High Five (22 page)

Bunchy was waiting when I got back to my apartment building. He was in the lot, sitting in his car, looking grumpy.

"What's with the Porsche?" he wanted to know, coming over.

"It's on loan from Ranger. And if you put a tracking device on it he won't be happy."

"Do you know how much a car like this costs?"

"A lot?"

"Maybe more than you want to pay," Bunchy said.

"I hope that's not the case."

He took one of the grocery bags and followed me upstairs. "You go to the bank like you said?"

"Yep. I talked to Allen Shempsky, but I didn't learn anything new."

"What did you talk to him about?"

"The weather. Politics. Managed health care." I balanced my bag on my hip while I unlocked the door.

"Boy, you're a beaut. You don't trust anybody, do you?"

"I don't trust
you
."

"I wouldn't trust him, either," Briggs said from the living room. "He looks like he's got a social disease."

"Who's that?" Bunchy wanted to know.

"That's Randy," I said.

"Want to see him disappear?"

I looked over at Briggs. It was a tempting offer. "Some other time," I said to Bunchy.

Bunchy unpacked his bag and set everything out on the kitchen counter. "You've got some strange friends."

And they hardly counted at all compared to my relatives. "I'll make you lunch if you tell me who you're working for and why you're interested in Fred," I said.

"No can do. Besides, I think you'll make me lunch anyway."

I made canned tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. I made grilled cheese because that's what I felt like eating. And I made the soup because I like to keep a clean can in reserve for Rex.

Halfway through lunch I looked at Bunchy, and Morelli's words echoed in my ear. I'm working with a couple Treasury guys who make me look like a Boy Scout, he'd said. The Hallelujah Chorus rang out in my head, and I had an epiphany. "Holy cow," I said. "You're working with Morelli."

"I don't work with anyone," Bunchy said. "I work alone."

"That's a load of pig pucky."

This wasn't the first time Morelli had been involved in one of my cases and had kept it from me, but it was the first time he'd sent someone to spy on me. This was a new all-time low for Morelli.

Bunchy sighed and pushed his dish away. "Does this mean I'm not getting dessert?"

I gave him one of the leftover candy bars. "I'm depressed."

"Now what?"

"Morelli is scum."

He looked down at the candy bar. "I told you I work alone."

"Yeah, and you told me you were a bookie."

He glanced up. "You don't know for sure that I'm not."

The phone rang, and I snatched it up before the machine could take over.

"Hey, Cupcake," Morelli said. "What do you want on your pizza tonight?"

"I want nothing. There is no pizza. There is no you, no me, no us, no pizza. And don't ever call me again, you scummy, slimy fungus-ridden dog turd, piece of fly crud." And I slammed the phone down.

Bunchy was laughing. "Let me guess," he said. "That was Morelli."

"And you!" I yelled, pointing my finger, teeth clenched. "You are
no better
."

"I gotta go," Bunchy said, still doing his Mr. Chuckles impersonation.

"So, have you always had a problem with men?" Briggs asked. "Or is this something recent?"

I WAS IN the lobby, waiting for Ranger at six o'clock. I was all showered and perfumed and hair freshly done up to look sexily unkempt. Mike's Place is a sports bar frequented by businessmen. At six o'clock it would be filled with suits catching ESPN and having a drink to unwind before going home, so I chose to look suity, too. I was wearing my Wonderbra, which worked wonders, a white silk shirt unbuttoned clear to the front clasp on the magical bra, and a black silk suit with the skirt rolled at the waist to show a lot of leg. I covered the mess at the waist with a wide fake leopard skin belt, and I stuffed my stocking-clad feet into four-inch fuck-me pumps.

Mr. Morganthal shuffled out of the elevator and winked at me. "Hey, hootchie-mamma," he said. "Want a hot date?" He was ninety-two and lived on the third floor, next to Mrs. Delgado.

"You're too late," I told him. "I've already made plans."

"That's just as well. You'd probably kill me," Mr. Morganthal said.

Ranger pulled up in the Mercedes, and idled at the door. I gave Mr. Morganthal a tweak on the cheek and sashayed out, swinging my hips, wetting my lips. I poured myself into the Mercedes and crossed my legs.

Ranger looked at me and smiled. "I told you to get his attention . . . not start a riot. Maybe you should button one more button."

I batted my eyelashes at him, in fake-flirt, which actually wasn't totally fake. "You don't like it?" I said. Hah! Take that, Morelli. Who needs you!

Ranger reached over and flipped the next two buttons open, exposing me to mid-belly. "That's the way
I
like it," he said, the smile still in place.

Shit
! I quickly rebuttoned the buttons. "Wise guy," I said. Okay, so he called my bluff. No reason to panic. Just file it away for future reference.
Not ready for Ranger
!

Mr. Morganthal came out and shook his finger at us.

"I think I just sullied your reputation," Ranger said, putting the car in gear.

"Probably more like you helped me live up to expectations."

We cruised across town and parked half a block from the bar on the opposite side of the street.

Ranger took a photo from behind the sun visor. "This is Ryan Perin. He's a regular here. Comes every day after work. Has two drinks. Goes home. Never parks his car more than half a block away on the street. He knows the dealer's trying to get it back, and he's nervous. Comes out to check on it every few minutes. Your job is to make sure he keeps his eyes on you—not the car. Keep him in the building."

"Why are you taking it here?"

"When he's home the car's in a locked garage, and the regular repo people can't get at it. When he's at work he parks it in a garage with an attendant who takes his Christmas bonus seriously." Ranger made a gun sign with his hand, finger and thumb extended. "For that matter, Perin carries too and isn't slow on the draw. That's why we need to finesse the car. Nobody wants bloodshed."

"What does this guy do for a living?"

"Lawyer. Sending all his money up his nose these days."

A dark green Jaguar rolled past us. There were no spaces open on the street. Just as he got to the end of the block a car pulled out, and the jag slid in place.

"Wow," I said, "that was lucky."

"No," Ranger said. "That was Tank. We have cars parked all along this street, so Perin has to park down there."

Perin angled out of the car, beeped the alarm on, and headed for Mike's.

I looked at Ranger. "Will the alarm be a problem?"

"None at all."

Perin disappeared into the building.

"Okay," Ranger said. "Go get 'em, Slick. I'll give you a five-minute lead, and then I'll call the truck in." He gave me a buzzer. "If something goes wrong, hit the panic button. I'll come get you when the car's cleared the street."

Perin was dressed in a blue pinstripe. He was in his early forties, with thinning sandy blond hair and an athletic build gone soft. I stepped just to the side of the door and waited while my eyes adjusted to the change in light. There were mostly men in the room, but there were a few women, too. The women were in clusters. The men tended to be alone, eyes turned to the TV. Perin was easy to spot. He was at the far end of the polished mahogany bar. The bartender set a drink in front of him. Something clear on the rocks.

There were chairs open on either side of Perin, but I didn't want to sit down and start a conversation. I didn't want him to feel singled out. If he was nervous the direct approach might be too obvious. So I walked toward him, rummaging in my bag, looking absorbed in finding whatever. And just as I reached his stool I faked a stumble. Not enough to go down to the ground, but enough to knock into him, clutching at his sleeve for support.

"Omigod," I said. "I'm so sorry. This is so embarrassing. I wasn't watching where I was going and . . ." I looked down. "It's these shoes! I'm just not a high-heel person."

"What kind of a person are you?" Perin asked.

I gave him the million-dollar smile. "I think maybe I'm a barefoot person." I slid onto the stool next to him and signaled the bartender. "Boy, I really need a drink. It's been one of those days."

"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 Perin's drink. "And could you hurry?"

"So tell me about your lingerie," Perin 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 eyes 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.