A little before noon, I sensed a shift in the climate and looked up to find Ranger on deck. He spoke briefly to each of the men at the monitoring stations, grabbed a sandwich from the kitchen, and stopped at my cubicle on his way to his office. He was freshly showered and shaved and perfectly pressed in black dress slacks and shirt.

"I have a client meeting in the boardroom in fifteen minutes," he said. "After that, I need to catch up on paperwork, and then I'll take another surveillance shift at six. How far did you get on the accounts list yesterday?"

"Not that far. I was getting ready to pack up here and spend the afternoon riding around."

"Do you need a company car?"

"No. I'm okay in the Escort."

I stuffed myself into my new Rangeman sweatshirt, hiked my purse onto my shoulder, and went to the kitchen to load up on free food. Ella had set out vegetable soup and crackers, a.s.sorted sandwiches, a salad bar, and a large display of fresh fruit. I looked it all over and blew out a sigh.

Ramon was behind me, and he burst out laughing. "Let me guess what that sigh was about. You want a hot dog, fries, and a brownie with ice cream."

"I'd kill for a meatball sub and a hunk of birthday cake, but this is better for me," I said, selecting a barbecue chicken sandwich.

"Yeah, I keep telling myself that. If I get shot dead on the job, there won't be an ounce of fat on me."

"Do you worry about that?"

"Getting shot dead? No. I don't do a lot of worrying, but the reality is most of this job is routine, with the occasional potential for really bad s.h.i.t."

I dropped the sandwich into my purse, along with an apple and an organic granola bar. "Gotta go," I said. "Things to do."

"Knock yourself out."

I took the elevator to the garage, wrenched open the rusted door on my p.o.s. Escort, and motored out to the street. Probably it was stupid to refuse Ranger's offer of a company car, but it seemed like the right thing to do at the time. I had lousy car karma, and I always felt c.r.a.ppy when I used Ranger's Porsche and it got stolen or crushed by a garbage truck.

I had my map on the seat beside me, and I drove from one account to the next according to neighborhood. By four o'clock, I'd gone through all the accounts and had checked off a handful that I thought had the potential for a future break-in. I'd gone full circle around the city and ended on lower Hamilton, a half mile from the bonds office.

Lula hadn't called about the door, but I felt confident the door had been replaced and everything was cool. I drove up Hamilton to talk to Connie and Lula and found Connie was manning the office all by herself.

"Where is everyone?" I asked Connie.

"Vinnie is writing bond for someone, and Lula is at your apartment. She said she lives there now."

"I let her stay last night because her door was broken."

"I guess her door is still broken," Connie said.

"That's ridiculous. How long does it take to replace a door? You go to Home Depot, buy a door, and hang it on those doohickey hinge things."

"Something about it being a crime scene. The door can't be replaced until the lab checks it out."

"Who said that?"

"Morelli. He stopped by the office to talk to her after she reported the shooting."

Unh! Mental head slap.

I dialed Morelli and did some anti-hyperventilation exercises while I waited for him to pick up.

"What?" Morelli said.

"Did you tell Lula she couldn't replace her door?"

"Yeah."

"That's stupid. She has to replace her door. How can she live in her apartment without a door?"

"It's a crime scene that's part of an ongoing murder investigation, and we couldn't schedule evidence collection today. I'll have a guy out there tomorrow, and then she can replace her door."

"You don't understand. She's camped out in my apartment."

"And?"

"I can't live with her! She rumbles around. She takes up s.p.a.ce. Lots of s.p.a.ce! Lots of s.p.a.ce! And she snores!!" And she snores!!"

"Listen," Morelli said. "I have my own problems."

"Such as?"

"You don't want to know."

A woman's voice called out in the background. "Get off the phone. I need help with my zipper."

My heart felt like it had stopped dead in my chest. "Is that who I think it is?" I asked Morelli.

"Yeah, and I can't get rid of her. Thank G.o.d her zipper's stuck. I'm moving in with my brother."

For a moment, my entire field of vision went red. Undoubtedly due to a sudden, violent rise in blood pressure once my heart started beating again. It was Joyce Barnhardt. I hated Joyce Barnhardt. She was a sneaky, mean little kid when we were in school together. She spread rumors, stole boyfriends, alienated girlfriends, cheated on tests, and looked under stall doors in the girls' bathroom. And now that she was all grown up, she wasn't much different. She stole husbands, boyfriends, and jobs, cheating in any way possible. Her very presence in Morelli's house sent me into the irrationally enraged nutso zone.

I sucked in some air and pretended I was calm. "You're a big strong guy," I said, my voice mostly steady, well below the screaming level. "You could get rid of her if you wanted."

"It's not that easy. She walked right into my house. I'm going to have to start locking my doors. And she came in with a tray of lasagna. I'm afraid to touch it. She's probably got it laced with roofies."

Okay, get a grip here. She walked into Morelli's house. She wasn't invited. It could be worse, right?

"Why is she suddenly bringing you food?" I asked him.

"She's been up my a.s.s ever since you broke up with me."

"Hey, stud," Joyce yelled to Morelli. "Get over here."

"s.h.i.t," Morelli said. "Maybe I should just shoot her and get it done with."

I had a bunch of b.i.t.c.hy comments rolling through my head, but I clamped my mouth shut to keep the comments from spewing out into the phone. I mean, honestly, how hard is it to shove a woman out your back door? What am I supposed to be thinking here?

"I have to go," Morelli said. "I don't like the way she's looking at my olive oil."

I made a sticking-my-finger-down-my-throat gagging motion and hung up.

"What was that about?" Connie wanted to know.

"Barnhardt is trying to feed her lasagna to Morelli."

"She's fungus," Connie said.

"I'm not too happy with Morelli, either."

"He's a man," Connie said. As if that explained it all.

"I suppose I should go home and see what Lula is doing."

"I know what she's doing," Connie said. "She's brewing barbecue sauce with your grandmother."

"In my apartment?"

"That was the plan."

Eek! Okay, so I know my apartment isn't going to get a full-page spread in Home Beautiful Home Beautiful, but it's all I've got. Bad enough I have Lula in it. Lula and Grandma together are total facaca.

"Gotta go," I said to Connie. "See you tomorrow."

Vinnie stuck his head out of his office. "Where are you going? Why are you dressed up in Rangeman stuff? Christ, you're not moonlighting, are you? You aren't any good when you're working for me full-time. Now I'm sharing you with Ranger?"

"I brought two skips in this week."

"Big deal. What about all the others still in the wind? This isn't a G.o.dd.a.m.n charity. I'm not buying these idiots out of jail for my health. And it's not like you're the only bounty hunter out there," Vinnie said. "You could be replaced."

"Lucille's been talking redecorating again," Connie said to me. "Vinnie needs money."

Lucille was Vinnie's wife. She tortured Vinnie by constantly redecorating their house and by spending his money faster than he could make it. We figured this was retribution for Vinnie boinking anything that moved. The good part of the deal was that all Vinnie could do was pedal twice as fast, since Lucille's father, Harry the Hammer, financed the bonds office. If Vinnie left Lucille, not only would he be unemployed, there was a good chance he'd be dining with Stanley Chipotle.

"She's killing me," Vinnie said. "I haven't got money to buy a hot dog for lunch. My bookie took me off his iPhone."

Actually, it wasn't a good thing when Vinnie got this broke, because instead of buying favors from professionals on Stark Street, we suspected Vinnie was forced to chase down ducks at the park.

NINE

I LEFT THE bonds office, drove a couple blocks on Hamilton, and took a right into Morelli's neighborhood. Best not to examine my motives too closely. I was telling myself morbid curiosity was the driving force, but my heart was beating pretty hard for something that benign. I left-turned onto Morelli's street, cruised half a block, and stopped in front of his house. His SUV was gone, and there was no sign of Joyce's car. No lights on in the house. No sign of activity. I turned at the next corner and headed for the Burg. I drove past Morelli's brother's house. No SUV there, either.

Okay, get a grip, I told myself. No reason to get crazy. Morelli is a free man. He can do whatever the heck he wants. If he wants to act like a jerk and get friendly with Barnhardt, it's his problem. Anyway, I have to expect that he'll be seeing other women. That's what happens when people break up ... they spend time with other people, right? Just because I don't want to spend time with other people doesn't mean Morelli has to feel that way. I'm one of those people who needs s.p.a.ce between relationships. I don't just jump into stuff. And I don't do one-night stands. Usually. There was that time with Ranger, but you couldn't really categorize it as a one-night stand. It was more like a onetime-only ticket to WOW WOW.

I turned out of the Burg onto Hamilton, and five minutes later, I pulled into my parking lot. I parked next to Lula's Firebird and looked up at my windows. No smoke. No sign of fire. No one running screaming out of the building. That was good. Maybe I wasn't too late. Maybe they hadn't started cooking yet. Maybe they'd discovered I only had one pot and decided to watch television.

I jogged across the lot, up the stairs, and down the hall to my apartment, reminding myself to stay calm. Lula and Grandma were in my kitchen and my counters were filled with bottles of barbecue sauce, dry rub, vinegar, cooking sherry, a half-empty bottle of rum, lemons, onions, oranges, a keg of ketchup, and a ten-pound can of tomato sauce. Grandma and Lula were in their chef's clothes, except Lula was missing her hat. My sink was filled with dirty measuring cups, a.s.sorted utensils, bowls, and measuring spoons. There was a large pot hissing on the stove.

"What the heck is that?" I asked Lula.

"I got my pressure cooker goin' here," Lula said. "I saw it advertised on QVC. It cuts cookin' time in half. Maybe more. And it preserves all the goodness of the food. It was real expensive on television, but I got this one off of Lenny Skulnik. It's good quality, too, because it was made in China."

Lenny Skulnik sold knock-off handbags and kitchen appliances out of the trunk of his car. I went to school with Lenny. He was totally without scruples, and one of the more successful graduates.

"Are you sure it's supposed to make those noises?" I asked Lula. "And what about all that steam?"

"It's supposed to steam," Lula said. "It's why you call it a pressure cooker. And if you look close, you could see the pressure indicator is all red. That's the sign of good pressure cookin'. You wouldn't want no green s.h.i.t on a pressure-cookin' indicator."

"Are you sure? Did you read the instructions?"

"This one didn't come with no instructions. This was the economy model."

I kept Rex's cage on the kitchen counter. It was lost behind the bottles and cans, but I could see Rex running on his wheel for all he was worth, every now and then sneaking a peek at the pot on the stove.

The pot had gone beyond hissing and was now whistling a high keening wail. We-e-e-e-e-e-e-e We-e-e-e-e-e-e-e Red sauce was sputtering out of the steam hole and the pot was vibrating. Red sauce was sputtering out of the steam hole and the pot was vibrating.

"Don't worry," Lula said. "It's just workin' itself up to maximum pressurizin'."

"It's a modern miracle," Grandma said.

I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. I always worried when the little bulb at the top of anything went red. And I recognized the sound the pot was making. I felt like that sometimes, and it never ended well.

"Maybe you should turn the heat down a little," I said to Lula.

"I guess I could do that," Lula said. "It must almost be done. We've been cooking it for over an hour."

Lula reached for the k.n.o.b on the stove and at that exact moment there was a popping popping sound and the two latches flew off the lid. sound and the two latches flew off the lid.

"Holy cats," Lula said.

"She's gonna blow!" Grandma yelled. "Run for your life!"

Rex darted into his soup can. Lula and Grandma and I turned tail and bolted. And the lid exploded off the pot. BANG! BANG! The lid hit the ceiling like it had been launched from a rocket, and barbecue sauce was thrown onto every exposed surface. There was a hole in the ceiling where the lid had impacted, and sauce dripped from the ceiling and slimed down cabinets. The lid hit the ceiling like it had been launched from a rocket, and barbecue sauce was thrown onto every exposed surface. There was a hole in the ceiling where the lid had impacted, and sauce dripped from the ceiling and slimed down cabinets.

"Guess we aren't having barbecue for dinner tonight," Grandma said, creeping back to the stove to look in the pot.

Lula swiped at some of the sauce on the counter and tasted it. "Not exactly right yet, anyways."

A splotch of sauce dripped off the ceiling onto Grandma's head, and she retreated out of the kitchen.