High Five (6 page)

"So what's with the wedding?"

"My cousin Julie's getting married on Saturday, and I need a date."

"You're giving me four days' notice to go to a wedding? I can't be ready for a wedding in four days. I need a new dress and shoes. I need a beauty parlor appointment. How am I going to do all this with four days' notice?"

"Okay, fuck it, we won't go," Morelli said.

"I guess I could do without the beauty parlor, but I definitely need new shoes."

"Heels," Morelli said. "High and spiky."

I fiddled with my beer glass. "I wasn't your last choice, was I?"

"You're my only choice. If my mother hadn't called this morning I wouldn't have remembered the wedding at all. This case I'm on is getting to me."

"Want to talk about it?"

"That's the last thing I want to do."

"How about Uncle Fred, want to talk about him some more?"

"The playboy."

"Yeah. I don't understand how he could just disappear."

"People disappear all the time," Morelli said. "They get on a bus and start life over. Or they jump off a bridge and float out with the tide. Sometimes people help them disappear."

"This is a man in his seventies who was too cheap to buy a bus ticket and would have had to walk miles to find a bridge. He left his cleaning in the car. He disappeared in the middle of running errands."

We both momentarily fell silent while our pizza was placed on the table.

"He'd just come from the bank," Morelli said when we were alone. "He was an old man. An easy mark. Someone could have driven up to him and forced him into their car."

"There were no signs of struggle."

"That doesn't mean one didn't take place."

I chewed on that while I ate my pizza. I'd had the same thought, and I didn't like it.

I told Morelli about my conversation with Winnie Black.

"She know anything about the pictures?"

"No."

"One other thing," Morelli said. "I wanted to tell you about Benito Ramirez."

I looked up from the pizza. Benito Ramirez was a heavyweight professional boxer from Trenton. He liked to punish people and didn't limit the punishing to inside the ring. He liked to beat up on women. Liked to hear them beg while he inflicted his own brand of sick torture. And in fact, I knew some of that torture had ended in death, but there'd always been camp followers who'd gotten posthumous credit for the worst of Ramirez's crimes. He'd been involved in my very first case as a bounty hunter, and I'd been instrumental in putting him behind bars. His incarceration hadn't come soon enough for Lula. Ramirez had almost killed her. He'd raped her and beat her and cut her in terrible places. And then he'd left her naked, bloody body on my fire escape for me to find.

"What about Ramirez?" I asked Morelli.

"He's out."

"Out where?"

"Out of jail."

"
What
? What do you mean, he's out of jail? He almost killed Lula. And he was involved in a whole bunch of other murders." Not to mention that he'd stalked and terrorized me.

"He's released on parole, doing community service, and getting psychiatric counseling." Morelli paused to pull off another piece of pizza. "He had a real good lawyer."

Morelli had said this very matter of fact, but I knew he didn't feel matter of fact. He'd put on his cop face. The one that shut out emotion. The one with the hard eyes that gave nothing away.

I made a display of eating. Like I wasn't too bothered by this news either. When in fact, nausea was rolling through my stomach. "When did this happen?" I asked Morelli.

"Yesterday."

"And he's in town?"

"Just like always. Working out in the gym on Stark."

A big man, Mrs. Bestler had said. African-American. Polite. Prowling in my hall. Sweet Jesus, it might have been Ramirez.

"If you even suspect he's anywhere near you, I want to know," Morelli said.

I'd shoved another piece of pizza into my mouth, but I was having a hard time swallowing. "Sure."

We finished the pizza and dawdled over coffee.

"Maybe you should spend the night with me," Morelli said. "Just in case Ramirez decides to look you up."

I knew Morelli had other things in mind beyond my safety. And it was a tempting offer. But I'd already taken that bus, and it seemed like a ride that went nowhere. "Can't," I said. "I'm working tonight."

"I thought things were slow."

"This isn't for Vinnie. This is for Ranger."

Morelli did a little grimace. "I'm afraid to ask."

"It's nothing illegal. It's a security job."

"It always is," Morelli said. "Ranger does all kinds of security. Ranger keeps small Third World countries secure."

"This has nothing to do with gunrunning. This is legitimate. We're doing front-door security for an apartment building on Sloane."

"Sloane? Are you crazy? Sloane's at the edge of the war zone."

"That's why the building needs policing."

"Fine. Let Ranger get someone else. Trust me, you don't want to be out looking for a parking place on Sloane in the middle of the night."

"I won't have to look for a parking place. Tank's picking me up."

"You're working with a guy named Tank?"

"He's big."

"Jesus," Morelli said. "I had to fall in love with a woman who works with a guy named Tank."

"You love me?"

"Of course I love you. I just don't want to marry you."

I STEPPED OUT of the elevator and saw him sitting on the floor in the hall, next to my door. And I knew he was Mabel's visitor. I stuck my hand in my shoulder bag, searching for my pepper spray. Just in case. I rooted around in the bag for a minute or two, finding lipsticks and hair rollers and my stun gun, but no pepper spray.

"Either you're searching for your keys or your pepper spray," the guy said, getting to his feet. "So let me help you out, here." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a canister of pepper spray, and tossed it to me. "Be my guest," he said. And then he pushed my door open.

"How'd you do that? My door was locked."

"God-given talent," he said. "I thought it would save time if I searched your apartment before you got home."

I shook the spray to make sure it was live.

"Hey, don't get all bent out of shape," he said. "I didn't wreck anything. Although, I have to tell you, I did have fun in your panty drawer."

Instinct said he was playing with me. There was no doubt in my mind he'd gone through my apartment, but I doubted he lingered with my lingerie. Truth is, I didn't have a lot and what I had wasn't especially exotic. I felt violated all the same, and I would have sprayed him on the spot, but I didn't trust the spray in my hand. It was his, after all.

He rocked back on his heels. "Well, aren't you going to ask me in? Don't you want to know my name? Don't you want to know why I'm here?"

"Talk to me."

"Not here," he said. "I want to go in and sit down. I've had a long day."

"Forget it. Talk to me here."

"I don't think so. I want to go inside. It's more civilized. It would be like we were friends."

"We're not friends. And if you don't talk to me right now, I'm going to gas you."

He was about my height, five-foot-seven, and built like a fireplug. It was hard to tell his age. Maybe late thirties. His brown hair was receding. His eyebrows looked like they'd been fed steroids. He was wearing ratty running shoes, black Levi's, and a dark gray sweatshirt.

He gave a big sigh and hauled a .38 out from under the sweatshirt. "Using the pepper spray wouldn't be a good idea," he said, "because then I'd have to shoot you."

My stomach dropped an inch and my heart started banging in my chest. I thought about the pictures and how someone had gotten themselves killed and mutilated. Fred had gotten involved somehow. And now I was involved, too. And there was a reasonable chance that I was being held at gunpoint by a guy who was on a first-name basis with the photographed garbage bag.

"If you shoot me in the hall, my neighbors will be all over you," I said.

"Fine. Then I'll shoot them, too."

I didn't like the idea of him shooting someone, especially me, so we both went into my apartment.

"This is much better," he said, heading for the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and getting a beer.

"Where'd that beer come from?"

"It came from me. Where do you think, the beer fairy? Lady, you need to go food shopping. It's unhealthy to live like this."

"Who
are
you?"

He shoved the gun under his waistband and stuck his hand out. "I'm Bunchy."

"What kind of a name is Bunchy?"

"When I was a kid I had this underwear problem."

Ugh. "You have a real name?"

"Yeah, but you don't need to know it. Everybody calls me Bunchy."

I was feeling better now that the gun wasn't pointed at me. Feeling good enough to be curious. "So what's this business deal with Fred?"

"Well, the truth is, Fred owes me some money."

"Uh-huh."

"And I want it."

"Good luck."

He chugged half a bottle of beer. "Now, see, that's not a good attitude."

"How did Fred come to owe you money?"

"Fred likes to play the ponies once in a while."

"Are you telling me you're Fred's bookie?"

"Yeah, that's what I'm telling you."

"I don't believe you. Fred didn't gamble."

"How do you know?"

"Besides, you don't look like a bookie," I said.

"How do bookies look?"

"Different." More respectable.

"I figure you're looking for Fred, and I'm looking for Fred, and maybe we can look for Fred together."

"Sure."

"See, that wasn't so difficult."

"Are you gonna go now?"

"Unless you want me to stay and watch television."

"No."

"I got a better television, anyway," he said.

AT 12:30 I was downstairs, waiting for Tank. I'd taken a nap, and I was feeling halfway alert. I was dressed in black jeans, black T-shirt, Ranger's SEALS hat, and the black SECURITY jacket. At Ranger's request, I had my gun clipped to my belt, and my shoulder bag held the other essentials—stun gun, pepper spray, flashlight, and cuffs.

The lot was eerie at this time of the night. The seniors' cars were fast asleep, their hoods and roofs reflecting light from the halogen floods. The macadam looked mercurial. The neighborhood of small single-family houses behind my building was dark and quiet. Occasionally there was the whir of traffic on St. James. Headlights flashed at the corner and a car turned into my lot. I had a moment of stomach-fluttering panic that this wasn't Tank, that this might be Benito Ramirez. I held my ground, thinking about the gun on my hip, telling myself I was cool, I was bad, I was a dangerous woman not to be messed with. Make my day, punk, I thought. Yeah, right. If it turned out to be Ramirez I'd wet my pants and run screaming back into the building.

The car was black and shiny. An SUV. It rolled to a stop in front of me, and the driver's side window slid down.

Tank looked out. "Ready to rock and roll?"

I took the seat beside him and buckled up. "Do you expect a lot of rockin' and rollin' tonight?"

"I expect none. Working this shift is like watching grass grow."

That was a relief. I had a lot to think about, and I didn't especially want to see Tank in action. Even more, I didn't want to see myself in action.

"I don't suppose you know a bookie named Bunchy, do you?"

"Bunchy? Nope. Never heard of him. He local?"

"Actually, I'm not sure."

The ride across town was quiet. One vehicle was parked at the curb in front of the Sloane Street apartment building. It was another new black SUV. Tank parked behind it. Beyond the building on either side and across the street, cars lined the curb.

"One of the things we like to enforce is a no-parking zone in front of the building," Tank said. "Keeps things clean. The tenants have parking behind the building. Only security vehicles are allowed here at the door."

"And if someone wants to park here?"

"We discourage it."

Master of understatement.

Two men were in the lobby. They were dressed in black, wearing the SECURITY jackets. One came forward when we approached and unlocked the door.

Tank stepped in and looked around. "Anything happening?"

"Nothing. Been quiet all night."

"When was the last time you walked?"

"Twelve."

Tank nodded.

The men gathered their belongings—a large Thermos, a book, and a gym bag—and pushed through the lobby door. They stood for a moment on the street, taking it in, before climbing into their SUV and motoring off.

A small table and two folding chairs had been placed against the far lobby wall, enabling the security team to watch both the door and the stairs. There were two walkie-talkies on the table.

Tank locked the front door, took one of the walkie-talkies, and clipped it to his belt. "I'm going to do a walk-through. You stay here and keep your eye on things. Call me if anyone approaches the door."

I sent him a salute.

"Snappy," he said. "I like that."

I sat in the folding chair and watched the door. No one approached. I watched the stairs. Nothing going on there, either. I checked out my manicure. Not great. I looked at my watch. Two minutes had gone by—478 minutes more and I could go home.

Tank ambled down the stairs and took his seat. "Everything's cool."

"Now what?"

"Now we wait."

"For what?"

"For nothing."

Two hours later, Tank was comfortably slouched in his chair, arms crossed, eyes slitted but vigilant, watching the door. His metabolism had dropped to reptilian. No rise and fall of his chest. No shifting of position—250 pounds of security in suspended animation.

I, on the other hand, had given up trying to keep from falling off my chair and was stretched out on the floor where I could doze without killing myself.

I heard Tank's chair creak. Heard him lean forward. I opened an eye. "Time for another walk-through?"