11 Eleven On Top (7 page)

“And you think that rat is Spiro?”

“Do you remember Spiro? Beady rat eyes. No chin. Bad overbite. Mousy brown hair.”

“Bella's a little crazy, Babe.”

I finished the turkey club. “A guy named Michael Barroni disappeared ten days ago. Sixty-two years old. Upstanding citizen. Had a house on Roebling. Owned the hardware store on Rudd and Liberty. Locked the store up at the end of the day and disappeared off the face of the earth. Morelli punched Barroni into missing persons and found there were two other similar cases. Benny Gorman and Louis Lazar. Connie said you're looking for Gorman.”

“Yeah, and he feels like a dead end.”

“Maybe it's a dead end because he's dead.”

“Its crossed my mind.”

I crumpled the sandwich bag and tossed it into the back of the Saturn. It bounced off the charred backseat and fell through the hole in the floor, onto the pavement, under the car.

Ranger gave a single, barely visible shake to his head. Hard to tell if he was amused or if he was appalled.

“Did you know Barroni?” Ranger asked me.

“I went to school with his youngest son, Anthony. Here's the thing about Michael Barroni. There's no obvious rea son why he disappeared. No gambling debts. No drinking or drug problems. No health problems. No secret sex life. He just locked up the store, got into his car, and drove off into the sunset. He did this on the same day and at the same time Lazar and Gorman drove off into the sunset. It was like they were all going to a meeting.”

“I made the Lazar connection,” Ranger said. “I didn't know there was a third.”

“That's because you're the Stark Street expert and I'm the Burg expert.”

“You handed your cuffs and fake badge over to Connie,” Ranger said. “Why the interest in Barroni and Lazar and Gorman?”

“In the beginning, Barroni was just Burg gossip and cop talk. Now I'm thinking Spiro's gone psycho and he's back in town and stalking me. And Barroni might be connected to Spiro. I know that sounds like a stretch, but Spiro makes bad things happen. And he drags his friends into the muck with him. All through school, Spiro hung out with Anthony Barroni. Suppose Spiro's back and he's got something bad going on. Suppose Anthony's involved and somehow his dad got in the way.”

“That's a lot of supposing. Have you talked to Morelli about this?”

“No. I'm not talking to Morelli about anything. He booted my car. I'm doing all my talking to you.”

“His loss is my gain?”

“This is your lucky day,” I said to Ranger.

Ranger curled his fingers into the front of my jean jacket and pulled me close. “How much luck are we talking about?”

“Not that much luck.”

Ranger brushed a light kiss over my lips. “Someday,” he said.

And he was probably right. Ranger and I have a strange relationship. He's my mentor and protector and friend. He's also hot and mysterious and oozes testosterone.

A while ago, he was my lover for a single spectacular night. We both walked away wanting more, but to date, my practical Burg upbringing plus strong survival instincts have kept Ranger out of my bed. This is in direct contrast to Rangers instincts. His instincts run more to keeping his eye on the prize while he enjoys the chase and waits for his chance to move in for the kill. He is, after all, a hunter of men... and women.

Ranger released my jacket. “I'm going to take a look at Barroni's house and store. Do you want to ride along?”

“Okay, but it's just to keep you company. It's not like I'm involved. I'm done with all that fugitive apprehension stuff.”

“Still my lucky day,” Ranger said.

My apartment is only a couple miles from the store, but it was after six by the time we got to Rudd and Liberty, and the store was closed. We cruised past the front, turned the corner, and took the service road at the rear. Ranger drove the Porsche down the road and paused at Barroni's back door. There was a black Corvette parked in the small lot.

“Someone's working late,” Ranger said. “Do you know the car?”

“No, but I'm guessing it belongs to Anthony. His two older brothers are married and have kids, and I can't see them finding money for a toy like this.”

Ranger continued on, turned the corner, and pulled to the curb. There'd been heavy cloud cover all day and now it was drizzling. Streetlights stood out in the gloom and red brake lights traced across Ranger's rain-streaked windshield.

After five minutes, the Corvette rolled past us with Anthony driving. Ranger put the Porsche in gear and followed Anthony at a distance. Anthony wandered through the Burg and stopped at Pino's Pizza. He was inside Pino's for a couple minutes and returned to his car carrying two large pizza boxes. He found his way to Hamilton Avenue, crossed Hamilton, and after two blocks he pulled into a driveway that belonged to a two-story town house. The town house had an attached garage, but Anthony didn't use it. Anthony parked in the driveway and hustled to the small front porch. He fumbled with his keys, got the door open, and rushed inside.

“That's a lot of pizza for a single guy,” Ranger said. “And he has something occupying space in his garage. It's raining, and he has his hands full of pizza boxes, and he parked in the driveway.”

“Maybe Spiro's in there. Maybe he's got his car parked in Anthonys garage.”

“I can see that possibility turns you on,” Ranger said.

“It would be nice to find Spiro and put an end to the harassment.”

Shades were drawn on all the windows. Ranger idled for a few minutes in front of the town house and moved on. He retraced the route to the hardware store and had me take him from the store to Michael Barroni's house on Roebling.

It was a large house by Burg standards. Maybe two thousand square feet. Upstairs and downstairs. Detached garage. The front of the house was gray fake stone. The other three sides were white vinyl siding. It had a full front porch and a postage-stamp front yard. There was a plaster statue of the Virgin Mary in the front yard. A small basket of plastic flowers had been placed at her feet. Shades were up in the Barroni house and it was easy to look from one end to the other. A lone woman moved in the house. Carla Barroni, Michael Barroni's wife. She settled herself in front of the television in the living room and lost herself to the evening news.

I was spellbound, watching Carla. “It must be awful not to know,” I said to Ranger. “To have someone you love disappear. Not to know if he was murdered and buried in a shallow grave, or if you drove him away, or if he was sick and couldn't find his way home. It makes my problems seem trivial.”

“Being on the receiving end of threatening letters isn't trivial,” Ranger said.

Everything's relative, I thought. The threatening letters weren't nearly as frightening as the prospect of spending another eight hours with Mama-the-Mole Macaroni. And the problems I was thinking about were personal. My life had no clear direction. My goals were small and immediate. Pay the rent. Get a better car. Make a dinner decision. I didn't have a career. I didn't have a husband. I didn't have any special talents. I didn't have a consuming passion. I didn't have a hobby. Even my pet was small... a hamster. I liked Rex a lot, but he didn't exactly make a big statement.

Ranger broke into my moment. “Babe, I get the feeling you're standing on a ledge, looking down.”

“Just thinking.”

Ranger put the Porsche into gear and headed across town. We checked out Louis Lazar's house and bar. Then we went four blocks north on Stark and parked in front of Gorman's garage. The garage was dark. No sign of life inside. A CLOSED sign hung on the office door.

“Gorman's manager kept the garage going for a week on his own and then cut out,” Ranger said. "Gorman isn't married. He was living with a woman, but she has no claim to his property. He has a pack of kids, all with different mothers. The kids are too young to run the business. The rest of Gorman's relatives are in South Carolina. I did a South Carolina search, and it came back negative. From what I can tell the business was operating in the black. Gorman had a mean streak, but he wasn't stupid. He would have made arrangements to keep the garage running if he was going FTA. I can't see him just walking away.

Usually I pick up a vibe from someone... mother, girlfriend, coworker. I'm not getting anything on this."

We cut back two blocks and parked in front of a rundown apartment building.

“This was Gorman's last known address,” Ranger said. “His girlfriend didn't wait as long as his manager. The girlfriend had a new guy hanging his clothes in her closet on day five. If she knew Gorman's location, she'd have given him up for a pass to the multiplex.”

“No one saw him after he drove away from the garage?”

Ranger watched the building. “No. All I know is he drove north on Stark. Consistent with Lazar.”

North on Stark didn't mean much. Stark Street deteriorated as it went north. Eventually Stark got so bad even the gangs abandoned it. At the very edge of the city line Stark was a deserted war zone of fire-gutted brick buildings with boarded-up windows. It was a graveyard for stolen, stripped-down cars and used-up heroin addicts. It was a do-it-yourself garbage dump. North on Stark also led to Route 1 and Route 1 led to the entire rest of the country.

Rangers pager buzzed, he checked the message, and pulled away from the curb, into the stream of traffic. Ranger is hot, but he has a few personality quirks that drive me nuts. He doesn't eat dessert, he has an overdeveloped sense of secret, and unless he's trying to seduce me or instruct me in the finer points of bounty huntering, conversation can be nonexistent.

“Hey,” I finally said, “Man of Mystery... what's with the pager?”

“Business.”

“And?”

Ranger slid a glance my way.

“It's no wonder you aren't married,” I said to him. “You have a lot to learn about social skills.”

Ranger smiled at me. Ranger thought I was amusing.

“That was my office,” Ranger said. “Elroy Dish went FTA two days ago. I've been waiting for him to show up at Blue Fish, and he just walked in.”

Vinnie's bonded out three generations of Dishes. Elroy is the youngest. His specialties are armed robbery and domestic violence, but Elroy is capable of most anything.

When Elroy's drunk or drugged he's fearless and wicked crazy. When he's clean and sober he's just plain mean.

Blue Fish is a bar on lower Stark, dead center in Dish country. No point to breaking down a door and attempting to drag a Dish out of his rat-trap apartment when you can just wait for him to waltz into Blue Fish for a cold one.

Ranger brought the Porsche to the curb two doors from Blue Fish, cut the motor and the lights. Three minutes later, a black SUV rolled down the street and parked in front of us. Tank and Hal, dressed in Rangeman black, got out of the SUV and strapped on utility belts. Tank is Ranger's shadow. He watches Ranger's back, and he's second in the line of command at Rangeman. His name is self-explanatory. Hal is newer to the game. He's not the sharpest tack on the corkboard, but he tries hard. He's just slightly smaller than Tank and reminds me of a big lumbering dinosaur. He's a Halosaurus.

Ranger reached behind him and grabbed a flak vest from the small backseat. “Stay here,” he said. “This will only take a couple minutes and then I'll drive you home.”

Ranger angled out of the Porsche, nodded to Tank and Hal, and the three of them disappeared inside Blue Fish. I checked my watch, and I stared at the door to the bar. Ranger didn't waste time when he made an apprehension. He identified his quarry, clapped the cuffs on, and turned the guy over to Tank and Hal for the forced march to the SUV.

I was feeling a little left out, but I was telling myself it was much better this way. No more danger. No more mess. No more embarrassing screw-ups. I was focused on the door to the bar, not paying a lot of attention to the street, and suddenly the drivers-side door to the Porsche was wrenched open and a guy slid in next to me. He was in his twenties, wearing a ball cap sideways and about sixty pounds of gold chains around his neck. He had a diamond chip implanted into his front tooth and the two teeth next to the chip were missing. He smiled at me and pressed the barrel of a gleaming silver-plated monster gun into my temple.

“Yo bitch,” he said. “How about you get your ass out of my car.”

In my mind I saw myself out of the car and running, but the reality of the situation was that all systems were down. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move.

I couldn't speak. I stared openmouthed and glassy-eyed at the guy with the diamond dental chip. Somewhere deep in my brain the word carjack was struggling to rise to the surface.

Diamond dental chip turned the key in the Porsche's ignition and revved the engine. “Out of the car,” he yelled, pushing the gun barrel against my head.

“I'm giving you one second and then I'm gonna blow your brains all over this motherfucker. Now get your fat ass out of the car.”

The mind works in weird ways, and it's strange how something dumb can push a button. I was willing to overlook the use of the MF word, but getting called a fat ass really pissed me off.

“Fat ass?” I said, feeling my eyes narrow. “Excuse me? Fat ass?”

“I haven't got time for this shit,” he said. And he rammed the car into gear, mashed the gas to the floor, and the Porsche jumped away from the curb.

He was driving with his left hand and holding the gun and shifting with his right. There was light traffic on Stark, and he was weaving around cars and running lights. He came up fast behind a Lincoln Navigator and hit the brake hard. He moved to shift, and I knocked the gun out of his hand. The gun hit the console and fell to the floor on the drivers side.

“Fuck,” he said. “Fucking fuck. Fucking bitch.”

He leaned forward and reached for the gun, and I punched him in the ear as hard as I could. His head bounced off the wheel, the wheel jerked hard to the left, and we cut across oncoming traffic. The Porsche jumped the curb, plowed through a stack of black plastic garbage bags, and crashed through the plate glass window of a small delicatessen that was closed for the night.

The front airbags inflated with a bang, and I was momentarily stunned. I fought my way through the bag, somehow got the door open, and rolled out onto the deli floor. I was on my hands and knees in the dark, and it was wet under my hand. Blood, I thought. Get outside and get help.