Chapter Two

Ranger was waiting on me when I came out of the bathroom.

"You look a little puce."

"There's something going around," I told him.

Ranger nodded and slipped his arm around my shoulders. We walked back to the office and took the elevator to his apartment on the seventh floor. He dropped a couple tablets in my hand and I washed them down with a bottle of water from the fridge.

"Get some rest," Ranger said. "I have something I have to take care of on the floor. I'll be back in a couple hours, and then I'll drive you home."

Ranger's bed was large and soft, with big fluffy pillows and seven-hundredthread-count sheets. A while ago, I'd commandeered his apartment while he was out of town, and since then, I'd had numerous sexual fantasies involving his bed and his sheets. More recently, I'd gotten to act out a few of them, but I tried not to think about that too much. Thinking about that gave me a headache, and I already had one of those.

The room was dark when I woke up. The digital clock by the bed read four-thirty in big, alien green numbers. I closed my eyes again and felt under the covers. I still had my panties. That was a good sign. Then I opened one eye and rolled over. The bed was empty except for me. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked around. Ranger was standing in the doorway. He moved forward and tucked a stray curl behind my ear.

"How are you feeling?" Ranger asked.

"Better."

"Are you hungry?"

"No," I lied. Of course I was hungry. I was always hungry.

Ranger smiled and pulled me to my feet. "You should eat something," he said.

"You're dehydrated."

"Okay. Maybe I'll have some peanut butter. Or a TastyKake." Or maybe some peanut butter and a TastyKake. Make that TastyKake, plural.

"How about some white rice?"

"Or a Snickers. Yeah, a Snickers would be real good right about now." After the peanut butter and TastyKakes are gone.

Ranger grimaced. "Humor me and take the rice."

He slapped me lightheartedly on the ass and left for the kitchen. I rolled my eyes and followed.

I sat myself down at the table behind a plate of steamed rice. I looked around for salt or butter or anything with flavor and came up empty. I took a bite and swallowed. It tasted like nothing, but I was having luck keeping it down, so I took another.

Ranger watched wordlessly while I ate. I forked the last pieces from the plate to my mouth and said, "Sorry about your shirt. The one I gave to Lula."

"It's not a problem."

I took a drink of water. "If she ever takes it off, I'll see if I can get it back."

"Thanks," he said, "but it was recovered this evening."

"Oh."

Ranger checked his watch. "I have a pick-up in Atlanta, but I'll be back this afternoon." He stood and slipped a black jacket over his shoulders. "I have someone covering your shift until noon. Your gun and cell phone are on the counter. I expect you to carry them. Tank will remind you if you forget. And I don't want you going after

Warner until I get back, understood?"

I nodded in agreement and watched while he holstered weapons on various parts of his body.

"You'll have a hard time getting on a plane like that," I told him.

Ranger secured his Glock at his hip and flashed me a smile. He bent forward and kissed my forehead, and then he was gone.

Ella brought breakfast at ten, along with my clothes from the night before. I'd slept in one of Ranger's black cotton tees, which ran baggy and long on my normally onehundred-twenty-nine-pound frame. I forced down a couple pieces of plain, dry toast, a cup of hot coffee, and two aspirin. Then I climbed into the shower until all the hot water had run out.

I walked onto the control room floor with ten minutes to spare. Tank was lounging in a chair in front of one of the monitor banks. I flashed him my Sig and gave him a little finger wave. He gave me a nod, and the corners of his mouth turned up.

I checked my voicemail while I waited for my computer to boot. Four messages were waiting. The first three were from Lula, asking if I could get her another shirt. Hers had been swiped while she was in the shower.

The last message was from Morelli: "Call me."

#

Morelli was waiting for me in front of the Tasty Pastry bakery on Hamilton Avenue. He was wearing jeans and a red long-sleeved tee with the arms pushed halfway up. His hair was longer than usual, and he wore the look of someone up too late and awake too early. He opened a white pastry bag and tipped it in my direction. I reached in and grabbed a doughnut.

"Nice truck," he said. "Is it legit?"

I never know how to answer this when it comes to Ranger's cars. They are always black, always expensive, and always of dubious origin.

"It isn't stolen, if that's what you mean."

"How do you know?"

I didn't. "It has a VIN."

"Ranger probably prints them in his basement," Morelli said. He shook his head and took another bite of doughnut. "I can't believe you're still working for him."

"I like my job."

Morelli focused on me, as if to determine what, exactly, my job entailed, and whether or not it involved lubricant. Our eyes locked for a moment. Then he pulled me toward him and kissed me. Morelli's cell phone buzzed at his hip and he pulled away to check the display.

"Gotta go," he said, his cop face firmly in place. "Here." Morelli handed me a gray folder with 'Doe, Jane' listed on the tag.

"What's this?" I asked him.

"About every reason I can think of why you should stay away from your FTA."

I looked inside and saw a picture of a woman, stark naked, her body beaten and bloody. Her head was misshapen where someone had bashed it in. Both of her hands had been cut off a couple inches above the wrist.

About a thousand chimes went off in my head and that sick feeling in my gut came back.

"Shit," Morelli said. He steadied me against the outside wall and pushed my head between my legs. The chimes died away, but the sick feeling remained. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

"You don't look okay."

"I'm fine."

Morelli's cell phone buzzed again. "I have to go."

I straightened up watched as Morelli walked back to his SUV.

"I miss you," I called to him.

Morelli turned to face me and walked backwards for a stretch. "Miss you too, Cupcake," he said. Then he turned back around, stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets, and continued down the street.

I angled into my truck and merged onto Hamilton Avenue. I came to a red light and thought for a minute. Then I hooked a right onto Cherry Street. I passed by Warner's apartment a couple times. No cars parked on the street in front of the apartments. No lights shining through any of the windows. Probably it wouldn't hurt to just take a look around, I decided. Ranger has asked me not to go after Warner, but he hadn't said anything about doing a little research on the side.

I parked half-a-block down, behind a silver Lincoln Towncar, killed the engine and dropped out of the truck. Then I walked up to Warner's apartment and looked around. The window hadn't been patched and there was still glass in the floor. I knocked on the door just in case and waited for a response. Then I went back to the truck and pulled out a large flashlight from under the seat, and walked back to the apartment.

I used the handle of the flashlight to knock the remaining shards of glass from the window and climbed inside. The apartment was small and dated, and sparsely decorated. The walls were green wood paneling, which had cracked over the years, revealing tufts of pink fiberglass insulation at the seams. The once-beige carpet was stained and threadbare.

I was standing in the living room. Old La-Z-Boy sofa on one end, opposite a large console television. A club chair near the far wall. The sofa was flanked by two mission-style end tables. A cream-colored ceramic lamp rested beside a plastic seashell ash tray on one of the end tables. There was a stack of mail on the other. I grabbed the mail and tucked it inside my bag.

The living room opened onto a small hallway. The bathroom was straight ahead. It was small and utilitarian. Same green wood paneling, but the carpet had been exchanged for peel-and-stick linoleum tiles. There were rust stains in the basin and around the tub. A small sash window was over the tub, its sill being used to as a shelf for a bottle of shampoo and bar of soap. A mirror hung over the sink, but no medicine chest.

The bedroom was to the left, just off the living room. The double bed was unmade and dirty clothes littered the floor. A telephone and wind-up alarm clock were on the table by the bed. I checked the closets and drawers and found the usual. Sweat socks.

Boxers. A couple of stained Playboy magazines.

The kitchen was the same as the bathroom. Same Spartan décor. Same peel-and-stick tile. The fridge was bare, containing a couple eggs and an expired half-gallon of milk. An old black rotary phone was attached to the wall. No answering machine. Probably he had a cell phone. I went through the cabinets and drawers, but didn't find anything out of the ordinary there, either.

A car pulled into the drive and curved around to the rear lot, and I looked out the window over the kitchen sink. The car was an older model blue Civic. Grayson Warner stepped out, and my heart jumped up in my throat.

Shit.

Get a grip, I told myself. Now is a really bad time to panic. I ran into the bathroom and stepped into the tub. The window opened at ground level at the rear of the lot. It was narrow and short, and I was neither.

A loud "Fuck!" erupted from outside the apartment and my breath caught in my chest. Probably he'd noticed Lula's handiwork. I stood on the edge of the tub and tugged on the window lock. It didn't budge. There must have been ten coats of paint acting as a seal. My heart started hammering in my chest as I rummaged through my bag. It was filled with bounty-hunting doo-dads. Stun gun. Handcuffs. Mag-Lite. A couple tampons and a nail file.

I rammed the pointy end of the nail file under the lock and hammered it with my palm until the seal broke. Then I worked it around the edges of the window and struggled to slide it open, and threw myself head-first out the window.

My shoulders were a tight fit. That didn't bode well for the rest of me. I got halfway through and my hips got stuck. The metal from the window casing was cutting into my skin as I wiggled and writhed, crawling out inch by inch. I gave myself one final tug and heard a ripping sound. And then I was free.

I got to my feet and dusted myself off. A lot of good it did. I was covered head-totoe in dirt and dead leaves. My back burned, and there was a draft at the seat of my pants.

I felt around and found a hole where my back pocket should have been. Great, I thought.

Of all the days to have worn a thong.

I parked in the underground lot at the Haywood office and waited on the elevator.

My left-rear pocket was still dangling by a single thread. I heaved a sigh and jerked it off. Then I tried to stretch my shirt to cover most of the hole. When that didn't work, I swung my messenger bag around and checked out my reflection in the elevator. It covered all but about an inch-and-a-half of cheek. Good enough. The elevator doors opened, and I stepped in.

I walked onto the control room floor and headed straight for my cubby. Probably no one would notice. I locked eyes with Tank and he grinned. Then he flipped open his cell phone and took a picture. Ranger had once told me I was listed in his budget under Entertainment. At the time, I had taken it to be a joke. Now I wasn't so sure.

I rolled up to my desk, hoping for a slow rest of the day. It was almost four, and already I had dirt in new places, a good four-inch gash down my back, and an almost bare ass. I opened my inbox to fourteen new requests and let out a sigh. I did Ranger's requests first, followed by the ones with little red flags beside them first. Those were high priority. The rest could wait until tomorrow. I had three searches left at seven, when the control room floor got quiet again.

I poked my head up over my cubby wall and saw Ranger talking to the guys watching the monitor banks. He was wearing the Ranger-equivalent to Morelli's cop-face, and I got that same fight-or-flight feeling in my gut. Ranger could be a scary guy. He made his way over to my cubby and I got a warm feeling in my stomach. A little too warm. I backed up against my desk and knocked my cell phone onto the floor. It slid to a stop under the desk.

"Shit."

Ranger plucked a leaf from my hair and dropped it in the wastebasket. "You should get that."

"Probably."

"But you're not going to."

"No."

Ranger folded his arms and cocked his head to one side.

"I sort-of ripped my jeans," I said. Ranger grinned. Then he walked over and put his hands on my waist, forcing me to lean against my desk for support. He ran his hands along my hips to the insides of my thighs and back again. Then his fingers grazed bare cheek, and his expression softened.

"Jackpot," he said. Then he leaned forward and kissed me.

"We shouldn't be doing this here," I told him.

The corners of his mouth turned up a fraction of an inch. He ran his hands under the back of my shirt, and I flinched. He pulled away and looked at me. "Babe."

"It's just a scratch," I told him.

"Let me see."

I leaned forward and felt Ranger lift my shirt. "You're bleeding." He reached around me and pressed a button on my phone. A dial-tone sounded. He pressed six and Ella answered. "I need a first-aid kit delivered to seven," he told her. Then he lowered my shirt, wrapped his windbreaker around my waist, and led me off the control room floor into the elevator. He pressed a button on his key fob and we rode silently to the seventh floor. Ranger opened the door to his apartment and dropped his keys on the silver plate on the sideboard.

"Take off your pants and lie down on the bed," he said.

"I don't think that's such a good idea."

Ranger's eyes flashed. "It's not a bad one."

There was a knock at the door and Ella came in bearing a first aid kit and a stack of clean towels, which she placed at the foot of the bed. Ranger thanked her, and she left.

I looked from the bed to Ranger and back again. Then I pulled a towel from the stack and wrapped it around my waist before stepping out of my pants. There. Problem solved. I crawled across the huge bed and relaxed face-down with my head on a pillow.

Ranger sat down beside me and slid the towel down, and I jumped.

"Relax, Babe." Ranger said. He reached over me for the bottle of antiseptic. "How did this happen?"

"There was a window," I said. "I got stuck in it."

Ranger let out an almost inaudible hmm. "Where was this window?"

I paused a moment and considered my options. Probably Ranger wouldn't like the truth, but I didn't want to lie. I was a good liar, but I wasn't that good. And I didn't want to find out what would happen if I lied to Ranger. Lying to Ranger was likely to get me tossed out a window. Or worse. We could stop being friends.

"I went back to Warner's apartment. He came home and I had to crawl out a window."

I bit down on my bottom lip and waited. Ranger was quiet for a long time. Then he said, "This may sting."

Ranger dabbed something cold and wet on my back. It burned for a couple of seconds and then went numb.

"I thought I made it clear I didn't want you going after Warner alone," Ranger said.

"I didn't 'go after' anyone," I said in my defense. "I checked out his apartment."

"Same thing."

"Not entirely."

Ranger ran two pieces of tape along the seams of the bandage, and pressed them down gently. "All done," he said. But his fingers kept moving south, past the towel, to the backs of my thighs. Then he leaned forward and kissed the back of my neck.

"What are you doing?" I asked him.

He planted another kiss between my shoulders and I stifled a moan.

Oh, boy.