TWO

I woke to an empty bed and a rush of disappointment. A perfect demonstration as to why nights with Ranger were so dangerous. I had no reason to expect him to stay, but the letdown still stung. The red numbers on my bedside clock showed nearly nine.

I got up and stumbled into the bathroom, eyes still half closed. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and attempted to tame my hair, ending up with a messy ponytail. I'd done laundry at my mother's house on Christmas, making my closet full for once. I returned to my bedroom and slid into a pair of blue jeans and a green sweater.

I padded into the living room and stopped dead. Ranger sat on my sofa, his Macbook open on my coffee table. Half an orange rested on a plate next to the laptop, as well as a to-go cup from the Dunkin Donuts down the street.

"I'm impressed," he said without turning, sensing my presence with his crazy Batman abilities. "You actually have food. Real food."

"It's a Christmas miracle," I shot back dryly. Actually, it was the normal result of a post-holiday feast at my mother's house. And the fresh fruit came from my mother's disapproval of my life choices. Everyone else got candy in their stockings. I'd received fruit.

"I got you coffee. It's on the counter."

I grabbed the still warm Dunkin Donuts cup and hugged it to my chest before taking a sip and grimacing. It was black. I immediately poured in a few tablespoons of sugar and two creamers. You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make her drink black coffee.

I glanced at the apples in the bowl on my counter. That would be a nice healthy breakfast. I opened my cabinet and pulled out a box of Apple Jacks instead. At least it had apple in the name. I dropped a few of the orange and green O's into Rex's cage. He rushed out of his soup can, wiggled his whiskers in my direction, stuffed the cereal into his mouth, then retreated into hiding.

"Babe." Ranger rolled his eyes as I slouched down next to him on the couch with my doctored coffee and box of cereal.

"I have to admit, I'm surprised you're still here."

"I need your help with a Rangeman job."

I raised one eyebrow at him. Generally, my role in Rangeman jobs was to dress the part of the bimbo. But it also meant a guaranteed pay check, so I rarely complained.

"We've got a personal protection job, but it's on New Year's Eve. I thought you might already have plans."

I sensed he meant with Morelli. Did he really think I'd sleep with him if I was back to seeing Morelli? "Nope, no plans. Count me in."

"One more thing, before you agree. It's in New York City, Times Square."

I squealed, suddenly sitting up straighter on the sofa. "Are you kidding? We get to watch the ball drop live in Times Square?"

"We'll be working," he warned.

"So, who are we protecting?" My mind filled with the faces of the celebrities who performed during the celebration.

"Chantelle Robinson."

"Who?"

"She's the daughter of William Robinson."

Somewhere in my brain, that name struck a chord, but I couldn't quite place where. "Why do I know that name?"

"He's a New Jersey Senator."

Now I remembered. His name and image were plastered all over the news in the summer, after an affair with one of his political interns led to a very public, messy divorce.

"So, what's up with the daughter?" I asked.

"She goes to NYU, and over the last semester picked up a stalker. At first the kid just followed her around, but after she got a restraining order against him, he went off the deep end. He dropped out of school, but kept sending her notes and presents."

"That doesn't sound so scary." No one ever sends me presents.

"The last note promised that if he couldn't have her, no one could. It came in a box with a dead rabbit."

I made a disgusted face. Okay, so maybe presents were overrated. "So why haven't the cops brought this guy in yet?"

"No one can find him, including me." I sensed Ranger's frustration behind the statement. He took pride in his skill set, and it wasn't often someone eluded him. "New York City offers plenty of places to hide, and we're pretty confident he's just lying low, waiting for an opportunity."

"So, after all this, Chantelle Robinson still wants to go out and party for New Year's Eve?"

"She's twenty-one and trying not to let this creep affect her life. She's also got her father wrapped around her finger, so he's willing to shell out the cash to ensure she and her friends have a good time."

"So why do you need my help?"

"Chantelle isn't keen on having a bunch of ex-military men cramp her style. She has reservations for herself and nine friends at a posh restaurant and a VIP spot in Times Square. I can be nearby, but I need someone she will let stay close and who can follow her into bathrooms."

"You want me to babysit."

That earned half a smile. "Just for one night. After the ball drops, we see her safely home to her apartment and the job's done." He leaned closer to me, his voice dropping. "Then you and I can ring in the new year."

Warm tingles filled my body at the thought.

"I'll pick you up at two on the thirty-first," he added.

Ranger's mention of a ride reminded me that Big Blue remained out of commission. "I don't suppose you could drop me off at the bonds office?"

"No need." He plucked a key out of his pocket and pressed it into my palm. "Tank got Big Blue running this morning. It just needed a jump. You left the headlights on. He dropped it off at your parents' house. There is a Rangeman Jeep in the parking lot for you. The lights turn off automatically."

I ignored the jibe and accepted the key. "You know I can't promise to return it to you in one piece, right?"

"Babe," he said with a full smile, "I've got a whole rider on my insurance policy just for you."

I hoped he meant it as a joke, but couldn't be certain. I could be a major liability when it came to motor vehicles.

Finishing my Apple Jacks, I carried the bowl to the sink and left it to be washed later. I gave Rex fresh water and a carrot stick before grabbing my messenger bag and coat and heading for the parking lot. Ranger followed me out, walking me to the black Rangeman Jeep. I climbed in and cranked the engine over.

He leaned in, curled one hand around the nape of my neck, and gave me a long blistering kiss. "A promise of things to come," he whispered when he finally pulled away. It suddenly didn't matter that the vents were blowing cold air.

Connie and Lula were already at the bail bonds office when I pulled up outside. Before I could even say good morning, Lula pounced.

"Good for you, girl. You got some last night!"

I tried to look indignant and failed. "I did not get any last night," I lied.

"Don't give me that. You got that post-sex glow about you. And your goofy 'I got lucky' smile."

I paused, making a concerted effort to transform from goofy smile to resting bitch face.

"Nope, you still got that 'I got lucky' smile."

"You and Joe back together?" asked Connie.

"Not exactly," I mumbled. "Anyway, I just stopped to see if you have any new files for me."

Connie pushed two files forward on her desk and I grabbed them, flipping each open. One was small potatoes, but the file on George Fortecelli caught my eye. His bond sat a lot higher than my average FTA. He'd been arrested and charged with felony arson after surveillance camera footage caught him starting a fire that burned down an abandoned apartment building.

"Great. Thanks. Well, gotta run. Bad guys to catch and all that."

I turned around and bumped into Lula's ample bosom, which spilled out of her tight, nearly see through cheetah print sweater. Every detail of her bright pink jeweled bra was visible.

"Spill it girlfriend! If it wasn't Joe, who were you playing hide the salami with last night?"

My eyes darted to the Jeep sitting out front. My escape. So close, yet so far away. I contemplated how fast I could sidestep Lula and make it to the door.

Lula followed my eyes and gasped. "It was Ranger!"

Connie fanned herself with an empty file. "You tapped Batman? If I got that man in my bed, I don't think I'd ever let him back out."

"Look, it's not a big deal."

"The hell it's not," replied Lula. "I get all hot and bothered just thinking of that man naked."

I couldn't take much more of this. "Look, I'm going to go see if I can track down George Fortecelli. If you want to come," I said to Lula, "you have to swear not to mention Ranger again."

"Fine, but I don't know what you're so uptight about. If I'd just banged that man, I'd be shoutin' it from the roof tops."

My eye began to twitch. I pressed a finger to it and headed out the door, Lula close on my heels.

"Not a bad trade," she commented, looking over the Jeep. "Spend a night banging a sexy dude, get a new car."

"That's not why he gave me the Jeep," I said through gritted teeth. At least, I was almost positive that's not why he gave me the Jeep. Ranger loaned me cars more often than I cared to admit, and usually no sex had been involved. "Big Blue wouldn't start when I left Rosie's last night, so Ranger gave me a ride home."

"You should have just called me," remarked Lula. "I would have given you a ride."

I resisted a strong urge to bash my head off the Jeep's door.

George Fortecelli listed his address as 634 Maple Street. It soon became obvious he'd lied, as 634 didn't exist. Only an empty lot existed between 632 and 636.

"I don't see no house," Lula remarked as we idled at the curb.

"It burned down thirty years ago," I replied, only now checking Connie's notes in the file. "But George must be familiar with the neighborhood, to know the address of the one vacant lot. I'm hoping a neighbor might be able to tell us where he's staying."

Connie had included copious notes on Fortecelli. He was forty-seven years old, never married. His parents were both dead. He had a sister living in Fresno and a brother renting a cot in the state penitentiary. His bond had been partially secured with the deed to thirty acres of land in the Poconos, but according to Connie's notes, it contained nothing more than woods. His last known employer was a company called CampTech, here in Trenton, but he hadn't worked there in nearly a year. There was one vehicle registered in his name, a four-year-old maroon Ford Focus. The phone number he'd provided came back as no longer in service.

I turned the Jeep off and hopped out. Grabbing the photo of George from his file, I walked up to 632. No one answered.

"Probably at work," Lula commented, peering into a window.

I walked over to 636 and knocked. A yippy dog starting barking immediately. I turned to try the next house when the door creaked open.

"Can I help you, young lady?"

The woman behind the door, at least the few inches I could see of her, seemed to be at least ninety. She stood shriveled and stooped, barely higher than the doorknob. An overexcited chihuahua yapped from behind her spindly legs.

"Hi, my name is Stephanie Plum. I'm looking for George Fortecelli. He listed his address at 634, but that's clearly a mistake and I was hoping you could tell me where he lives." No reason to reveal my occupation as a bond enforcement agent. Lying remained one of the few qualifications of the job that I did well. I flashed his picture.

"Georgie? Is he in any trouble?"

Okay, so it turns out I can't lie to ninety-year-old ladies. My mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water before Lula came to my rescue.

"Now strictly speaking, we're not supposed to tell you this. But we're from that Publisher's Clearing House and Mr. Fortecelli is a finalist for our grand prize."

The door shut and I sighed. I thought it sounded like a damn good story.

A chain scraped metal and the door opened again. "In that case, come in. I was just making some tea."

"Um, thank you, Mrs…"

"Just call me Granny. That's what all the youngsters call me."

Lula raised an eyebrow in my direction. It seemed like little chance Granny planned to bludgeon us to death and bury us in her backyard, so I walked in.

The doorway contained a time machine back to the 1970s. Dark wood paneling lined all the walls. A large lamp hung from the ceiling of the foyer, it's glass panes stained green and yellow. The shag carpet, well-worn but clean, matched the brown hue on the walls.

Granny led us through the narrow house and into the rear kitchen. A tea kettle sang on the yellowish-cream colored stove.

"Please have a seat," Granny rasped, pointing to the round laminate table in the corner. Lula and I sat.

Granny took the kettle off the burner and pulled three tea cups and saucers from the lowest shelf of the top cabinets. They were white china, with yellow and green flowers dotted across them. She placed them on a plastic tray, plopped a tea bag in each one, then poured in the hot water.

The china rattled as she carried the tray over to the table, tea sloshing everywhere. Then she pulled out a boxed Entemann's coffee cake from the bread box and cut three thick slices. We ate and sipped in amiable silence, but eventually I felt the need to broach the topic of George Fortecelli again.

"So how do you know Georgie?" I asked tentatively.

"I've known Georgie since he was just a little toddler. His mother's cousin lived next door, and she had a son about Georgie's age. The boys were always playing together. Even when they got older, I'd see them over there all the time. Then the fire broke out and the house burnt down. I didn't see Georgie so much after that."

I suppressed a shiver. George Fortecelli was FTA on a felony arson charge.

"Do you know where he's staying now?"

Granny shook her head. "No, never knew where he lived before. He just always seemed to be with his cousin, Frankie Rossi. Maybe you should ask him. He lives over on Chestnut now. I still see him every once in a while. He comes to leave flowers every year on the anniversary of the fire. His mom didn't make it out of the house."

Lula and I thanked Granny for the tea and cake and climbed back into the Jeep. I called Connie to get an address for Frankie Rossi, before driving over to his house on Chestnut Street. Finding no one home, I left my card and a note asking Frankie to call me.

"Where to next?" Lula asked.

I pulled out the other new file and paged through it. I stopped at the mug shot of Celia Mileski, a woman in her middle fifties, with graying hair and a thin face. She'd missed her court date for DUI charges. According to Connie's notes, Celia's car remained impounded and she lived off Social Security Disability. That meant there stood a good chance I'd find her at home.

I passed the file to Lula as I did a K-turn and headed back on Chestnut the way we'd come. Celia didn't live too far from my parents in the Burg.