FOURTEEN

I parked the SUV in the underground garage at Rangeman, then rode the elevator to the seventh floor. I knocked before unlocking the door to Ranger's apartment, dropping my keys into the silver bowl on the credenza in the entrance.

Ranger stretched out on his couch, a pillow propping up his back as he typed on his laptop. A silver Bluetooth earpiece sat in his ear. His cell phone and a pile of papers and files were neatly organized on his coffee table. Working from home came the closest he would manage to following the rest and recuperate orders.

"So, what do you have on Fortecelli?" I asked, sitting down in an arm chair next to the couch and dropping my bag onto the floor next to me.

Ranger nodded toward the folder on the top of the stack. "CampTech sent me Fortecelli's entire employment file. The address listed is old. The apartment was leased to a new tenant months ago. I also got you an appointment with CampTech's human resources director tomorrow at nine, and you will have the opportunity to speak with some of the people he worked with."

I picked up the file and glanced through it. "Looks like he had his paychecks direct deposited. I might get a lead on an address from there."

"I already checked. The account closed shortly after he received his final paycheck."

The rest of the employment file looked insignificant. Nothing pointed toward Fortecelli being a problem employee, and he had given two weeks written notice before quitting. "I was really hoping CampTech would give me a new lead," I said as I put the file in my bag. "But I have a feeling you didn't ask me to come over here just to give me a dead-end employment file."

Ranger's lips curled into an almost smile. "I know Fortecelli's street name."

"Fortecelli has a street name?"

The almost smile became a full smile. "Crumbs."

"Crumbs?" I repeated back. "What the hell kind of street name is that?"

"It gets better," Ranger continued, still smiling. "He has a business partner whose street name is Cookie."

"Cookie and Crumbs? You're messing with me."

"I'm not. I couldn't make this up if I tried."

"You expect me to believe white-as-white-can-be George Fortecelli and his partner are out pushing pot as the Cookie Crumbs team?"

Ranger reached into his pocket and pulled out an empty plastic bag. A cheap sandwich baggie, the kind my mother used to wrap my PB&J in for my school lunches. He handed it to me. A round sticker had been placed on the front, with a streaky image of a broken chocolate chip cookie that looked like it had been printed on a home printer running out of ink. There were a few crumbs in the bottom of the bag. I opened it and got a whiff of chocolate.

"I was expecting pot, but all I smell is chocolate."

"That's because it was a pot brownie. From what I could gather, Cookie and Crumbs cornered the market on pot edibles. And their products are popular."

"Any word on if their sudden popularity stepped on anyone's toes?"

"No, at least not from my source. They stayed out of the gang territories."

I stuffed the baggie into my purse. "Cookie and Crumbs. I think I'm starting to get it now. Anyone on the street happen to know where Cookie or Crumbs live?"

"Yes, I got an address for Crumbs."

I waited for a few beats. "Well, aren't you going to tell me?"

"No, I'm going to take you there."

My hands went to my hips instinctively. "You are supposed to be resting. Just give me the address."

"Babe, I'm not letting you go alone to the apartment of a known drug dealer. Especially since its more than likely he's the one who set your car on fire a few hours ago. And the only way I know to prevent you from going there alone is by not giving you the address. You can either let me come with you or you cannot go at all."

My fists balled where they sat on my hips and I tried very hard to contain the simmering anger. I didn't do well when the men in my life ordered me around. Part of me wanted to tell Ranger to go fuck himself, waltz out of his apartment, and slam the door. I could then spend the next few days canvassing Stark Street, asking if anyone knew Crumbs and where he lived and praying I didn't get robbed, or worse. Or I could suck it up and accept Ranger's offer.

"If you walk out, I'm putting a tail on you, in case you get any crazy ideas about walking down Stark Street asking about Crumbs," Ranger added, seemingly reading my mind.

"Sometimes I hate you," I shot back. "Let's go."

Ranger grinned at me. He knew I didn't hate him, not even a little.

A few minutes later, Ranger appeared from his bedroom dressed like his usual self in black boots, black cargo pants, black Rangeman sweatshirt, and a black Glock on his hip. We rode the elevator back to the garage and he led me to a black Rangeman SUV.

We didn't speak while Ranger drove. Still feeling pissed, I decided to give him the silent treatment. Though, seeing as Ranger didn't often make small talk, it likely served as a very ineffective means of displaying my anger.

We passed the Union Bar and Ranger turned right, traveled two blocks and parked in a small lot behind a low-rise, white brick apartment building. I glanced around the lot. No maroon four-door sedan with tinted windows here. The building looked to have been recently painted and the other cars in the lot weren't new, but they weren't pieces of trash either. Bare but tidy gardens flanked the entrance. It didn't look like an awful place to live. In fact, it reminded me of my own apartment building.

We walked to the door, which stood locked. A flat gray pad adhered to the brick next to the entrance would recognize a key fob, if we had one. A panel of names and buttons, along with a call box, sat to the right of the gray pad.

"That's your guy," Ranger said, pointing to a name on the panel. It read George Baresi. No wonder all my leads had fizzled. Fortecelli used an alias.

I pressed the button next to the name, but no one answered.

Ranger ran a finger down the line of buttons on the left side and someone buzzed us in without even asking who we were. We slipped into the building and I followed Ranger up the stairs to the third floor. He stopped in front of the door to 3E.

I knocked and we waited half a minute. No one came to the door and I couldn't hear anyone moving around inside. I tried the knob, not surprised to find it locked.

Ranger slid a set of lock picks out of his sweatshirt pocket and within a minute, the door swung open. A few shafts of light crept in through a drawn curtain, but otherwise the apartment sat in darkness.

A small flashlight appeared out of Ranger's pocket. He unholstered his Glock, held the lit flashlight against the side of the gun, and stepped into the apartment. I let him sweep the space. After two minutes, Ranger reappeared and motioned for me to enter. I closed the door behind me and Ranger flicked a light switch.

The apartment appeared to be a small one bedroom unit. We had entered into a small foyer, with a row of empty coat hooks on the wall and a small bench under them. A pair of snow boots sat underneath the bench. The foyer led to a galley kitchen, with a breakfast bar that jutted out into a small, open floorplan dining room and living room. A door across from the kitchen led to a modest sized bedroom. The furniture looked newer. A round, dark oak dining table with four matching chairs and two matching barstools sat in the dining area. The living room contained a large, beige sectional sofa, the kind with recliners built into each end. It faced a large, wall mounted flat screen TV. A complicated looking entertainment system filled a console under the TV. The entire apartment appeared clean and tidy. Too clean and tidy.

"Unless George Fortecelli has maid service, I think someone was here before us," I said, opening the fridge. It had been cleared of all perishables.

"Come look at this," Ranger said from the living room. I joined him and found him examining a wooden wall shelf. It measured about four feet long and hung about five feet off the floor. Four framed photos rested on it. "Notice anything odd?" he asked.

I noticed immediately. "The photos are spaced weird. There is a gap between the first and third, and the placement of the last picture frame seems odd."

"There used to be six frames on this shelf. You can see there's no dust where the other two stood," Ranger added.

I examined the pictures more closely, and any doubt that George Baresi was George Fortecelli faded from my mind. An aging graduation photo clearly showed a young George Fortecelli in his high school cap and gown. Another showed an older George posing at what looked like the Grand Canyon. The rest of the photos appeared to be of family, but no one I recognized. I took the Grand Canyon photo out of the frame and slid it into my bag. People responded better to being shown actual photos, rather than mug shots. It made them more likely to tell me what they knew.

We combed through the rest of the apartment. Opened mail sat on the kitchen counter, addressed to George Baresi, but it contained nothing out of the ordinary. A small computer desk squatted in the corner of the bedroom, but the PC tower was missing. A cheap color printer sat next to the monitor, the tray full of round stickers with a picture of a broken cookie. Inside the bedroom closet we found a small safe on the floor, but it stood open and empty. At no point did we find a single leaf of marijuana in the apartment.

I went back into the kitchen and started opening cabinets.

"What are you looking for?" Ranger asked, following me into the galley kitchen.

"Baking sheets and cake pans. You said Crumbs sold edibles, but there aren't any baking pans here. Unless someone cleared them out already, I don't think Crumbs baked his products here."

"Maybe that's why Cookie is called Cookie. Maybe he's the baker."

"Or she," I replied. "If you think about it, women tend to be into baking more than men. And the missing photos might be pictures of George with Cookie. Maybe she's his girlfriend. Did anyone give you a description of Cookie?"

"My source never met Cookie, only Crumbs. He only knew Cookie existed because Fortecelli mentioned the name."

"Cookie could be his pet name for his girlfriend."

"Like how Morelli calls you cupcake?"

"Yeah. She might not even be involved in the drugs at all."

"Then who bakes Crumbs' brownies?"

"Maybe he does. I just don't think he does it here." I walked back to the bedroom and started looking more closely in dresser drawers.

"Looking for women's undies?"

"Yes. Or something to indicate that there was a girlfriend involved. If I can find her, maybe I can find Fortecelli." I opened the drawer of the bedside table. "Ah ha! Condoms!"

"Doesn't prove he had a girlfriend, just that he hoped he would get lucky," Ranger remarked.

As we left, we turned the lights back off, careful to leave the apartment exactly as we found it, with one small addition. I put my business card on the kitchen counter and dug through my purse to find a pen. I wrote Cookie, Call Me! across the back of the business card.

Ranger gave me a curious look.

"I'm at a dead end. I need to up the ante."

Ranger locked the door as we left.

"While we're here, I'd like to knock on a few doors and see if any of his neighbors have seen him," I told Ranger.

The first two doors went unanswered, but an elderly man cautiously cracked the door to 3A. He peered out at me, the security chain securely engaged.

"Hi, I'm Stephanie Plum. I'm looking for George. He lives in 3E. Have you seen him recently?"

"George? No, can't say I've seen him since Christmas. Have we met before? You look awfully familiar?"

"I don't think so. Do you know George's girlfriend?"

"He had a girlfriend?" The old man scratched his stubbly beard. "I remember where I've seen you! You're that chickie who got stuck in the tree in the park on Elm street. I saw you on YouTube."

I bit back a sigh and handed the man my card. "If you happen to see George, could you please give me a call?"

"Want to knock on any more doors?" Ranger asked with a grin as we turned away from 3A.

"Sometimes, I hate my life. Let's see if the building super is in."

We trooped back downstairs and found the door labeled "building supervisor." I knocked, surprised when a young woman answered. She glanced at me before ogling Ranger, undressing him with her eyes.

"Are you the building super?" I asked, sounded a little snippier than I'd intended.

Her eyes moved reluctantly back to me. "Yes, believe it or not."

I introduced myself and handed her my business card with my left hand. "George Baresi is in violation of a bond agreement. Have you seen him recently?"

She shook her head. "Last I saw him was the day after Christmas. He stopped by to pay his rent for January. To be honest, I really only ever saw him once a month, when he dropped off the rent money. But I'll try to keep an eye out." She gave Ranger another once-over before closing her door.

"I saw that," Ranger said as we turned toward the parking lot.

"Saw what?"

"After she looked at me, you handed her the business card with your left hand to make sure she noticed the rings."

"I did not! I mean, okay, I used my left hand, but that doesn't mean anything." Or did it? These damn rings were making me do things I didn't even know I was doing. I began pulling at the rings aggressively as we crossed the macadam lot, ignoring the pain as I urged them to move past my knuckle. Right now, I didn't care if I ripped off half my skin or broke my damn finger. I needed to be rid of them.

Ranger took my left hand suddenly, halting my ring removal attempts. "Don't hurt yourself." He kissed the back of my hand, then laced his fingers between mine for the rest of the walk to the SUV. I gave him a questioning look.

"The building super is watching us from her window," he replied, opening my car door for me.

I glanced back and saw the curtains stir as someone quickly pulled away from the window.

"I appreciate you going with hand holding, and not just grabbing me and sticking your tongue down my throat in the parking lot."

Ranger smiled. "The thought crossed my mind."

"But you decided the subtle approach worked better?"

"I decided that if I stuck my tongue down your throat, I would shortly want to stick it other places as well. And that's probably not part of my rest and recovery plan."

Fire flashed through my veins. Definitely not part of his recovery plan.

I pulled Fortecelli's employee file out of my bag as Ranger drove us back to Rangeman. I flipped through it again, hoping I'd missed something the first time. I checked his emergency contact form, hoping I'd overlooked the name of a girlfriend. His emergency contact was his sister. I put the file back in my bag and remembered the Rangeman check. I pulled it out.

"I think your account manager made a mistake," I told Ranger. "I got paid way too much for the Robinson job."

"You get hazard pay because there were shots fired."

"Even with hazard pay, it's too much. I worked for part of one day, not a whole week."

"You went for a one day job, but you ended up needing to stay for a week. I compensate my employees for that."

I heard paper crinkle and realized I'd formed a fist around the check. "You consider the entire time I was in the hospital with you just part of my Rangeman duties?"

"That's not what I meant. The situation caused you to be away from Trenton. You couldn't do any work for Vinnie."

The thought that the check represented pity money brought my blood to the boiling point. "Staying was a decision I made. No one made me stay. I wanted to be with you and I mistakenly thought you wanted me there."

Ranger suddenly pulled out of the lane of travel and onto the shoulder of the road, putting the SUV in park. He turned so he could look at me, reaching out to put a hand against the side of my face. "There is a very short list of people I want to be with me in a situation like that. You are near the top, and I'm grateful you chose to stay with me." He leaned over the console to place a gentle kiss on my lips. "I'm sorry if you feel insulted because of the check. I can have my account manager cut you a new one."

My fists uncurled. I smoothed out the crumpled check and handed it to Ranger. "Thank you. I only want to be paid for the work I did protecting Chantelle."

"You're sure?" he asked as he took the check. We both understood this amounted to a lot of money for me to give up. I needed to find Fortecelli and every other current FTA to make up for it.

"Yes. It's the right thing to do."

Ranger took the check, folded it, and slid it into his pants pocket. He smiled at me. "You're one of a kind, Babe."

So I'd heard.