Hard Eight (23 page)

“We’re looking for Evelyn Soder,” Ranger said. “We were hoping you might be able to help. Have you seen any of these people in the last couple days?”

“Why are you looking for this Soder woman?”

“Her ex-husband has been killed. Evelyn has been moving around lately, and her grandmother has lost touch
with her. She’d like to make sure Evelyn knows about the death.”

“She was here with Dotty last night. They came just as I was leaving. They stayed overnight and left in the morning. I didn’t see much of them. And I don’t know where they were off to today. They were taking the little girls on some sort of field trip. Historical places. That sort of thing. Louise might know more. You could try reaching her at work.”

We returned to the car, and Ranger took us out of the neighborhood.

“We’re always one step behind,” I said.

“That’s the way it is with missing children. I’ve worked a lot of parental abduction cases, and they move around. Usually they go farther from home. And usually they stay in one place longer than a night. But the pattern is the same. By the time information on them comes in, they’re usually gone.”

“How do you catch them?”

“Persistence and patience. If you stick with it long enough, eventually you win. Sometimes it takes years.”

“Omigod, I haven’t got years. I’ll have to hide in the Bat Cave.”

“Once you go into the Bat Cave it’s forever, babe.”

Eeek
.

“Try calling the women,” Ranger said. “The work number is in the file.”

Barbara Ann and Kathy were cautious. Both admitted that they’d seen Dotty and Evelyn and knew they were also visiting Louise. Both insisted they didn’t know where the women were going next. I suspected they were telling the truth. I thought it was possible Evelyn and Dotty were only thinking a day ahead. My best guess was that they’d
intended to camp and for some reason that hadn’t worked out. Now they were scrambling to stay hidden.

Pauline had been entirely out of the loop.

Louise was the most talkative, probably because she was also the most worried.

“They would only stay the one night,” she said. “I know what you’re telling me about Evelyn’s husband is true, but I know there’s more. The kids were exhausted and wanted to go home. Evelyn and Dotty looked exhausted, too. They wouldn’t talk about it, but I know they were running away from something. I was thinking it was Evelyn’s husband, but I guess that’s not it. Holy Mother of God,” she said. “You don’t suppose they killed him!”

“No,” I said, “he was killed by a rabbit. One more thing, did you see the car they were driving? Were they all in one car?”

“It was Dotty’s car. The blue Honda. Apparently, Evelyn had a car but it was stolen when they left it at a campground. She said they went out grocery shopping and when they came back the car and everything they owned was gone. Can you imagine?”

I gave her my home phone number and asked her to call if she thought of anything that might be helpful.

“Dead end,” I said to Ranger. “But I know why they vacated the campground.” I told him about the stolen car.

“The more likely scenario is that Dotty and Evelyn came back after shopping, saw a strange car parked next to Evelyn’s, and they abandoned everything,” Ranger said.

“And when they didn’t return, Abruzzi cleaned them out.”

“It’s what I’d do,” Ranger said. “Anything to slow them down and make things difficult.”

We were driving through Highland Park, approaching the bridge over the Raritan River. We were out of leads again, but at least we’d gotten some information. We didn’t know where Evelyn was now, but we knew where she’d been. And we knew she no longer had the Sentra.

Ranger stopped for a light and turned to me. “When was the last time you shot a gun?” he asked.

“A couple days ago. I shot a snake. Is this a trick question?”

“This is a serious question. You should be carrying a gun. And you should feel comfortable shooting it.”

“Okay, I promise, next time I go out, I’ll take my gun with me.”

“You’ll put bullets in it?”

I hesitated.

Ranger glanced over at me. “You
will
put bullets in it.”

“Sure,” I said.

He reached out, opened the glove compartment, and took out a gun. It was a Smith & Wesson .38 five-shot special. It looked a lot like
my
gun.

“I stopped by your apartment this morning and picked this up for you,” Ranger said. “I found it in the cookie jar.”

“Tough guys always keep their gun in the cookie jar.”

“Name one.”

“Rockford.”

Ranger grinned. “I stand corrected.” He took a road that ran along the river, and after a half mile he turned into a parking area that led to a large warehouse-type building.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Shooting gallery. You’re going to practice using your gun.”

I knew this was necessary, but I hated the noise, and I hated the mechanics of the gun. I didn’t like the idea that I was holding a device that essentially created small explosions. I was always sure something would go wrong, and I’d blow my thumb clear off my hand.

Ranger got me outfitted with ear protectors and goggles. He laid out the rounds and set the gun on the shelf in my assigned space. He brought the paper target in to twenty feet. If I was ever going to shoot someone, chances were good they’d be close to me.

“Okay, Tex,” he said, “let’s see what you’ve got.”

I loaded and fired.

“Good,” Ranger said. “Let’s try it with your eyes open this time.”

He adjusted my grip and my stance. I tried again.

“Better,” Ranger said.

I practiced until my arm ached, and I couldn’t pull the trigger anymore.

“How do you feel about the gun now?” Ranger asked.

“I feel more comfortable. But I still don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it.”

It was late afternoon when we left the gallery, and we ran into rush hour traffic going back through town. I have no patience for traffic. If I was driving I’d be cussing and banging my head against the steering wheel. Ranger was unfazed, in his zone. Zen calm. Several times I could swear he stopped breathing.

When we hit gridlock approaching Trenton, Ranger took an exit, cut down a side street, and parked in a small
lot set between brick storefront businesses and three-story row houses. The street was narrow and felt dark, even during daylight hours. Storefront windows were dirty with faded displays. Black spray-painted graffiti covered the first-floor fronts of the row houses.

If at that very moment someone staggered out of a row house, blood gushing from bullet holes in multiple places on his body, it wouldn’t take me by surprise.

I peered out the windshield and bit into my lower lip. “We aren’t going to the Bat Cave, are we?”

“No, babe. We’re going to Shorty’s for pizza.”

A small neon sign hung over the door of the building adjoining the lot. Sure enough, the sign said
Shorty’s
. The two small windows in the front of the building had been blacked out with paint. The door was heavy wood and windowless.

I looked over my shoulder at Ranger. “The pizza is good here?” I tried not to let my voice waver, but it sounded squeezed and far away in my head. It was the voice of fear. Maybe fear is too strong a word. After the past week maybe fear should be reserved for life-threatening situations. But then again, maybe fear was appropriate.

“The pizza is good here,” Ranger said, and he pushed the door open for me.

The sudden wash of noise and pizza fumes almost knocked me to my knees. It was dark inside Shorty’s, and it was packed. Booths lined the walls and tables cluttered the middle of the room. An old-fashioned jukebox blasted out music from a far corner. Mostly there were men in Shorty’s. The women who were there looked like they could hold their own. The men were in work boots and jeans. They were old and young, their faces lined from
years of sun and cigarettes. They looked like they didn’t need gun instruction.

We got a booth in a corner that was dark enough not to be able to see bloodstains or roaches. Ranger looked comfortable, his back to the wall, black shirt blending into the shadows.

The waitress was dressed in a white Shorty’s T-shirt and a short black skirt. She had big hooters, a lot of brown curly hair, and more mascara than I’d ever managed, even on my most insecure day. She smiled at Ranger like she knew him better than I did. “What’ll it be?” she asked.

“Pizza and beer,” Ranger said.

“Do you come here a lot?” I asked him.

“Often enough. We keep a safe house in the neighborhood. Half the people in here are local. Half come from a truck stop on the next block.”

The waitress dropped cardboard coasters on the scarred wood table and put a frosted glass of beer on each.

“I thought you didn’t drink,” I said to Ranger. “You know, the-body-is-a-temple thing? And now wine at my apartment and beer at Shorty’s.”

“I don’t drink when I’m working. And I don’t get drunk. And the body is only a temple four days a week.”

“Wow,” I said, “you’re going to hell in a handbasket, eating pizza and boozing it up three days a week. I thought I noticed a little extra fat around the middle.”

Ranger raised an eyebrow. “A little extra fat around the middle. Anything else?”

“Maybe the beginnings of a double chin.”

Truth is, Ranger didn’t have fat anywhere. Ranger was perfect. And we both knew it.

He drank some beer and studied me. “Don’t you think
you’re taking a chance, baiting me, when I’m the only thing standing between you and the guy at the bar with the snake tattooed on his forehead?”

I looked at the guy with the snake. “He seems like a nice guy.” Nice for a homicidal maniac.

Ranger smiled. “He works for me.”

The sun was setting when we got back to the car.

“That was possibly the best pizza I’ve ever had,” I said to Ranger. “Overall, it was a frightening experience, but the pizza was great.”

“Shorty makes it himself.”

“Does Shorty work for you, too?”

“Yeah. He caters all my cocktail parties.”

More Ranger humor. At least, I was pretty sure it was humor.

Ranger reached Hamilton Avenue and glanced over at me. “Where are you staying tonight?”

“My parents’ house.”

He turned into the Burg. “I’ll have Tank drop a car off for you. You can use it until you replace the CR-V. Or until you destroy it.”

“Where do you get all these cars from?”

“You don’t actually want to know, do you?”

I took a beat to think about it. “No,” I said. “I don’t suppose I do. If I knew, you’d have to kill me, right?”

“Something like that.”

He stopped in front of my parents’ house, and we both looked to the door. My mother and my grandmother were standing there, watching us.

“I’m not sure I feel comfortable about the way your grandma looks at me,” Ranger said.

“She wants to see you naked.”

“I wish you hadn’t told me that, babe.”

“Everyone I know wants to see you naked.”

“And you?”

“Never crossed my mind.” I held my breath when I said it, and I hoped God didn’t strike me down dead for lying. I hopped out of the ear and ran inside.

Grandma Mazur was waiting for me in the foyer. “The darnedest thing happened this afternoon,” she said. “I was walking home from the bakery, and a car pulled up alongside me. And there was a rabbit in it. He was driving. And he handed me one of them post office mailing envelopes, and he said I should give the envelope to you. It all happened so fast. And as soon as he drove away I remembered that it was a rabbit that set fire to your car. Do you think it could be the same rabbit?”

Ordinarily I would have asked questions. What kind of car and did you get the plate? In this case the questions were useless. The cars were always different. And they were always stolen.

I took the sealed envelope from her, carefully opened it, and looked inside. Photos. Snapshots of me, sleeping on my parents’ couch. They were taken last night. Someone had let themselves into the house and stood there,
watching me sleep. And then photographed me. All without my knowledge. Whoever it was had picked a good night. I’d slept like the dead thanks to the giant margarita and the sleepless night before.

“What’s in the envelope?” Grandma wanted to know. “Looks like photographs.”

“Nothing very interesting,” I said. “I think it was a prank rabbit.”

My mother looked like she knew better, but she didn’t say anything. By the end of the night we’ll have a fresh batch of cookies, and she’ll have done all the ironing. That’s my mother’s form of stress management.

I borrowed the Buick, and I drove to Morelli’s house. He lived just outside the Burg, in a neighborhood closely resembling the Burg, less than a quarter mile from my parents’. He’d inherited the house from his aunt, and it turned out to be a good fit. Life is surprising. Joe Morelli, the scourge of Trenton High, biker, babe magnet, barroom brawler, now a semirespectable property owner. Somehow, over the years, Morelli had grown up. No small feat for a male member of that family.

Bob rushed at me when he saw me at the door. His eyes were happy, and he pranced around and wagged his tail. Morelli was more contained.

“What’s up?” Morelli said, checking out my T-shirt.

“Something very creepy just happened to me.”

“Boy, that’s a surprise.”

“Creepier than normal.”

“Do I need a drink before you tell me this?”

I handed him the photos.

“Nice,” he said, “but I’ve seen you sleep on several occasions.”

“These were taken last night without my knowledge. A big rabbit stopped Grandma on the street today and told her to give these to me.”

He raised his eyes to look at me. “Are you telling me someone let themselves into your parents’ house and took these pictures while you were asleep?”

“Yes.” I’d been trying to stay calm, but deep inside I was ruined. The idea that someone, Abruzzi himself, or one of his men, had stood over me and watched me sleep had me completely unnerved. I felt violated and vulnerable.