I left the apartment and took the elevator to the fifth floor. Roger King was monitoring the station that included the code computer. I paused in front of him to watch him work. He was on the phone with an account that had accidentally tripped their alarm. He was polite and professional. The conversation was short. The account gave King their password, King verified the password and ended the call.
“That’s the first time I’ve seen someone verify a password,” I said to King.
King was a nice-looking guy with a voice like velvet. I knew from his human resources file that he was twenty- seven years old and had a degree in criminal justice from a community college. He’d worked as a cop in a small town in Pennsylvania but quit to take the job with Rangeman.
“If you work this shift, you get a lot of bogus alarms,” King said. “People get up in the morning and forget the alarm is on. By the time Chet takes over, this desk is like a graveyard.”
When Chet showed up for his shift, I ventured out of my cubicle again and attempted small talk. Chet was polite but not stimulating, and I was feeling like I was contributing to the graveyard syndrome, so I moseyed on back to work, starting a computer search on a deadbeat client.
Louis had made good on the new chair, and my ass no longer cramped after a half hour. I was wearing black slacks that had some stretch, and a short-sleeved V-neck knit shirt with Rangeman stitched on it and my name stitched below the Rangeman. Ella had also given me cargo pants and matching button-down-collared shirts with roll-up sleeves, a couple stretchy little skirts, black running shoes, black socks, a black zippered sweatshirt, and a black windbreaker. I was on my own for underwear.
A little before noon, I sensed a shift in the climate and looked up to find Ranger on deck. He spoke briefly to each of the men at the monitoring stations, grabbed a sandwich from the kitchen, and stopped at my cubicle on his way to his office. He was freshly showered and shaved and perfectly pressed in black dress slacks and shirt.
“I have a client meeting in the boardroom in fifteen minutes,” he said. “After that, I need to catch up on paperwork, and then I’ll take another surveillance shift at six. How far did you get on the accounts list yesterday?”
“Not that far. I was getting ready to pack up here and spend the afternoon riding around.”
“Do you need a company car?”
“No. I’m okay in the Escort.”
I stuffed myself into my new Rangeman sweatshirt, hiked my purse onto my shoulder, and went to the kitchen to load up on free food. Ella had set out vegetable soup and crackers, assorted sandwiches, a salad bar, and a large display of fresh fruit. I looked it all over and blew out a sigh.
Ramon was behind me, and he burst out laughing. “Let me guess what that sigh was about. You want a hot dog, fries, and a brownie with ice cream.”
“I’d kill for a meatball sub and a hunk of birthday cake, but this is better for me,” I said, selecting a barbecue chicken sandwich.
“Yeah, I keep telling myself that. If I get shot dead on the job, there won’t be an ounce of fat on me.”
“Do you worry about that?”
“Getting shot dead? No. I don’t do a lot of worrying, but the reality is most of this job is routine, with the occasional potential for really bad shit.”
I dropped the sandwich into my purse, along with an apple and an organic granola bar. “Gotta go,” I said. “Things to do.”
“Knock yourself out.”
I took the elevator to the garage, wrenched open the rusted door on my p.o.s. Escort, and motored out to the street. Probably it was stupid to refuse Ranger’s offer of a company car, but it seemed like the right thing to do at the time. I had lousy car karma, and I always felt crappy when I used Ranger’s Porsche and it got stolen or crushed by a garbage truck.
I had my map on the seat beside me, and I drove from one account to the next according to neighborhood. By four o’clock, I’d gone through all the accounts and had checked off a handful that I thought had the potential for a future break-in. I’d gone full circle around the city and ended on lower Hamilton, a half mile from the bonds office.
Lula hadn’t called about the door, but I felt confident the door had been replaced and everything was cool. I drove up Hamilton to talk to Connie and Lula and found Connie was manning the office all by herself.
“Where is everyone?” I asked Connie.
“Vinnie is writing bond for someone, and Lula is at your apartment. She said she lives there now.”
“I let her stay last night because her door was broken.”
“I guess her door is still broken,” Connie said.
“That’s ridiculous. How long does it take to replace a door? You go to Home Depot, buy a door, and hang it on those doohickey hinge things.”
“Something about it being a crime scene. The door can’t be replaced until the lab checks it out.”
“Who said that?”
“Morelli. He stopped by the office to talk to her after she reported the shooting.”
Unh! Mental head slap.
I dialed Morelli and did some anti-hyperventilation exercises while I waited for him to pick up.
“What?” Morelli said.
“Did you tell Lula she couldn’t replace her door?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s stupid. She has to replace her door. How can she live in her apartment without a door?”
“It’s a crime scene that’s part of an ongoing murder investigation, and we couldn’t schedule evidence collection today. I’ll have a guy out there tomorrow, and then she can replace her door.”
“You don’t understand. She’s camped out in my apartment.”
“And?”
“I can’t live with her! She rumbles around. She takes up space. Lots of space! And she snores!!”
“Listen,” Morelli said. “I have my own problems.”
“Such as?”
“You don’t want to know.”
A woman’s voice called out in the background. “Get off the phone. I need help with my zipper.”
My heart felt like it had stopped dead in my chest. “Is that who I think it is?” I asked Morelli.
“Yeah, and I can’t get rid of her. Thank God her zipper’s stuck. I’m moving in with my brother.”
For a moment, my entire field of vision went red. Undoubtedly due to a sudden, violent rise in blood pressure once my heart started beating again. It was Joyce Barnhardt. I hated Joyce Barnhardt. She was a sneaky, mean little kid when we were in school together. She spread rumors, stole boyfriends, alienated girlfriends, cheated on tests, and looked under stall doors in the girls’ bathroom. And now that she was all grown up, she wasn’t much different. She stole husbands, boyfriends, and jobs, cheating in any way possible. Her very presence in Morelli’s house sent me into the irrationally enraged nutso zone.
I sucked in some air and pretended I was calm. “You’re a big strong guy,” I said, my voice mostly steady, well below the screaming level. “You could get rid of her if you wanted.”
“It’s not that easy. She walked right into my house. I’m going to have to start locking my doors. And she came in with a tray of lasagna. I’m afraid to touch it. She’s probably got it laced with roofies.”
Okay, get a grip here. She walked into Morelli’s house. She wasn’t invited. It could be worse, right?
“Why is she suddenly bringing you food?” I asked him.
“She’s been up my ass ever since you broke up with me.”
“Hey, stud,” Joyce yelled to Morelli. “Get over here.”
“Shit,” Morelli said. “Maybe I should just shoot her and get it done with.”
I had a bunch of bitchy comments rolling through my head, but I clamped my mouth shut to keep the comments from spewing out into the phone. I mean, honestly, how hard is it to shove a woman out your back door? What am I supposed to be thinking here?
“I have to go,” Morelli said. “I don’t like the way she’s looking at my olive oil.”
I made a sticking-my-finger-down-my-throat gagging motion and hung up.
“What was that about?” Connie wanted to know.
“Barnhardt is trying to feed her lasagna to Morelli.”
