2
I WENT BACK to Cloverleaf Apartments and parked in the lot. I got a black nylon web utility belt from the back of the Buick and strapped it on, arming it with a stun gun, pepper spray, and cuffs. Then I went in search of the building superintendent. Ten minutes later I had a key to Briggs' apartment and was at his door. I rapped twice and yelled, “Bail enforcement.” No answer. I opened the door with the key and walked in. Briggs wasn't there.
Patience is a virtue bounty hunters need and I lack. I found a chair facing the door and sat down to wait. I told myself I'd stay for as long as it took, but I knew it was a lie. To begin with, being in his apartment like this was a little illegal. And then there was the fact that I was actually pretty scared. Okay, so he was only three feet tall . . . that didn't mean he couldn't shoot a gun. And it didn't mean he didn't have friends who were six-?foot-?four and nuts.
I'd been sitting for a little over an hour when there was a knock at the door, and I realized a piece of paper had been slipped under the doorjamb.
“Dear Loser, I know you're there,” the message on the paper said, “and I'm not coming home until you leave.”
Great.
MY APARTMENT BUILDING bears a striking resemblance to Cloverleaf. Same blocky brick structure, same minimalist attention to quality. Most of the tenants in my building are senior citizens with a few Hispanics thrown in to make things interesting. I'd come directly home after vacating Briggs' apartment. I'd gotten my mail when I'd passed through the lobby, and I didn't have to open the envelopes to know the contents. Bills, bills, bills. I unlocked my door, tossed the mail on the kitchen counter, and checked my answering machine for messages. None. My hamster, Rex, was asleep in his soup can in his cage.
“Hey, Rex,” I said. “I'm home.”
There was a slight rustling of pine shavings but that was it. Rex wasn't much for small talk. I went to the refrigerator to get him a grape and found a sticky note tacked to the door. “I'm bringing dinner. See you at six.” The note wasn't signed, but I knew it was from Morelli by the way my nipples got hard.
I threw the note into the trash and dropped the grape into Rex's cage. There was a major upheaval of shavings. Rex appeared butt first, stuffed the grape into his cheek pouch, blinked his shiny black eyes, twitched his whiskers at me, and scooted back into the can.
I took a shower, did the gel-?and-?blow-?dry thing with my hair, dressed in jeans and a denim shirt, and flopped onto the bed facedown to think. My usual thinking position is on my back, but I didn't want to wreck my hair for Morelli.
The first thing I thought about was Randy Briggs and how it would feel good to drag him by his little feet down the stairs of his apartment building, with his stupid melon head going bump, bump, bump on the steps.
Then I thought about Uncle Fred, and I got a sharp pain in my left eyeball. “Why me?” I said, but there was no one around to answer.
Truth is, Fred wasn't exactly Indiana Jones, and I couldn't imagine anything other than an Alzheimer's attack happening to Fred, in spite of the gory photographs. I searched my mind for memories of him, but found very little. When he smiled it was big and phony, and his false teeth made a clicking sound. And he walked with his toes pointed out . . . like a duck. That was it. Those were my memories of Uncle Fred.
I dozed off while walking down memory lane, and suddenly I awoke with a start, all senses alert. I heard the front door to my apartment click open, and my heart started knocking around in my chest. I'd locked the door when I'd gotten home. And now someone had opened it. And that someone was in my apartment. I held my breath. Please, God, let it be Morelli. I didn't much like the idea of Morelli sneaking into my apartment, but it was a lot more palatable than coming face-?to-?face with some ugly, droolly guy who wanted to squeeze my neck until my tongue turned purple.
I scrambled to my feet and searched for a weapon, settling for a stiletto-?heeled pink-?satin pump left over from a stint as bridesmaid for Charlotte Nagy. I crept out of my bedroom, through the living room, and peeked into the kitchen.
It was Ranger. And he was dumping the contents of a large plastic container into a bowl.
“Jesus,” I said, “you scared the hell out of me. Why don't you try knocking next time.”
“I left you a note. I thought you'd be expecting me.”
“You didn't sign the note. How was I supposed to know it was you?”
He turned and looked at me. “Were there any other possibilities?”
“Morelli.”
“You back with him?”
Good question. I glanced at the food. Salad. “Morelli would have brought sausage sandwiches.”
“That stuff'll kill you, Babe.”
We were bounty hunters. People shot at us. And Ranger was worried about trans fats and nitrates. “I'm not sure our life expectancy is all that good anyway,” I said.
My kitchen is small, and Ranger seemed to be taking up a lot of space, standing very close. He reached around me and snagged two salad bowls from the over-?the-?counter cabinet. “It's not length of life that's important,” he said. “It's the quality. The goal is to have purity of mind and body.”
“Do you have a pure mind and body?”
Ranger locked eyes with me. “Not right now.”
Hmm.