Thanks again for following along. If I haven't responded yet to your (wonderful, helpful) reviews, I thank you for your patience. Your comments are encouraging and also give me nifty ideas on additional things I can add to the story to give it flavor. Special thanks, as always, to jbspenser06 who reminds me to take care of Ranger, especially when he's being cranky.
I don't own the Stephanie Plum characters; nor do I make any profit, though this story and any original characters are mine. This story is purely for entertainment, so there may be errors.
Chapter 10: Back to Work
Ranger walked into the D'Angelo's sub shop on Sunday evening. The sun was getting low on the horizon, making it difficult to see even with the dark Ray-Bans he'd picked up at the store yesterday with Steph. It was good timing, he thought as he looked at the menu on the wall. He needed to warm up and get some calories. He needed to pop a couple more painkillers to deal with his headache and the lingering pain he felt in his joints and muscles.
Beyond that, it was time to evaluate what he'd learned during his day of pounding the street so he could put this evening's surveillance to best use.
He stomped his feet unconsciously while he waited in line, and tucked his hands under his arms to warm them. Just his luck that he'd dropped into Boston during a record-breaking, post-Halloween cold snap. It was on a par with this whole job. He was starting to seriously wonder what had caused him to take it. The whole thing was FUBAR.
No, that wasn't entirely true, he thought to himself as he stepped up to order. Against all odds, this job had brought Steph back into his life. The same Steph, yet so different.
He couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if he'd been in Trenton the year when Steph's sister died. He would have stepped forward to help, no doubt about that. In fact, even now he felt himself coil for action every time he thought about what Steph had gone through while he was away, not that he could do anything now.
And, dammit, he'd heard her loud-and-clear that she had needed to reach for a different type of help than what he would've provided. Help she might not have sought had he been there. What was fucked up was that Ranger had decided she probably was right. What the hell did he know about raising children, about creating a family? Not exactly things he'd excelled at, he thought darkly.
Then he mentally shrugged. If he was honest, he hadn't been in any shape to help her with anything beyond money anyway. Not something he liked to admit, but there it was. He'd been at a tipping point; his vaunted discipline frayed. He'd barely been able to stomach his days being mired in meetings and paperwork. The walls in his apartment, the guardrails on his schedule, the chain of command…. They'd all closed in around him.
Without realizing it, he'd managed to re-create most of what had made the Army untenable. And he'd had a mental rucksack full of personal crap he'd needed the past six-or-so years to deal with. He sighed inwardly; he'd truly needed to leave Trenton when he did.
But what was truly fucked up was that he had probably needed her more than she had needed him. Just thinking about it made his anger concuss like a building imploding into rubble and a plume of dust.
In the early hours this morning, he'd woken from a restless dream with a realization that passed through him like an electric shock. What if the reason he'd been able to stay focused long enough to build Rangeman into a lucrative, well-respected business was precisely that Steph had been there to ground him, to counter-balance him? The sheer unpredictability and adrenaline rush of her emergencies had shown like halogen runway lights on the darkened airfield of his life.
Oh, he'd long ago figured out that watching her sleep had been his balm after he returned from difficult jobs, hair triggered and ready to blow. He'd come to rely on her unconditional acceptance of his damaged soul to regain his balance and resume his regimented life with poise. He'd sneak in after midnight, sit for hours, and leave near dawn feeling like maybe he'd be able to sleep without nightmares.
Equally powerful, though, was his almost instinctive urge to spring into action when she was in danger. He would leave any meeting, abandon any project, dive headfirst into a murky river more than a storey below if he heard she was in danger. Then he'd walk away from her and return to his daily business, pumped and ready to roll. In a heated argument after the river-diving event, Tank had called her a pinup for Ranger's wet dreams and Ritalin for his attention deficit disorder. In retrospect Ranger thought Tank might have hit the nail on the head.
So, Steph had thought Ranger was Batman; Tank had thought he'd lost focus and passed all decision making to the head in his pants. Meanwhile his cousin Les had accused Ranger of misplacing his dick altogether since he kept letting the only woman obviously in his life return to goddamn Morelli over and over.
Which just made him think of Morelli. When Steph told him this morning that she had actually broken up with Morelli a month before he'd left town seven years ago, it had confused the crap out of him. It was like the first time he'd found himself on the side of the road after an ambush in the Army; ears ringing, bottom dropped out of his lungs, with no memory of how the hell he'd gotten there.
He'd felt so goddamn righteous that he'd walked away in nobility to leave Steph to the cop, and instead he'd monumentally missed his chance with her. The devil on his shoulder, though, whispered that he had ignored plenty of other chances to make her his. Maybe Morelli had been an excuse. Like saying that his life didn't lend itself to relationships, as though lifestyle wasn't just a series of choices.
Well, screw it. He should have been able to figure that out from how furious he'd been when he'd returned after that year away, only to find Steph gone and Morelli married. He should have looked a little more carefully at his rage. He'd been careless, though, since his deep core of anger had long been one of his strengths. Glacially calm on the outside, he'd always been able to immediately access that burning spark of fury that gave him the edge that made him exceptional.
But, when had it started to make him blind?
He remembered coming back to Trenton so clearly. He'd stormed back to Rangeman at 2am—still dressed for undercover—after finding a Vietnamese couple living in Stephanie's former apartment and the Plum house empty with dust on the furniture. Tank hadn't answered his calls and hadn't been home. Les had answered his cellphone from what sounded like a strip club and said Stephanie had moved away months ago. Bobby, obviously half asleep, had basically told Ranger that it wasn't his business to track other peoples' ex-girlfriends.
So Ranger had turned over his own office and apartment, searching for clues. All he'd found was Steph's key fob with Tank's note saying that Steph had returned it when she'd left town. In the process he'd unearthed the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label that his brother had given him when he'd bought the building and proceeded to drink himself into a shotglass-throwing stupor.
He'd been furious that he'd allowed himself that weakness. And that he'd allowed himself to rely on another person to make himself whole. Before he'd managed to ramp himself down, he'd destroyed several punching bags and needed stitches and a splint for his hand. The first bar fight down at the docks hadn't been his finest moment, but it had helped him get a grip on himself. At least he hadn't gotten arrested that time.
But, as the weeks went on, he he'd had even less tolerance for the day-to-day business at Rangeman than before. He'd lost his ability to sleep through the night and found himself volunteering for the violent skips a bit more often than was smart. He'd found himself picking fights. Something had to give.
Tank had been fairly clear on the point, as well, during a couple of bouts on the mats that had become more than the usual sparring sessions. At the end of it all, Ranger still believed that selling his share of the business and moving on had been the right thing to do. For everyone concerned.
Having connected back up with Stephanie, Ranger couldn't help but wonder how those six months would have played out differently had she still been in Trenton when he'd returned. Well, he thought sardonically, there would've been fewer bar fights. And what about the years afterward? Would she have agreed to leave Trenton with him? Taking a breath, he wondered: would he have agreed to follow her in support of her new family?
Amazingly, he now saw that she still radiated a vibrancy that drew him. Perhaps her emergencies and the volatility of life around her hadn't been why he had been drawn to Stephanie in the first place. Perhaps he would have followed her while he searched for his new equilibrium.
Ranger was suddenly pulled back into the moment by the teenager behind the D'Angelo's counter. Dammit, Ranger thought to himself, he was still ignoring his surroundings. He couldn't blame his distraction on Steph though; she hadn't even been in the picture when he'd been dropped like an amateur in the Allston bodega a couple of days ago. Nope, it was all on him.
Ranger paid and then took his food—two turkey subs with cheese, a large salad, water and hot tea—and found a table. He sat with his back to the wall, his gun hidden comfortably within reach and his piece-of-shit car visible through the front window. It was time to focus on the here-and-now. The sheer discomfort of the too-narrow chair and table should help minimize distraction. He'd have plenty of time later, in his car, to ruminate over Steph.
Focusing on that physical discomfort for a moment, he shook out a couple ibuprofen tablets and swallowed them with a sip of water. Then he unwrapped his first sandwich and put aside half of the bread while considering the information he'd learned today on the streets. Some informants in Fall River had tipped him to the neighborhood in Mattapan that he'd visited this afternoon. And, he'd hit paydirt in two older women handing out Jehovah's Witness pamphlets who'd recognized the picture of Figueroa he'd downloaded this morning over the internet from his encrypted server.
The two women had pointed out the building where they'd seen Figueroa. They'd also mentioned that he seemed to be a night owl and that they often saw him with one or two men. They had helpfully described the men while Ranger made a show of taking some pamphlets, promising he'd read them later.
With that intel, coupled with other hints he'd gleaned throughout the day, Ranger knew where he'd be after it got dark. An evening stakeout after an afternoon of pounding the pavement. Back to the basics; there was something comforting in that.
If that didn't work out, he'd also gotten a more speculative tip regarding a meeting at a pub in Dorchester tomorrow. He pulled out his phone to look at where that was on the map. As he took a sip of water, he realized that the two twenty-somethings who had sat down at the next table had started darting glances at him, whispering to each other and giggling.
Just great, he thought, with a mental grimace. He'd managed to go to sleep last night after a marathon of whacking off, and now he was providing fantasy material to two young let's-be-friends out for an adventure. Too bad he wasn't still twenty himself. Back then, all he would've needed was a knowing glance and a few inconsequential yet provocative comments, and he'd have been looking at an early-evening threesome. An unexpectedly warm sendoff before a chilly night of surveillance.
Since his teens, he knew he was considered handsome and that he was desirable to women. And a lot of men, too, truth be told. He'd found out, early on, that he could have almost any woman he wanted, in whatever way he wanted. Which had been pretty goddamn perfect from his point of view well into his early thirties. Even the difficulty with Rachel hadn't quenched the hardness and creativity of his dick. It had just made him resolve to always use his own condoms.
However, these days, the chase and conquest had lost its luster. Oh, he sometimes still found time to indulge. And, whether he liked it or not, part of him was even now evaluating the young ladies seated next to him. The young ladies whose eating and drinking had slowed to a sensuous mime.
But he already knew he wouldn't pursue. He rarely did anymore. He wasn't in need of the high. It wasn't worth the day-after feeling that the experience had occurred to someone else. Or, that he'd given away something of himself with little to show for it.
If he was honest, it was a fairly depressing prospect. He'd probably gotten more long-term physical satisfaction from this morning's hour of stretches, push-ups, and crunches at Steph's house before he'd showered and gone out to talk with her. And, with Steph, he actually had someone whose conversation interested him. Someone whose remembered caresses still heated his dreams after all these years.
Finished with his food, he stood up from his table and picked up his tray. Time to break some hearts. So, exiting from the side opposite from his admirers, Ranger walked to the door, deposited his trash, and took his quickly cooling tea outside to his car.
Taking a sip, he shuddered slightly at the bitter, hard finish that did nothing to mitigate the paper-cup taste. As he slid behind the wheel, he resolved to get an insulated mug and some Gunpowder Green or Lung Ching tea that he could brew at Stephanie's. He'd get enough so she could brew it, too, if she came to like it.
He started the car, grimacing unconsciously at its scraping ignition, and drove a number of blocks while executing a simple evasion sequence. He was used to tailing and evading at dusk, and this crappy car had the singular benefit of semi-anonymity in traffic. Since he hadn't spotted any fleas on his way to the sub shop or upon leaving, he was quickly satisfied. He pulled into a strip-mall parking lot and took a space between two panel trucks.
He'd wait until dark to start his stakeout. Right now, he could use the time to review his list of targets. Relatively hidden from sight, he unfastened his seatbelt and unfolded some papers from the pocket on his right pants leg. He took out the small carabiner LED light that he'd found at the drug store. Turning it to illuminate the papers without making his face visible, he began to scan.
He'd reconstituted his list this morning in Steph's kitchen, using the laptop she'd made available. Adding her new information to his, it looked even more like a United Nations of suspiciously entwined people. The coincidental overlaps between targets and locations thrummed against his nerves.
And, frankly, talking with Morelli on Saturday night had ratcheted his concern about his current case to a new level. When an experienced Chief of Detectives in an urban area, with all his resources, saw the same anomalies as a gun-for-hire working the shady margins, there was truly cause for concern. Ranger grimaced to himself. Morelli might be a personal pain in his ass, but he had always been a smart cop.
So, time to focus. He needed to be strategic because he didn't have the bandwidth to pursue them all in the time before his hearing at the Boston courthouse at the end of the month. He read through the list, sifting the information in his mind.
First, there was his own target, Mateus Figueroa, originally from Brazil. With a lapsed green card, he'd left his dockside job in Galveston with no notice. He'd nabbed his sons from Puerto Rico and dragged them along as he'd traveled all the way up to Portland Maine, then down to Fall River. Now there were a few positive sightings up in Boston.
Then there was Mirko Krc from the Turkish/Armenian border. He'd been low on Ranger's list until Stephanie unearthed that he'd worked at the same Galveston dockyard as Figueroa in Texas. He'd moved right near the top of the list with Morelli's tip that Krc had been stealing cars in New Jersey and might have nabbed a heavy-duty construction vehicle as he'd escaped their dragnet.
Additionally, informants had placed someone matching Krc's description, with his lanky frame and memorable facial scar, in Figueroa's company. Admittedly the first Boston informant was an obvious substance abuser, but the ladies handing out pamphlets today had been more specific. Krc might lead Ranger to Figueroa. And, Krc was wanted in New Jersey, so Ranger could legitimately collar him, if it came to that.
So, those were the targets on whom he'd concentrate. With that in mind, he put away his notes on the remaining men whose names had surfaced during his hunt. Amadeo Djaleo from Minneapolis and Fall River was still suspicious, but Ranger didn't have any recent leads on him. The other two men—Burc Aburek and Brendan Fennelly—intersected his case but seemed more peripheral. And, again, Ranger didn't have any sightings to pursue.
He glanced briefly at the separate page where he'd drawn the various connections between the men. The overlaps seemed too specific to be coincidences. Frankly, when mapped in time they were like chessmen moving across the board, converging on checkmate. But, without knowing the "king" they were trying to capture, the information didn't help.
Ranger had pondered this earlier: Their movements had earmarks of sleeper agents being mobilized. However, they were too diverse to be the type of jihadi or organized crime network he was accustomed to tracing. He was going to have to keep relying on old-fashioned footwork.
Last night after Morelli's call, Ranger had left another coded message for Tino Clark, his client at the FBI. It was worrisome that Clark had been out of contact for almost two weeks. Tomorrow morning he'd update his chronology to include events that had occurred during this investigation. Tino's silence and the set-up that had snared Ranger made them both part of the pattern.
Ranger exhaled as he turned off the LED light and folded up his notes, feeling the warmth of his breath dissipate into the cold air of the car. Unless he had a breakthrough during tonight's stakeout, he was going to be spending another long morning at Steph's kitchen table, sifting through information and working the phone. With Monday being a business day, he could call some of his other FBI and Federal Marshals contacts on the pretext of networking without raising suspicion.
Putting his car into reverse, he mused that Steph's kitchen was an unexpectedly productive place to work despite the frustration of the case. Even this morning, when he'd completely been off his game, he'd felt oddly sheltered while working there. The sunlight from the window, the faint ticking of the wall clock, and the distant sound of children playing outside in the cold had faded into a comfortable backdrop as he'd become engrossed in his case.
A couple of hours had passed that way as he searched, sent emails, made a couple of calls, and pulled his notes back together. At the end of it, he'd stretched in his chair and felt oddly renewed and ready for the day. He'd looked to his right and barked out a laugh at seeing Steph's brown bear cookie jar staring at him with its shiny, painted eyes. He'd stood, pulled on his heavy sweater, and walked over.
After years of breaking into her apartment to load her gun—which he could more reliably find in the cookie jar than on her person—he couldn't help but look inside. No gun, just granola bars like the ones Steph had brought to the jail for him, partially covered by a large post-it note. He'd laughed out-loud as he'd read, "Hello Ranger, grown-up Stephanie knows that guns go in gun safes and snacks go in cookie jars. Help yourself." She'd drawn an arrow and a rectangle he imagined was a granola bar.
Taking her at her word, he'd grabbed a couple for the road and then had headed out for the day. That was hours ago, but he chuckled again at the memory. That had made his day. That and the note he'd found on his folded-up new clothes last night, telling him that Steph had removed the tags so he should wear them because now it was too late to return them. Steph still was one of the few people who could make him laugh.
Ranger pulled out of the parking lot and headed back toward Mattapan for his night's stakeout. He steered the car through a rundown industrial district, the old steel cobrahead streetlights casting the road and surrounding buildings in weak yellows and shades of gray. Turning right, he entered a tired-looking residential street.
He drove past a chain link fence strewn with old bouquets, pictures, and teddy bears; clearly the makeshift memorial to a car accident or a drive-by shooting. In his job, he often got to see the worst in people. He took solace in being able to take some of them off the streets, helping to tilt the balance toward justice. A few patches of color showed through curtains in the houses and apartments he passed.
As he drove, Ranger reflected that his current life was suited to him, even if sometimes lonely. Even if he admitted that the past couple of days showed him that he missed having Stephanie in it.
He wondered how easy it would be to stay connected this time. Sardonically, he thought maybe it would be as simple as calling her. It wasn't goddamn rocket science. Though, since he was feeling like a moron at the moment for not having been in touch until now, maybe it was rocket science after all. Following his mood to its logical conclusion, if he ended up in the slammer for that shooting in Dorchester, he might even have visitors' hours. How convenient.
Well, he reflected wryly, he wasn't going to spend time in prison one way or the other. Reaching the building that had been pointed out to him earlier in the day, Ranger slowly circled the block with his headlights off. Finally he parked on the opposite corner, under a burned-out streetlight. He slouched down in his car and took a sip of bitter, cooling tea.
He scanned the building; he could see the fire exit, the building's front driveway, and the front sidewalk entrance from where he sat. Over half the cars parked around the building were the same as this afternoon. If he couldn't tell from the diminished foot traffic, graffiti signaled that this building was on the border of two gangs.
He sat motionless for an hour or more, watching a few older ladies dropped off by a battered church bus, a few teenagers coming and going, a young woman in fishnet stockings clutching a lightweight coat as she hurried into a car, and an obvious drug deal about a block away under the pair of sneakers dangling over a drooping phone wire.
Just another night in a rough neighborhood. Nothing notable thus far. Without consciously thinking about it, he pulled out his phone and removed one of his gloves to dial Stephanie. Surprised, he realized that his fingers had dialed her old cellphone number without conscious thought.
"Hello," he heard her answer after a couple of rings. "Is this Ranger?" The sound of television faded from the background as he heard the snick of a door in the background.
"Yeah Steph," he answered, his eyes still scanning the neighborhood though suddenly he didn't feel so alone.
"You on stakeout? You have that 'Chairman of the Bored' voice."
Ranger's lips pulled up into a small smile; after all this time she still remembered that running joke. "Yeah, I took a break earlier, but will probably be out late tonight. Wanted you to know."
"Do you need me to deliver some TastiKakes and a Sudoku book?" He heard a stifled giggle as she added, "Or maybe a heating pad and my Jets stadium blanket?" She chuckled again. "Though I don't know where the blanket is; Angie used to hide it whenever her friends came over, since they're all from here and are huge Patriots fans."
Smiling to himself in the dark, he answered, "I'm okay without the blanket, and I'm sure I'll regret turning down the heating pad in a few hours, but I'm fine." After a pause he added, "Thanks, though."
"No problem," she laughed softly again in reply, the sound warming him as much as he imagined the heating pad would have. He could still hear the humor in her voice as she asked, "So, how did your day go?"
Ranger settled back, surprised at how normal this ritual felt after so many years. He'd missed calling her in the odd breaks of surveillance. "It was good, Steph. Got the lead I'm following tonight."
"No breakthroughs yet?"
"No, but you know how it goes. You keep following leads and suddenly you get the break that opens the case. I did get a confirmed sighting of my target."
"Ranger that's great," she said, her voice breathy. Ranger knew her enthusiasm came from understanding how important confirmed sightings were. After all, she was a former bounty hunter. But, that didn't stop his own breath from hitching slightly in response to her tone. He shifted slightly in his seat as she continued in a soft voice, "Let me know if you find anything you need me to follow up for you."
"Will do Steph," he answered, realizing that his own voice had lowered. "I'll probably get in tonight after everyone is asleep. Can I call this number when you're at work?"
"Of course Ranger. You can call this number anytime." She said quietly. There was no irony in her tone, but it reminded him that she'd told him in jail that she didn't have his phone number or any contact information.
"Same here, Steph." He made a quick vow to himself he would keep this stupid clunker of a phone for an eternity—or at least its random phone number—if it meant that Steph would call him from time to time.
Her voice cut into his thoughts, "Oh, by the way Ranger, Mrs. Arshad downstairs signed for a courier package today. It's addressed to me, but I think it's really for you so I've put it under your clothes in the den. Of course I am completely non-curious and so have no idea of what's inside."
"Got it, Steph." Ranger knew his Babe—since it was addressed to her, she'd opened the package within a minute of getting into her apartment. And now she was letting him know that she didn't want to discuss the counterfeit IDs she'd found inside. Ranger's face with other names listed below. Helpful for getting to his money, but not helpful for a BPD community liaison to know about. "Exactly as I'd expect," he said gently.
"Also, Ranger, it's fine to come home whenever you do, tonight. Just park behind my car with about two yards between us and I'll be able to swing out in the morning." Her voice was soft as she added, "And I keep this phone in my room so you can call late if you need."
She was reminding him of how he used to call—or even stop by—in the middle of the night. How he sometimes just needed to talk in the gray hours before the dawn. He truly didn't deserve her kindness, but he thanked her anyway, knowing that she'd hear his heart in his voice. She always did.
Shortly after that, he'd ended the call and resumed watch. He focused on the street, but his mind kept wandering back to Steph. He had so few people to just talk with these days. That was something he'd wanted to change for awhile. And talking with Steph was so much more than just talking to someone. It always had been, from their first meeting years ago.
It was a memory burned into his soul: he'd gone to that meeting as an unwilling favor owed to Connie and her connections. Grudgingly, he'd sat his ass in that no-name diner with his calculated boyz-n-the-hood persona, figuring he'd scare the whitebread chick out of her bad-side-of-the-tracks fantasy. Of course, Stephanie being herself had just walked over, sat down, and talked with him like she'd known him for years. It had confused him, made him feel vulnerable, because he'd broken all of his rules by wanting to help her. Henry Higgins to her Eliza. Ranger to her Bombshell Bounty Hunter.
Who were they to each other, now? She said he was family. He leaned back into his car seat, turning that over in his head while he watched the limited neighborhood action in the crisp, cold night.
Another couple of hours passed as he did isometric exercises in his car seat, keeping alert and warming his muscles. At one point, out of boredom he followed an obviously inebriated older man through the buzz-entry front door and stuck a piece of electrical tape across the old-fashioned latch so he'd be able to get in again. While inside, he'd cased the hallways and stairwells, finding nothing notable though he did feel marginally warmer when he returned to his car.
A couple more hours passed and then Ranger saw a couple of men come out of the fire-exit door, their shadows moving in front of the graffiti in the feeble yellow stairwell light. One might be Figueroa's size, though in winter coats it was hard to tell. At the same time, a car rolled slowly past his other side. Moving quietly, Ranger slipped out of his car and padded into the shadows.
As the car slowed down in front of the building, he readied his stun gun for quick deployment and turned in that direction. With a view of the idling car, Ranger could see that the driver was male and seemed alone. He'd decided the driver was too small to be Figueroa at the same moment the building's front door opened and a woman stepped out by herself. Ranger pulled back into the shadows and hurried in the other direction, after the two men who'd left by the fire door.
Rounding the corner, he saw their silhouettes and heard their voices. Not English, by the rhythm, but he needed to hear the words. He moved closer as he trailed them, keeping to the shadows. Finally one of the men stopped to light a cigarette; the one built like Figueroa. Ranger realized that they were speaking an Asian language at the same time the man turned. Ranger could see his features. Filipino or Indonesian. Not Figueroa after all.
Ranger returned to his car and slid in silently. Damn, he thought, this was one of the many times on this job that he wished he'd been able to hire Hector, one of the handful of former Rangemen who still worked independently. Hector would have been perfect, both due to skills and because Ranger would know he was fully loyal and unconnected to any of the alphabet agencies. Those connections had been why he ultimately hadn't felt comfortable hiring either Manny or Zero for this job, though they also free-lanced like Hector.
Unfortunately, Hector was not exactly a free agent at the moment, since he was mid-way through serving a nickel up at Rikers for a trumped-up B&E charge. Ranger was still furious that he hadn't been able to get Hector out of that. At least, when he'd found out about it, he'd been able to cash in a couple of favors to get Bobby, Lester, and a Trenton jewelry store owner Hector had helped to appear as character witnesses, so Hector was on track for early release.
Hector just had to keep dodging any Slayers, Latin Kings, or Trinitarios in the jail who might be gunning for him. When Ranger had mentioned that on a recent visit, Hector had grinned his scariest smile and simply said, "No problemo." For just a moment, Ranger had felt a little pity for any would-be threats who crossed Hector's path. It was fleeting, and it was only a small amount of pity. But there it was: This was Hector. He'd smiled back at Hector's vulpine grin; the acknowledgement between predators catching each others' eyes over the waterhole.
He shrugged briefly. When this mess of a case was over, he'd look into the idea he'd been building over the past several months. Leveraging the Private Investigator's licenses he had in several states, he could accept more of the low-level surveillance jobs he was offered. That would give him a way to hire Manny, Zero, and eventually Hector. Maybe Vince, too.
They were spread out across three states at this point, but that wasn't a problem in the surveillance business. They'd have full-time work and a justified paycheck, and they could stop taking sketchy jobs to make ends meet. It wouldn't be grandiose like Rangeman; nothing with his name on the door. Just a job they did well and a regular paycheck to be proud of.
His thoughts were interrupted by a tall, hunched figure hurrying into the building. In the shadows it was hard to tell, though it could be Krc. The Jehovah's Witness ladies had described a man who sounded a lot like him: slim, tall but stooped, and with a damaged face.
Slipping out of the car again, Ranger ducked silently behind the hunched figure, following him into the building. Following up the stairs, Ranger watched while the lean man slipped through an apartment door. He finally got a glimpse of the man's profile as he closed the door and saw the ragged scar crossing his long nose and running down his cheek. Definitely Krc.
Ranger tested the door and then silently pulled out his lock pick. He heard a phone ring, followed by Krc's muffled voice. Using that distraction he began working the lock. However, at the unmistakable sound of a window being thumped open, Ranger leaned back and kicked his weight into the door twice, bolting into the apartment with wood fracturing away from around the doorlock.
Ranger raced to the window and pushed the billowing curtains out of the way. One hand on the window frame for balance, he started to follow out the window. But then he saw that his partial weight on the fire escape was pulling a rusted bolt away from the outside wall, with a second already loose. A metallic clang on the ground followed, and Ranger looked down.
Krc had obviously slid down the stair railings on his hands, submarine style. He was about to drop to the ground near an alley where Ranger would likely lose him. Ranger reached reflexively for the gun in his waistband and, for a split second, set up to shoot Krc in one of his feet. Then he remembered he wasn't an Army Ranger hunting enemy combatants. Nor was he on a sanctioned 'stop-at-all-costs' hunt for one of the alphabet agencies. He didn't even have skip-trace paperwork for Krc, let alone a reason to shoot him with an unlicensed gun in an urban neighborhood.
Swearing to himself, Ranger pulled back and took stock of the apartment. First things first, he went to the apartment door; nobody was in the hall yet so he swept away the wood splinters and pulled the door closed. He looked around. No computer, no TV, no phone. But, plenty of papers scattered on tables and chairs. He switched his outdoor gloves for a set of medical gloves he'd picked up at the drug store.
He found an empty trash bag in the kitchenette, shoved the papers into it, and then started going through drawers. He pulled out a couple of IDs—one was obviously Figueroa—and some travel documents, along with hand-written notes. He added that to the bag. He dumped the contents from a McDonald's bag and wadded the contents of a small shredder into it. Hearing sounds in the hall, he quickly unbuttoned his coat, stuffed the bags under his shirt, and then re-buttoned his coat. As soon as the voices passed to the elevator, Ranger slipped out of the apartment and into the stairwell at the other end of the hall.
He opened the outer door carefully, slipping immediately into the shadows behind the building. Snow had started to fall; enough for footprints to leave tracks. He skirted the street lights and found the alley where Krc had gone. Creeping down the darkened path, he searched for any obvious exits or hiding places. However, at the other end, he could see footprints that ended where someone—probably Krc—had gotten into the passenger side of a car and left the scene. Having found little else of interest, he circled back to his car.
Soft speckles of icy white snow flickered slowly under the battered street lights. Enough had already fallen to obscure some of the obvious litter and broken bottles and envelop the neighborhood in a strange moment of quiet. Ranger slipped into the car, the metallic squawk of the car door echoing down the silent street.
He started the car and turned on the windshield wipers to clear the dusting of snow off the window. He started the fan to clear fog from the inside of the windows and reached over for a few paper towels to speed the process. Only a few hours from dawn, it was time to head home. Well, he corrected himself, he was headed back toward Steph's place. Regardless, he was going back to a comfortable bed in a warm room.
Thanks, Steph, he thought to himself as he got far enough away to turn on his headlights without being spotted. Still exhausted and sore, he realized that it did feel like he was on the path headed home, after all.
To be continued...