A/N: Sorry about the delay. Enjoy!

Chapter 10

A knock sounded on my apartment door. Ranger and I looked at each other in the bedroom. He was in a pair of boxer briefs and I was in the middle of putting on my T-shirt. I still had a hit out on me and Ranger was still pretending to be dead to everyone in the world except for me and Tank. I tossed my T-shirt on the bed, grabbed my gun off my nightstand, checked it for bullets, and approached my door.

I peered through the peep hole. It was Morelli. He had replaced the bandage over his broken nose with a simple Band-Aid. Most of his face was greeny-brown from brusing where I had punched him.

"What do you want?" I asked through the door.

"I'm just checking in," Morelli said. "Are you still alive?"

"Yes," I said.

There was a pause.

"You're not going to let me in, are you?" Morelli asked.

Not with Ranger in the next room. "Nope," I said.

I heard a sigh through the door.

"We need to take a different approach," Morelli said. "I've looked into the names on our phone list and they're all dead ends."

That's what Ranger and I found too. I agreed with Morelli. Even though I hadn't completely forgiven him for what he said about Ranger, I needed to work with him on this FBI case.

"Cruise Mendez and Antonio Torres weren't the only skips that were shot dead with armor-piercing bullets," I said. "Connie said that there were two others. We can check out their apartments."

"I can get access," said Morelli. As a cop, Morelli can get into more places than I could. Legally, at least.

"I'll get the addresses from Connie and we can meet up later in the morning," I said.

Morelli left and I returned to the bedroom to find Ranger in an olive green T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans. Both the T-shirt and jeans hugged him in all the right places and I found lust rising inside me.

As Ranger tucked his gun into the waistband of his jeans, I managed to tamper down the lust and focus on getting myself dressed. No work would get done if I let that get out of hand. I put down my gun and grabbed my T-shirt off the bed.

"I'll be following you again today," Ranger said. "I want to find your hitman and ask him some questions."

"So I'll try to be bait," I said. "I'll let you know where I'm going so it won't be so hard on you."

Ranger's hands wound their way under my shirt and around my naked waist and worked their way up and down.

"You're so soft," his husky voice whispered in my ear.

A moan escaped me.

Screw it. Getting work done is overrated.

A while later, as I drove to the bonds office in the Porsche Cayenne, I reviewed my mental to-do list for the day. I needed to check out apartments with Morelli. I also needed some information to present at tomorrow's FBI task force meeting so that Karen O'Reilly doesn't give me any more bad looks. I also had to pick up the search results from Rangeman that Tank had ran on my two FBI mole suspects, Richard Black and Suzanne Moutis. And then find a way to spy on them. Oh, and find the shooter that's trying to kill me and discover the cocaine boss behind this whole mess. There was something else too, but I figured if it was important, I would've remembered it.

I pulled up to the curb and found a parking spot directly in front of the bonds office. It must be the Porsche parking karma. After a quick check of the rooftops, I got out and walked into the office.

Connie and Lula were standing still, staring at me. A bit of drool was coming out of Connie's mouth and Lula's glasses had slid down her face to the very tip of her nose.

I looked down at myself to check that my shirt wasn't on backwards.

"I give up," I said. "What is it?"

"Is that Ranger's Cayenne?" Connie asked.

"He gave it to me in his will," I explained.

"Oh, Lordy," exclaimed Lula. "For a second, when it pulled up to the curb, I thought Ranger was going to get out, like he was some immortal superhero hunting for zombies."

"I'm pretty sure zombies aren't real," I said.

"You don't have proof," Lula countered. "That's something I've been reading. You can't know for sure something ain't true unless you have proof. That real tangible stuff."

Connie and I went silent for a beat. You couldn't really argue with that.

Connie turned to me. "So why are you driving Ranger's Porsche?"

"It's a set of wheels," I said with a shrug.

"That ain't just no set of wheels," Lula said. "Do you know how much that's worth?"

"And you don't have the best track record with cars," Connie piped up.

It was true. Most of my cars don't last more than a few months. I've got awful luck with cars. And in the past when I've borrowed Ranger's, they tend not to last more than a few days.

"If you were smart," Lula said, putting her glasses on top of her head, "You would sell it and use the money for a down payment for a house or put it in a 401(k) or a Roth IRA."

Connie and I looked at Lula like she was speaking a foreign language.

"Just sayin'," Lula said.

I turned to Connie. "I need the addresses for the other two drug dealer FTAs that were shot."

She looked them up in the computer and printed out their files.

"The first one killed was Geraldo Chavez," Connie stated. "He lived in an apartment a few blocks up from Clinton Street."

Clinton Street ran parallel with Stark Street in one of the worst areas of town.

"The other FTA was Enrique Mendoza," Connie continued. "He lived a block away from Chavez."

"Word on the street is that someone's cleaning house," Lula said. "It's become a dangerous thing to be a cocaine dealer. Most people I know are changing over to dealing pot, meth or E."

I put the files into my shoulder bag and headed out towards the door.

"Oh and Steph," Connie said. "Good luck. With the Porsche, I mean."

I called Morelli with the addresses and arranged to meet him in half an hour.

Then, I took out the small flip-phone that Ranger had given me and sent him a text, Headed to Clinton Street with Morelli.

After a few seconds, he replied, Babe.

I stopped by the Tasty Pastry and picked up a couple doughnuts. I ate a Boston Crème and a jelly filled doughnut on my way over to Stark Street. That part of town always made me uneasy, no matter how many times I've been there. Lula was right, emotional eating was the way to go. The fat-sugar combination eased any jitters I had.

I pulled up to Clinton Street and parked the Cayenne at the curb behind Morelli's police cruiser. In this part of town, your vehicle choice made a statement. Morelli's statement was don't mess with the police. I didn't know what statement I was trying to make, but only drug dealers and high-end pimps could afford a Porsche, so I figured I was pretty safe.

I got out of my car and walked over to Morelli, who was leaning up against the cop car.

"Is that Ranger's Porsche?" Morelli said, eyeing up my car.

"He left it to me in his will," I explained.

Morelli chuckled. "And here I thought Ranger didn't have a sense of humor."

I arched my eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're death on cars," Morelli said. "Giving you a Porsche is like a really expensive gag gift."

I was moderately insulted. I didn't really expect to be in Ranger's last will and testament, but it was nice that I meant something to him. But it stung a little that Morelli was kinda right, too. Of course, if Morelli knew that Ranger had left me three cars, he might be a little jealous.

We found Geraldo Chavez's apartment building, and gained access from the landlord. On the second floor, crime scene tape was on his apartment door. The landlord let us in.

Morelli and I found Chavez's apartment to be a basic one-bedroom unit, in the standard 1980s furnishings with a 60" hi-definition TV.

"Karen and her team already stripped the apartment of anything useful," Morelli explained.

"Let's have a look anyways," I said.

We systematically worked our way through the kitchen, living room, bathroom, and bedroom. There were no notepads with clues, no cellphones under couches, and no computer.

"Nothing," I said as Morelli and I exited the apartment building.

"Let's look at Mendoza's place," Morelli suggested.

After a quick check of the rooftops for snipers, I looked at the police cruiser and the Porsche Cayenne parked together on the street.

"Do you want a ride?" I asked Morelli.

"Can I drive?" He replied. His eyes lit up a bit.

"No," I shook my head.

"Forget it," he said. "I'll meet you there."

One block later, I was in front of Enrique Mendoza's apartment building. There was a group of girls standing outside the apartment. By the looks of it, they were hookers. A few of them eyed up the Cayenne and sauntered a little closer to the tinted windows. When Morelli's police cruiser pulled up, they scattered, leaving all but two of them.

We gained access to Mendoza's first floor apartment, and started our search. It was similar to every other apartment building in the area, with its run-down interior and dated furnishings. There was a thread-bare couch, a king size mattress on the floor of the bedroom, and another big-screen TV. Enrique's personal effects were missing.

"Let me guess," I said to Morelli, "Karen's team has already been here."

"You guessed right," replied Morelli.

I sighed and looked out the living room window. One of the hookers was peering in at us, trying not to look interested in what we were doing.

"We have a watcher," I told Morelli.

He glanced out the window and the hooker turned back to the street and took a few steps away.

"We should ask her a few questions," Morelli said.

"I have a better idea," I said. "You said that no one is talking to the cops for fear of being shot dead, right?"

"Yup," he said.

"Let me talk to her," I said. "I'm not the cops."

Morelli considered me for a beat. "Fine."

Morelli left the apartment and got into his police cruiser. He would wait for me to finish and make sure I got out okay.

I waited in Mendoza's apartment until the hooker peered into the window again.

I motioned her to come inside. She looked up and down the street and disappeared from view.

A few moments later, she appeared in the doorway of Mendoza's apartment. She was Hispanic and curvy, dressed in cut-off denim shorts and a white button-up shirt. All of the buttons were undone, and tucked into her shorts, showing off a pink lace bra underneath.

"What are you doing here?" She asked.

"I'm investigating the death of Enrique Mendoza," I said.

"But you're not a cop," she said.

"No, I'm not."

"I know who you are," she said. "You're Manoso's woman, aren't you?"

This was the second time in the last week that I'd been called that. Before Ranger's "death", he and I had an undefinable relationship. At best, I could describe him as a work acquaintance and friend with the occasional romantic involvement. Since Ranger's death, I realized that we were much more. And apparently, I had a reputation on the streets as belonging to him. In hindsight, it was probably what protected me whenever I was in this part of town.

"Yes," I said. "I was Ranger's."

"He was a good man," she said. "Sexy and badass as hell."

I couldn't argue with that.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Chantel," she said. "I was Enrique's girlfriend."

"I'm sorry for your loss," I automatically replied.

"I'm sorry for your loss too," Chantel said. She looked me up and down and considered me for a moment.

"Now we're widows," she said with sadness in her voice.

I understood where she was coming from and took a few steps towards her. "But you would do anything in your power to find out who killed him, right?"

She nodded her head.

I took out my card and handed it to her. "Give me a call when you're ready," I said.

She left the apartment and I waited a few minutes before I left too.

Morelli was leaning up against his police cruiser when exited onto the street. I looked up to the rooftops out of habit.

"The girlfriend knows something," said Morelli, crossing his arms over his chest.

I agreed and nodded my head. I looked up to the roof on the building behind Morelli and my heart almost stopped. Perched on the corner was a hitman with a rifle. He head was tucked in behind the scope and the barrel was aimed at me. I couldn't move. It was too late.

Suddenly, a black figure appeared on the rooftop and tackled the hitman. It was Ranger. I didn't see anything else.

"She was hiding something," Morelli continued, completely oblivious. "We should come back and ask her more questions."

I waited until my heart started beating and I could breathe again. "I gave her my number," I managed. "She'll call when she's ready."

I said good-bye to Morelli and got into the Cayenne. A beep came from my purse. I pulled out Ranger's flip phone and read an incoming text. It was an address. Meet me here in 1 hour, he said.

After a hyperventilation moment, a stop at Dunkin' Donuts and four anxiety-easing doughnuts later, I pulled up to the address that Ranger had texted me. I had gotten a few extra doughnuts, just in case Ranger hadn't eaten lunch.

I got out and walked up to a detached house in rough neighborhood in the industrial area of town near the button factory. Do I knock? I'm not sure what the procedure is when you're invited over by a guy who is supposed to be dead. I turned the doorknob and entered. I put the bag of doughnuts down on the kitchen counter.

I heard the sound of punches and occasional grunting from downstairs. When I entered the basement, I saw that Ranger had the hitman chained up from the ceiling. Blood was running down his face from a cut across his cheek. The hitman looked to be in his late-30s, in decent shape, and had blond hair. Ranger was wearing a light pair of boxer's gloves and was lightly glistening from sweat. As I descended the last stair, Ranger punched him in the gut.

"Ugh," the hitman moaned.

They both looked up as I entered. Ranger turned back to the hitman.

"Don't think I'm going to go easy on you now that she's here," Ranger said to him.

"I gotta take a shit," said the hitman. "Unless you want me messing up your floor."

Ranger unchained him from the ceiling and handcuffed him with his hands in front. He led the hitman over to a side bathroom, shut the door, and locked it from the outside.

We went back upstairs.

"He's definitely military and trained to take a beating," Ranger said.

"What is this place?" I asked. Not every house came equipped with a holding cell/torture chamber in the basement.

"It's owned by Rangeman," Ranger explained. "Sometimes it's used as a safe house and sometimes it's used for other things."

"I brought doughnuts," I said, pointing to the bag on the counter.

Ranger looked at me as if I grew two heads. "You brought doughnuts to an interrogation?" He asked.

"I thought you might be hungry."

He wrapped his arms around me and gave me a deep, hard, kiss with a lot of groping. "I love you."

He turned back to the stairs, and I moved to follow him.

"You don't have to watch this," Ranger said.

"This guy tried to kill me," I said. "I'm good."

We descended down the stairs. Ranger unlocked the bathroom as I held my gun at the ready in case the hitman tried anything. He came out of the bathroom with his handcuffed hands held out. Ranger moved him over to the chains hanging from the ceiling and hooked him up.

"Who do you work for?" Ranger demanded in a voice that would make anyone pee their pants and spill all their secrets. It was scary and in a weird way, kind of impressive.

"Your momma," the hitman replied.

The retaliation from Ranger was quick and brutal. He roundhouse-kicked the shooter in the side.

"Ugh," groaned the shooter. He'd probably be peeing blood for a week.

"For every answer I don't like," Ranger said, "I hurt you."

Ranger punched him in the gut, but instead of a fleshy sound, there was a clunk. Ranger lifted his shirt and found a small packet of C4 explosives taped to his waist, with a blinking light.

The hitman gave a faint laugh. "The boss would've killed me anyway for getting captured," he said. "At least I get to take you two down with me."

"Get out of here now," Ranger said, pushing me away.

"Oh, shit," I exclaimed, climbing the stairs.

We sprinted out of the house and ducked behind the Cayenne just as the bomb went off. The heat and debris from the explosion blew over us.

"Didn't you do a body cavity search?" I asked, over the sound of my ears ringing.

"It's not my favorite thing to do," replied Ranger.

As the dust settled, we heard a faint wail of sirens in the distance.

"Get in," Ranger said. "I'll drive."

As we pulled away, black smoke was steadily billowing into the Jersey air. Once we got on the main road, a series of fire trucks passed us. I turned to Ranger.

"Tank isn't going to like this," I said.

A few blocks out, my cellphone rang. It was Grandma.

"Where the heck are you?" she demanded. "You were supposed to meet us here at the caterers half an hour ago!"

Ugh. Mental head slap. I had forgotten about the caterers.

"I'll be right there," I said and hung up the phone.

"Don't suppose you want to come with me for lunch?" I asked Ranger.

"Not even a little," he said. "Drop me off at the next street."

When I arrived at the caterers, Lula was waiting outside by the door and was in a state.

"Don't you know it's rude to keep a hungry person waiting?" She said.

"Sorry," I apologized. "I was busy." Blowing up a house.

Inside, the caterers had set up a table with a dozen or so plates, each containing a variety of small portions of a variety of food. It looked like a meal for Hobbits.

"Look at how cute this is," Grandma said, sitting down and laying out a napkin on her lap.

"It's mini food," Lula said. "For little people or something."

"Each plate represents a different menu," the caterer explained. "On each is an appetizer, a salad, a hors d'oeuvre, a main course, side dish, an accompaniment, an aperitif, and a dessert selection."

We started tasting the foods. Everything was delicious.

"Say we want a bit of this bacon mushroom cheesy thing on this plate and the pork chop with the fruit stuff on top on this here other plate?" Lula asked the caterer. "Can we mix the menus?"

"What bacon mushroom thing?" Grandma asked. "I didn't get any of that."

"I ate it all," Lula said, while popping another hors d'oeuvre into her mouth. "It's not my fault. The portion sizes are too small."

"Could you get some more?" Grandma asked the caterer.

"It doesn't really work that way…" The caterer tried to say.

"I'm the bride," Grandma stated with crossed arms, "I have to try everything."

Resigned, the caterer retreated to the back room to get another plate ready.

"You need to stop eating everything," Grandma told Lula.

"I'm the assistant wedding planner," Lula said. "You need my advice and my expertise needs to be well researched." She reached over to the plate closest to Grandma and took a cheese ball hors d'oeuvre and popped it in her mouth.

"Hey!" Grandma exclaimed. "I was going to eat that!"

Then Grandma reached over to the plate closest to Lula and grabbed a chocolate mousse strawberry tart.

"Hey!" Lula exclaimed.

What happened next was a blur. Lula and Grandma started grabbing food off the plates and hoarding it onto the plate closest to them and shoving it in their mouths. They both grabbed a piece of chicken at the same time and a tug-of-war ensued.

"Let go granny," Lula warned.

"Over my dead body!" Grandma said.

The chicken must've been greasy, because the next thing I knew, both Lula and Grandma lost their grip on the chicken and the drumstick went flying across the room and hit the caterer in the head, who had just entered the room. The caterer was caught off guard and dropped the plate she was carrying with a crash.

"What is going on in here?" She exclaimed.

Both Grandma and Lula pointed at each other. "She did it."

"You need to leave and never come back," the caterer said.

Lula screeched off in her Firebird and I drove Grandma back home in the Cayenne. I couldn't imagine how she was going to explain this to my mother.

I decided to swing by Rangeman to pick up the information that Tank had got on Richard Black and Suzanne Moutis. I figured he would have left it with the front desk, but when I entered, the guy behind the desk just pointed to the elevator. I rode up and got off on the fifth floor and made my way to Tank's office.

I knocked and received a gruff, "Enter."

I walked in and found Tank hunched over his desk. "Close the door behind you," he said.

I did, and sat down in the chair across from him. He looked up at me with stern eyes and a posture that an interrogator would use.

"I just got word that a Rangeman safe house just blew up," Tank said.

"Was that a question?" I asked him.

Tank mumbled something under his breath and shuffled some papers. I think I was giving him a migraine.

"Here is the info on Suzanne Moutis and Richard Black," he said, handing me two files. "Suzanne Moutis' resume is so clean, it's got to be fake. It takes a lot of skill to trick the FBI. And Richard Black is so dirty, it's a miracle that he hasn't been fired, or put in jail."

"Thanks Tank," I said. I got up to leave and paused. "Sorry about the safe house."

Tank was already shuffling some papers around on his desk. "I don't want to know," he muttered.