"It could be a clue," I said to Ranger.

Ranger disconnected.

I ambled downstairs and slouched into a man-size chair in the lobby. The police had cleared out, and there were only two Rangeman employees left. Ranger spoke to the company president for another five minutes, they shook hands, and Ranger crossed the room to where I was sitting.

"I'm leaving Sal and Raphael here until the building opens for business," Ranger said. "We can go back to Rangeman."

"It isn't even seven A.M.! Normal people are still asleep."

"Is this going somewhere?" Ranger asked.

"Yes. It's going to ... take Stephanie home so she can go back to bed take Stephanie home so she can go back to bed."

"Babe, I'd be happy to take you back to bed."

Unh. Mental head slap.

IT WAS ALMOST noon when I left my apartment for the second time that morning. I'd run out of Rangeman clothes, so I was dressed in jeans and a stretchy red V-neck T-shirt. My hair was freshly washed and fluffed. My eyes were enhanced with liner and mascara. My lips were comfy in Burt's Bees lip balm.

I stopped at the bonds office on my way to Rangeman.

"Just in time for lunch," Lula said when I walked in the door. "Me and Connie are feeling like we should try the chicken at the new barbecue place by the hospital."

"That's sacrilege. You always get your chicken at Cluck-in-a-Bucket."

"Yeah, but we gotta do barbecue research. I don't have my just-right gourmet barbecue sauce yet. I might have had it on the chicken last night, but the dogs run off with it. Anyways, I thought it wouldn't hurt to shop around. And I hear the guy who owns the barbecue place is gonna be in the contest."

"Sorry, no can do. I'm late for work."

"Just tell Ranger you needed barbecue," Lula said. "Everybody understands when the barbecue urge comes over you. And besides, there's no place to park by that barbecue place. I need a ride up there. It'll take you a minute, and it's the least you can do since I rescued you from that embarra.s.sing experience last night."

"You didn't rescue me! You pulled me down the stairs and let Junior escape."

"Yeah, but people was watching me go a.s.s-over-elbows down the stairs, and they hardly noticed you at all."

That could be true. "Okay, I'll give you a ride, but then I have to go to work."

Lula hiked her purse onto her shoulder. "We got it all planned out what me and Connie want to eat. All's I gotta do is run in and out."

Lula and I stepped out of the office onto the sidewalk and stood for a moment squinting into the sun.

"This here's a beautiful day," Lula said. "I got a real good feeling about today."

A black Mercedes with tinted windows pulled out of a parking s.p.a.ce half a block away and cruised up to the bonds office. It slowed, the side window slid down, a gun barrel appeared, there was maniacal giggling, and four rounds were fired off.

I heard a bullet whistle past my ear, the plate-gla.s.s window behind me cracked, and Lula and I hit the ground. Connie kicked the bonds office door open and aimed a Glock at the Mercedes, but the car was already too far away.

"That a.s.shole took out my computer," Connie said.

Lula hauled herself up off the sidewalk and pulled her lime green spandex miniskirt down over her b.u.t.t. "Someone call the police. Call the National Guard. Those guys are out to get me. That was one of those Chipotle killers behind that gun. I saw his idiot face. And I heard that crazy-a.s.s giggling. Did someone get that license plate?"

Vinnie appeared in the doorway and cautiously peeked outside. "What's going on?"

Vinnie was my rodent cousin. Good bail bondsman. Scary human being. Slicked-back hair, face like a ferret, dressed like Tony Soprano, had a body like Pee-wee Herman.

"Someone's trying to kill Lula," Connie said.

Vinnie put his hand to his heart. "That's a relief. I thought they were after me."

"It's no relief to me," Lula said. "I'm a nervous wreck. And stress like this is bad for your immune system. I read about it. I could get shingles or something."

People from nearby businesses migrated onto the sidewalk, looked around, and realized it was just the bonds office getting shot at. Their faces registered that this was no big whoopity-do, and they drifted back into their buildings.

Lights flashed in the distance on Hamilton, and a fire truck and an EMS truck rumbled to a stop in front of the office.

"Hey!" I yelled to the fire truck. "You're blocking me in. I have to go to work. We don't need you."

"Of course we need them," Lula said. "Do you see that big beautiful man drivin' that fire truck? I think I saw him on one of them Fire Truck Hunks calendars." Lula stood on tiptoes in her spike heels and waved to him. "Yoohoo, sweetie! Here I am. I been shot at," she called. "I might be faint. I might need some of that mouth-to-mouth."

Ten minutes later, I was still waiting for the fire truck to take off, and Morelli strolled over.

"Now what?" he said.

"A guy in a black Mercedes shot at Lula. She said it was one of the Chipotle killers."

Morelli cut his eyes to Lula. "Guess they didn't tag her."

"No, but they got Connie's computer."

"Anyone see the license plate?"

"Nope."

"I like this red shirt you're wearing," Morelli said, tracing along the neckline with his fingertip. "Did you get fired from your new job already?"

"No. I ran out of black clothes."

"What happens if you don't dress in black? Do you have to go to detention? Do you get fined?"

I did an eye roll.

"I'm serious," Morelli said, laugh lines crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Are all the towels in the building black? Is there black toilet paper?"

I did a five-count of deep breathing as an alternative to kicking him in the knee.

"If you could get that fire truck to move, I could go to work," I finally said.

Morelli was still smiling. "You would owe me."

"What did you have in mind?"

"A night of wild gorilla s.e.x."

"Good grief."

"How bad do you want to go to work?" he asked.

"Wild gorilla s.e.x isn't going to happen. I'm not interested. I'm done with men."

"Too bad," he said. "I learned some new moves."

"We are no longer a couple," I told him. "And you better not have learned those moves from Joyce Barnhardt."

Morelli and I went to school with Joyce Barnhardt, and she'd always had a thing for Morelli. For as long as I can remember, Joyce Barnhardt has been like a needle in my eye. I severely disliked Joyce Barnhardt.

IT WAS CLOSE to two o'clock when I walked through the fifth-floor control room and settled myself in my cubicle.

My intercom buzzed and Ranger came on. "My office," he said.

I walked the short distance to his office and looked in at him. "What?"

"Come in and close the door."

I closed the door and sat in a chair opposite him. He was at his desk, and I was struck by the same thought I had every time I came into his office. Ranger always looked at ease, but he never actually looked like he belonged behind a desk. He looked like he should be scaling a wall, or jumping out of a helicopter, or kicking the c.r.a.p out of some bad guy.

"Do you like doing this?" I asked him. "Do you like running this security firm?"

"I don't love it," he said. "But I don't hate it, either. It's a phase in my life. It's not so different from being a company commander in the military. Better work conditions. Less sand."

I wondered if my job was also just a phase in my life. Truth is, I felt a little stalled.

"Do you have any new thoughts on my problem?" he asked.

"Nothing big. Sybo Diaz gets the prize for most suspicious guy so far, but he doesn't fit into the puzzle right. He's like trying to ram a square peg into a round hole. Diaz was on duty when two of the break-ins occurred, so he'd have to be working with someone else. Problem is, I don't see Diaz having a partner in this kind of operation. He's totally closed. He'd have to do it all himself.

"The computer with the security codes is actually available to a lot of people. Four men have primary responsibility, but a bunch of other guys fill in for them when they take a break. And all the other men who are watching other monitors have the ability to see the screen on the code computer. You already knew this.

"The thing is, the longer I'm here, the less likely I'm inclined to believe this is an inside job. Everyone is watching everyone now. And the code computer is under constant scrutiny. And yet there was a new break-in. I think you have to look at outside possibilities. Maybe a rival security firm. Or a techno freak you fired or didn't hire. Or maybe someone not a.s.sociated with you at all who's doing it for the rush."

"This isn't a large firm," Ranger said. "We offer quality personal service to a select group of clients. If I remove all clients with video surveillance, I cut the list in half. If I only look at residential accounts, the list gets much smaller. I was able to increase the number of cars I have patrolling video-free, residential accounts during hours when the break-ins occurred. If I have to enlarge that list to include commercial accounts spread over a two-shift period, I'm short manpower."

"Maybe you can get more accounts to use video."

"That's like announcing my system is corrupted. I'm trying to keep this quiet." He handed me a list of names. "These are non-video clients, both residential and commercial. The clients that have been hit by this guy are printed in red. I'd like you to ride around and see if anything jumps out at you."

EIGHT

I TOOK THE list back to my apartment, made myself a peanut b.u.t.ter sandwich, and marked Ranger's at-risk accounts on a map of Trenton. Commercial accounts in green Magic Marker. Residential accounts in pink Magic Marker. Accounts already hit in red.

Grandma called on my cell phone. "Guess who's standing in the backyard waving his winkie at me?"

"I'll be right there."

I called Ranger and told him I needed help with an FTA who was currently in my mom's backyard. I shoved the map and the client list into my purse and ran out of my apartment, down the stairs, and across the lot to my car. If I had luck with traffic, I could make my parents' house in five minutes. It would take Ranger ten to twenty minutes.

I called my grandmother when I was two minutes away. "Is he still there?"

"He's making his way through backyards. I can see him from the upstairs window. I think he's going to Betty Garvey's house. She gives him cookies."

I went straight to Betty Garvey. I parked at the curb in front of her house and walked around back. I didn't see Junior Turley, but Betty was at her kitchen door.

"Have you seen Junior?" I asked her.

"Yes. He just left. I gave him an oatmeal raisin cookie, and he thanked me and went on with his walk. He's such a nice, polite man."

"Which way did he go?"

"He was walking toward Broome Street."

I jogged through the next two yards, crossed the street, and saw Junior at the end of the block. He was eating his cookie with one hand and shaking his w.a.n.ger at Mrs. Barbera with the other. He looked my way and shrieked and took off running.

I chased Junior for half a block and lost him when he cut through Andy Kowalski's driveway. I stopped a moment to catch my breath and answer my phone.

"Babe," Ranger said.

"I lost him at the corner of Green and Broome. I think he's doubling back toward my parents' house. You can't miss him. He's eating a cookie, and he's got his barn door open."

I looked between houses and saw Ranger's black Porsche Turbo glide down the street. I stood perfectly still and listened for footsteps. A dog barked on the next block, and I ran in that direction. I crossed the street, hopped a fence, bushwhacked through a jungle of out-of-control forsythia, and spotted Junior Turley displaying his wares to old Mrs. Gritch.

I bolted out of the bushes and tackled Turley. We both went down to the ground, where we wrestled around, Turley trying to get away and me holding on.