Explosive Eighteen

“So you shot it?”

“Actually, Lula shot it.”

Ranger pushed it open, and we went into Joyce’s yard. I closed and locked the gate behind us, and Ranger tried the back door. Locked. He removed a slim case from one of the pockets in his cargo pants, selected a tool, opened the door, and Joyce’s security alarm went off. He pulled me into the house and locked the door.

“Start working your way through the house while I watch for the police,” Ranger said. “You probably have ten to fifteen minutes.”

“Then what?”

“Then we hide and wait. There are no signs of forced entry into the house, so the police will walk around, look in windows, test the doors, and leave, probably.”

I started in the kitchen, going through cupboards and drawers, snooping in the refrigerator, trying to ignore the alarm. I’d just finished the kitchen when Ranger signaled that the police were here. He pulled me into a broom closet and closed the door.

It was pitch-black in the closet. The alarm timed out, and the house went silent.

“How will we know when the police leave?” I asked Ranger.

“There was a Rangeman car in the area. I have them watching a couple blocks away, and they’ll call when the police leave.”

His arms were around me, holding me close against him. He was warm, and his breathing was even. Mine was more ragged.

“There’s something hard poking into me,” I said.

He shifted slightly. “It’s my gun.”

“Are you sure?”

“You could check it out.”

Tempting, but I didn’t want to encourage anything that might lead to nudity and compromising positions should the police decide to break into the house and open the door to the closet. Although, the longer I was pressed against him, the less I cared about the police.

Here’s the thing about Ranger. He leads a dangerous lifestyle. He’s scarred from past life choices, and he’s dealing with serious issues. I have no idea what those issues are, because Ranger holds them private. I suspect no one will ever know what drives Ranger. What I know with certainty is that I’ll never be more than a loving amusement for him. He’ll care for me as best he can, but I’ll never be his priority. I’ve come to believe his priority is to repair his karma. And I respect that. It’s a noble priority. Problem is, while he’s repairing his karma, I’m lusting after his body. Morelli is a wonderful lover. He’s fun. He’s satisfying. He’s super sexy. Ranger is magic.

Ranger’s phone rang, giving the all clear. I moved to open the closet door, and he tightened his hold on me. His mouth skimmed along my neck. His hand slid under my shirt to my breast. And he kissed me.

“That’s not your gun, is it?” I asked him.

“No,” he said. “It’s not my gun.”

When I finally tumbled out of the closet, I was missing some critical pieces of clothing, but I was feeling much more relaxed.

“Finish your search,” Ranger said. “The Rangeman car will let us know if the police return.”

We went through the rest of the house, and just before we left, I checked out the garage. No car.

“What does this mean?” I asked Ranger.

“No way to know, but the junkyard will have a log of cars taken in. Connie can probably get her cousin to go through the log. Did you report the found driver’s license to the police?”

“Yes. I told Morelli.”

“Then I’m sure he’s there with a cadaver dog. He’s an idiot, but he’s a good cop.”

“Why is he an idiot?”

“He lets me get close to you.” Ranger glanced at his watch. “I have to go.”

We set the alarm off again when we opened the door to leave. No problem. We’d be long gone by the time the police returned.

***

My car and Hal were waiting for me when Ranger dropped me off at the coffee shop.

“Your car was parked at Quaker Bridge Mall,” Hal said. “The big guy was in the mall somewhere. We looked in the food court, but we couldn’t find him, so we brought the car back here. Problem is, there’s no key.”

“I have an extra key at home.”

“Great,” Hal said. “Give me a minute, and I’ll get the car running for you. You can take it from there.”

I didn’t see Connie in the coffee shop, so I waited for Hal to roll the engine over, thanked him, and drove home. I was on Hamilton when my phone rang.

“Hi,” Buggy said. “Boy, I’m real sorry, but someone stole your car. I parked it in a good spot where it wouldn’t get any dings, and it’s not there anymore. There’s just a empty space. You should report it to the police or something.”

“I have the car. A friend found it at the mall and brought it back to me. Where are you now?”

“I’m still at the mall.”

“I thought you were going to the drugstore.”

“I changed my mind,” he said. “I needed new sneakers.”

“Stay where you are, and I’ll come pick you up and give you a ride home.”

“Okay. I’ll be at the food court entrance.”

I raced back to my apartment, picked up my extra key, and took off for the mall. I cut over to Route 1 and made a plan. I couldn’t stun him, so I probably wouldn’t be able to cuff him. I’d just get him in the car and drive him to the police station. I’d pull into the back drop-off and let the police wrestle him out of the front seat. If he got unruly, I’d go to the nearest fast-food drive-thru and distract him with a bag of burgers.

I took the mall exit, cruised through the lot, and idled at the food court entrance. No Buggy. I hung there for five minutes. Still no Buggy. Probably got tired of waiting. I parked and ran inside to see if I could spot him in the food court. No luck. I got soft-serve ice cream, vanilla and chocolate swirl, and returned to the lot.

No car. My car was gone. I punched Buggy’s number into my cell phone.

“Yuh,” Buggy said.

“Did you take my car again?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“You need to bring it back. I have no way to get home.”

“I’m going to the movies.”

“This is really rotten of you,” I said. “Out of the goodness of my heart, I volunteered to come get you, and now you’ve stolen my car.”

“I didn’t steal it. I only borrowed it.”

“Bring it back!”

“What?” Buggy said. “I can’t hear you. Must be bad reception.”

The line went dead.

“Jeez Louise!” I yelled. “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!” I thunked the heel of my hand against my forehead so hard I almost lost my ice cream. “I hate him,” I said. “He should rot in hell.”

An elderly woman walked out of the mall and cut a wide path around me, murmuring about drugs and young people.

“Sorry,” I called after her. “Someone stole my car.”

Get a grip, I told myself. It’s just a car. It wasn’t even a good car. That wasn’t the issue, of course. The issue was that I got outsmarted by a moron.

I found a bench by the mall entrance and ate my ice cream. No way was I calling Ranger. It was too embarrassing. I couldn’t call Lula. She was sick. Connie was busy looking for a temporary office. I didn’t want to slow that process. If I called my mother, I’d get the Why Don’t You Have a Nice Job in a Bank lecture. I could walk, but it would take me all day, and I’d probably get hit by a truck on the highway. A cab would be expensive.