“Uh-oh,” the man said. “He’s not gonna like you take the tiki. That tiki talks to him.”
I carted the tiki across the field, put it into the backseat, and clicked a seat belt around it.
“Good thing your Uncle Sandor had seat belts put into this car,” Lula said. “Otherwise Tiki would be rolling around back there.”
I got behind the wheel, plugged the key into the ignition, and jumped when someone rapped on my window.
It was Ranger.
“You left the contents of your purse in my car last night,” he said, handing me a plastic baggie.
“Thanks. And I have your gun.” I pulled the Ruger out of my bag and gave it to Ranger.
He held the gun flat in his hand and looked at it. “It smells like orange blossoms.”
“I washed it and sprayed it with air freshener.”
“You washed it?”
“I wore rubber gloves and scrubbed it with my vegetable brush. It was . . . icky.”
He yanked open the driver’s side door, pulled me out of the car, and kissed me. The kiss involved tongue and a hand on my ass, and made my nipples tingle.
“I can always count on you to brighten my day,” Ranger said.
Ranger drove off, and I got back into the Buick.
“That was hot,” Lula said. “Imagine what he’d do if you washed his
“I’m a little flustered,” I said. “What was I doing before Ranger knocked on the window?”
“You were gonna drive somewhere.”
“Do you know where?”
“You didn’t say, but we could ride around and look for bad guys.”
I went back to Broad and took Broad to Stark Street.
“This here’s a good choice,” Lula said. “There’s always lots of bad guys on Stark Street.”
I was looking for one in particular. Melvin Barrel. I drove the length of Stark, all the way to the no-man’s-land where the redbrick row houses are covered with gang graffiti, the insides are gutted from crack fires, the rats are as big as barn cats, and the human inhabitants hide in the shadows.
I made a U-turn and did another pass down Stark. I slowed when I got to Barrel’s rooming house, idled in front of the house for a moment, and was about to drive away when I saw Barrel on the next block, walking toward us.
“Do you see him?” I asked Lula.
“Yeah, I see him. And he don’t see us. He’s texting on his cellphone, not paying attention.”
I cut the engine, and Lula and I got out and went to the sidewalk. I tucked cuffs into the waistband of my jeans for easy access, put my illegal stun gun into my back pocket, and got a grip on my pepper spray.
“What’s the plan?” Lula asked. “How about I distract him by offering him some ’ho services, and then you could sneak up behind him and give him a thousand volts. How’s that sound?”
“Sounds good. Make sure you turn him around so he doesn’t see me.”
I slipped into the doorway of a building, Lula headed for Barrel, and Barrel stepped off the curb still texting. A shiny black Mercedes sped down the side street and hit Barrel straight on. Barrel got punted about ten feet, and the Mercedes ran over him. My stomach instantly got sick and my breath caught in my throat.
“Ow,” Lula said. “That gotta hurt.”
The Mercedes came to a stop, and two men got out. They were all blinged up in gold chains and flashy running suits, and the one had a lightning bolt cut into his hair.
Lula and I ran into the street and joined the men who were standing, staring down at Barrel. Barrel wasn’t moving, and he had tire tracks across his chest.
“That’s Melvin Barrel,” the driver said.
The other guy squatted down for a closer look. “Yep. It’s Barrel all right.”
“Is he okay?” Lula asked.
“Looks to me like he’s dead,” the guy said.
“The idiot walked right in front of my car,” the driver said. “Who does that?”
“He was texting,” Lula said.
“Well, he’s not texting no more,” the driver said. He pulled out a gun and shot Barrel five times. “That’s for hitting my car, asshole.”
Lula and I sucked in some air and stumbled back about ten feet. And the two guys got into the Mercedes and drove away.
I punched 911 into my cellphone with a shaky finger and reported the accident. I called Morelli and reported the accident. And then Lula and I stood guard over the body so it didn’t get scooped up by God-knows-who like the last time we were on Stark. On a personal level, I didn’t actually care what happened to Barrel. As a professional, if the body disappeared my payday went with it. And as a woman, I was slightly nauseous.
A patrol car was the first on the scene. It was followed by the EMT truck, Morelli, and two more cop cars.
Morelli parked and sauntered over to me. “Your FTA has tire tracks on his chest.”
I made a small grimace. “Two guys in a Mercedes drove over him.”
“Technically it wasn’t a hit-and-run, though,” Lula told Morelli. “They stopped, but they just didn’t stay. They only stayed long enough to shoot him.”
“He got run over by the Mercedes, and then he got shot?” Morelli asked.
“That’s right,” Lula said. “But it was recreational shooting. Barrel was already dead from being run over.”
One of the uniforms was cordoning off the area with yellow crime scene tape. The two EMTs were shuffling around, waiting for the medical examiner to show up and take over. A small crowd was gathering, gawking at Barrel.
Morelli turned his attention to me. “You do understand that your life isn’t normal, right?”
“Barrel was texting and he stepped off a curb without looking,” I said.
“But you were here,” Morelli said. “How does it happen that you’re always right in the precise spot where disaster strikes? Your car’s been blown up how many times? And it’s never your fault. Remember when you fell off the fire escape into dog diarrhea? And the time you dated a serial killer?”
“I liked that serial killer,” Lula said. “He could make a damn good pork chop.”
“Is there a point to this?” I asked Morelli.
“No,” he said. “I’m venting. It scares the crap out of me that I’m in love with you.”
“Aw, that’s sweet,” Lula said.
I thought so too. It was kind of a backhanded admission, but it made my heart get fluttery. The sight of Barrel lying on the ground oozing body fluids snapped me back to the moment. I took my phone out of my bag. “You don’t mind if I take a picture of this guy with my cellphone, do you? I need to prove he’s dead.”
“Knock yourself out,” Morelli said. “Last time an FTA of yours went dead you asked the EMTs to drive him to the courthouse.”
“There’s a lot of paperwork when the FTA is dead,” I said. “It’s easier when you can have him show up in court.”
I took my pictures and gave Morelli a detailed description of the Mercedes driver. The medical examiner was on the scene, and the crime scene photographer was at work. Lula was looking like she was ready to break out in hives.
“I’m moving on,” I said to Morelli. “Things to do. Will I see you tonight?”
“Dinner at seven. My house. I’ll get Chinese.”
NINE
LULA AND I climbed into the Buick, I rolled the engine over and pulled into traffic.
