I shook my head, no. “I can manage. Thanks.”
Half an hour later I left the station with my body receipt, happy to escape the cracks about smelling like a barbecue. Not to mention the abuse I took for bringing in a chicken.
A person can take only so much cop humor.
Rex was nosing around in his food cup when I got home, so I gave him a grape and told him about Stuart Baggett. How Stuart had been dressed up in a chicken suit, and how I’d bravely captured him and brought him to justice. Rex listened while he ate the grape, and I think Rex might have smiled when I got to the part about tackling Mr. Cluck, but it’s hard to tell about these things with a hamster.
I love Rex a lot, and he has a lot of redeeming qualities, like cheap food and small poop, but the truth is sometimes I pretend he’s a golden retriever. I’d never tell this to Rex, of course. Rex has very sensitive feelings. Still, sometimes I long for a big floppy-eared dog.
I fell asleep on the couch, watching Rex run on the wheel. I was awakened by the phone ringing.
“Got a call about my car,” Ranger said. “Want to ride along?”
“Sure.”
There was a moment of silence. “Were you sleeping?” he asked.
“Nope. Not me. I was just going out the door to look for Mo.” Okay, so it was a fib. Better than looking like a slug. Or even worse, better than admitting to the truth, because the truth was that I was becoming emotionally dysfunctional. I was unable to fall asleep in the dark. And if I did fall asleep, it would be only to doze and to wake up to bad dreams. So I was starting to sleep during daytime hours when I had the chance.
My incentive for finding Mo had changed in the last couple of days. I wanted to find Mo so the killing would stop. I couldn’t stand seeing any more blown-apart bodies.
I rolled off the couch and into the shower. While in the shower I noticed blisters on my heels as big as quarters. Thank God. I finally had a legitimate excuse to stop running. Eight minutes later, I was dressed and in the hall, with my apartment locked up behind me.
As soon as I climbed into the Bronco I knew this was serious because Ranger was wearing no-nonsense army fatigues and gold post earrings. Also the tear gas gun and the smoke grenades in the backseat were a tip-off.
“What’s the deal?” I asked.
“Very straightforward. I got a call from Moses Bedemier. He apologized for borrowing my car. Said it was parked in his garage, and that his neighbor, Mrs. Steeger, had the keys.”
I shuddered at the mention of Mrs. Steeger.
“What’s that about?” Ranger asked.
“Mrs. Steeger is the Antichrist.”
“Damn,” Ranger said. “I left my Antichrist gun at home.”
“Looks like you brought everything else.”
“Never know when you’ll need some tear gas.”
“If we have to gas Mrs. Steeger, it’ll probably ruin my chances of being Miss Burg in the Mayflower Parade.”
Ranger turned into the alley from King and stopped at Mo’s garage. He got out and tried the door. The door was locked. He walked to the side window and peered in.
“Well?” I asked.
“It’s there.”
A back curtain was whisked aside and Mrs. Steeger glared out at us from her house.
“Is that her?” Ranger wanted to know.
“Yup.”
“One of us should talk to her.”
“That would be you,” I said.
“Okay, Tex. I don’t think Mo’s here, but you cover the back just in case. I’ll have a word with Mrs. Steeger.”
After ten minutes I was stomping my feet to keep warm and beginning to worry about Ranger. I hadn’t heard any shots, so that was a good sign. There’d been no screams, no police sirens, no glass breaking.
Ranger appeared at the back door, smiling. He crossed the yard to me. “Did you really tell fibs when you were a kid?”
“Only when it involved matters of life or death.”
“Proud of you, babe.”
“Has she got the key?”
“Yeah. She’s getting her coat on. Taking this key thing very seriously. Says it’s the least she could do for Mo.”
“The least she could do?”
“Have you read the paper today?”
