I was about to leave when a car swung into the lot, parked in a space at the far perimeter, and killed its lights. A man got out of the car and quickly walked, head down, to the Cherokee. It wasn’t Joe. It was Mooch again. I rested my forehead on my knees and closed my eyes. I’d been naive to think Joe would fall into my trap. The entire police force was after his ass. He wasn’t going to barge into a setup like this. I sulked for a few seconds and then pushed it aside, vowing to be smarter next time. I should have put myself in Joe’s place. Would I have exposed myself by personally coming after the car? No. Okay, so I was learning. Rule number one: don’t underestimate the enemy. Rule number two: think like a felon.
Mooch opened the driver’s door with a key and slid behind the wheel. The starter churned but didn’t catch. Mooch waited a few minutes and tried again. He got out and looked under the hood. I knew this wouldn’t take long. It didn’t take a genius to notice a missing distributor cap. Mooch pulled his head out from under the hood, slammed the hood down, kicked a tire, and said something colorful. He jogged back to his car and peeled out of the lot.
I slunk out of the shadows and trudged the short distance to the back entrance to my building. My skirt clung to my legs and water squished in my shoes. The night had been a bust, but it could have been worse. Joe could have sent his mother to get the car.
The lobby was empty, looking even bleaker than usual. I punched the elevator button and waited. Water dripped from the end of my nose and off the hem of my skirt, forming a small lake on the gray tile floor. Two side-by-side elevators serviced the building. No one, so far as I knew, had ever plummeted to their death or been skyrocketed out of the top of the elevator shaft in a runaway elevator, but chances of getting stuck between floors was excellent. Usually I used the stairs. Tonight, I decided to carry my masochistic stupidity to the max and take the elevator. The cage lurched into place, the doors gaped open, and I stepped in. I ascended to the second floor without incident and sloshed down the hall. I fumbled in my pocketbook for the key and was letting myself into my apartment when I remembered the distributor cap. I’d left it downstairs, behind the azaleas. I thought about retrieving it, but it was a short thought and of no consequence. No way was I going back downstairs.
I bolted the door behind me and peeled my clothes off while standing on the small patch of linoleum that served as my foyer. My shoes were ruined, and the seat of my skirt bore the imprint of yesterday’s headlines. I left every stitch I’d worn in a sodden heap on the floor and went straight to the bathroom.
I adjusted the water, stepped into the tub, pulled the shower curtain closed, and let the hard spray beat down on me. The day hadn’t been all bad, I told myself. I’d made a recovery. I was legitimate now. First thing in the morning I’d collect my money from Vinnie. I lathered up and rinsed off. I washed my hair. I turned the dial to shower massage and stood for a very long time, letting the tension ease from my body. Twice now Joe had used Mooch as his errand boy. Maybe I should be watching Mooch. Problem was I couldn’t watch everyone at once.
I was distracted by a blur of color on the other side of the translucent, soap-slicked shower curtain. The blur moved and my heart momentarily stopped dead in my chest. Someone was in my bathroom. The shock was numbing. I stood statue still for a few beats without a thought in my head. Then I remembered Ramirez, and my stomach rolled. Ramirez could have come back. He could have talked the super into giving him a key, or he could have come in through a window. God only knows what Ramirez was capable of doing.
I’d brought my pocketbook into the bathroom, but it was out of reach on the vanity counter.
The intruder crossed the room in two strides and ripped the shower curtain off the rod with such force the plastic loops at the top popped off and scattered. I screamed and blindly threw the shampoo bottle, cowering back against the wall tiles.
It wasn’t Ramirez. It was Joe Morelli. He had the curtain bunched in one hand; the other hand curled into a fist. A welt was forming on his forehead where the bottle had made contact. He was beyond angry, and I wasn’t so sure gender was going to keep me from getting a broken nose. Fine with me. I was spoiling for a fight. Who did this yodel think he was, first scaring me half to death and then wrecking my shower curtain.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I shrieked. “Haven’t you ever heard of a goddamn doorbell? How did you get in here?”
“You left your bedroom window open.”
“The screen was locked.”
“Screens don’t count.”
“If you’ve ruined that screen I’ll expect you to pay for it. And what about this shower curtain? Shower curtains don’t grow on trees, you know.” I’d lowered the volume on my voice, but the pitch was still a full octave higher than normal. In all honesty, I hadn’t any idea what I was saying. My mind was racing down uncharted roads of fury and panic. I was furious that he’d violated my privacy, and I was panicked that I was naked.
Under the right circumstances naked is fine—taking showers, making love, being born. Standing naked and dripping wet in front of Joe Morelli, who was completely clothed, was the stuff nightmares are made of.
I shut the water off and grabbed at a towel, but Morelli slapped my hand away and threw the towel onto the floor behind him.
“Give me that towel,” I demanded.
“Not until we’ve gotten a few things straightened out.”
As a kid, Morelli’d been out of control. I’d reached the conclusion that as an adult Morelli had control in spades. The Italian temper was clear in his eyes, but the amount of violence displayed was tightly calculated. He was wearing a black rain-drenched T-shirt and jeans. When he twisted toward the towel rack I could see the gun stuck into his jeans at the small of his back.
It wasn’t difficult to envision Morelli killing, but I found myself agreeing with Ranger and Eddie Gazarra—I couldn’t see this grown-up Morelli being stupid and impulsive.
He had his hands on his hips. His hair was wet, curling on his forehead and over his ears. His mouth was hard and unsmiling. “Where’s my distributor cap?”
When in doubt, always take the offensive. “If you don’t get out of my bathroom this instant I’m going to start screaming.”
“It’s two o’clock in the morning, Stephanie. All your neighbors are sound asleep with their hearing aids on their nightstands. Scream away. No one’s going to hear you.”
I stood my ground and scowled at him. It was my best effort at defiance. I’d be damned if I was going to give him the satisfaction of looking vulnerable and embarrassed.
“I’m going to ask you one more time,” he said. “Where’s my distributor cap?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Listen, Cupcake, I’ll tear this place apart if I have to.”
“I don’t have the cap. The cap isn’t here. And I’m not your cupcake.”
“Why me?” he asked. “What did I do to deserve this?”
I raised an eyebrow.
Morelli sighed. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.” He took my pocketbook from the counter, turned it upside down, and let the contents fall to the floor. He picked the cuffs out of the mess and took a step forward. “Give my your wrist.”
“Pervert.”
“You wish.” He flicked the cuff out and clicked it onto my right wrist.
I yanked my right arm back hard and kicked at him, but it was difficult to maneuver in the tub. He sidestepped my kick and locked the remaining steel bracelet onto the shower curtain rod. I gasped and froze, unable to believe what had just happened.
Morelli stepped back and looked at me, doing a slow whole-body scan. “You want to tell me where the cap is?”
I was incapable of speech, bereft of bravado. I could feel the flush of apprehension and embarrassment staining my cheeks, constricting my throat.
“Wonderful,” Morelli said. “Do the silent thing. You can hang there forever for all I care.”
He rummaged through t
he vanity drawers, emptied the wastebasket, and took the lid off the toilet tank. He stormed out of the bathroom without giving me so much as a backward glance. I could hear him methodically, professionally moving through my apartment, searching every square inch. Silverware clanked, drawers slammed, closet doors were wrenched open. There were sporadic patches of quiet, followed by mutterings.
I tried hanging my full weight on the bar, hoping to bend it, but the rod was industrial strength, built to endure.
At last Morelli appeared in the bathroom doorway.
“Well?” I snapped. “Now what?”
He indolently leaned against the frame. “Just came back to take another look.” A grin surfaced at the corners of his mouth as his eyes locked halfway down my chest. “Cold?”
When I got loose I was going to track him down like a dog. I didn’t care if he was innocent or guilty. And I didn’t care if it took the rest of my life. I was going to get Morelli. “Go to hell.”
The grin widened. “You’re lucky I’m a gentleman. There are individuals out there who’d take advantage of a woman in your situation.”
“Spare me.”
He shifted off the doorjamb. “It’s been a pleasure.”
“Wait a minute! You’re not leaving, are you?”
“Afraid so.”
“What about me? What about the handcuffs?”
He debated his options for a moment. He stepped off into the kitchen and returned with the portable phone. “I’m going to lock the front door when I leave, so make sure whoever you call has a key.”
“Nobody has a key!”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Morelli said. “Call the police. Call the fire department. Call the fucking Marines.”
“I’m naked!”
He smiled and winked and walked out the door.
I heard the front door to my apartment close and lock. I didn’t expect an answer, but I felt compelled to call out to Morelli as a test. I waited a few moments, holding my breath, listening to the silence. Morelli seemed to be gone. My fingers curled tighter around the phone. God help the phone company if they’d reneged on their promise to resume my service. I climbed onto the edge of the tub to bring myself up to the height of my secured hand. I carefully extended the antenna, pushed the on button, and put my ear to the handset. The dial tone sang out loud and clear. I was so relieved I almost burst into tears.
Now I was faced with a new problem. Who to call? The police and the fire company were out. They’d roar into my parking lot with their lights flashing, and by the time they got to my door, forty senior citizens would be standing in my hall in their jammies, waiting to see what all the excitement was about, waiting for an explanation.
I’d come to realize there were certain peculiarities about the seniors in my building. They were vicious when it came to parking, and they had a fascination for emergencies that bordered on the ghoulish. At the first hint of a flashing light, every senior in my building had their nose pressed to the window glass.
I also could do without four or five of the city’s finest leering at me chained naked to my shower curtain rod.
If I called my mother, I’d have to move out of state because she’d never let up. And besides, she’d send my father, and then my father would see me naked. Being naked and handcuffed in front of my father wasn’t something I could visualize.
If I called my sister, she’d call my mother.
I’d hang here and rot before I’d call my ex-husband.
To make it even more complicated, whoever came to rescue me was either going to have to climb the fire escape or jimmy the front door. I could only come up with one name. I squeezed my eyes shut. “Shit.” I was going to have to call Ranger. I took a deep breath and tapped out his number, praying I’d remembered it correctly.
It took only one ring for him to pick up. “Yo.”
“Ranger?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Stephanie Plum. I have a problem.”
There was a pause two beats long, and I could imagine him coming alert, sitting up in bed. “What’s the problem?”
I rolled my eyes, only half believing I was making this phone call. “I’m handcuffed to my shower curtain rod, and I need someone to open the cuffs.”
Another pause and he disconnected.
I redialed, punching the buttons so hard I almost broke a finger.
“Yo!” Ranger said, sounding good and pissed off.
“Don’t hang up! This is serious, dammit. I’m trapped in my bathroom. My front door is locked and no one has a key.”
“Why don’t you call the cops? They love this rescue shit.”
“Because I don’t want to have to explain to the cops. And besides, I’m naked.”
“Heh, heh, heh.”
“It’s not funny. Morelli broke into my apartment while I was in the shower, and the son of a bitch handcuffed me to the shower rod.”
“You gotta like the guy.”
“Are you going to help me, or what?”
“Where do you live?”
“The apartment building at the corner of St. James and Dunworth. Apartment 215. It’s a rear apartment. Morelli got in by climbing the fire escape and going through the window. You can probably do the same.”
I couldn’t actually blame Morelli for cuffing me to the curtain rod. After all, I had sort of stolen his car. And I could understand that he needed to keep me out of the way while he searched my apartment. I might even be able to forgive him for destroying my shower curtain in a show of macho force, but he went too far when he left me hanging here naked. If he thought this would discourage me, he was wrong. This whole deal was now in the ballpark of double-dare, and childish as it might be, I was not going to walk away from the challenge. I’d get Morelli or die trying.
I’d been standing in the tub for what seemed like hours when I heard my front door open and close. The steam from the shower had long ago dissipated and the air had turned cool. My hand was numb from being held overhead. I was exhausted and hungry and had the beginnings of a headache.
Ranger appeared in the bathroom doorway, and I was too relieved to be embarrassed. “I appreciate your coming out in the middle of the night,” I said.
Ranger smiled. “Didn’t want to miss seeing you chained up naked.”
“The keys are in the mess on the floor.”
He found the keys, pried the phone loose from my fingers, and unlocked the cuffs. “You and Morelli got something kinky going on?”
“Remember when you gave me his keys this afternoon?”
“Un huh.”
“I sort of borrowed his car.”
“Borrowed?”
“Commandeered, actually. You know, about us having the law and all?”
“Un huh.”
“Well, I commandeered his car, and he found out.”
Ranger smiled and handed me a towel. “He understand about commandeering?”
“Let’s just say he wasn’t pleased. Anyway, I parked the car in the lot out here and removed the distributor cap as a safety precaution.”
“Bet that went over big.”
I got out of the tub and had to squelch a scream when I saw my reflection in the vanity mirror. My hair looked like it had taken 2,000 volts and been spray starched. “I need to install an alarm system in his car, but I haven’t got the money.”
Ranger laughed soft and low in his chest. “An alarm system. Morelli’ll love that.” He took a pen from the floor and wrote an address on a piece of toilet paper. “I know a garage that’ll give you a price.”
I padded past him into the bedroom and exchanged the towel for a long terrycloth robe. “I heard you come in through the door.”
“Picked the lock. Didn’t think it prudent to wake up the super.” He looked over at my window. Rain was spattering on the dark pane, and a piece of torn screening draped over the sill. “I only do the Spiderman shit in nice weather.”
“Morelli wrecked my screen.”
; “Guess he in a hurry.”
“I’ve noticed you only talk ghetto half of the time.”
“I’m multi-lingual,” Ranger said.
I followed him to the door, feeling jealous, wishing I knew a second language.
MY SLEEP WAS DEEP AND DREAMLESS, and I might have slept until November if it weren’t for the relentless pounding on my front door. I squinted at my beside clock. The display read 8:35. Used to be I loved company. Now I cringed when someone knocked on my door. My first fear was of Ramirez. My second was that the police had come to haul me away for auto theft.
I picked the Sure Guard off my night table, stuffed my arms into my robe, and dragged myself to the door. I closed one eye and looked through the peephole with the other. Eddie Gazarra looked back at me. He was in uniform, holding two Dunkin’ Donuts bags. I opened the door and sniffed the air like a hound on a scent. “Yum,” I breathed.
“Hello to you, too,” Gazarra said, squeezing past me in the little hallway, heading for the dining room table. “Where’s your furniture?”
“I’m remodeling.”
“Un huh.”
We sat opposite each other, and I waited while he took two cardboard cups of coffee out of one of the bags. We uncapped the coffee, spread napkins, and dug into the donuts.
We were good enough friends that we didn’t have to talk while we ate. We ate the Boston creams first. Then we divided up the remaining four jelly donuts. At two donuts down he still hadn’t noticed my hair, and I was left to wonder what my hair usually looked like. He also hadn’t said anything about the mess Morelli had created while searching my apartment, which gave me pause to consider my housekeeping habits.
He ate his third donut more slowly, sipping his coffee, savoring his donut, sipping his coffee, savoring his donut. “I hear you made a recovery yesterday,” he said between savors.
He was left with just his coffee. He eyed my donut, and I protectively drew it closer to my edge of the table.
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