It was Margaret Burger.
'I found a check,' she said. 'It was misfiled. It's from that time when Sol was arguing with the cable company. I know Mr. Bunchy was interested in seeing it, but I don't know how to get in touch with him.'
'I can get it to him,' I told her. 'I have a few things to do, and then I'll stop around.'
'I'll be here all day,' Margaret said.
I didn't know what I was going to get out of the check, but I thought it couldn't hurt to take a look. I made fresh coffee and chugged a glass of orange juice. I took a fast shower, dressed in my usual uniform of Levi's and a long-sleeve T-shirt, drank my coffee, ate a Pop-Tart, and called Morelli. Still no answer, but I left a message this time. The message was that Morelli should page me immediately if Ramirez was caught.
I took the pepper spray out of my shoulder bag and clipped it onto the waistband of my Levi's.
Briggs was in the kitchen when I left. 'Be careful,' he said.
My stomach knotted when I got to the elevator, and again when I stepped out of the lobby, into the lot. I quickly crossed to the car, powered up the Porsche, and watched my rearview mirror as I drove.
It occurred to me that I was no longer looking around every corner for Uncle Fred. Somehow the Uncle Fred search had morphed into a mystery about a butchered woman and dead office workers and an uncooperative garbage company. I told myself it was all the same. That somehow it all tied to Fred's disappearance. But I wasn't completely convinced. It was still possible that Fred was in Fort Lauderdale, and I was spinning my wheels while Bunchy laughed his ass off. Maybe Bunchy was actually Allen Funt in disguise, and I was on funniest bounty hunter bloopers.
Margaret opened the door on the first knock. She had the canceled check ready and waiting for me. I scrutinized it, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary.
'You can take it if you want,' Margaret said. 'It's no good to me. Maybe that nice Mr. Bunchy would want to see it too.'
I dropped the check in my bag and thanked Margaret. I was still spooked from finding Ramirez on my fire escape, so I drove to the office to see if Lula wanted to ride shotgun for the rest of the day.
'I don't know,' Lula said. 'You aren't doing anything with that Bunchy guy, are you? He has a sick sense of humor.'
We'll take my car, I told her. Nothing to worry about.
'I guess that would be okay,' Lula said. 'I could wear a hat to disguise myself, so no one recognizes me.'
'No need,' I said. 'I have a new car.'
Connie looked up from her computer screen. 'What kind of car?'
'Black.'
'That's better than powder blue,' Lula said. 'What is it? Another one of them little jeeps?'
'Nope. It's not a jeep.'
Both Connie and Lula looked at me expectantly. 'Well?' Lula said.
'It's . . . a Porsche.'
'Say what?' Lula said.
'Porsche.'
They were both at the door.
'Damned if it doesn't look like a Porsche,' Lula said. 'What'd you do, rob a bank?'
'It's a company car.'
Lula and Connie did some more of the expectant looking at me with their eyebrows up at the top of their heads.
'Well, you know how I've been working with Ranger . . .'
Lula peered into the car's interior. 'You mean like getting that guy to blow hisself up? And like the time you lost the sheik? Hold on here,' Lula said. 'Are you telling me Ranger gave you this car because you're working with him?'
I cleared my throat and polished a thumbprint off the rightrear quarter panel with the hem of my flannel shirt.
Lula and Connie started smiling.
'Dang,' Lula said, punching me in the arm. 'You go, girl.'
'It's not that kind of work,' I said.
The smile on Lula had stretched ear to ear. 'I didn't say anything about what kind of work. Connie, did you hear me say anything about this kind of work or that kind of work?'
'I know what you were thinking,' I said.
Connie jumped in. 'Let's see . . . there's oral sex. And then there's regular sex. And then there's—'
'Getting close now,' Lula said.
'All the men who work with Ranger drive black cars,' I told them.
'He give them SUVs,' Lula said. 'He don't give them no Porsche.'
