The only oddity in the act was that Allen Shempsky actually had a bad habit. A bad habit seemed like an excess of personality for Allen Shempsky. Shempsky was a nice guy who never offended anyone and was totally forgettable. He'd been like that for as long as I could remember. When we were in school he was the kid in the back of the room who never got called on. Quiet smile, never a conflicting opinion, always neat and clean. He was like a chameleon whose clothes matched the wall behind him. After knowing Allen all my life, I'd be hard-pressed to name his hair color. Maybe mouse brown. Not that he was rodentlike. He was a reasonably attractive man with an average nose and average teeth and average eyes. He was average height, of average build, and I assumed of average intelligence, although there was no way of knowing for sure.
He'd married Maureen Blum a month after they both graduated from RiderCollege. He had two young children and a house in HamiltonTownship. I'd never driven past his house, but I was willing to bet it was forgettable. Maybe that wasn't so bad. Maybe it was a good thing to be unmemorable. I bet Maureen Blum Shempsky didn't have to worry about being stalked by Benito Ramirez.
Bunchy was waiting when I got back to my apartment building. He was in the lot, sitting in his car, looking grumpy.
"What's with the Porsche?" he wanted to know, coming over.
"It's on loan from Ranger. And if you put a tracking device on it he won't be happy."
"Do you know how much a car like this costs?"
"A lot?"
"Maybe more than you want to pay," Bunchy said.
"I hope that's not the case."
He took one of the grocery bags and followed me upstairs. "You go to the bank like you said?"
"Yep. I talked to Allen Shempsky, but I didn't learn anything new."
"What did you talk to him about?"
"The weather. Politics. Managed health care." I balanced my bag on my hip while I unlocked the door.
"Boy, you're a beaut. You don't trust anybody, do you?"
"I don't trust you."
"I wouldn't trust him, either," Briggs said from the living room. "He looks like he's got a social disease."
"Who's that?" Bunchy wanted to know.
"That's Randy," I said.
"Want to see him disappear?"
I looked over at Briggs. It was a tempting offer. "Some other time," I said to Bunchy.
Bunchy unpacked his bag and set everything out on the kitchen counter. "You've got some strange friends."
And they hardly counted at all compared to my relatives. "I'll make you lunch if you tell me who you're working for and why you're interested in Fred," I said.
"No can do. Besides, I think you'll make me lunch anyway."
I made canned tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. I made grilled cheese because that's what I felt like eating. And I made the soup because I like to keep a clean can in reserve for Rex.
Halfway through lunch I looked at Bunchy, and Morelli's words echoed in my ear. I'm working with a couple Treasury guys who make me look like a Boy Scout, he'd said. The Hallelujah Chorus rang out in my head, and I had an epiphany. "Holy cow," I said. "You're working with Morelli."
"I don't work with anyone," Bunchy said. "I work alone."
"That's a load of pig pucky."
This wasn't the first time Morelli had been involved in one of my cases and had kept it from me, but it was the first time he'd sent someone to spy on me. This was a new all-time low for Morelli.
Bunchy sighed and pushed his dish away. "Does this mean I'm not getting dessert?"
I gave him one of the leftover candy bars. "I'm depressed."
"Now what?"
"Morelli is scum."
He looked down at the candy bar. "I told you I work alone."
"Yeah, and you told me you were a bookie."
He glanced up. "You don't know for sure that I'm not."
The phone rang, and I snatched it up before the machine could take over.
"Hey, Cupcake," Morelli said. "What do you want on your pizza tonight?"
"I want nothing. There is no pizza. There is no you, no me, no us, no pizza. And don't ever call me again, you scummy, slimy fungus-ridden dog turd, piece of fly crud." And I slammed the phone down.
Bunchy was laughing. "Let me guess," he said. "That was Morelli."
"And you!" I yelled, pointing my finger, teeth clenched. "You are no better."
"I gotta go," Bunchy said, still doing his Mr. Chuckles impersonation.
"So, have you always had a problem with men?" Briggs asked. "Or is this something recent?"
* * * * *
I WAS IN the lobby, waiting for Ranger at six o'clock. I was all showered and perfumed and hair freshly done up to look sexily unkempt. Mike's Place is a sports bar frequented by businessmen. At six o'clock it would be filled with suits catching ESPN and having a drink to unwind before going home, so I chose to look suity, too. I was wearing my Wonderbra, which worked wonders, a white silk shirt unbuttoned clear to the front clasp on the magical bra, and a black silk suit with the skirt rolled at the waist to show a lot of leg. I covered the mess at the waist with a wide fake leopard skin belt, and I stuffed my stocking-clad feet into four-inch fuck-me pumps.
Mr. Morganthal shuffled out of the elevator and winked at me. "Hey, hootchie-mamma," he said. "Want a hot date?" He was ninety-two and lived on the third floor, next to Mrs. Delgado.
"You're too late," I told him. "I've already made plans."
"That's just as well. You'd probably kill me," Mr. Morganthal said.
Ranger pulled up in the Mercedes, and idled at the door. I gave Mr. Morganthal a tweak on the cheek and sashayed out, swinging my hips, wetting my lips. I poured myself into the Mercedes and crossed my legs.
Ranger looked at me and smiled. "I told you to get his attention . . . not start a riot. Maybe you should button one more button."
I batted my eyelashes at him, in fake-flirt, which actually wasn't totally fake. "You don't like it?" I said. Hah! Take that, Morelli. Who needs you!
Ranger reached over and flipped the next two buttons open, exposing me to mid-belly. "That's the way I like it," he said, the smile still in place.
Shit! I quickly rebuttoned the buttons. "Wise guy," I said. Okay, so he called my bluff. No reason to panic. Just file it away for future reference. Not ready for Ranger!
Mr. Morganthal came out and shook his finger at us.
"I think I just sullied your reputation," Ranger said, putting the car in gear.
"Probably more like you helped me live up to expectations."
We cruised across town and parked half a block from the bar on the opposite side of the street.
Ranger took a photo from behind the sun visor. "This is Ryan Perin. He's a regular here. Comes every day after work. Has two drinks. Goes home. Never parks his car more than half a block away on the street. He knows the dealer's trying to get it back, and he's nervous. Comes out to check on it every few minutes. Your job is to make sure he keeps his eyes on you—not the car. Keep him in the building."
"Why are you taking it here?"
"When he's home the car's in a locked garage, and the regular repo people can't get at it. When he's at work he parks it in a garage with an attendant who takes his Christmas bonus seriously." Ranger made a gun sign with his hand, finger and thumb extended. "For that matter, Perin carries too and isn't slow on the draw. That's why we need to finesse the car. Nobody wants bloodshed."
"What does this guy do for a living?"
"Lawyer. Sending all his money up his nose these days."
A dark green Jaguar rolled past us. There were no spaces open on the street. Just as he got to the end of the block a car pulled out, and the jag slid in place.
"Wow," I said, "that was lucky."
"No," Ranger said. "That was Tank. We have cars parked all along this street, so Perin has to park down there."