"And you think this other guy who worked for the cable company, John Curly, was skimming, too?"
"There are some similarities."
"And Fred might have disappeared because he was making too much noise?"
"More than that." I told him about the Mega Monster flyer in the garbage bag, and about Laura Lipinski, and finally about Fred and the leaves.
"I'm not liking this picture," Morelli said. "I wish I'd known about these things sooner."
"I just put it together."
"Two steps in front of me. I've been really stupid on this one. Tell me about the fake bookie."
"Bunchy."
"Yeah. Whoever."
I raised an eyebrow. "I figured you two were working together."
"What's Bunchy look like?"
"A fireplug with eyebrows. About my height. Brown hair. Needs a cut. Receding hairline. Looks like a street person. Walks and talks like a cop. Drinks Corona."
"I know him, but I'd be hard-pressed to say I was working with him. He doesn't work with anybody."
"I don't suppose you want to share what you know with me?"
"Can't."
Wrong answer. "Okay, let me get this straight," I said. "Some Fed has been following me around for days, camping out on my doorstep, breaking into my apartment, and you think that's okay?"
"No, I don't think it's okay. I think it's grounds for beating the shit out of him. I didn't know he was doing it, and I intend to make sure it stops. I just can't tell you what it's all about right now. What I can tell you is that you should back off and let us take it from here. Obviously we're both going down the same road."
"Why should I be the one to back off ?"
"Because you're the one who's getting bombed. You notice my car exploding?"
"The day isn't over."
Morelli's pager went off. Morelli looked at the read-out and sighed. "I have to go. You want a ride home?"
"Thanks, but I need to stay. I have a call in to Ranger. I'm not sure what he wants to do with the Porsche."
"Some time soon we need to talk about Ranger," Morelli said.
Oh boy. I'll look forward to that conversation.
Morelli skirted the crane and got into the dusty maroon Fairlane that was his company car. He cranked the engine over and pulled out of the lot.
My attention swung back to the crane operator. He was maneuvering the boom over the truck. A cable was attached, and the truck was slowly hauled upright, exposing what was left of the Porsche.
I caught a flash of black beyond the crane. It was Ranger's Mercedes.
"Just in time," I said when he strolled over.
He looked down at the flattened, charred piece of scrap metal pressed into the macadam.
"That's the Porsche," I said. "It exploded and caught fire and then the garbage truck fell over on it."
"I especially like the part about the garbage truck."
"I was afraid you might be mad."
"Cars are easy to come by, Babe. People are harder to replace. Are you okay?"
"Yeah. I was lucky. I was just waiting to see what you wanted to do with the Porsche."
"Not much anybody's going to do with that dead soldier," Ranger said. "Think we'll walk away from this one."
"It was a great car."
Ranger took one last look at it. "You might be more the Humvee type," he said, steering me toward the Mercedes.
Streetlights were on when we crossed Broad and the twilight was deepening. Ranger rolled down Roebling and stopped in front of Rossini's. "I have to meet a guy here in a few minutes. Come in and have a drink, and we can have an early dinner when I'm done. This shouldn't take long."
"Is this bounty hunter business?"
"Real estate," Ranger said. "I'm meeting my lawyer. He has papers for me to sign."
"You're buying a house?"
He opened the door for me. "Office building in Boston."
Rossini's is an excellent Burg restaurant. A pleasant mix of cozy but elegant with linen tablecloths and napkins and gourmet food. Several men in suits stood at the small oak bar at the far end of the room. A few of the tables were already occupied, and in a half-hour the room would be filled.
Ranger guided me to the bar and introduced me to his lawyer.
"Stephanie Plum," the lawyer said. "You look familiar."
"I didn't intend to burn down the funeral home," I said. "It was an accident."
He shook his head. "No, that's not it." He smiled. "I've got it. You were married to Dickie Orr. He was briefly with our firm."
"Everything Dickie did was brief," I said. Especially our marriage. The pig.
Twenty minutes later, Ranger had his business concluded, his lawyer finished his drink and left, and we moved to a table. Ranger was black today. Black T-shirt, black cargo pants, black boots, and black Gortex squall jacket. He left his jacket on, and everyone in the room knew why. Ranger wasn't the sort to leave his gun in the glove compartment.
We ordered, and Ranger slouched back in his chair. "You never say much about your marriage."
"You never say much about anything."
He smiled. "Low profile."
"Have you ever been married?"
"Long time ago."
I hadn't expected him to say that. "Any kids?"
He stared at me for a full minute before answering. "I have a daughter. She's nine. Lives with her mother in Florida."
"Do you ever see her?"
"When I'm in the area."
Who was this man? He owned office buildings in Boston. And he was the father of a nine-year-old. I was having a hard time merging this new knowledge into my mental Ranger-the-gunrunner/bounty-hunter file.
"Tell me about the bomb," Ranger said. "I get the feeling I'm not up to speed on your life."
I told him my theory.
He was still slouched back, but the line of his mouth had tightened. "Bombs aren't good, Babe. They're real messy. Give you a real bad hair day."
"You have any ideas?"
"Yeah, you ever think about taking a vacation?"
I wrinkled my nose. "I can't afford a vacation."
"I'll give you an advance on services performed."
I felt my face flush. "About those services—"
He lowered his voice. "I don't pay for the kind of service you're worried about."
Yeeesh.
I dug into my pasta. "I wouldn't go anyway. I'm not giving up on Uncle Fred. And where would I leave Rex? And Halloween is coming up. I love Halloween. I couldn't miss Halloween."
Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. I love the crisp air and the pumpkins and spooky decorations. I never cared about the candy I collected when I was a kid. I got psyched over the dress-up part. Maybe this says something about my personality, but put me behind a mask, and I'm a happy person. Not one of those ugly, sweaty rubber things that fit over your whole head. I like the kind that just fits around the eyes and makes you look like the Lone Ranger. And face paint is very cool, too.
"Of course, I don't go out trick-or-treating anymore," I said, stabbing a piece of sausage. "I go over to my parents' house now and give out candy. Grandma Mazur and I always get dressed up for when the kids come around. Last year I was Zorro, and Grandma was Lily Munster. I think this year she's going to be a Spice Girl."
"I could see you as Zorro," Ranger said.
Zorro is actually one of my favorite people. Zorro is the shit.
I had tiramisù for dessert because Ranger was paying, and because Rossini's made orgasmic tiramisù. Ranger skipped dessert, of course, not wanting to pollute his body with sugar, not desiring an extra ripple in his washboard stomach. I scarfed up the last smidgens of cake and custard and reached under the tablecloth to discreetly pop the top snap on my jeans.
I'm not a fanatic about weight. Truth is, I don't even own a scale. I judge my weight by the way my jeans fit. And unpleasant as it is to admit, these jeans weren't fitting at all. I needed a better diet. And I needed an exercise program. Tomorrow. Starting tomorrow, no more taking the elevator to the second floor, no more doughnuts for breakfast.