High Five (18 page)

“Tell me about it,” he said. “What do you do?”

“I'm a lingerie buyer.” Used to be, anyway, before I started bounty-huntering.

His eyes dropped to my cleavage. “No shit?”

I hoped they loaded that car on fast. This guy had a head start on the drinky poos, and was going to be on me like white on rice. I could feel it coming.

“My name's Ryan Perin,” he said, extending his hand.

“Stephanie.”

He kept hold of my hand. “Stephanie the lingerie buyer. That's very sexy.”

Yuk. I hate holding hands with strange men. Damn Ranger and his horizons. “Well, you know . . .it's a job.”

“I bet you have a lot of great lingerie.”

“Sure. I have everything. You name it, I've got it.”

The bartender looked at me expectantly.

“I'll have one of those,” I said, pointing to Perm's drink. “And could you hurry?”

“So tell me about your lingerie,” Perm said. “You have any garter belts?”

“Oh, yeah. I wear garter belts all the time—red, black, purple.”

“How about thong panties?”

“Yeah, thong panties.” Every time I feel like flossing my ass.

The alarm went off on his watch.

“What's that?” I asked.

“It's a reminder to check on my car.”

Damn! Don't panic. Don't panic. “What's wrong with your car?”

“This isn't such a great neighborhood at this time of night. I had a radio ripped off last week. So once in a while I just look out and make sure no one's messing with anything.”

“Don't you have an alarm system?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Then you don't have to worry.”

“I guess you're right. Still. ..” He looked toward the door. “Maybe I should check just to be safe.”

“You're not one of those obsessive-compulsive types, are you?” I asked. “I don't like those types. They're always so uptight. They never want to try anything new like, um . . .group sex.”

That got his attention back.

Some spittle collected at the corner of his mouth. “You like group sex?”

“Well, I don't like to do it with too many men, but I have a couple girlfriends . . .” My drink came. I knocked it back and went into a coughing fit. When I stopped coughing, my eyeballs got hot and watery. “What
is
this?”

“Bombay Sapphire.”

“I'm not much of a drinker.”

Perin slid a hand up my leg to just inside my skirt hem. “Tell me more about the group sex.”

Stick a fork in me, I thought. Because I'm done. If Ranger didn't get here soon I was gonna be in big trouble. I was unloading everything I had, and I didn't know where to go from here. I didn't have a whole lot of experience at this sort of thing. And what I knew about group sex was zero. Which was already more than I
wanted
to know. “Thursday is my group sex night,” I said. “We do it every Thursday. Unless we can't find a man . . .then we just watch television.”

“How about another drink?” Perin asked.

No sooner had he gotten the words out of his mouth than he was off his bar stool, flying through the air. He crash-landed on a table, the table collapsed, and Perin lay still as a stone, spread-eagled on the floor, eyes wide, mouth open, like a big, dead beached fish.

I gasped and turned and was nose-to-nose with Benito Ramirez. “You shouldn't be whoring like this, Stephanie,” Ramirez said, soft-voiced and crazy-eyed. “The champ don't like when he sees you with other men. Sees them handling you. You need to save yourself for the champ.” He managed a small, sick smile. “The champ's gonna do things to you, Stephanie. Things you've never had done to you before. Did you ask Lula about the things the champ can do?”

“What are you doing here?” I shrieked. I had one eye on Perin, afraid he was going to get to his feet and run for his car. And I had one eye on Ramirez, afraid he was going to draw a knife and carve me up like a Christmas turkey.

“You can't get away from the champ,” Ramirez whispered. “The champ sees everything. He sees when you go out for candy bars late at night. What's the matter, Stephanie, having trouble sleeping? The champ could fix that. He knows how to make women sleep.”

My stomach clenched, and I broke into an instant cold sweat. I never saw him. He'd been lying in wait for me, following my every move, watching me. And I never saw him. Probably the only reason I was alive was because Ramirez loved the cat-and-mouse game. He loved the smell of another person's fear. Loved to torture, to prolong the pain and terror.

There'd been a black hole in the time continuum when Perin had gone airborne. Everyone in the bar, with the exception of me and Ramirez, had sat frozen in dumbfounded shock. Now everyone in the bar was on their feet.

“What the hell?” the bartender yelled, coming at Ramirez.

Ramirez turned his eves to the bartender, and the bartender backed off.

“Hey, man,” the bartender said. “You gotta take your problems outside.”

Perin was standing wobble-legged, glaring at Ramirez. “What are you, nuts? Are you freaking nuts?”

“The champ don't like remarks like that,” Ramirez said, his eyes shrinking in his head.

A big, no-neck guy came to Perin's rescue. “Hey, leave the little guy alone,” he said to Ramirez.

Ramirez turned on him. “No one tells the champ what to do.”

Bam!
Ramirez sucker-punched no-neck, and no-neck went down like a house of cards.

Perin pulled his gun and fired one off. The shot went wide of Ramirez, and sent everyone in the bar running for the door. Everyone but Perin and Ramirez and me. The bartender was shouting into the phone for the police to get their asses in gear. And through the open door I caught a glimpse of the flatbed moving down the street with the green Jaguar on board.

“I don't like the police,” Ramirez said to the bartender. “You shouldn't have called the police.” Ramirez gave me one last look with his nobody's-home eyes and went out the back door.

I hopped off the bar stool. “Nice meeting you,” I said to Perin. “I have to go now.”

Ranger strolled in, looked around, shook his head, and smiled at me. “You never disappoint,” he said.

 

 

R
ANGER HAD THE
Mercedes double-parked outside Mike's Place. I got in, and we took off before Perin made it through the door to the sidewalk.

Ranger glanced over at me. “Are you okay?”

“Never been better.”

This brought another appraising look from Ranger.

“Well, maybe I'm a little buzzed,” I said. “Think I shouldn't have drunk that whole drink.” I leaned closer to Ranger, as he was looking very fine, and I was finding him superior to that rat-fink Morelli.

Ranger downshifted at a light. “Want to tell me about the gunfire?”

“Perin got one off. It didn't hit anybody, though.” I smiled at him. Ranger wasn't nearly so scary when I was tanked on Bombay.

“Perin was shooting at you?”

“Well, no. There was this other guy who sort of didn't like Perin talking to me. And there was an altercation.” I touched Ranger's diamond stud earring. “Pretty,” I said.

Ranger grinned. “How many drinks did you have?”

“One. But it was a big one. And I'm not much of a drinker.”

“Something to remember,” Ranger said.

I wasn't sure exactly what he meant by that, but I hoped it had to do with sex and taking advantage of me.

He turned into my lot and rolled to a stop at the door. Major disappointment, because it meant he was dropping me off, as opposed to parking and coming in for a nightcap . . . or something.

“You have a visitor,” he said.

“Moi?”

“That's Morelli's bike.”

I swiveled to look. Sure enough, Morelli's Ducati was parked next to Mr. Feinstein's Cadillac. Damn. I stuck my hand in my shoulder bag and fished around.

“What are you looking for?” Ranger asked.

“My gun.”

“Probably it's not a good idea to shoot Morelli,” Ranger said. “Cops are real touchy about that sort of thing.”

I wrenched myself out of the car, straightened my skirt, and huffed into the building.

Morelli was sitting in the hall when I got upstairs. He was dressed in black jeans, black motorcycle boots, a black T-shirt, and a black leather motorcycle jacket. He had a two-day beard and his hair was long, even by Morelli standards. If I hadn't been mad at him I'd have had my clothes off before I got to my door. Now, I realize I'd just had the same thought about Ranger, but there it was. What can I say? Pretty soon Bunchy and Briggs would be looking good to me.

“Boy, you have a lot of nerve coming here,” I said to Morelli, fumbling for my key.

He took his key ring from his pocket and opened my door.

“Since when do you have a key to my apartment?” I asked him.

“Since you gave it to me back when we were friendlier.” He looked down at me and amusement softened the set of his mouth. “Have you been drinking?”

“Occupational hazard. I had this job to do for Ranger, and drinking seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”

“You want some coffee?”

“No way, that would ruin everything. Anyway, I wouldn't drink your coffee. And you can leave now, thank you.”

“I don't think so.” Morelli opened the refrigerator, searched around and discovered the bag of Mocha Java I'd bought at Grand Union. He measured out water and coffee and tripped the switch on my coffeemaker. “Let me take a winger here. You're mad at me, right?”

I rolled my eyes so far into the back of my head I saw myself thinking. And while my eyes were all the way back there, I looked for Briggs. Where was the little devil?

“You want to give me a clue?” Morelli said.

“You don't deserve a clue.”

“That's probably true, but how about giving me one anyway.”

“Terry Gilman.”

“Yeah?”

“That's it. That's your entire clue, you creep.”

Morelli got two mugs from the over-the-counter cabinet and filled the mugs with coffee. He added milk and handed one of the mugs to me. “I need more to go on than a name.”

“No you don't. You know exactly what I'm talking about.”

His pager went off, and he did some creative swearing. He looked at the read-out and made a call on my phone. “I have to leave,” he said. “I'd like to stay and settle this, but something's come up.”

He got to the door and turned and came back. “I almost forgot. Have you seen Ramirez?”

“Yes. And I want to get a restraining order and have his parole revoked”

“His parole has already been revoked. He picked up a hooker on Stark Street last night and almost killed her. Brutalized her and left her for dead in a Dumpster. Somehow she managed to climb out, and two kids found her this morning.”

“Is she going to be okay?”

“Looks like it. She's still on critical, but she's holding her own. When did you see him?”

“About a half hour ago.”

I told him about the repo and the incident with Ramirez.

I could see emotion bubbling inside Morelli. Frustration, mostly. And some anger. “I don't suppose you'd consider moving back in with me?” he asked.
“Just until
Ramirez is found.”

Be a little crowded what with Terry there, too. “Don't suppose I would,” I said.

“How about if I marry you?”

“Now you want to marry me? What happens after they catch Ramirez? We get a divorce?”

“There's no divorce in my family. Grandma Bella wouldn't hear of it. You have to die to get out of a marriage in my family.”

“Gosh, that's cheery.” And true. I understood some of Joe's attitude about marriage. The Morelli men had a bad track record. They drank too much. They cheated on their wives. They beat their kids. And the misery lasts 'til death do them part. Fortunately for many of the Morelli wives, death visited the Morelli men early. They were shot in bar brawls, killed themselves in DUI car crashes, and exploded their livers. “We'll talk some other time,” I said. “You'd better get moving. And don't worry, I'll be careful. I've been keeping my doors and windows locked, and I'm carrying a gun.”

“You have a permit to carry concealed?”

“Got it yesterday.”

“I didn't hear any of this,” Morelli said. He bent his head and kissed me lightly on the lips. “Make sure the gun's loaded.”

He was actually a very nice guy. Some of the less desirable Morelli genes had passed him by. He had the Morelli good looks and charm and none of the abusive qualities. The womanizing part was in question.

I smiled and said thanks. Although I'm not sure what I was thanking him for. For being a decent person about the gun, I guess. Or maybe for caring about my safety. At any rate, the smile and the thanks were encouragement enough for Morelli. He pulled me to him and kissed me again, hot and serious this time. Not a kiss I'd easily forget, nor want to end.

When he broke from the kiss, still holding me close, the grin returned. “That's better,” he said. “I'll call when I can.”

And he was gone.

Damn!
I locked the door behind him and thunked myself on the forehead with the heel of my hand. I was such a dope. I'd just kissed Morelli like there was no tomorrow. Not the message I'd wanted to give him at all. What about Terry? What about Bunchy? What about Ranger? Never mind Ranger, I thought. Ranger wasn't part of this problem. Ranger was a different problem.

Briggs stuck his head out from my bathroom doorway. “Is it safe to come out?”

“What are you doing in there?”

“I heard you in the hall and didn't want to screw it up for you. Sounded like you finally had a live one.”

“Thanks, but he wasn't all that live.”

“So I see.”

A
T ONE O'CLOCK
I was still awake. It was the kiss. I couldn't stop thinking about the kiss, and the way I'd felt when Morelli had taken me in his arms. And then I got to thinking about the way I'd have felt if he'd ripped my clothes off and kissed me in
other
places. And then there was Morelli naked. And Morelli naked and aroused. And Morelli doing something about being naked and aroused. And that's why I couldn't sleep. Again.

At two o'clock I was no closer to sleep. Damn Morelli. I rolled out of bed and padded barefoot into the kitchen. I went through the cupboards and fridge, but I couldn't find exactly the right thing to satisfy my hunger. Morelli was what I wanted, of course, but if I couldn't have Morelli, what I wanted was an Oreo.
Lots
of Oreos. I should have thought to get Oreos when I was at the store.

Grand Union was open twenty-four hours. Tempting, but a bad idea. Ramirez could be out there. Bad enough to worry about him during the day when there are people around and visibility is good. Going out at night seemed foolishly risky.

I went back to bed and instead of thinking about Joe Morelli, I found myself thinking about Ramirez, wondering if he was out there, parked in the lot or on one of the side streets. I knew all the cars that belonged in the lot. If an odd car was there, I'd spot it.

Curiosity had me now. And the excitement of a possible capture. If Ramirez was sitting in my lot, I could have him picked up. I slipped from under the covers and crept to the window. The lot was well-lit. Not a place where a car could be hidden in shadow. I grabbed hold of the curtain and drew it open. I expected to look down at the lot. Instead I looked into the obsidian eyes of Benito Ramirez. He was on my fire escape, leering in at me, his face illuminated in ambient light, his massive body shadowed and threatening against the night sky, his arms outspread, and his hands flat to the window frame.

I jumped back and yelped, and terror filled every part of me. I couldn't breath. I couldn't move. I couldn't think.

“Stephanie,” he sang, his voice muffled through the black glass. He laughed softly and sang my name out again. “Stephan-ieeeee.”

I wheeled around and flew out of the room and into the kitchen, where I fumbled in my bag for my gun. I found the gun and ran back to the bedroom, but Ramirez was gone. My window was still closed and locked, the curtains half open. The fire escape was empty. No sign of him in the lot. No strange car that I could see. For a moment I thought I'd imagined the whole thing. And then I saw the paper taped to the outside of my window. There was a hand-printed message on the paper.

God is waiting. Soon it will be your time to see Him.

I ran back to the kitchen to dial police dispatch. My hand was shaking, and my fingers wouldn't go to the right buttons on the phone. I took a calming breath and tried again. Another breath and I was telling the answering officer about Ramirez. I hung up and dialed Morelli. Halfway through the dial I cut the connection. Suppose Terry answered. Stupid thought, I told myself. She'd dropped him off. Don't make more of it than it is. There could be an explanation. And even if Joe wasn't the world's best boyfriend, he was still a damn good cop.

I redialed and waited while the phone rang seven times. Finally Morelli's machine picked up. Morelli wasn't home. Morelli was working. Ninety percent certainty, 10 percent doubt. It was the 10 percent that kept me from calling his cell phone or pager.

I suddenly realized Briggs was standing next to me.

The usual sarcasm was gone from his voice. “I don't think I've ever seen anyone that scared,” he said. “You didn't hear anything I was saying to you.”

“There was a man on my fire escape.”

“Ramirez.”

“Yeah. You know who he is?”

“Boxer.”

“More than that. He's a very terrible person.”

“Let's make some tea,” Briggs said. “You don't look too good.”

I brought my pillow and quilt into the living room and settled on the couch with Briggs. Every light in my apartment was on, and I had my gun within reach on the coffee table. I sat like that until daylight, dozing occasionally. When the sun was up, I went back to bed and slept until the phone woke me at eleven.

It was Margaret Burger.

“I found a check,” she said. “It was misfiled. It's from that time when Sol was arguing with the cable company. I know Mr. Bunchy was interested in seeing it, but I don't know how to get in touch with him.”

“I can get it to him,” I told her. “I have a few things to do, and then I'll stop around.”

“I'll be here all day,” Margaret said.

I didn't know what I was going to get out of the check, but I thought it couldn't hurt to take a look. I made fresh coffee and chugged a glass of orange juice. I took a fast shower, dressed in my usual uniform of Levi's and a long-sleeve T-shirt, drank my coffee, ate a Pop-Tart, and called Morelli. Still no answer, but I left a message this time. The message was that Morelli should page me immediately if Ramirez was caught.

I took the pepper spray out of my shoulder bag and clipped it onto the waistband of my Levi's.

Briggs was in the kitchen when I left. “Be careful,” he said.

My stomach knotted when I got to the elevator, and again when I stepped out of the lobby, into the lot. I quickly crossed to the car, powered up the Porsche, and watched my rearview mirror as I drove.

It occurred to me that I was no longer looking around every corner for Uncle Fred. Somehow the Uncle Fred search had morphed into a mystery about a butchered woman and dead office workers and an uncooperative garbage company. I told myself it was all the same. That somehow it all tied to Fred's disappearance. But I wasn't completely convinced. It was still possible that Fred was in Fort Lauderdale, and I was spinning my wheels while Bunchy laughed his ass off. Maybe Bunchy was actually Allen Funt in disguise, and I was on funniest bounty hunter bloopers.

Margaret opened the door on the first knock. She had the canceled check ready and waiting for me. I scrutinized it, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary.

“You can take it if you want,” Margaret said. “It's no good to me. Maybe that nice Mr. Bunchy would want to see it too.”