Eleven on Top

by Janet Evanovich

  “Maybe you should fill me in on your musical accomplishments,” Morelli said.

  I plunked down on the couch beside him. “I don't have any musical accomplishments. I don't have any accomplishments of any kind. I'm stupid and boring. I don't have any hobbies. I don't play sports. I don't write poetry. I don't travel to interesting places. I don't even have a good job.”

  “That doesn't make you stupid and boring,” Morelli said.

  “Well, I feel stupid and boring. And I wanted to feel interesting. And somehow, someone told my mother and grandmother that I played the cello. I guess it was me... only it was like some foreign entity took possession of my body. I heard the words coming out of my mouth, but I'm sure they originated in some other brain. And it was so simple at first. One small mention. And then it took on a life of its own. And next thing, everyone knew.”

  “And you can't play the cello.”

  “I'm not even sure this is a cello.”

  Morelli went back to smiling. “And you think you're boring? No way, Cupcake.”

  “What about the stupid part?”

  Morelli threw his arm around me. “Sometimes that's a tough call.”

  “My mother expects me to play at Valerie's wedding.”

  “You can fake it,” Morelli said. “How hard can it be? You just make a couple passes with the bow and then you faint or pretend you broke your finger or something.”

  “That might work,” I said. “I'm good at faking it.”

  This led to a couple moments of uncomfortable silence from both of us.

  “You didn't mean... ?” Morelli asked.

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Never?”

  “Maybe once.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Once?”

  “It's all that comes to mind. It was the time we were late for your Uncle Spud's birthday party.”

  “I remember that. That was great. You're telling me you faked it?”

  “We were late! I couldn't concentrate. It seemed like the best way to go.”

  Morelli took his arm away and started flipping through channels with the remote.

  “You're mad,” I said.

  “I'm working on it. Don't push me.”

  I got up and closed the cello case and kicked it to the side of the room.

  “Men!”

  “At least we don't fake it.”

  “Listen, it was your uncle. And we were late, remember? So I made the sacrifice and got us there in time for dessert. You should be thanking me.”

  Morelli's mouth was open slightly and his face was registering a mixture of astonished disbelief and wounded, pissed-off male pride.

  Okay, it wasn't that much of a sacrifice at the time, and I knew he shouldn't be thanking me, but give me a break here... this wasn't famine in Ethiopia.

  And it wasn't as if I hadn't tried to have an orgasm. And it wasn't as if we didn't fib to each other from time to time.

  “I should be thanking you,” Morelli repeated, sounding like he was making a gigantic but futile effort to understand the female mind.

  “All right, I'll concede the thanking thing. How about if you're just happy I got you to the party in time for dessert?”

  Morelli cut me a sideways look. He wasn't having any of it. He returned his attention to the television and settled on a ball game.

  This is the reason I live with a hamster, I thought.

  Morelli was still on the couch watching television when I went downstairs to take Bob for his morning walk. I was wearing sweats that I'd found in Morelli's dresser, and I'd borrowed his Mets hat. I clipped the leash on Bob, and Morelli glanced over at me. “What's with the clothes? Trying to fake being me?”

  “Get a grip,” I said to Morelli.

  Bob was dancing around, looking desperate, so I hurried him out the front door. He took a big tinkle on Morelli's sidewalk and then he got all smiley and ready to walk. I like walking Bob at night when it's dark and no one can see where he poops. At night Bob and I are the phantom poopers, leaving it where it falls. By day, I have to carry plastic pooper bags. I don't actually mind scooping the poop. It's carrying it around for the rest of the walk that I hate. It's hard to look hot when you're carrying a bag of dog poop.

  I walked Bob for almost an hour. We returned to the house. I fed Bob. I made coffee. I brought Morelli coffee, juice, his paper, and a bowl of raisin bran. I ran upstairs, took a shower, did some makeup and hair magic, got dressed in my black clothes, and came downstairs ready for work.

  “Is there anything you need before I leave?” I asked Morelli.

  Morelli gave me a full body scan. “Dressing sexy for Ranger?”

  I was wearing black jeans, black Chucks, and a stretchy V-neck black T-shirt that didn't show any cleavage. “Is that sarcasm?” I asked.

  “No. It's an observation.”

  “This is not sexy.”

  “That shirt is too skimpy.”

  “I've worn this shirt a million times. You've never objected to it before.”

  “That's because it was worn for me. You need to change that shirt.”

  “Okay,” I said, arms in air, nostrils flaring. “You want me to change my shirt. I'll change my shirt.” And I stomped up the stairs and stripped off all my clothes. I'd brought every piece of black I owned to Morelli's house, so I pawed through my wardrobe and came up with skintight black spandex workout pants that rode low and were worn commando. I changed my shoes to black Pumas. And I wriggled into a black spandex wrap shirt that didn't quite meet the top of the workout pants and showed a lot of cleavage... at least as much as I could manage without implants. I stomped back down the stairs and paraded into the living room to show Morelli.

  “Is this better?” I asked.

  Morelli narrowed his eyes and reached for me, but he couldn't move far without his crutches. I beat him to the crutches and ran to the kitchen with them. I hustled out of the house, backed Morelli's SUV out of the garage, and motored off to work.

  I used my new key fob to get into the underground garage and parked in the area reserved for noncompany cars. I took the elevator to the fifth floor, stepped into the control room, and six sets of eyes looked up from the screens and locked onto me. Halfway to work, I'd pulled Morelli's sweatshirt out of my shoulder bag and put it on over my little stretchy top. It was a nice, big shapeless thing that came well below my ass and gave me a safe unisex look. I smiled at the six men on deck. They all smiled back and returned to their work.

  I was a half hour early and for the first time in a long time I was excited to get to work. I wanted to finish the Barroni search, and then I wanted to move on to Jimmy Runion. I still had one file left to search for Frederick Rodriguez. I decided to do it first and get it off my desk. I was still working on the Rodriguez file when Ranger appeared in my cubby entrance.

  “We have a date,” Ranger said. “You're scheduled for ten o'clock practice downstairs.”

  Here's the thing about guns. I hate them. I don't even like them when they're not loaded. “I'm in the middle of something,” I said. “Maybe we could reschedule for some other time.” Like never.

  “We're doing this now,” Ranger said. “This is important. And I don't want to find your gun in your desk drawer when you leave. If you work for me, you carry a gun.”

  “I don't have permission to carry concealed.”

  Ranger shoved my chair with his foot and rolled me back from the computer.

  “Then you carry exposed.”

  “I can't do that. I'll feel like Annie Oakley.”

  Ranger pulled me out of the chair. “You'll figure it out. Get your gun. We have the range for an hour.”

  I took the gun out of the desk drawer, shoved it into my sweatshirt pocket, and followed Ranger to the elevator. We exited into the garage and walked to the rear. Ranger unlocked the door to the range and switched the light on.

  The room was windowless and appeared to stretch the length of the building. There were two lanes for shooters. Remote-controll
ed targets at the far end. Shelves and a thick bulletproof glass partition that separated the shooters

  at the head of each lane.

  “With a little effort you could turn this into a bowling alley,” I said to Ranger.

  “This is more fun,” Ranger said. “And I'm having a hard time seeing you in bowling shoes.”

  “Its not fun. I don't like guns.”

  “You don't have to like them, but if you work for me you have to feel comfortable with them and know how to use them and be safe.”

  Ranger took two headsets and a box of ammo and put them on my shelf. “We'll start with basics. You have a nine-millimeter Sig Sauer. It's a semiautomatic.”

  Ranger removed the magazine, showed it to me, and shoved it back into the gun. “Now you do it,” he said.

  I removed the magazine and reloaded. I did it ten times. Ranger did a step-by-step demonstration on firing. He gave the gun back to me, and I went through the process ten times. I was nervous, and it felt stuffy in the narrow room, and I was starting to sweat. I put the gun on the shelf, and I took off Morelli's sweatshirt.

  “Babe,” Ranger said. And he pulled his key fob out of his pocket and hit a button.

  “What did you just do?” I asked him.

  “I scrambled the security camera in this room. Hal will fall out of his seat upstairs if he sees you in this outfit.”

  “You don't want to know the long story, but the short story is I wore it to annoy Morelli.”

  “I'm in favor of anything that annoys Morelli,” Ranger said. He moved in close and looked down at me. “This wouldn't be my first choice as a work uniform, but I like it.” He ran a finger across the slash of stomach not covered by clothing, and I felt heat rush into private places. He splayed his hand at my hip and turned his interest to my workout pants. “I especially like these pants. What do you wear under them?”

  And here's where I made my mistake. I was hot and flustered and a flip answer seemed in order. Problem was the answer that popped out of my mouth was a tad flirty.

  “There are some things a man should find out for himself,” I said.

  Ranger reached for the waistband on the spandex pants, and I shrieked and

  jumped back.

  “Babe,” Ranger said, smiling. I was amusing him, again.

  I glanced at my watch. “Actually, I need to leave the building for a while.”

  “Looking for another job?”

  “No. This is personal.”

  Ranger pushed the button to unscramble the surveillance camera. “Wear the sweatshirt when you're on deck in the control room.” “Deal.”

  A half hour later, I was idling across the street from Stiva's. The hearse and the flower cars were in place at the side entrance. Three black Town Cars lined up behind the flower cars. I sat and watched the casket come out.

  Macaronis followed. The flower cars were already loaded. The cars slowly moved out and drove the short distance to the church. I saw no sign of Spiro. I followed at a distance and parked half a block from the church. I had a clear view of the parking lot and the front of the church. I settled back to wait. This would take a while. The Macaronis would want Mass. The parking lot was full and the surrounding streets were bumper-to-bumper cars.

  The entire Burg had turned out.

  An hour later, I was worrying about my cubicle sitting empty. I was getting paid to do computer searches, not hang out at funerals. And then just as I was thinking about leaving and returning to work, the doors to the church opened and people began to file out. I caught a glimpse of the casket being rolled out a side door to the waiting hearse. Engines caught up and down the street. Stiva's assistants were out, lining up cars, attaching flags to antennae.

  I was intently watching the crowd at the church and jumped when Ranger rapped on my side window.

  “Have you seen Spiro?” No.

  “I'm right behind you. Lock up and we'll take my car.”

  Ranger was driving a black Porsche Cayenne. I slid onto the passenger seat and buckled up. “How did you find me?”

  “Woody picked you up on the screen, realized you were following the funeral, and told me.”

  “It'll be ugly if Morelli finds out you're tracking his SUV.”

  "I'll remove the transponder when you stop using the car.

  “I don't suppose there's any way I can get you to stop tracking me?”

  “You don't want me to stop tracking you, Babe. I'm keeping you safe.”

  He was right. And I was sufficiently freaked out by Spiro to tolerate the intrusion.

  “This isn't personal leave time,” Ranger said. “This is work. You should have run it by me. We had to scramble to coordinate this.”

  “Sorry. It was a last-minute decision ... as you can see from my clothes. My mother will need a pill after she starts getting the reports back on my cemetery appearance.”

  “We're wearing black,” Ranger said. “We're in the ballpark. Just keep your sweatshirt zipped, so the men don't accidentally fall into the grave.”

  Cars were moving around in front of the church, jockeying for position. The hearse pulled into the street and the procession followed, single file, lights on. Ranger waited for the last car to go by before he fell into line. There'd been no sign of Spiro, but then I hadn't expected him to show up at church, shaking hands and chatting. I'd expected him to do another drive-by or maybe hang in a shadow somewhere. Or maybe he'd be hidden at some distance, waiting for the graveside ceremony, using binoculars to see the results of his insanity.

  “Tank's already at the cemetery,” Ranger said. "He's watching the perimeter.

  He's got Slick and Eddie working with him."

  It was a slow drive to Mama Macs final resting place. Ranger wasn't famous for making small talk, so it was also a quiet drive. We parked and got out of the Cayenne. The sky was overcast, and the air was unusually cool for the time of year. I was happy to have the sweatshirt. We'd been the last to arrive, and that meant we had the longest walk. By the time we made it to the grave site, the principals were seated and the large crowd had closed around them.

  This was perfect for our purpose. We were able to stand at a distance and keep watch.

  Ranger and I were shoulder to shoulder. Two professionals, doing a job. Problem was, one of the professionals didn't do well at funerals. I was a funeral basket case. Possibly the only thing I hated more than a gun was a funeral. They made me sad. Really sad. And the sadness had nothing to do with the deceased.

  I got weepy over perfect strangers.

  The priest stood and repeated the Lord's Prayer and I felt my eyes well with tears. I concentrated on counting blades of grass at my feet, but the words intruded. I blinked the tears back and swung my thoughts to Bob. I tried to envision Bob hunching. He was going to hock up a sock. The tears ran down my cheeks. It was no good. Bob thoughts couldn't compete with the smell of fresh-turned earth and funeral flowers. “Shit,” I whispered. And I sniffed back some snot.

  Ranger turned to me. His brown eyes were curious and the corners of his mouth were tipped up ever so slightly. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  I found a tissue in one of the sweatshirt pockets, and I blew my nose. “I'm fine. I just have this reaction to funerals!”

  Several people on the outermost ring of mourners glanced our way.

  Ranger put his arm around me. “You didn't like Mama Mac. You hardly knew her.”

  “It doesn't m-m-matter,” I sobbed.

  Ranger drew me closer. “Babe, we're starting to attract a lot of attention. Could you drop the sobbing down a level?”

  “Ashes to ashes ...” the priest said.

  And I totally lost it. I slumped against Ranger and cried. He was wearing a windbreaker, and he wrapped me in the open windbreaker, hugging me in to him, his face pressed to the side of my head, shielding me as best he could from people turning to see the sobbing idiot. I was burrowed into him, trying to muffle the sobs, and I could feel him shaking with silent laughter.


  “You're despicable,” I hissed, giving him a punch in the chest. “Stop laughing. This is s-sssad.”

  Several people turned and shushed me.

  “It's okay,” Ranger said, still silently laughing, arms wrapped tight around me. “Don't pay any attention to them. Just let it all out.”

  I hiccupped back a couple small sobs, and I wiped my nose with my sleeve.

  “This is nothing. You should see me at a parade when the drums and the flag go by.”