“Six is good,” I said.
I was halfway home before I picked up the headlights in my rearview mirror. I looked again when I turned off Hamilton. The lights belonged to a black Toyota 4x4. Three antennae. Morelli’s car. He was following me home to make sure I was safe.
I gave Morelli a wave, and he beeped the horn. Sometimes Morelli could be okay.
I drove two blocks on St. James and hit Dunworth. I turned into my lot and found a place in the middle. Morelli parked next to me.
“Thanks,” I said, locking the car, juggling the food bag.
Morelli got out of his car and looked at the bag. “Wish I could come in.”
“I know your type,” I said. “You’re only interested in one thing, Morelli.”
“Got my number, do you?”
“Yes. And you can forget it. You’re not getting my leftovers.”
Morelli curled his fingers around my jacket collar and pulled me close. “Sweetheart, if I wanted your leftovers you wouldn’t have a chance in hell of keeping them.”
“That’s disgusting.”
Morelli grinned, his teeth white against swarthy skin and day-old beard. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
I turned on my heel. “I can take care of myself, thank you.” All huffy. In a snit because Morelli was probably right about the leftovers.
He was still watching when I entered the building and the glass door swung closed behind me. I gave him another wave. He waved back and left.
Mrs. Bestler was in the elevator when I got on. “Going up,” she said. “Third floor, lingerie and ladies’ handbags.”
Sometimes Mrs. Bestler played elevator operator to break up the boredom.
“I’m going to the second floor,” I told her.
“Ah,” she said. “Good choice. Better dresses and designer shoes.”
I stepped out of the elevator, shuffled down the hall, unlocked my door and almost fell into my apartment. I was dead-dog tired. I did a cursory walk through my apartment, checking windows and doors to make sure they were secure, checking closets and shadows.
I dropped my clothes in a heap on the floor, plastered a Band-Aid on my burn and stepped into the shower. Out, damn spot. When I was pink and clean I crawled into bed and pretended I was at Disney World. Stephanie Plum, master of denial. Why deal with the trauma of almost being tortured when I could put it off indefinitely? Someday when the memory was fuzzy at the edges I’d dredge it up and give it attention. Stephanie Plum’s rule of thumb for mental health—always procrastinate the unpleasant. After all, I could get run over by a truck tomorrow and never have to come to terms with the attack at all.
I was awakened by the phone at five-thirty.
“Yo,” Ranger said. “You still want to run?”
“Yes. I’ll meet you downstairs at six.” Damned if I was going to let a couple loser men get the better of me. Muscle tone wouldn’t help a lot when it came to pepper spray, but it’d give me an edge on attitude. Mentally alert, physically fit would be my new motto.
I pulled on long johns and sweats and laced up my running shoes. I gave Rex fresh water and filled his little ceramic food dish with hamster nuggets and raisins. I did fifteen minutes of stretching and went downstairs.
Ranger was jogging in place when I got to the parking lot. I saw his eyes flick to my hair.
“Don’t say it,” I warned him. “Don’t say a single word.”
Ranger held his hands up in a backing-off gesture. “None of my business.”
The corners of his mouth twitched.
I stuffed my hands on my hips. “You’re laughing at me!”
“You look like Ronald McDonald.”
“It’s not that bad!”
“You want me to take care of your hair-dresser?”
“No! It wasn’t his fault.”
We ran the usual course in silence. We added an extra block on the way home, keeping the pace steady. Easy for Ranger. Hard for me. I bent at the waist to catch my breath when we pulled up at my building’s back door. I was happy with the run. Even happier to have it behind me.
A car roared down the street and wheeled into the parking lot. Ranger stepped in front of me, gun drawn. The car slid to a stop, and Lula stuck her head out.
“I saw him!” she yelled. “I saw him! I saw him!”
“Who?”
“Old Penis Nose! I saw Old Penis Nose! I could of got him, but you’re always telling me how I’m not supposed to do nothing, how I’m not authorized. So I tried to call you, but you weren’t home. So I drove over here. Where the hell you been at six in the morning?”
