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“Okay,” I said, “I'll go home and stay there. Yeesh.”
I didn't have anything to do that afternoon, anyway. And I couldn't get excited about giving Habib and Mitchell another crack at kidnapping me and chopping off my fingers, one by one. Locking myself into my apartment was actually appealing. I could clean up some more, and watch some junky television, and take a nap.
“I have your shoulder bag at my house,” Morelli said. “I didn't think to bring it to work with me. Do you need a key to your apartment?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
He took a key off his key ring and gave it to me.
THE LOT T O my building was relatively empty. At this time of day the seniors were either off shopping or making maximum use of the Medicare system, which was fine by me because it got me a good parking space. There were no strange cars in the lot. And as far as I could tell, no one was lurking in the bushes. I parked close to the door and got the Glock out of my jacket pocket. I quickly went i
nto the building and took the stairs. The second-floor hall was empty and quiet. My door was locked. Both good signs. I unlocked my door with the Glock still in hand and stepped into the foyer. The apartment looked just as I'd left it. I closed the door behind me but didn't slide the bolt, in case I had to make a fast exit. Then I went room to room, making sure all was secure.
I went from the living room to the bathroom. And when I was in the bathroom a man stepped out of the bedroom and leveled a gun at me. He was average height and build, slimmer and younger than Hannibal Ramos, but the family resemblance was obvious. He was a good-looking man, but the good looks were ruined by lines of dissolution. A month at Betty Ford wouldn't make a dent in this man's problems.
“Homer Ramos?”
“In the flesh.”
We both had guns drawn, standing about ten feet apart. “Drop the gun,” I said.
He gave me a humorless smile. “Make me.”
Great. “Drop the gun, or I'm going to shoot you.”
“Okay, shoot me. Go ahead.”
I looked down at the Glock. It was a semiautomatic, and I owned a revolver. I had no idea how to shoot a semiautomatic. I knew I was supposed to slide something back. I pushed a button, and the clip fell out onto the carpet.
Homer Ramos burst out laughing.
I threw the Glock at him, hitting him in the forehead, and he fired at me before I had a chance to take off. The bullet grazed my upper arm and lodged in the wall behind me. I cried out and stumbled back, holding tight to the wound.
“That's a warning,” he said. “If you try to run I'll shoot you in the back.”
“Why are you here? What do you want?”
“I want the money, of course.”
“I don't have the money.”
“There's no other possibility, sweetie pie. The money was in the car, and before good ol' Cynthia died she told me you were in the town house when she walked in. So you're the only candidate. I've been all through Cynthia's house. And I tortured her sufficiently to be confident she was telling me everything she knew. She originally gave me this bogus story about throwing the bag away, but not even Cynthia would be that stupid. I've been through your apartment and the apartment of your fat friend. And I haven't found the money.”
Harpoon to the brain. Habib and Mitchell weren't the ones who'd ransacked my apartment. It was Homer Ramos, looking for his money.
“Now I want you to tell me where you put it,” Homer said. “I want you to tell me where you've hidden my money.”
My arm stung and a bloodstain was growing on the torn material of my jacket. Little black dots were dancing in front of my eyes. “I need to sit down.”
He waved me to the couch. “Over there.”
Getting shot, no matter how minor the wound, is not conducive to clear thinking. Somewhere in the muck of gray matter between my ears I knew I should be forming a plan, but damned if I could do it. My mind was scurrying down blank paths in panic. There were tears pooling behind my eyes, and my nose was running.
“Where's my money?” Ramos repeated when I was seated.
“I gave it to Ranger.” Even I was surprised when this answer popped out. And clearly neither of us believed it.
“You're lying. I'm going to ask you again. And if I think you're lying I'm going to shoot you in the knee.”
