High Five (20 page)

I left my parents and took Chambers to Hamilton. Bunchy picked me up on Hamilton. I saw him in my rearview mirror, pulled to the curb, and got out to talk to him.

"Where've you been?" I asked. "Take Sunday off?"

"I had some work to catch up on. Bookies gotta work sometimes too, you know."

"Yeah, only you're not a bookie."

"We gonna start that again?"

"How'd you find me just now?"

"I was riding around, and I got lucky. How about you? You get lucky?"

"That's none of your damn business!"

His eyes crinkled with laughter. "I was talking about Fred."

"Oh. One step forward, two steps backward," I said. "I get things that seem like leads and then they go nowhere."

"Like what?"

"I found a woman who saw Fred get into a car with another man the day he disappeared. Problem is, she can't describe the man or the car. And then something weird happened at the funeral home, and it feels to me like it might tie in, but I can't find any logical reason why."

"What was the weird thing?"

"There was a woman at one of the viewings who seemed to have a similar problem to the one Fred was having with the garbage company. Only this woman had problems with her cable company."

Bunchy looked interested. "What kind of problems?"

"I don't know exactly. Grandma told me about it. She just said they were similar to Fred's."

"I think we should talk to this woman."

"We? There's no we."

"I thought we were working together. You brought me lamb and everything."

"I felt sorry for you. You were pathetic, sitting out there in your car."

He wagged his finger at me. "I don't think so. I think you're getting to like me."

Like a stray dog. Maybe not that much. But he was right about talking to Margaret Burger. What was the harm? I had no idea where Margaret Burger lived, so I went back to my parents' house and asked Grandma.

"I can show you," she said.

"Not necessary. Just tell me."

"And miss all the action? No way!"

Why not? I had Bunchy tagging along. Maybe I should ask Mrs. Ciak and Mary Lou and my sister, Valerie. I took a deep breath. Sarcasm always made me feel better. "Get in the car," I said to Grandma.

I took Chambers to Liberty and turned onto Rusling.

"It's one of these houses," Grandma said. "I'll know it when I see it. I went to a get-together there once." She looked over her shoulder. "I think someone's following us. I bet it's one of them garbage people."

"It's Bunchy," I said. "I'm sort of working with him."

"No kidding? I didn't realize this had turned into such a big investigation. We've got a whole team here."

I stopped at the house Grandma had described, and we all got out and collected together on the sidewalk. It had stopped raining, and the temperature had risen to pleasant.

"My granddaughter tells me you're working together," Grandma said to Bunchy, looking him over. "Are you a bounty hunter, too?"

"No, ma'am," he said. "I'm a bookie."

"A bookie!" Grandma said. "Isn't that something. I always wanted to meet a bookie."

I knocked on Margaret Burger's door, and before I could introduce myself Grandma stepped forward.

"Hope we aren't disturbing you," Grandma said. "But we're conducting an important investigation. Stephanie and me and Mr. Bunchy."

Bunchy elbowed me. "
Mr
. Bunchy," he said.

"Not at all," Margaret Burger said. "I guess this is about poor Fred."

"We can't find him no-how," Grandma said. "And my granddaughter thought your problem with that cable company sounded real similar. Except, of course, they gave Sol a heart attack instead of making him disappear."

"They were awful people," Margaret said. "We paid our bills on time. We never missed a payment. And then when we had trouble with the cable box, they said they never heard of us. Can you imagine?"

"Just like Fred," Grandma said. "Isn't that right, Stephanie?"

"Uh, yeah, it sounds—"

"So then what?" Bunchy said. "Did Sol complain?"

"He went down there in person and raised a big fuss. And that's when he had his heart attack."

"What a shame," Grandma said. "Sol was only in his seventies, too."

"Do you have any canceled checks from the cable company?" Bunchy asked Margaret. "Something from before you had the problem?"

"I could look in my file," Margaret said. "I keep all my checks for a couple years. But I don't think I have any of the cable checks. After Sol died, that awful cable person, John Curly, came and tried to look like he was being helpful about solving the mix-up. I didn't buy that for a minute. He was just trying to cover his tracks because he messed up the computer records. He even said as much, but it was too late for Sol. He'd already been given the heart attack."

Bunchy looked resigned to what he was hearing. "John Curly took the canceled checks," Bunchy said, more statement than question.

"He said he needed them for his records."

"And he never brought them back?"

"Never. And next thing I know I get a statement from them welcoming me like I was a brand-new customer. I'm telling you, that cable company is a mess."

"Anything else you want to know?" I asked Bunchy.

"No. That's about it."

"How about you, Grandma?"

"I can't think of anything more."

"Well then," I said to Margaret, "I guess there isn't anything else. Thanks for talking to us."

"I hope Fred turns up," Margaret said. "Mabel must be beside herself."

"She's holding up pretty good," Grandma said. "I guess Fred wasn't one of those husbands you really mind losing."

Margaret nodded, like she understood completely what Grandma was saying.

I dropped Grandma off and continued on home to my apartment. Bunchy followed me the whole way and parked behind me.

"Now what?" Bunchy said. "What are you going to do now?"

"I don't know. You have any ideas?"

"I'm thinking there's something going on with the garbage company."

I considered telling him about Laura Lipinski but decided against it.

"Why did you want to see Margaret's canceled checks?" I asked.

"No special reason. Just thought they'd be interesting."

"Uh-huh."

Bunchy rocked back on his heels with his hands in his pockets. "How about the checks from the garbage company? You ever get any of them?"

"Why? You think they'd be interesting, too?"

"Might be. You never know about stuff." His eyes focused on something behind me, and his face changed expression. Wariness, maybe.

I felt a body move so close it was skimming my own, and a warm hand protectively settled at the base of my neck. Without turning I knew it was Ranger.

"This is Bunchy," I said to Ranger, by way of introduction. "Bunchy the bookie."

Ranger didn't move. Bunchy didn't move. And I wasn't moving, held in a kind of suspended animation by Ranger's force field.

Finally Bunchy took a couple steps backward. It was the sort of maneuver a man might make when confronted with a grizzly. "I'll be in touch," Bunchy said, pivoting on his heel, walking to his car.

We watched Bunchy drive out of the lot.

"He's not a bookie," Ranger said, his hand still holding me captive.

I stepped away and turned to face him, putting space between us.

"What was with the intimidation routine you just did?"

Ranger smiled. "You think I intimidated him?"

"Not a whole lot."

"I don't think so, either. He's got a few face-offs behind him."

"Am I right in assuming you didn't like him?"

"Just being cautious. He was carrying and he was lying. And he's a cop."

I already knew all those things. "He's been following me for days. So far he's been harmless."

"What's he after?"

"I don't know. Something to do with Fred. Right now he knows more than I do. So I figure it's worthwhile to play along with him. He's probably a Fed. I think he has a tracking device on my car. Jersey cops can't usually afford to do stuff like that. And I think he must be working with a partner to be able to pick me up, but I haven't spotted the partner yet."

"Does he know you've made him?"

"Yeah, but he doesn't want to talk about it."

"I can help with the tracking problem," Ranger said, handing me a set of keys.

"What's this?"

"THIS IS TEMPTATION," Ranger said, leaning against a new midnight-black Porsche Boxster.

"Could you be more specific about the temptation? Like, what kind of temptation were you thinking about?"

"Temptation to broaden your horizons."

I had a lot of unease over Ranger's definition of "broad horizons." I suspected his horizons were a teensy bit closer to hell than I might want to travel. For starters, there was the car and the slight possibility that it wasn't entirely legitimate.

"Where do you get these cars?" I asked him. "You seem to have a never-ending supply of new, expensive black cars."

"I have a source."

"This Porsche isn't stolen, is it?"

"Do you care?"

"Of course I care!"

"Then it isn't stolen," Ranger said.

I shook my head. "It's a really cool car. And I appreciate your offer, but I can't afford a car like this."

"You don't know the price yet," Ranger said.

"Is it more than five dollars?"

"The car isn't for sale. It's a company car. You get the car if you continue to work with me. You're ruining my image in that Buick. Everyone who works with me drives black."

"Well, hell," I said, "I wouldn't want to ruin your image."

Ranger just kept looking at me.

"Is this charity?" I asked him.

"Guess again."

"I'm not selling my soul, am I?"

"I'm not in the soul-buying business," Ranger said. "The car's an investment. Part of the working relationship."

"So what do I have to do in this working relationship?"

Ranger uncrossed his arms and pushed off from the car. "Jobs come up. Don't accept any that make you uncomfortable."

"You aren't doing this just to amuse yourself, are you? To see what I'd be willing to do for an expensive car?"

"That would be somewhere in the middle of the list," Ranger said. He looked at his watch. "I have a meeting. Drive the car. Think it over."

He had his Mercedes parked next to the Porsche. He slid behind the wheel and drove away without looking back.

I almost collapsed on the spot. I put a hand to the Porsche to steady myself, and then immediately yanked my hand away, afraid I'd left prints. Dang!

I ran inside and looked around for Randy Briggs. His laptop was on the coffee table, but his jacket was gone. I toyed with the idea of packing all his things into the two suitcases, moving them into the hall, and locking my door, but gave it up as futile.

I cracked open a beer and called Mary Lou. "Help!" I said.

"What help?"

"He gave me a car. And he touched me twice!" I looked at my neck in the hall mirror to see if I was branded where his hand had rested.

"Who? What are you talking about?"

"Ranger!"

"Omigod. He gave you a car?"

"He said it was an investment in our working relationship. What does that mean?"

"What kind of car is it?"

"A new Porsche."

"That's at least oral sex."

"Be serious!" I said.

"Okay, the truth is . . . it's beyond oral sex. It could be, you know, butt stuff."

"I'll return the car."

"Stephanie, this is a Porsche!"

"And I think he's flirting with me, but I'm not sure."

"What does he do?"

"He's gotten sort of physical."

"How physical?"

"Touchy."

"Omigod, what did he touch?"

"My neck."

"Is that all?"

"My hair."

"Hmmm," Mary Lou said. "Was it sexy touching?"

"It felt sexy to me."

"And he gave you a Porsche," Mary Lou said. "A Porsche!"

"It isn't like it's a gift. It's a company car."

"Yeah, right. When do I get to ride in it? You want to go to the mall tonight?"

"I don't know if I should be driving it for personal stuff." In fact, I didn't know if I should be driving it
at all
until I made sure about the butt thing.

"You really think this is a company car?" Mary Lou asked.

"So far as I can see, everyone who works for Ranger drives a new black car."

"A Porsche?"

"Usually an SUV, but maybe a Porsche happened to fall off the back of the truck yesterday." I could hear screaming in the background. "What's happening?"

"The kids are having a conflicting opinion. I suppose I should go mediate."

Mary Lou had started taking parenting classes because she couldn't get the two-year-old to stop eating the dog's food. Now she said things like "the kids are having a conflicting opinion" instead of "the kids are trying to kill each other." I think it sounds much more civilized, but when you come right down to it . . . the kids were trying to kill each other.