Chapter Two

Morelli lived halfway between my apartment at the edge of Trenton proper and my parents' house in the Burg. It was a modest two-story row house on a quiet street in a stable blue-collar neighborhood. Living room, dining room, kitchen, and powder room on the first floor. Three small bedrooms and bath upstairs. So far as I know, he'd never eaten in the dining room. Morelli ate breakfast at the small table in the kitchen, lunch at the sink, and dinner in front of the television in the living room. There was a single-car garage at the back of the property, accessible by a rutted alley, but Morelli almost always parked his SUV at the curb in front of the house. The backyard was narrow and strictly utilitarian, only used by Morelli's dog, Bob.

I parked and looked over at Zook. "You know Joe Morelli, right?"

"Wrong."

"You're related."

"That's what I hear." Zook studied the house. "I thought it would be bigger. It's all my uncle talks about since he got out of prison. He said it was supposed to go to him, but Morelli swindled him out of it."

"Hard to believe of Morelli," I said.

"I thought he was supposed to be the big, bad, tough cop and lady-killer. What's he want with this dorkopolis?"

In the beginning, I struggled with that one, too. I saw Morelli in a cool condo with a big-screen television and a kick-ass sound system and maybe a pinball machine in his living room. Turns out Morelli was tired of sailing that ship. Morelli went into Rose's house with an open mind, and the house and Morelli took stock of each other and adapted. The house gave up some of its stuffiness, and Morelli dialed down his wild side.

I pulled the key from the ignition, got out of the car, and walked to the front door with Zook trailing after me.

"This is so lame," Zook said, dragging his feet. "I can't believe my mother tried to rob a stupid booze shack." I didn't know what to say to him. I didn't want to make out like armed robbery was okay, but at the same time, I didn't want to be gloom and doom.

"Sometimes good people do dumb things," I said. "If you hang in there with your mom, it'll all work out . . . eventually. Step back when I open the door, or Morelli's dog will knock you over."

I unlocked the door, and there was a woof and the sound of dog feet galloping toward us from the kitchen. Bob appeared, ears flapping, tongue out, slobber flying in all directions. He hurtled past us, leaped off the small porch, went straight to the nearest tree, and lifted his leg.

Zook went wide-eyed. "What kind of dog is he?"

"We're not sure, but we think he's mostly Golden Retriever. His name is Bob."

Bob peed for what seemed like half an hour and trotted back into the house. I closed the door after him and checked the time. Four o'clock. Morelli's shift ended at four. It would take him thirty minutes to drive home. I had to be dressed and at the hotel by five. The hotel was thirty minutes from my apartment at this time of night. It wasn't going to work.

Zook looked around Morelli's living room. "Can I go wireless here?"

"I don't know. Morelli's computer is upstairs in his office, but I've seen him work down here as well."

Zook pulled his laptop out of his backpack. "I'll figure it out."

"That's great, because I have to go. Morelli should be home any minute now. I'm going to trust you to stay here and wait for him and not get into trouble."

"Sure," Zook said.

I called Morelli on his cell. "Where are you?"

"I just turned onto Hamilton."

"We're at your house. Unfortunately, I have a job at five, and I have to go home first to change, so I'm going to leave Zook here alone for a few minutes."

"Who's Zook?"

"You'll see. And just a suggestion, but you might want to put the Kojak light on the top of your car and step on the gas."

I live in a one-bedroom, one-bath unit on the second floor of a no-frills, three-story, red brick apartment building. There's a small lobby with a small unreliable elevator. The front entrance looks out on a busy street filled with small businesses. The rear exit backs up to a tenant parking lot. My bedroom and living room windows look out at the parking lot. Lucky me, because this is the quiet side, except at five a.m. on Mondays and Thursdays, when the Dumpster gets emptied. I share my apartment with a hamster named Rex.

I rocked to a stop in the lot, bolted from the car, bypassed the elevator, and took the stairs two at a time. I ran down the hall and rammed my key into my front door. I yelled hello to Rex on my way to the bedroom. No time for extended pleasantries.

Ten minutes later, I was out the door in black heels and my little black suit with a white tank top under the jacket. I'd spruced up my makeup and fluffed out my hair, and I'd dropped my Smith & Wesson into my purse. The gun wasn't loaded, and I didn't have time to hunt for bullets, but if I had to whack someone in the head with my purse, it was nicely weighted.

I took a call from Morelli while I unlocked my car.

"I just walked into my house, and the kid is wearing a black satin cape, he only answers to the name Zook, and he seems obsessed with someone named Moondog."

"Order a pizza and go with it," I told him.

I was five minutes late when I pulled into hotel parking. This wouldn't be an issue if I was meeting anyone other than Ranger. Ranger has many good qualities. Patience isn't one of them.

I ran through the parking garage, slid to a stop when I got to the hotel lobby, adjusted my skirt, and crossed to where Ranger was standing. He was wearing black slacks, black blazer, and a black dress shirt with a black tie. The black tie had a black stripe. If GQ ran an issue on contract killers, he'd make the cover.

"Nice," I said to him.

"Playing the role," Ranger said.

I followed him to the third floor and the only suite in the hotel. Tank was in front of the suite door, arms crossed, feet at parade rest. He was dressed in the usual Rangeman black T-shirt and cargo pants, with a gun at his hip.

"Any problems?" Ranger asked.

"No," Tank replied. "She's been inside since I came on duty."

"We'll take it from here," Ranger said.

I watched Tank walk to the elevator and thought about Lula out shopping for an engagement ring. I could sort of see Tank and Lula engaged, but the mental image of them settling into married life went right to the top of the bizarrometer.

Ranger rapped on Brenda's door and waited. He rapped a second time.

"Maybe she's in the bathroom," I said.

Ranger took a pass card from his pocket, inserted it in the lock, and opened the door. "See if you can find her."

I tiptoed into the entrance foyer and looked into the living room area. "Hello," I called.

A young woman popped out of the bedroom. She was slim, and her face was pinched and had the hungry, haunted look of someone who'd recently quit smoking. Her short dark hair was pushed behind her ears in a nonstyle. She was wearing a skirt and a cardigan and flat shoes.

She didn't look happy. "Yes?" she asked.

"Security," I told her. "We're here to escort Brenda."

"She's getting dressed."

"Honestly," Brenda yelled from the bedroom. "I don't know why I have to do these things."

Brenda was Kentucky born and raised. Her voice was country, and her style was ballsy. From what I read in the tabloids, at sixty-one she was on a slippery slope as an aging star. And she wasn't going down gracefully.

"It's a charity event," the young woman said. "It's a goodwill gesture. We're trying to erase the image of you running over that cameraman last month."

"It was an accident."

"You ran over his foot, and then you put your car in reverse and knocked him down!"

"I got confused. For crissake, get off my case. Who do you work for anyway? I want a glass of wine. Where's my wine? I specifically requested that the cooler be stocked with New Zealand sauvignon blanc. I must have my blanc!"

I looked at my watch. "Are you responsible for getting her there on time?" I asked Ranger.

"I'm responsible for getting her there alive."

"I'm responsible for getting her there on time," the dark-haired woman said. "I'm Nancy Kolen. I'm the press secretary assigned to this trip. I work for Brenda's record company."

"I have nothing to wear," Brenda said. "What am I supposed to wear? Honestly, why am I always surrounded by amateurs? Is it too much to ask to have a stylist here? Where's my stylist? First no blanc, and now no stylist. How am I supposed to work under these conditions?"

Nancy Kolen disappeared into the bedroom, and ten minutes later, Brenda swished out, followed by Nancy. Brenda was slim and toned and spray-tanned to something resembling orange mud. She had big boobs, lots of curly auburn hair tipped with blond, and her lips looked like they'd been inflated with an air hose.

She was wearing a red knit strapless tube dress that could double for skin, four-inch spike-heeled shoes, and a white sheared mink jacket. She looked like Santa's senior offseason 'ho.

Ranger was standing pressed against my back, and I could feel him smile when Brenda entered the room. I gave him an elbow to the ribs, and he exhaled on a barely audible bark of laughter.

"Look at who we got here," Brenda said, eyeing Ranger. "I swear, you are so hot, I could just eat you up. Sugar, I gotta get me some of you."

Ranger's smile was still in place. Hard to tell if he was enjoying himself or being polite.

"Stephanie and I are providing security," he said.

"Do you have a name?"

"Ranger."

"Like the Long Ranger?" Brenda asked.

There was a moment's pause while I debated correcting Brenda, but truth is, we all knew exactly what she was asking. Finally, Ranger stepped forward and opened the suite door.

"Like an Army Ranger," he said.

Brenda slithered through the door, rubbing against Ranger in the process. "I hear Army guys have big guns." Nancy and I did some eye-rolling, and Ranger remained pleasantly impassive.

I was the last to leave the room. "I've seen your gun," I whispered to Ranger."Would you like me to tell her about it?"

"Not necessary, but we could discuss it over a glass of wine later."

Chapter Two, Part Two of Fearless Fourteen coming June 1!