Eleven on Top

  Ranger cradled my face in his hands, using his thumbs to wipe the tears from my eyes. “The ceremony is over. Can you make it back to the car?”

  I nodded. “I'm okay now. Am I red and blotchy from crying?”

  “Yes,” Ranger said, brushing a kiss across my forehead. “I love you anyway.”

  “There's all kinds of love,” I said.

  Ranger took me by the hand and led me back to the SUV. “This is the kind that doesn't call for a ring. But a condom might come in handy.”

  “That's not love,” I told him. “That's lust.”

  He was scanning the crowd as we walked and talked, watching for Spiro, watching for anything unusual. “In this case, there's some of both.”

  “Just not the marrying type?”

  We'd reached the car, and Ranger remoted it open. “Look at me, Babe. I'm carrying two guns and a knife. At this point in my life, I'm not exactly family material.”

  “Do you think that will change?”

  Ranger opened the door for me. “Not anytime soon.”

  No surprise there. Still, it was a teeny, tiny bit of a downer. How scary is that?

  “And there are things you don't know about me,” Ranger said.

  “What kind of things?”

  “Things you don't want to know.” Ranger rolled the engine over and called Tank. “We're heading back,” he said. “Anything on your end?”

  The answer was obviously negative because Ranger disconnected and pulled into the stream of traffic. “Tank didn't see any bad guys, but it wasn't a total wash,” Ranger said, handing his cell phone over to me. “I managed to take a picture for you while you were tucked into my jacket.”

  Ranger had a picture phone, exactly like the one I'd been issued. I went to the album option and brought up four photos of Anthony Barroni. The images were small. I chose one and waited while it filled the screen. Anthony appeared to be talking on his phone. Hold on, he wasn't talking... he was taking a picture.

  “Anthony's taking photos with his phone,” I said. “Omigod, that's so creepy.”

  “Yeah,” Ranger said. “Either Anthony's really into dead people or else he's sending photos to someone not fortunate enough to have a front-row seat.”

  “Spiro.” Maybe.

  Most of the cars left the cemetery and turned toward the Burg. The wake at Gina Macaroni's house would be packed. Anthony Barroni peeled away from the herd at Chambers Street. Ranger stuck to him, and we followed him to the store. He parked his Vette in the rear and sauntered inside.

  “You should go talk to him,” Ranger said. “Ask him if he had a good time.”

  “You're serious.”

  “Time to stir things up,” Ranger said. "Let's raise the stakes for Anthony.

  Let him know he's blown his cover. See if anything happens."

  I chewed on my lower lip. I didn't want to face Anthony. I didn't want to do this stuff anymore. “I'm an office worker,” I said. “I think you should talk to him.”

  Ranger parked the SUV in front of the store. “We'll both talk to Anthony. Last time I left you alone in my car someone stole you.”

  It was early afternoon on a weekday, and there wasn't a lot of activity in the store. There was an old guy behind the counter, waiting on a woman who was buying a sponge mop. No other customers. Two of the Barroni brothers were working together, labeling a carton of nails in aisle four. Anthony was on his cell phone to the rear of the store. He was shuffling around, nodding his head and laughing.

  I always enjoy watching Ranger stalk prey. He moves with single-minded purpose, his body relaxed, his gait even, his eyes unswerving and fixed on his quarry.

  The eye of the tiger.

  I was one step behind Ranger, and I was thinking this wasn't a good idea. We could be wrong and look like idiots. Ranger never worried about that, but I worried about it constantly. Or we could be right, and we could set Anthony and Spiro off on a killing spree.

  Anthony saw us approaching. He closed his phone and slipped it into his pants pocket. He looked to Ranger and then to me.

  “Stephanie,” he said, grinning. “Man, you were really bawling at the cemetery. Guess you got real broken up having Mama Melanoma blown to bits in your car.”

  “It was a touching ceremony,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Anthony said, snorting and laughing. “The Lord's Prayer always gets to me, too.”

  Ranger extended his hand. “Carlos Manoso,” he said. “I don't believe we've met.”

  Anthony shook Ranger's hand. “Anthony Barroni. What can I do for you? Need a plunger?”

  Ranger gave him a small cordial smile. “We thought we'd stop by to say hello and see if Spiro liked the pictures.”

  “Waddaya mean?”

  “It's too bad he couldn't have been there in person,” Ranger said. “So much is lost in a photograph.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  “Sure you do,” Ranger said. “You made a bad choice. And you're going to die because of it. You might want to talk to someone while there's still time.”

  Someone."

  “The police,” Ranger said. “They might be able to cut you a deal.”

  “I don't need a deal,” Anthony said.

  “He'll turn on you,” Ranger said. “You made a bad choice for a partner.”

  “You should talk. Look who you've got for a partner. Little Miss Cry-Her-Eyes-Out.” Anthony rubbed his eyes like he was crying. “Boohoohoo.”

  “This is embarrassing,” I said. “I hate when I cry at funerals.”

  “Boohooooo.”

  “Stop. That's enough,” I said. “It's not funny.”

  “Boohoo boohoo boohoo.”

  So I punched him. It was one of those bypass-the-brain impulse actions. And it was a real sucker punch. Anthony never saw it coming. He had his hands to his eyes doing the boohoo thing, and I guess I threw all my fear and frustration into the punch. I heard his face crunch under my fist, and blood spurted out of his nose. I was so horrified I froze on the spot.

  Ranger gave a bark of laughter and dragged me away so I didn't get splattered.

  Anthonys eyes were wide, his mouth open, his hands clapped over his nose.

  Ranger shoved a business card into Anthonys shirt pocket. “Call me if you want to talk.”

  We left the store and buckled ourselves into the Cayenne. Ranger turned the engine over and slid a glance my way. “I usually spar with Tank. Maybe next time I should get in the ring with you.”

  “It was a lucky punch.”

  Ranger had the full-on smile and there were little laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. “You're a fun date.”

  “Do you really think Spiro and Anthony are partners?”

  “I think it's unlikely.”

  I left Ranger in the control room and hurried into my cubicle, anxious to finish running the check on Barroni. I came to a skidding stop when I saw my in-box.

  Seven new requests for computer background searches. All from Frederick Rodriguez.

  I stuck my head out of my cubicle and yelled at Ranger. “Hey, who's this Frederick Rodriguez guy? He keeps filling up my inbox.”

  “He's in sales,” Ranger said. “Let them sit. Work on Gorman.”

  I finished Barroni, printed his entire file, and dropped it into the drawer with Gorman and Lazar. I entered Jimmy Runion into the first search program and watched as information rushed onto my screen. I'd been scanning the searches as they appeared, taking notes, trying to find the one thing that bound them together in life and probably in death. So far, nothing had jumped out at me. There were a few things that were common to the men, but nothing significant. They were all approximately the same age. They had all owned small businesses. They were all married. When I finished Runion I'd take all the files and read through them more carefully.

  I was halfway through Runion when my mom called on my cell.

  “Where are you?” she wanted to know.

  “I'm at work.”

&nbs
p; “It's five-thirty. We're supposed to be at the church for rehearsal. You were going to stop here first, and then we were all going over to the church. We've been waiting and waiting.”

  Crap! “I forgot.”

  “How could you forget? Your sister's getting married tomorrow. How could you forget?”

  “I'm on my way. Give me twenty minutes.”

  “I'll take your grandmother with me. You can meet us at the church. You just bring Joseph and the cello.”

  “Joseph and the cello,” I dumbly repeated.

  “Everyone's waiting to hear you play.”

  “I might be late. There might not be time.”

  “We don't have to be at Marsillio's for the rehearsal dinner until seven-thirty. I'm sure there'll be time for you to practice your cello piece.”

  Crap. Crap. And double crap!

  I grabbed my bag and took off, across the control room, down the stairs, into the garage. Ranger had just pulled in. He was getting out of his car as I ran to Morelli's SUV.

  “I'm late!” I yelled to him. “I'm frigging late!”

  “Of course you are,” Ranger said, smiling.

  It took me twelve minutes to get across town to the Burg and then into Morellis neighborhood. I'd had to drive on the sidewalk once when there was traffic at a light. And I'd saved two blocks by using Mr. Fedorka's driveway and cutting through his backyard to the alley that led to Morellis house.

  I locked the SUV in the garage, ran into the house, into the living room.

  “The wedding rehearsal is tonight,” I yelled at Morelli. “The wedding rehearsal!”

  Morelli was working his way through a bag of chips. “And?”

  “And we have to be there. We're in the wedding party. It's my sister. I'm the maid of honor. You're the best man.”

  Morelli set the chips aside. “Tell me those aren't blood splatters on your shoes.”

  “I sort of punched Anthony Barroni in the nose.”

  “Anthony Barroni was at Rangeman?”

  “It's a long story. I haven't time to go into it all. And you don't want to hear it anyway. It's . . . embarrassing.” I had Bob clipped to his leash.

  “I'm taking Bob out, and then I'm going to help you get dressed.” I dragged Bob out the back door and walked him around Morelli's yard. “Do you have to go, Bob?” I said. “Gotta tinkle? Gotta poop?”

  Bob didn't want to tinkle or poop in Morelli's yard. Bob needed variety. Bob wanted to tinkle on Mrs. Rosario's hydrangea bush, two doors down.

  “This is it!” I yelled at Bob. “You don't go here and you're holding it in until I get back from the stupid rehearsal dinner.”

  Bob wandered around a little and tinkled. I could tell he didn't have his heart in it, but it was good enough, so I dragged Bob inside, fed him some dog crunchies for dinner, and gave him some fresh water. I ran upstairs and got clothes for Morelli. Slacks, belt, button-down shirt. I ran back downstairs and shoved him into the shirt, and then realized he couldn't get the slacks over the cast. He was wearing gray sweatpants with one leg cut at thigh level.

  “Okay,” I said, “the sweats are good enough.” I took a closer look. Pizza sauce on the long leg. Not good enough. I ran upstairs and rummaged through Morelli's closet. Nothing I could use. I rifled his drawers. Nothing there. I went through the dirty clothes basket, found a pair of khaki shorts, and ran downstairs with the shorts.

  “Ta-dah!” I announced. “Shorts. And they're almost clean.” I had Morelli out of his sweatpants in one fast swoop. I tugged the shorts up and zipped them.

  “Jeez,” Morelli said. “I can zip my own shorts.”

  “You weren't fast enough!” I looked at my watch. It was almost six o'clock! Yikes. “Put your foot on the coffee table, and I'll get shoes on you.”

  Morelli put his foot on the coffee table, and I stared up his shorts at Mr. Happy.

  “Omigod,” I said. “You're wearing boxers. I can see up your shorts.”

  “Do you like what you see?”

  “Yes, but I don't want the world seeing it!”

  “Don't worry about it,” Morelli said. “I'll be careful.”

  I pulled a sock on Morelli's casted foot, and I laced a sneaker on the other. I raced upstairs, and I changed into a skirt and short-sleeved sweater.

  I threw my jean jacket over the sweater, grabbed my bag, got Morelli up on his crutches, and maneuvered him to the kitchen door.

  “I hate to bring this up,” Morelli said. “But aren't you supposed to take the cello?”

  The cello. I squinched my eyes closed, and I rapped my head on the wall. Thunk, thunk, thunk. I took a second to breathe. I can do this, I told myself.

  Probably I can play a little something. How hard can it be? You just do the bowing thing back and forth and sounds come out. I might even turn out to be

  good at it. Heck, maybe I should take some lessons. Maybe I'm a natural talent and I don't even need lessons. The more I thought about it, the more logical it sounded. Maybe I was always meant to play the cello, and I'd just gotten sidetracked, and this was God's way of turning me in the direction of my true calling.

  “Wait here,” I said to Morelli. “I'll put the cello in the car, and I'll come back to get you.”

  I ran into the living room and hefted the cello. I carted it into the kitchen, past Morelli, out the door, and crossed the yard with it. I opened the garage door, rammed the cello into the back of the SUV, dropped my purse onto the driver's seat, and returned to the kitchen for Morelli. I realized he was just wearing a cotton shirt. No sweater on him. No jacket. And it was cold out. I ran upstairs and got a jacket. I helped him into the jacket, stuffed the crutches back under his arms, and helped him navigate through the back door and down the stairs.

  We started to cross the yard, and the garage exploded with enough force to rattle the windows in Morelli's house.

  The garage was wood with an asbestos-shingle roof. It hadn't been in the best of shape, and Morelli seldom used it. I'd been using it to keep the SUV bomb-free, but I now saw the flaw in the plan. It was an old garage without an automatic door opener. So to make things easier, I'd left the garage open when not in use. Easy to pull in and park. Also easy to sneak in and plant a bomb.

  Morelli and I stood there, dumbstruck. His garage had gone up like fireworks and had come down like confetti. Splintered boards, shingles, and assorted car parts fell out of the sky into Morelli's yard. It was Mama Mac all over again. Almost nothing was left of the garage. Morelli's SUV was a fireball.

  His yard was littered with smoldering junk.

  “Omigod!” I said. “The cello was in your SUV.” I pumped my fist into the air and did a little dance. “Yes! Way to go! Woohoo! There is a God and He loves me. It's good-bye cello.”

  Morelli gave his head a shake. “You're a very strange woman.”

  “You're just trying to flatter me.”

  “Honey, my garage just blew up, and I don't think it was insured. We're supposed to be upset.”

  “Sorry. I'll try to look serious now.”

  Morelli glanced over at me. “You're still smiling.”

  “I can't help it. I'm trying to be scared and depressed, but it's just not working. I'm just so frigging relieved to be rid of that cello.”

  There were sirens screaming from all directions, and the first of the cop cars parked in the alley behind Morelli's house. I borrowed Morelli's cell phone and called my mother.

  “Bad news,” I said. “We're going to be late. We're having car trouble.”

  “How late? What's wrong with the car?”

  “Real late. There's a lot wrong with the car.”

  “I'll send your father for you.”

  “Not necessary,” I said. “Have the rehearsal without me, and I'll meet you at Marsillio's.”

  “You're the maid of honor. You have to be at the rehearsal. How will you know what to do?”

  “I'll figure it out. This isn't my first wedding. I know the drill.”

  “But the cello .
. .”

  “You don't have to worry about that either.” I didn't have the heart to tell her about the cello.

  Two fire trucks pulled up to the garage. Emergency-vehicle strobes flashed up and down the alley, and headlights glared into Morelli's yard. The garage had been blown to smithereens, and the remaining parts had rained down over a three-house area. Some parts had smoked but none had flamed. The SUV had burned brightly but not long. So the fire had almost entirely extinguished itself before the first hose was unwound.