“So,” Morelli said when we were done, “do you want to be first in the shower?”
I was face down on the bed, my heart rate was around twelve beats per minute, and I was in a state of euphoric slobbering contentment. In fact, I think I might have been purring. “You go first,” I said. “Take your time.”
Morelli went downstairs and got the coffee going before taking his turn in the bathroom. After a couple minutes the coffee fumes penetrated my after-sex glow. I rolled out of bed, pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and followed the fumes to the kitchen. I poured out a mug of coffee and padded to the front door to get the morning paper.
I opened the door and found a red rose and a white carnation wrapped in cellophane, sitting on the paper. So much for euphoria. I brought everything inside and locked the door behind me. I left the flowers on the sideboard and opened the small square white envelope that had accompanied the flowers. The envelope held a note written on card stock.
Are you pleased that I saved you for myself? Do you get hot when you think about me and all I've done for you? I could have killed you last night just as I could have killed you when I took you down with the dart, but that would have been too easy. Your death must be worthy of a hunter. It was signed, Lovingly yours.
And tucked into the envelope was a lock of my hair, tied together with a slim pink satin ribbon.
I got goose bumps on my arm and a chill ripped through my stomach. The shock was short-lived and I went back into bravado mode. Okay, I told myself, so that solves the mystery of the missing hair.
I was sitting in the living room with my coffee and the note when Morelli came down the stairs. He was freshly shaved
and his hair was still damp. He was dressed in jeans and boots and a black T-shirt, and if I hadn't just had the mother
of all orgasms I would have attacked him and lured him back to bed.
“I saw the flowers on the sideboard,” Morelli said.
I handed him the card. “They were left on the porch this morning. They were on top of the paper, so the webmaster stopped around when it was daylight. Maybe someone saw him.”
“He's taking chances,” Morelli said. “He's glorying in his success and that's going to make him careless.”
“Something to look forward to.”
“I'll have the neighborhood canvassed.” Morelli read the note. “Sick,” he said.
I took a shower and did the best I could with my hair, pushing it behind my ears, lacquering it up with hair spray. I'd get a cut as soon as possible, but I hadn't a clue what could possibly be done with it. I looked close in the mirror. Extensions, maybe? Hairweave?
Morelli was on the phone when I came downstairs. He glanced at his watch and ended his conversation when he saw me. Morelli was ready to roll. The day had started without him. That's what happens when you're a sex fiend.
“I was talking to Ed Silver,” Morelli said. “We just got the report back from the state techs. They were able to recover some email from Singh's computer. And the email corroborates what you learned last night. There were five players and the webmaster. We know Fisher Cat was last man standing, so we're missing a dead player.”
“Do you know any more about how the game is played?”
“One of the emails spelled out the rules. The webmaster conducts the game. Players only use their game names and can communicate with each other only through the webmaster. So the webmaster always knows all. The webmaster gives out clues about the players' identities and the hunt begins. All players know from the beginning that there will only be one man standing at the end of the game. All players know there's no pulling out once the game has begun. Pulling out marks a player for assassination.”
“Singh.”
“Yeah. It looks like Singh was assassinated. The game began a full month before you got involved. You might have been the prize from the very beginning. Or the webmaster might have changed the prize midway. Or maybe the webmaster didn't feel any rush to designate a prize until the game was under way.”
“And I happened along.”
Morelli shrugged. “No way to know. You're a good prize. Bounty hunter. The webmaster had to come up with something to top the cop. The prize isn't mentioned in any of the emails to Singh. The rules were that the webmaster only gave up the prize to the last man standing.”
“And the webmaster?”
“That's the bad news. No clue to the webmaster. His emails are, so far, untraceable. And he hasn't given away anything of himself. There were some messages to Singh about his disappearance, requesting that he return to finish the game, warning of the consequences. And there were a couple earlier messages that got the game going. Player names and hunt clues.”
“Is Bart Cone still a suspect?”
“Everyone's a suspect. Cone is high up on the list.”
“What about the other victims' computers?”
“We were never able to find Rosens or Howie's computer.”
“Fisher Cat's?”
“Fisher Cat's name is Steven Klein. Nineteen years old. Worked at Larry's video rental and lived with his parents. The state has a team going through the parents' house, but so far as I know the computer hasn't turned up yet.”
I glanced at the newspaper I'd dropped onto the coffee table. Kleins picture was on the front page. To be more precise, Kleins sneakers were on the front page because the rest of him was hidden behind a couple cops and a back shot of me, standing hands on hips, head down. My hair didn't look good.
“Crap,” I said.
Morelli looked down at the photo. He raised his eyes and looked over at me. “Did you get a new haircut?”
“Yeah. Somewhere between getting shot and posing for this newspaper picture. I guess you didn't look in the envelope.”
Morelli took the envelope off the coffee table and looked inside. Morelli’s usually pretty good at hiding emotion, but the lock of hair pushed a button that was beyond his range of control. Color rose in his cheeks and he slashed out at a table lamp, hitting it with his closed fist, sending it flying across the room to smash against the wall.
Bob was curled into a big Bob ball at the end of the couch, sound asleep. He levitated six inches off the couch when the lamp crashed and he ran for the kitchen.
“Feel better?” I asked Morelli.
“No.”
“Do you have anything else for me?”
“Klein, Rosen, Singh, Paressi were all shot at fairly close range. Howie was shot across a parking lot. Even using a laser scope, there's still a skill level required to put a twenty-two between someone's eyes at a distance. Someone in the carnations and roses group is a very good shot. I'm guessing it's the webmaster. A possible scenario is that you discovered Howie's identity and the webmaster had to take him out or risk having the game blown. And then maybe the webmaster discovered he liked killing and decided to insert himself into the game as a player.”
“Was Bart Cone in the military? Does he belong to a gun club?”
“Never in the military. No gun club that we know of.” Morelli did another watch check. “We have to roll.”
I did a fast scan for Ranger's man when I got outside, but I couldn't spot any shiny new black cars.
Morelli beeped his truck unlocked. “If you're looking for your rent-a-thug, I told Ranger you'd be with me this morning.”
“Did he make you take a blood oath that you'd protect me?”
“He asked me if I had adequate health insurance.”
The rain had stopped and Jersey was steaming. Grass was growing and oil-slicked puddles were evaporating. Another hour and the sun would be bright in the sky, shimmering in the ozone haze.
It was a terrific day for sandals, but I was wearing sneakers because it's hard to run fast in sandals. And I thought there was a good possibility that I might have to run fast today. I wasn't sure if I would be running from the webmaster or running after the webmaster. No matter which, I was prepared.
Ranger wore the
eye of the tiger. He was always in the zone. I felt like I was in the zone today. Of course, there was the possibility that I was just delusional after the phenomenal sex, but what the hell, whatever the reason, I felt okay. And I was hardly thinking about the lock of hair. Well, all right, maybe I was thinking about it a little.
The Trenton cop shop is located on Perry Street and will never be mistaken for Beverly Hills PD. No potted palms or stylish mauve carpet. Mauve carpet doesn't hold up under pepper spray-induced snot.
Morelli brought me into a small room with a table and two chairs. He plugged in a tape recorder and punched the on button. I looked around and was ready to confess to anything. Just being in the grim little room, under the flickering fluorescent lights, made me feel guilty.
I walked my way through the conversation with Steven Klein, giving as much detail as I could recall. When we got to the part where I was zapped unconscious, Morelli shut the machine off and called Ranger. “She's all yours,” Morelli said to Ranger. Morelli disconnected and looked over at me. “That was a figure of speech.”
Ranger was driving a black Porsche Carrera. He was wearing black cargo pants, a black T-shirt that looked like it was painted onto his biceps, black Bates boots, and a Glock in full view on his hip. Ranger was in bodyguard mode.
“Couldn't coerce any of your men into baby-sitting me?” I asked him.
He cut his eyes to me and he didn't exactly smile, but he didn't look unhappy, either. “You're all mine today, babe.”
It sounded different when Ranger said it.
“I don't know what your plans are for the day,” I said to Ranger, “but my plan is to go to the mall and beg for hair help. I'm finding it hard to maintain the eye of the tiger when my hair is lopsided.”
On the way to the mall, I filled Ranger in on the game. “It has to be Bart Cone,” I said. “Someone sent Steven Klein to Vegas to eliminate Singh. And there were only a couple people who knew Singh was in Vegas. Cone was one of them.”
“It could also be someone Cone's talking to,” Ranger said. “There are three brothers and they all have friends and associates. I'm sure the police have cast a wide net around them, but it wouldn't hurt for you to talk to the Cones. Sometimes a man will share information with a woman that he wouldn't think to give to a cop.”
Ranger parked at a mall entrance and we walked through the mall to the salon. We passed a Victorias Secret along the way and I couldn't resist giving Ranger the test.
“Suppose I wanted to look for a thong,” I said to Ranger. “Would you come into the store with me?”
Ranger did the almost smile. “Are we cutting a deal?”
“Everything's a deal with you.”
“I'm a mercenary,” Ranger said. “What's your point?”
For a couple years now I've been getting my hair cut by Mr. Alexander. The guy's name is Alexander Dubkowski, but no one calls him Al or Alex or even Alexander. It's Mr. Alexander if you want a decent cut.
We walked into the salon and Mr. Alexander looked our way and sucked in some air. Not only did I have a hair disaster of biblical proportions, I was with the Man from SWAT. And the Man from SWAT made people nervous.
“I had a hair accident,” I said to Mr. Alexander. “Do you have time to fix it?”
Mr. Alexander went pale under his tanning salon tan. Probably afraid Ranger would shoot up the place if I didn't get an immediate appointment. “I have a few minutes between clients,” he said, motioning me into a chair, draping a cape around me. He did some hair fluffing with his fingers, he bit his lower lip. “I'm going to have to cut,” he said.
Panic. “It's not going to be real short, is it? How about a weave, or something.”
“I'm good, but I'm not God,” he said. “It's going to have to get cut.”
I blew out a sigh of resignation. “Fine. Cut.”
“Close your eyes,” he said. “I'll tell you when it's done.”
I opened an eye halfway through and he quickly turned the chair so I wasn't facing the mirror. “No cheating,” he said. When he was done, he spun me around and we both stopped breathing.
It was short. Longer in the back, curling along the nape of my neck. Short enough on the sides to have my ear show. A few wispy bangs over my forehead. And the whole thing looking slightly mussed and wind tossed.
Ranger came and stood behind me, checking me out. “Cute,” he said.
“Last time my hair was this short I was four years old.”
When we were back in the car I turned to Ranger. “Is it really cute or were you just trying to keep me from shrieking?”
He ran a hand through my hair. “It's sexy,” he said. And he kissed me. Tongue and everything.
“Hey” I said. “We're not supposed to be doing that.” A smile hovered at the edges of his mouth. “Morelli told me you were all mine today.”
“That was a figure of speech. He trusts us.”
Ranger turned the key in the ignition. “He trusts you. I haven't signed on to the trust me program.”
“How about me? Can I trust you?”
“Are we talking about your life or your body?”
I already knew the answer so I moved on. “Where are we going?”
“TriBro.”
Twenty minutes later, Ranger was in the industrial park where TriBro was located. He pulled into a parking lot for a moving and storage company and cut the engine.
I looked over. “What's up?”
He reached behind me and snagged a black molded-plastic box with a snap closure. “I'm going to wire you. I want to make sure you're safe in there.”
“You're not going in?”
“No one will talk to you if I'm along.”
I raised an eyebrow.
Ranger did the almost grin thing again. “Sometimes people find me to be a little scary.”
“No! Shocking. You ever think about losing the gun? Or dressing normal?”
He opened the box and removed a matchbook-size recorder. “I have an image to maintain.”
I was wearing a black tank top and jeans. The jeans were hot, but they covered the bruises and scratches on my legs. Not much I could do to hide the bandage on my arm. My heart did a once over, knowing where the wire was going to get taped. “I don't think I need a wire,” I said.
Ranger pulled my shirt out of my jeans and slid his hands under the shirt. “You're not going to ruin this for me, are you? I've been looking forward to this.” He secured the recorder against my breastbone, just below my bra, with two crisscrossed pieces of surgical tape. The wire with the pin-head microphone ran between my breasts. “Ready to rock 'n' roll,” Ranger said. He spun the Porsche out of the moving and storage lot and into the TriBro lot.
Let's take stock here. I've got my go fast, feet sneakers on and I'm wired for sound. I've got pepper spray and a stun gun in my purse. And I'm cloaked in an invisible invincible protective shield. Okay, so I lied about the shield. Still, four out of five isn't too bad, right?
I crossed the lot and entered the building. I gave a big smile and hello to the receptionist and got waved through to Andrew.
Andrew gave me the hero's welcome. “Way to go! You found him. The office called about an hour ago.”
To the Nines Page 24
