TWENTY-EIGHT

The moment Lula and I reentered the bonds office, she blurted, "Steph and Ranger are dating!"

Connie jumped, spilling the open bottle of blood red nail polish she'd been applying all over her desk. Ignoring the mess as it pooled across her paperwork, she stared at me agape. I took out my body receipt for Thompson and placed it carefully on the far corner of her desk. "Clay Thompson is back in custody. Check please."

Connie barely moved. "I swear I just heard Lula say you and Ranger are dating."

"We are. Check please."

Finally seeming to notice the red nail lacquer creeping across her desk, Connie cursed and grabbed a roll of paper towels to begin sopping up the spill. Still, her eyes barely left me.

"I thought Ranger didn't date. He doesn't do the relationship thing," she said.

I shrugged. "He's changed his mind."

Connie finished cleaning up the nail polish, filling her desk trash can with soiled towels. Then she slid the check registry across her desk, along with my body receipt.

"He must really have it bad for you," Connie added as she handed me my cut of the bond.

I offered only a noncommittal shrug in reply. Both Connie and Lula had known for quite some time about my feelings for Ranger, but neither realized I'd long known he loved me in return.

Saved by my cell phone, I glanced down at an unfamiliar number flashing across the screen.

"Hello?"

"Stephanie? This is Andrea Grayson."

My eyes widened slightly. "Hi Andrea."

"I thought you should know I saw Frankie at his house this morning."

"Is he still there?"

"I'm not sure. I had to get the kids ready for school, so he might have left when I wasn't watching."

"Ok. If you see him, don't approach him. He might be dangerous. I'm on my way."

"After you check on Frankie's house, do you want to come over for tea? I know I probably sound like a nut, but other than Frankie, I don't have a lot of people I can talk to about Mason."

"Sure," I replied, swallowing a lump in my throat. I felt bad for Andrea. I couldn't imagine being responsible enough to take care of a child, never mind a child as sick as Mason. If a cup of tea helped her feel better, I could oblige.

I excused myself and left the office. I gave Scott a quick run down of my plans, then drove toward Chestnut Street, Scott tailing me in his black SUV. I didn't see any cars in front of Frankie Rossi's house, so I had a feeling I'd missed him already, but I got out anyway. Scott followed me to the door, where I knocked. No one answered and the door remained locked. I looked through the living room window. Nothing had moved since yesterday. I briefly considered breaking in, but my gut told me Frankie wasn't here, so I decided to avoid the risk. If Morelli forwarded the intel I'd given him last night, the place could start crawling with cops anytime.

"I'm going to have a cup of tea with Andrea Grayson," I told Scott, pointing to Andrea's house. "Call me if Frankie comes back."

Scott got back in his SUV and I crossed Chestnut street and knocked on Andrea's door. She answered and invited me inside.

"How's Mason today?" I asked. I could hear the trickle of children's programming from the living room.

"Excellent. He had a bite of cake last night and again this morning. So far, so good." She led me to the dining room. Three tea cups sat on the cloth covered table.

"Don't freak out," Andrea warned as Frankie Rossi walked into the dining room.

I started to back out into the hallway, my hand moving to my cell phone.

Rossi put his hands up in a non-threatening gesture. "Please, I just need to talk to you."

I narrowed my eyes at him. He didn't appear to have any weapons. "Maybe you should have tried doing that before you set my car on fire and then tried to kill me in an apartment fire."

Andrea gasped. "You tried to kill her?"

"I didn't try to kill her," Frankie replied. "I'm not responsible for the apartment fire, I swear."

"What about my Jeep?" I asked

"I admit, setting fire to your Jeep was an over-reaction. I just wanted to scare you off of George's case. I made sure no one was in your car, or the cars next to it. I didn't want anyone to get hurt."

"You set her Jeep on fire!"

Frankie sighed. "Andrea, if you're going to freak out over the Jeep, you might as well go watch TV with Mason. It only gets worse."

Andrea seemed to consider the offer. "That might be best." She turned to me. "I'm really sorry I tricked you, but Frankie needs your help and he knew he would never get close enough to talk to you anywhere else. Please, just hear him out."

She took her cup of tea and left the dining room. Frankie sat down and sipped at his tea. I remained standing.

"Your tea is getting cold," he remarked after a few seconds of silence.

I didn't move.

"Your loss," he said with a shrug.

"You need my help?" I finally asked.

"Yes. Andrea called me last night to tell me you'd been in my house, and to tell me that you'd brought Mason cake. I suppose, by this point, you know George is dead?"

"Yes, and if I were you, I'd be out of the country by now."

Frankie shook his head. "I want justice for George. That's why I need your help. I have information that ties Councilman Greenridge to George's murder, and to a drug ring."

"You need to give this information to the police. They can put you in protective custody."

Rossi shook his head. "Greenridge has connections everywhere. It wouldn't take long for him to learn where I was and send someone to make sure I disappear, along with any evidence left with the police."

"I'm not sure how you think I can help you?"

"I need protective custody, without the cops involved."

It finally clicked in my head. "You want me to get Ranger to protect you?"

"Yes. If you get him to put me somewhere secret and safe, I'll talk to the authorities."

"You're going to have to admit to your participation in growing and distributing the pot."

"I know, but I figure I can broker a deal. Immunity for testifying against Greenridge."

"What do you have on Greenridge that's worth that much? I know about his holding company that's selling the condemned properties to the city and lining his pocket. But I don't think that's going to earn you immunity."

"It goes way beyond that," Rossie replied, lowering his voice so I had to learn forward to hear him. "Did you ever wonder why it takes the city so long to demo those buildings after it purchases them?"

"Lack of funds?"

"No. Greenridge is doing more than just lining his pockets off the sales. He's lining his pockets off the drugs being sold in the buildings. He owns a bunch of warehouses down by the river, and he brings the drugs in through them. His dealers push the drugs out of the condemned buildings. He's got eyes and ears in the police department, so whenever a call comes in from a concerned neighbor, he tips off the dealers and everyone scrams before the cops arrive. On the off chance a dealer gets nabbed, he pulls some strings in the judicial system to get them off. And if he thinks a dealer is stiffing him, they disappear. There's always a new dealer waiting to step in."

"And you have proof?"

"Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"That's why I need to be in protective custody."

"Let's start at the beginning," I suggested, finally sitting down. "You and George get into the street pharmaceutical business, and then you just stumble across Greenridge and his involvement?"

"Sort of. George came to me almost four years ago with an idea. The medical marijuana thing really took off, but a lot of the people who really needed it couldn't afford to buy it legally. And the stuff they sold on the street was always of questionable quality, not to mention that the dealers would try to upsell you to heroin or meth. Folks who just wanted to smoke some weed were getting turned into hard core addicts. So, George proposed we start selling pot. He could grow good organic stuff on his property in the Poconos. He knew I'd always liked to bake, so he figured I could make high quality edibles. It took a year to clear the land and build the infrastructure, then another six months to get a harvestable stock. We started off small, selling to the folks just looking for a high, and pretty soon we became known for having quality stuff. And since we only sold pot, people knew we wouldn't try to hook them on something nasty. Business boomed, and we decided we could afford to start giving it away to folks who really needed it."

"There was a dark side to success, wasn't there? You stepped on some of the other dealer's toes?"

"Yes. We knew to stay out of the neighborhoods controlled by the gangs. We didn't know about Greenridge's drug ring, though. About a year and a half ago, the intimidation started, but George wasn't going to take it. The dealer who'd threatened us sold out of an abandoned and condemned building, so George burnt it to the ground one night.

"We thought that had made an impression, but then the fires started at CampTech. George didn't want to endanger the company or his coworkers, so he quit. And he started digging. We knew most of the buildings where the dealers operated, so George figured out they were all originally owned by the same holding company before being sold to the city. He started trying to figure out why these buildings weren't demolished when others were, and pretty soon it became clear that Marcus Greenridge was involved somehow. He'd voted yes to demolish plenty of buildings, except for the ones with the drug activity sold by this holding company. He'd always vote no on those and provide some flimsy explanation about a sudden lack of money."

"That's only circumstantial," I commented.

"We decided money talks. So we bribed one of the dealers into giving us information. He explained that he got his drugs from a warehouse on the river, so we staked it out. We found a bunch of goons, so we followed the guy who seemed to be the leader. He eventually led us back to Greenridge. We got photos of their meeting."

"So George decided to keep burning down buildings?" I asked.

"Yes. And he was good at not getting caught, until he got drunk and burned down the place on Boulder Street. Greenridge pulled some strings and suddenly George has a hundred thousand dollar bond. I think Greenridge knew we must be growing the pot somewhere and we'd have to put the land up to get George out."

"You said you had photos. I don't suppose George tried to blackmail Greenridge with them?"

"I tried to talk him out of it," Frankie replied. "But George figured Greenridge might be willing to call a truce."

"I'll go out on a limb here and say that didn't go over well."

"Clearly. George disappeared the next day, and I knew he was dead well before I got the e-mail."

"What about the photos? Did they disappear with George too?"

"No. George gave me copies." Frankie reached into his pocket and retrieved a plain white envelope. He pulled out three photos and slid them toward me.

I snatched them off the table and looked at them. They showed Marcus Greenridge talking with a tall, bald Latino man. The third photograph showed them shaking hands. I slid the photographs back to Frankie. "These don't prove anything. Greenridge could give a thousand different reasons to meet this man."

"I know, but they might be enough to start an investigation. Greenridge has a lot of power locally, but I doubt he's got connections in the DEA. They might be interested in this."

"Okay, let me get this straight. You want me to help get you into a Rangeman safe house and broker a meeting between you and the DEA?"

"Yeah."

I sighed. "I don't think the safe house will be a problem, but I'm probably going to need some time to convince the DEA to take me seriously." Plus, I'd just burned my bridge with Morelli, who otherwise would have been my in with the DEA. "How can I contact you?"

Rossi slid a piece of paper across the table with a phone number scribbled on it. "This will be my number for the next twenty-four hours. I'll leave Andrea's house right after you. I've already put her in enough danger."

I took the paper and immediately programmed the number into my cell phone. "Before I leave, can I take photos of those photos?" I asked. "Ranger might be able to track down the guy Greenridge was talking to, and if he can corroborate your story, that's all the more evidence against Greenridge."

"Yeah, okay," Rossi replied, sliding the photos back to me. I took several pictures with my cell phone, hoping they were clear enough to get a positive ID. On a whim, I uploaded them to my Google Drive account and shared them to Ranger's e-mail, including a message that told him I'd explain as soon as I saw him.

"I'll call you with a time and place to meet about the safe house," I told Frankie as I stood up, my tea still untouched. It might take a little time to convince Ranger to actually help Rossi, especially since he did admit to torching the Jeep.

Leaving Andrea's house, I tried to maintain a calm demeaner. No need to worry Scott, who might alert Ranger. Instead, I informed Scott I intended to go to the bank, grab lunch, then head back to Rangeman. I needed to cash my check from Thompson's capture anyway. And while Ella would likely provide a very healthy lunch, after talking to Frankie I needed something deep fried. And time to consider how to approach Ranger on the matter.

Everyone on their lunch break appeared to be at the bank. The line for the drive through teller wrapped around the building, so I parked and went inside. A single frazzled teller attended to a woman my grandmother's age with a bag full of unwrapped pennies she wanted to deposit. Behind her, five persons in differing stages of aggravation waited. Sighing, I took the sixth spot in line.

Forty minutes later, with my checking account no longer in immediate danger of being overdrawn, I pulled into Cluck-In-A-Bucket.

"Want anything?" I asked Scott, who parked beside me.

He gave me a look that fell somewhere between concerned and terrified. "No thank you," he finally replied.

I laughed as I walked inside the restaurant. Scott had good reason to be wary, but I doubted Cluck-In-A-Bucket put cannabis in their fried chicken. Sometimes I wondered if their fried chicken even contained real chicken.

As I ate, I mulled over how to bring up my conversation with Frankie Rossi to Ranger. Poor Scott. No matter how I thought to spin it, he'd likely get reamed out by Ranger for allowing Frankie to get near me. Licking salt and grease off my fingers, I threw away my trash and walked outside. Scott rolled down the passenger window as I approached my truck.

"Steph, be careful driving back to the office. I've seen the same black van drive past four times since you went in for lunch. When you leave, make sure I have room to pull out directly behind you." I detected real worry in Scott's voice.

Pulling out of Cluck-In-A-Bucket's lot, I waited until traffic thinned so Scott could pull out right behind me. The entire way back to Rangeman, I constantly checked my rear view and side mirrors, watching for the ambiguous black van. It could be nothing, but after someone followed Ranger and I last night, I knew I couldn't brush it off as coincidence.

We made it back to Rangeman without incident, or any further sightings of the black van. I immediately felt safe as I pulled into my parking stall, knowing the security gate and a plethora of security cameras made this the safest parking lot in the city.

"I probably won't be going out again this afternoon," I told Scott. "And if I do, it'll likely be with Ranger. So consider your watch ended."

He gave me a cocky salute, something none of the men would ever dream of doing to Ranger. We rode the elevator together. Scott got off on the fifth floor, location of the control room and employee break room, well stocked with healthy food courtesy of Ella. I continued on to the seventh floor alone.

I unlocked the apartment door, stepped inside, and stopped dead. Ranger stood in the foyer with a woman I'd never seen before. She easily stood three inches taller than me, slim, blonde and wearing a skimpy cocktail dress and fuck-me heels. Ranger's hand rested inside the front of her dress.