were scattered around in no special order. Some looked clean and some looked like they’d been worn a lot.
The window was open in the bedroom, and two large hooks wrapped over the windowsill. I crossed the room to the window and looked down. Rope ladder. The sort you might stash in a room as a fire precaution.
I ran downstairs and headed for the kitchen. “He’s gone.”
Lula and I reached the back door just as an engine caught in the garage, and a baby diarrhea green VW bug chugged out to the alley. We ran for the Escort, jumped in, and took off. I could see the bug two blocks away. Ernie turned right and I floored it, bouncing along the pot-holed service road. I turned right and caught a flash of green a block away. I was gaining on him.
“Do you smell something?” Lula asked.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, but it’s not good.”
I was concentrating on driving and not on smelling. Ernie was going in circles. He was driving a four-block grid.
“It’s like a cat was burning,” Lula said. “I never actually smelled a cat burning, but if I did, it would smell like this. And do you think it’s getting smokey in here?”
“Smokey?”
“Yow!” Lula said. “Your backseat is on fire. I mean, it’s a inferno. Let me out of this car. Pull over. I wasn’t meant to be extra crispy.”
I screeched to a stop, and Lula and I scrambled out of the car. The fire raced along the upholstery and shot out the windows. Flames licked from the undercarriage and Vrooosh! The car was a fireball. I looked up the street and saw the pea green VW lurking at the corner. The car idled for a few moments and sedately drove away.
“How long do you think it’s gonna take the fire trucks to get here?” Lula wanted to know.
“Not long. I hear sirens.”
“This is gonna be embarrassing. This is the second thing we burned up this week.”
I dialed Ranger. “Did I wake you?” I asked.
“No. I’m up and functioning. I just got a report that the GPS unit we attached to your car stopped working.”
“You know how when you toast a marshmallow it catches fire and gets all black and melted?”
“Yeah.”
“That would be my car.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, but I’m stranded,” I told him.
“I’ll send Tank.”
____________________
I WATCHED THE fire truck disappear down the street, followed by the last remaining cop car. What was left of my Escort was on a flatbed.
“Where do you want me to take this?” the flatbed guy asked me.
“Dump it in the river.”
“You got it,” he said. And he climbed into the cab and rumbled away.
“Guess you gotta be careful when you’re going after someone who likes fire,” Lula said.
I had a shiny new black Porsche Cayenne waiting for me. Tank had dropped it off, made sure I didn’t need help, and returned to Rangeman. The car was one of several in Ranger’s personal fleet. It was immaculate inside, with no trace of Ranger other than a secret drawer under the driver’s seat. The drawer held a loaded gun. All cars in Ranger’s personal fleet had guns hidden under the seat.
I remoted the car open, and Lula and I got in.
“Now what?” Lula said.
“Lunch.”
“I like that idea. And I think we should take something to Larry on account of he’s still working on your kitchen.”
“It sounds like things went okay last night.”
“One thing you learn when you’re a ’ho is there’s all kinds in this world. Bein’ a ’ho is a broadening experience. It’s not just all hand jobs, you know. It’s listenin’ to people sometimes and tryin’ to figure out how to make them happy. That’s why I was a good ’ho. I didn’t charge by the hour.”
“And Larry fits in there somewhere.”
“Yeah. He’s a real interesting person. He was a professional wrestler. His professional name was Lady Death, but he was one of them niche market wrestlers, and his feelings got hurt when the fans didn’t like him in his pink outfits. So he quit, and he got a job as a fireman. Turns out he’s a hottie, too. He likes wearing ladies’ clothes, but he isn’t gay.”
We decided Larry was probably tired of chicken, so we got ham and cheese and hot pepper subs and brought them back to my apartment.
“Boy, that’s great of you to bring me lunch,” Larry said. “I’m starving.”
He was still wearing the Dolly Parton number. It had a fitted bodice with spaghetti straps and a swirly chiffon skirt, and there was a lot of chest hair and back hair sticking out of the top of the dress. There was also a lot of armpit hair, leg hair, and knuckle hair. He’d accessorized the dress with heels and rubber gloves.
“I know this looks funny,” he said, “but I like to feel pretty when I clean.”
“Go for it,” I told him. And I meant it. I didn’t care what he was wearing as long as I was getting barbecue sauce removed from my walls.
My cell phone buzzed, and I recognized Morelli’s number.
“I’m trying to find Lula,” he said. “I called the office, and they said she was with you.”
“Why didn’t you just call her cell?”
“She’s not answering her cell.”
“Do you want to talk to her?”
“I need to show her a photograph. Where are you?”
“We’re in my apartment.”
“Stay there. I’m a couple minutes away.”
“That was Morelli,” I said to Lula. “He’s coming here with a photograph he wants you to look at. He said you’re not answering your cell phone.”
“It’s out of juice. I forgot to plug it in.”
Five minutes later, I opened my door to Morelli. He looked at me in my Rangeman clothes, and the line of his mouth tightened. “Why don’t I just lie down in the parking lot and let you run over me a couple times. It would be less painful.”
“Been there, done that,” I said.
The bright red splotches in my kitchen caught his attention. “Remodeling?” he asked.
“Pressure cooker full of barbecue sauce.”
That got a smile. “Where’s Lula?”
“Eating lunch in the dining room.”
The smile widened when Morelli walked into the dining room and eyeballed Lula in her flak vest and Larry in his cocktail dress.
“This here’s Larry,” Lula said to Morelli. “He’s Mister Clucky.”
“I’m a fireman full-time,” Larry said. “Being Mister Clucky is my part-time job.”
Morelli extended his hand. “Joe Morelli. Isn’t it early in the day for a cocktail dress?”
“I guess,” Larry said, “but I stayed over, and this was all I had to wear.”
Morelli cut his eyes to me. “He stayed over?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I bet.”
“Are those pictures you’re holding for me?” Lula asked. “You need to be figuring this out, because I’m gettin’ tired of this kill Lula bullshit.”
