said. “I hate when I cry at funerals.”

“Boohooooo.”

“Stop. That's enough,” I said. “It's not funny.”

“Boohoo boohoo boohoo.”

So I punched him. It was one of those bypass-the-brain impulse actions. And it was a real sucker punch. Anthony never saw it coming. He had his hands to his eyes doing the boohoo thing, and I guess I threw all my fear and frustration into the punch. I heard his face crunch under my fist, and blood spurted out of his nose. I was so horrified I froze on the spot.

Ranger gave a bark of laughter and dragged me away so I didn't get splattered.

Anthonys eyes were wide, his mouth open, his hands clapped over his nose.

Ranger shoved a business card into Anthonys shirt pocket. “Call me if you want to talk.”

We left the store and buckled ourselves into the Cayenne. Ranger turned the engine over and slid a glance my way. “I usually spar with Tank. Maybe next time I should get in the ring with you.”

“It was a lucky punch.”

Ranger had the full-on smile and there were little laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. “You're a fun date.”

“Do you really think Spiro and Anthony are partners?”

“I think it's unlikely.”

I left Ranger in the control room and hurried into my cubicle, anxious to finish running the check on Barroni. I came to a skidding stop when I saw my in-box.

Seven new requests for computer background searches. All from Frederick Rodriguez.

I stuck my head out of my cubicle and yelled at Ranger. “Hey, who's this Frederick Rodriguez guy? He keeps filling up my inbox.”

“He's in sales,” Ranger said. “Let them sit. Work on Gorman.”

I finished Barroni, printed his entire file, and dropped it into the drawer with Gorman and Lazar. I entered Jimmy Runion into the first search program and watched as information rushed onto my screen. I'd been scanning the searches as they appeared, taking notes, trying to find the one thing that bound them together in life and probably in death. So far, nothing had jumped out at me. There were a few things that were common to the men, but nothing significant. They were all approximately the same age. They had all owned small businesses. They were all married. When I finished Runion I'd take all the files and read through them more carefully.

I was halfway through Runion when my mom called on my cell.

“Where are you?” she wanted to know.

“I'm at work.”

“It's five-thirty. We're supposed to be at the church for rehearsal. You were going to stop here first, and then we were all going over to the church. We've been waiting and waiting.”

Crap! “I forgot.”

“How could you forget? Your sister's getting married tomorrow. How could you forget?”

“I'm on my way. Give me twenty minutes.”

“I'll take your grandmother with me. You can meet us at the church. You just bring Joseph and the cello.”

“Joseph and the cello,” I dumbly repeated.

“Everyone's waiting to hear you play.”

“I might be late. There might not be time.”

“We don't have to be at Marsillio's for the rehearsal dinner until seven-thirty. I'm sure there'll be time for you to practice your cello piece.”

Crap. Crap. And double crap!

I grabbed my bag and took off, across the control room, down the stairs, into the garage. Ranger had just pulled in. He was getting out of his car as I ran to Morelli's SUV.

“I'm late!” I yelled to him. “I'm frigging late!”

“Of course you are,” Ranger said, smiling.

It took me twelve minutes to get across town to the Burg and then into Morellis neighborhood. I'd had to drive on the sidewalk once when there was traffic at a light. And I'd saved two blocks by using Mr. Fedorka's driveway and cutting through his backyard to the alley that led to Morellis house.

I locked the SUV in the garage, ran into the house, into the living room.

“The wedding rehearsal is tonight,” I yelled at Morelli. “The wedding rehearsal!”

Morelli was working his way through a bag of chips. “And?”

“And we have to be there. We're in the wedding party. It's my sister. I'm the maid of honor. You're the best man.”

Morelli set the chips aside. “Tell me those aren't blood splatters on your shoes.”

“I sort of punched Anthony Barroni in the nose.”

“Anthony Barroni was at Rangeman?”

“It's a long story. I haven't time to go into it all. And you don't want to hear it anyway. It's... embarrassing.” I had Bob clipped to his leash. “I'm taking Bob out, and then I'm going to help you get dressed.” I dragged Bob out the back door and walked him around Morelli's yard. “Do you have to go, Bob?” I said. “Gotta tinkle? Gotta poop?”

Bob didn't want to tinkle or poop in Morelli's yard. Bob needed variety. Bob wanted to tinkle on Mrs. Rosario's hydrangea bush, two doors down.

“This is it!” I yelled at Bob. “You don't go here and you're holding it in until I get back from the stupid rehearsal dinner.”