“The widow needs to leave, and we thought since you were so close to the deceased you might be able to fill in.”
“Stand at the head of the casket?”
“Yes.”
“Hot damn. I’ll do a real good job.” She looked into the casket. “What was this guy’s name again?”
“Doug.”
“Don’t worry about a thing. Me and Doug are going to get along just fine.”
The funeral director bit into his lower lip, made the sign of the cross, and stepped back a couple paces.
Monica, Ranger, and I quietly slipped out the side door, and the Rangeman SUV pulled up.
“I don’t want to go in this,” Monica said. “I want the hot sports car.”
Ranger handed me the keys to his 911 Turbo. “Have fun.”
We buckled into the Porsche, and I turned the engine over.
“Anyplace special?” I asked her.
“Lotus.”
Lotus was known for being a big hook-up spot. I’d never been inside, but now that I didn’t have a boyfriend it seemed like something to investigate. The alternative was to allow my mother to fix me up with the butcher. I would prefer not to have this happen.
Lotus was on a side street in the center of the city. I took Hamilton to Broad and turned off Broad onto Merchant. I pulled into the small lot attached to Lotus and saw the Rangeman SUV cruise down Merchant and make a U-turn. Ranger was in protective mode.
“So tell me about your late husband’s friends,” I said to Monica. “I’m curious. Are you suspicious of any of them? Did he hang out with any gun enthusiasts?”
Monica freshened up her blood-red lipstick without benefit of mirror. This was something I’d never been able to accomplish.
“His friends were all boring. Nobody was interesting enough to have a gun. They talked about real estate and stocks and bonds, and rehashed college. Harry and Doug were fraternity brothers at Kiltman. They belonged to Zeta. Maybe Doug’s girlfriends had guns. I didn’t know any of his girlfriends.”
“He had girlfriends?”
“Yeah, thank God. Otherwise I would have had to fuck him. He thought I didn’t know he was bringing women into the house when I was away. Hell, if I’d had their address I’d have sent them all fruit baskets.”
Cripes, this was disturbing. These people were all horrible.
“How about businesses he might have visited? Anything gun-related?” I asked her.
Monica got out of the Porsche and tugged her dress down. When she tugged it down her boobs popped out.
“Honestly,” she said, pushing her boobs back into the dress. “Do I look like someone who would give a flying leap about his business?”
“Yes. The business brought money into the house.”
“There were no gun-related businesses that I knew about. What’s with the questioning?”
“Just curious.”
“Yeah, right. I almost believe that. Are we going to stand out here all night, or what? I need a drink.”
She wasn’t the only one who needed a drink. This day wasn’t going down as my all-time best. And on top of everything else that went wrong, I’d just flunked interrogation.
“Let’s do it,” I said. “Lead the way.”
The exterior of Lotus was typical of the many bars in Trenton and almost identical to the two other bars on Merchant Street. Redbrick exterior, oak door, small neon sign over the door spelling out “Lotus,” blacked-out windows. The interior looked like a bordello. Red walls, red upholstered banquettes, high-gloss black bar running the length of the room, high-gloss black trim on the banquettes, a bunch of high-top tables and chairs, fake candles on the tables. Flat-screens behind the bar tuned to sports stations. Lighting was dim to nonexistent. The banquettes and high tops were all in use. People were standing two deep at the bar.
“Hey, you,” Monica yelled at one of the bartenders. “My husband just died and I need a vodka.”
I held my fingers up indicating we needed two vodkas.
Two seats opened up after ten minutes and Monica elbowed her way in. We ordered sliders from the bar menu and two more vodkas.
“This is supposed to be the big hook-up place,” Monica said to me. “All I see are old losers. It’s like they bused these people in from Happy Meadows Rest Home. My asshole husband looks better than most of these men and my husband is dead.”
I had to admit I was surprised at the age of the crowd. Never having participated in the hook-up scene I’d always imagined a little more glamour.
“Can we have a serious discussion for just a moment?” I asked Monica. “Do you have reason to believe your life is in danger?”
“You mean other than my husband and his partner getting murdered?”
“Just because they were murdered doesn’t necessarily mean you’re a target.”
“Yeah, but how do I know?”
She had a point.
“I can’t even disappear,” Monica said. “I’m a person of interest. I have to stay in town. How crap-ass is that?”
She wolfed down two sliders and ordered another round of vodkas. I was still working on my second vodka.
“Cripes,” she said, looking at my vodka glass. “I’m drinking with a freaking amateur. Man up, for crying out loud.”
“I’m not that good at drinking,” I said.
Monica knocked back the third vodka. “Practice, practice, practice.”
Monica slid off her barstool a little after eleven o’clock. “I’m done,” she said. “Take me home.”
I’d managed to choke down three drinks and my world was out of focus. I was hoping Ranger was waiting in the lot because otherwise it was going to be an Uber night.
Monica and I marched arm in arm out of the bar and my wish came true. Ranger appeared at my side, and a Rangeman SUV drove up. Monica was trundled into the SUV, the door was closed, and the car disappeared into the night.
“I’m trashed,” I said to Ranger. “Take me home and put me to bed.”
“Babe.”
FIFTEEN
I WOKE UP in Ranger’s bed. Ranger was no longer in it, but it was clear that he had been. This is what happens when you tell a man to put you to bed and you don’t specify which bed. I felt around and determined I was wearing panties and one of Ranger’s T-shirts. I suspected I’d had help with the undressing. And I vaguely recalled Ranger tucking me in. The fact that I was still wearing panties was a good sign. I’d hate to think I had an event with Ranger and couldn’t remember it. That would be a horrible waste of guilt.
The room was cool and dark. A sliver of light peeked from behind a curtain. My iPhone had been placed on the bedside table. It was almost eight o’clock. I had a text message from Morelli telling me to call him.
Ranger owns a nine-story office building on a quiet, mostly residential street in downtown Trenton. He has underground parking, state-of-the-art security in the entire building, and a private apartment that occupies the top floor. The apartment is professionally decorated and feels right for Ranger. Clean classic lines, warm browns, and black leather. It’s slick and comfortable but feels impersonal. There are no family photos displayed, no trinkets brought back from vacations, no clutter. The apartment is kept pristine by his housekeeper, Ella. His T-shirts are neatly folded. His dress shirts and slacks are perfectly ironed and hung. His guns are kept in locked drawers. Everything is easy to arrange because he only wears black.
His bathroom is Zen and ultra modern. His bedroom is luxuriously calm and unpretentiously masculine. His towels are fluffy. His sheets are smooth. The scent of Bulgari Green shower gel lingers on everything he touches. I’d marry him if for no other reason than to inherit Ella and his expensive linens.
My clothes had been draped over a chair in the dressing room. A note was pinned to the clothes. It told me to help myself to breakfast and to take the car in parking space number twelve. He reminded me that the Linken funeral was at eleven, and I had to be at the mortuary chapel at ten-thirty. Crap!
/> I got dressed, grabbed a bagel from the kitchen, and took the elevator to the basement garage. A shiny black Porsche Macan was in parking space number twelve. The key was on the dash. I jumped in and took off. By nine o’clock I was in my apartment, in my shower. No time for a hangover. I had my hair dry and pulled into a ponytail by nine-thirty. I washed a couple Advil down with a mug of coffee, brushed my teeth, and grimaced at myself in the mirror. The bruise was even worse than it had been yesterday.
I ransacked my closet, looking for something appropriate for a funeral, preferably something without gravy or bloodstains. I settled on an ancient black suit with a pencil skirt, and I dressed it up with heels. I grabbed my bag, yelled goodbye to Rex, and took off at a run. I called Morelli from the car.
“Did you have any luck last night?” Morelli asked.
“I didn’t pick anything up at the viewing, but as you know I didn’t stay for the whole thing. Monica wanted to leave so I went with her.”
“I’m told you went to Lotus.”
“Monica needed a drink and a hook-up.”
“And?”
“She got lots of drinks,” I told him. “There was slim pickings in the hook-up department.”
“Yeah, there’s an older crowd at Lotus these days thanks to Viagra. Used to be we had to worry about guys bootlegging roofies. Now it’s little blue stiffie pills. Gives all the swingers from the seventies a second chance to get an STD. Were you able to get anything from Monica?”
“Nothing useful. She’s halfway afraid she’s on the hit list, but she’s hostile about getting questioned. And I think her brain is too pickled to hold a thought.”
“Thanks for trying. I appreciate it. I’ll see you at the funeral.”
“Don’t get too close to me. I’m making a huge effort to be civil, but deep down inside I’d really like to punch you in the face.”
“Understood.”
•••
Ranger was in the funeral home lot waiting for me when I skidded to a stop and parked. He was in a perfectly tailored black suit, black dress shirt, and tie. The Glock at his waist was undetectable and didn’t ruin the line of the jacket.
I got out of the Macan and made an attempt to smooth some of the wrinkles out of my skirt. “Thanks for rescuing me last night,” I said. “And thanks for the car loaner.”
“It’s part of my fleet, and it’s a permanent loaner. At least for as long as it lasts. You can’t go around collecting felons in a ’53 Buick. You’re too recognizable.”
People were beginning to gather for the funeral, pulling into the lot and lining up on the street.
“This is going to be a circus,” I said to Ranger. “Is the widow here yet?”
“She’s with the deceased, having a last moment alone with him. I have Tank babysitting her.”
“You’re going to have to give him a bonus for this one.”
“He’s getting the weekend off,” Ranger said.
We went inside and inserted earbuds with battery packs so we could communicate. The plan was for me to sit with Monica and for Ranger to stand at the back of the chapel. When the service was over Ranger and I would ride in the funeral home limo with Monica. Tank and Hal would follow in an SUV. The entire rest of Trenton would follow Tank and Hal.
Monica was wearing a skin-tight black sheath dress, her usual spike heels, and very dark oversized sunglasses.
“How do I look?” she asked me. “Do you think the television SAT truck will cover this?”
“I didn’t see the truck out there,” I said, “but it’s early.”
The service was short. No one tried to shoot anybody. No SAT truck showed up. Afterward we whisked Monica out the side door and into the limo. She took a flask out of her purse and chugged something that smelled like turpentine.
“When this is over I’m checking myself into Betty Ford,” Monica said. “Then after my liver enzymes go down I might allow myself a small drinkypoo once in a while.”
Good luck to Betty Ford.
It started raining halfway to the cemetery.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Monica said. “Rain? Could this day get any worse?”
A small canopy had been set over enough folding chairs for the immediate family. The rest of Trenton huddled under big black mortuary umbrellas. A chair next to Monica had been reserved for me, and I saw Grandma knock a couple people aside to secure a chair. I looked out over the rest of the mourners and recognized a few people from the Burg. Professor Pooka was there and also Dean Mintner.
“Do you know Professor Pooka from the Kiltman biology department?” I asked Monica.
“He’s a fruitcake. He came to Doug with a research project that needed funding. He came knocking on our door one night. Totally uninvited. Looked like a maniac. Practically foaming at the mouth about some crazy discovery.”
“Why did he come to Doug?”
“Doug was on a bunch of committees at Kiltman. He liked being a big-shot alum doing fundraising and shit.”
“Did Doug help him get the funding?”
“No. No one would fund Pooka and he was turned down for tenure. That’s all I know. Doug didn’t go into detail with me. He saved the chatter for the sluts.”
Spending time with Monica wasn’t doing a lot to enhance my opinion of marriage. Actually, it wasn’t doing much to enhance my opinion of human beings in general.
The priest was saying something about Doug Linken, but it was hard to hear him over the rain falling on the tarp. He made the sign of the cross and looked to Monica. The funeral director gave Monica a red rose, and Monica threw it at the casket.
“Done,” Monica said, standing. “Let’s eat. I ordered vodka rigatoni from Marsilio’s for the wake.”
•••
The wake was held at the firehouse in the room usually reserved for Tuesday bingo. There was a full serve-yourself bar, two tables of donated food in disposable containers, and enough vodka rig to feed two hundred people. I stayed close to Monica, Ranger watched from twenty paces, and Morelli hung in a corner and never took his eyes off me. He was in jeans, a blue buttoned-down shirt, a red and blue striped tie, and a navy blazer. It was the middle of the day, but he had a five o’clock shadow that looked good on him. The hem on his jeans had wicked up water. Aside from the jeans he seemed untouched by the rain.
I wasn’t doing as well as Morelli. My hair had frizzed up into a giant afro-type ponytail. My suit was damp and my shoes squished water.
“This is a real bust,” Grandma said, sidling up to me. “I like when the wake is in a house and you get to see people’s furniture and the kind of toilet paper they buy. This was hardly worth crashing.”
“Did you get anything to eat?”
“I had some vodka rig and Mabel Worchek’s meatball casserole. I’m thinking about going back for a piece of cake. There are some good-looking cakes there.”
“I’ve been thinking I might bake a cake.”
“Get out.”
“I found a recipe, and I bought a couple cake pans.”
“What brought this on?”
“It just came over me,” I said.
“You aren’t pregnant, are you?”
“No!”
“Well, just holler if you need help. And people are asking about that bruise you’ve got. It’s a pip. What am I supposed to tell people?”
“Tell them I got it in a bar fight.”
“Can I say you got hit by a drag queen?”
“Sure.”
“It would make a more interesting story,” Grandma said.
Monica was standing behind me and I heard her give a snort of laughter. “I’d take a day off from work to see you get punched out by anyone.”
“I thought you didn’t have a job,” I said to Monica.
“Yeah, but if I did.”
I looked around the room for possible suspects. In the movies the criminal always returns to the scene of the crime, always shows up at the funeral. Most of the people who showed up for this wake
were same old same old. Professional wake attendees. The couple people I recognized from Kiltman had only been present at graveside. Obviously the politically correct gesture didn’t extend to the wake. Obviously they didn’t know about the vodka rig.
“I’m soggy,” Monica said. “I want to go home. Grab one of those trays of vodka rig and meet me outside.”
“Copy,” Ranger said into my earbud.
I found a tray that was mostly untouched, covered it with aluminum foil, turned to leave, and bumped into Morelli.
“You could get into big trouble taking that vodka rig,” Morelli said. “That’s official wake property.”
“I’ll chance it.”
He gently traced his fingertip across my bruise. “I hate to see this.”
“You realize you’re risking that punch in the face.”
“Yeah. Go ahead take your best shot. I deserve it.”
“You’re only saying that because I have my hands filled with casserole.”
“True. Are you planning on having this for dinner?”
“Monica asked me to grab it for her.”
“Anything strike you as odd today?” Morelli asked.
“Other than the fact that the widow is showing no remorse?”
“You’d think she could at least pretend, right?”
“I think she’s in a transitional place,” I said. “Moving on with her life.”
“That’s charitable.”
“And she drinks a lot.”
“That’s real. I was looking for more than that. There was a weird-looking guy at graveside. He wasn’t part of the usual funeral crowd.”
“The guy wearing pajamas?”
“Yes.”
“That’s Stanley Pooka. He’s a biology professor at Kiltman. Doug Linken was a Kiltman alum. Active in fundraising and stuff. Dean Mintner was also at graveside.”
Ranger’s voice came into my earbud. “Kiss him goodbye and get out here with the food.”
“Gotta go,” I said to Morelli.
Monica was waiting in the SUV when I brought the vodka rig to her.
“Do you need further security?” Ranger asked her.
“No, but I wouldn’t mind keeping the two gorillas in the front seat for a couple hours of fun.”
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