“I put them in the cookie jar for safekeeping.”
Morelli walked into the kitchen, lifted the lid on the cookie jar, and removed his keys. Morelli looked like a real badass . . . lean and hard in a black T-shirt, washed-out jeans that fit him great across the butt, and new running shoes. He wore his gun at his hip, out of sight under a lightweight jacket. His hair was dark and his eyes were dark and he looked like he frequently traveled through places where men's hearts were dark.
“I'm not surprised to find the thirty-eight in here,” he said.
“But what's with the box of condoms?”
“They're for an emergency. Like the gun.”
He pocketed the keys and looked me over. “You get into a fight with the guy who owns the lube gun at Midas?”
“Punky Balog. He thought if he was greased up and naked I wouldn't take him in.”
“Hah,” Morelli said. “Greased up and naked is your specialty. Are you done for the day?”
“No. I came home to get cleaned. Did you see the article about Vinnie and the visa bond?”
“Yeah.”
“Samuel Singh, the bondee, is missing.”
Morelli grinned. “That's fun.”
No one wanted to see Vinnie selling used cars in Scotts-dale, but we all enjoyed watching him sweat. Vinnie sat on a rotting branch of my family tree. Only a couple roaches from my Aunt Tootle's kitchen sat lower than Vinnie. He was a pervert, a con man, and a paranoid grouch. And in spite of all that (or maybe because of it) he was liked. He was Jersey. How can you not like Jersey?
“As soon as I change my clothes I'm going out to talk to Singh's boss,” I told Morelli.
“I'm surprised Vinnie didn't give this to Ranger.”
Our eyes locked for a long moment while I searched for a reply, thinking a fib might be the way to go.
“Shit, Stephanie,” Morelli finally said, hands on hips, hard set to his mouth. “Don't tell me you're working with Ranger again.”
Morelli and I were legitimately separated when I slept with Ranger. When Morelli and I got back together, he never asked and I never told. Still, the suspicion was there and the association rankled. And beyond the suspicion, there was a very real concern that Ranger sometimes operated a tad too far left of the law. “It's my job,” I told Morelli.
“The guy's nuts. He doesn't have an address. The address on his driver's license is an empty lot. And I think he kills people.”
“I'm pretty sure he only kills bad guys.”
“That makes me feel a lot better.”
I didn't actually know if Ranger killed people. Truth is, no one knows much about Ranger. The only thing I know for sure is that he's a primo bounty hunter. And he's the sort of lover who could make a woman forget she values commitment.
“I have to take a shower,” I told Morelli.
“Need help?”
“No! I want to talk to Singh's employer, TriBro Tech. It's on the other side of Route One and I want to get there before the workday ends.”
“I think I'm getting turned on by the Vaseline,” Morelli said.
Everything turns Morelli on. “Go to work! Catch a drug dealer or something.”
“I'll hold the thought for tonight,” Morelli said. “Maybe you should come home and take a nap after TriBro.” And he left.
Twenty minutes later, I was out the door. My clean hair was pulled into a pony tail. I was wearing sandals, a short black skirt, and a white sweater with a low scoop neck. I had pepper spray in my purse, just in case. I couldn't match Connie in the cleavage department, but thanks to Victoria's Secret I was making the most of what I had.
TriBro was located in a light industrial park just east of the city. I cut across town, picked up Route 1, and counted off two exits. I took the off-ramp directly into the complex, located B Street, and parked in TriBro's lot. The structure in front of me was single story, cinderblock construction, brick front, sign to the right of the front door. TriBro Tech.
The reception area was utilitarian. Industrial-grade charcoal carpet, commercial-grade dark wood furniture, overhead fluorescent lighting. Large fake potted plant by the door. Very orderly. Very clean. The woman behind the desk was professionally friendly. I introduced myself and asked to speak to Singh's superior.
A man appeared in an open doorway behind the woman. “I'm Andrew Cone,” he said. “Perhaps I can help you.”
He was mid-forties, average height, slim build, seriously thinning brown hair, amiable brown eyes. He wore a blue dress shirt, one button open at the throat, sleeves neatly rolled. Khaki slacks. He ushered me into his office and directed me to a chair across from his desk. His office was tastefully decorated. He had a World's Best Dad coffee mug on his desk and framed photos in his bookcase. The photos were of two little boys and a blond woman. They were at the beach. They were dressed for a party. They were hugging a small spotted dog.
“I'm looking for Samuel Singh,” I told Andrew Cone, passing him a business card.
He smiled at me with slightly raised eyebrows. “Bond enforcement? What's a nice girl like you doing in a tough job like that?”
“Paying the rent, mostly.”
“And Singh skipped out on you?”
“Not yet. He has another week left on his visa. This is routine monitoring.”
Cone wagged his finger at me. “That's a fib. Singh's landlord and her daughter were here earlier. They haven't seen Singh in five days. And neither have we. Singh didn't show up for work last Wednesday and we haven't seen or heard from him since. I read the article in today's paper. Unfortunate timing.”
“Do you have any idea where he might be?”
“No, but I don't think it's any place good. He didn't pick up his paycheck on Friday. Usually, only the dead and the deported don't show up for their paycheck.”
“Did he have a locker here? Any friends I might talk to?”
“No locker. I've asked around, but I didn't come up with much. The general opinion is that Singh's likeable enough, but a loner.”
I looked around the office. No clues as to the nature of Tri-Bro's business. “So what sort of business is this? And what did Singh do for you?”
“TriBro makes very specific parts for slot machines. My father and his two brothers started the business in fifty-two, and now it's owned by me and my two brothers, Bart and Clyde. My mother had hopes for a large family and thought it would simplify things to name her children alphabetically. I have two sisters. Diane and Evelyn.”
“Your parents stopped at five?”
“They divorced after five. I think it was the stress of living in a house with one bathroom and five kids.”
I felt myself smiling. I liked Andrew Cone. He was a pleasant guy and he had a sense of humor. “And Singh?”
“Singh was a techie, working in quality control. We hired him to temporarily fill in for a woman who was out on maternity leave.”
“Do you think his disappearance could be work related?”
“Are you asking if the Mob rubbed him out?”
“That would be part of the question.”
“We're actually a pretty boring little cog in the casino wheel,” Cone said. “I don't think the Mob would be interested in Singh's contribution to gambling.”
“Terrorist connection?”
Cone grinned and tipped back in his chair. “Not likely. From what I hear, Singh was addicted to American television and junk food and would give his life to protect the country that spawned the Egg McMuffin.”
“Did you know him personally?”
“Only as boss to employee. This is a small company. Bart and Clyde and I know everyone who works here, but we don't necessarily socialize with the people on the line.”
Raised voices carried in to us.
“My brothers,” Andrew said. “No volume control.”
A slightly younger, balder version of Andrew stuck his head in the doorway. “We got a problem.” He looked my way. “And you would be who?”
“Bond enforcement?”
A third face appeared in the doorway. This face was round and cherubic with eyes peering out from behind wire-rimmed glasses. The face came with a chubby body dressed in homeboy jeans, a Buzz Lightyear sweatshirt that had been washed almost to oblivion and beyond, and ratty sneakers.
“You're a bounty hunter, right?” the baby-faced guy said. “Do you have a gun?”
“No gun.”
“They always have guns on television.”
“I left my gun home.”
“I bet you don't need one. I bet you're real sneaky. You just sneak up to someone and bam, you've got him in handcuffs, right?”
“Right.”
“Are you going to handcuff someone here?”
“Not today.”
“My brothers,” Andrew said, gesturing to the two men. “Bart and Clyde Cone.”
Bart was wearing a black dress shirt, black slacks, and black loafers. Black Bart.
“If you're here about Samuel Singh, we have nothing to say on the matter,” Bart said. “He was very briefly in our employ.”
“Did you know him personally?”
“I did not. And I'm afraid I have to speak to my brother privately. We have a problem on the line.”
Clyde leaned close to me. Friendly. “There's always a problem on the line,” he said, smiling, not caring much. “Shits always breaking. Gizmos and stuff like that.” His eyes got wide. “How about a taser? Have you ever used a taser?”
Bart pressed his lips together and threw Clyde a dark look.
The look rolled off Clyde. “I never met a bounty hunter before,” Clyde said, his breath steaming his glasses.
I'd hoped for more information from TriBro. The name of a friend or enemy would have been helpful. Some knowledge of travel plans would have been nice. What I got was a vague idea of the nature of Singh's job and a dinner invitation from Clyde Cone, who I suspected was only interested in my stun gun.
I declined the dinner invitation and I rolled out of the lot. Ranger was working the Apusenjas' neighborhood. I didn't want to step on Ranger's toes, but I worried that Boo the cockapoo wasn't a priority for him. It was getting to be late afternoon. I could cut across town and do a quick drive around, looking for Boo, and then I'd be in a good position to mooch dinner from my mom.
I called Morelli and told him the plan. “You can mooch dinner, too,” I said.
“Last time I ate dinner at your parents' house your sister threw up three times and your grandmother fell asleep in her mashed potatoes.”
“And?”
“And I'd like to mooch dinner, but I have to work late. I swear to God, I really do have to work late.”
Nonnie and Mama Apusenja lived a quarter mile from my parents' house, in a neighborhood that was very similar to the Burg. Houses were narrow, two stories, set on narrow lots. The Apusenja house was a two-toned clapboard, painted a bilious green on the top and chocolate brown on the bottom. A ten-year-old burgundy Ford Escort was parked curbside. The small backyard was fenced. I couldn't see all the yard, but what I could see didn't contain a dog. I cruised four blocks without a Boo sighting. Also, no Ranger sighting. I turned a corner and my cell phone chirped.
“Yo,” Ranger said.
“Yo yourself,” I told him. “Do you have Singh in leg irons?”
“Singh is nowhere to be found.”
“And the dog?”
A couple beats of silence. “What's with you and the dog?”
“I don't know. I just have these dog feelings.”
"Not a good sign, babe. Next thing you'll be adopting cats.
And then one day you'll get all choked up when you walk down the baby food aisle in the supermarket. And you know what happens after that..."
“What?”
“You'll be punching holes in Morelli's condoms.”
I would like to think the scenario was funny, but I was afraid it might be true. “I visited with the people at TriBro,” I told Ranger. “I didn't come away with anything useful.”
I caught a familiar reflection in my rearview mirror. Ranger in his truck. How he always managed to find me was part of the mystery.
Ranger flashed his lights to make sure I saw him. “Let's talk to the Apusenjas,” he said.
We drove around the block to Sully Street, parked behind the burgundy Escort, and walked to the door together.
Mama Apusenja answered. She was still in the sari and her fat rolls made me think of the Michelin tire guy.
“Well,” she said to me, with a head wag. “I see you've cleaned yourself up. You must be a terrible burden to your mother. I am feeling so sorry for her not to have a proper daughter.”
I narrowed my eyes and opened my mouth to speak and Ranger leaned into me and rested a hand on my shoulder. Probably he thought I was going to do something rash, like call Mrs. Apusenja a fat cow. And in fact he was right. Fat cow was on the tip of my tongue.
“I thought it might be helpful to see Singh's room,” Ranger said to Mrs. Apusenja.
“Will you be bringing this one in with you?”
Rangers grip on me tightened. “This one's name is Stephanie,” Ranger said pleasantly. “And yes, she'll be coming with me.”
“I suppose it will be all right,” Mrs. Apusenja said grudgingly “I will expect you to be careful. I keep a very nice house.” She stepped back from the door and motioned us in to the living room. “This is the formal parlor,” she said proudly “And beyond that is the dining room. And then the kitchen.”
Ranger and I stood speechless for a moment, taking it all in. The house was filled to the bursting with overstuffed furniture, end tables, lamps, trinkets, dried flowers, faded photos, stacks of magazines and bowls of fake fruit. And elephants. There were ceramic elephants, elaborate elephant couch pillows, elephant clocks, foot stools, and planters. Elephants aside, there was no dominant style or color. It was a garage sale waiting to happen.
I watched Ranger scan the room and I suspected he was doing a mental grimace. It would be easy to miss a note in the mess. For that matter, it would be easy to miss Singh. He could be slouched in a chair somewhere and never be noticed.
Mrs. Apusenja led the way upstairs, across the short hallway to a small bedroom. She was wearing pink rubber flip-flops that slapped against her heels and hit the floor at an angle so her heel was always half off the shoe. Her toenails were massive, painted a virulent shimmering purple. I was directly behind her and from my angle her ass looked to be about three feet across.
“This is Samuel's room,” she said, gesturing to the open door. “It's so sad that it's empty. He was such a nice young man. So polite. Very respectful.” She said this cutting a look back at me, sending the message that she knew I had none of those wonderful qualities.
Ranger and I stepped inside the room and I was hit with a wave of claustrophobia. The double bed was neatly made, covered with a green, yellow, and purple-flowered quilted bedspread that shouted yikes. The curtains matched the bedspread and hung over seasick green sheers. The walls were plastered with outdated calendars and thumb-tacked posters, subjects ranging from Winnie the Pooh to Springsteen, the Starship Enterprise, and Albert Einstein. There was a night-stand beside the bed and a small desk and rickety chair wedged between the bed and the wall.
To the Nines Page 3