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I went up the tree as quietly as possible. Easier this time. I knew where I was going. I found my perch and got the binoculars out. Unfortunately, there wasn't much to see. Hannibal and his caller were in the front room. I could see a slice of Hannibal's back, but the woman was out of view. After a few minutes there was the distant sound of Hannibal's front door closing and of a car driving off.
Hannibal walked into the kitchen, got a knife from a drawer, and used it to open an envelope. He took a letter out and read it. Had no reaction. He carefully returned the letter to the envelope and put the envelope on his kitchen counter.
He looked at the kitchen window, seemingly lost in thought. Then he moved to the patio door, slid it open and stared out at the tree. I froze in place, not daring to breathe. He can't see me, I thought. It's dark in the tree. Don't move and he'll go back inside. Wrong, wrong, wrong. His hand came up from his side, a flashlight snapped on, and I was caught.
“Here kitt
y, kitty,” I said, shielding my eyes with my hand to see past the light.
He raised his other arm, and I saw the gun.
“Get down,” he said, walking toward me. “Slowly.”
Yeah, right. I flew from the tree, breaking branches on the way, landing with my feet already running.
Zing. The unmistakable sound of a bullet being fired through a silencer.
I don't ordinarily think of myself as fast, but I moved down that path at the speed of light. I went straight to the car, jumped inside, and roared off.
I checked the mirror several times to make sure I wasn't being followed. Closer to my apartment I drove down Makefield, turned at the corner, cut my lights, and waited. No car in sight. I popped the lights back on and noticed my hands had almost stopped shaking. I decided that was a good sign and headed for home.
When I turned into my parking lot, I caught Morelli in my lights. He was lounging against his 4X4, arms crossed over his chest, feet crossed at the ankles. I locked the Buick and walked over to him. His expression changed from bored calm to grim curiosity.
“Back to driving the Buick?” he asked.
“For a while.”
He looked me over head to toe and picked a pine sprig out of my hair. “I'm afraid to ask,” he said.
“Surveillance.”
“You're all sticky.”
“Sap. I was in a pine tree.”
He grinned. “I hear they're hiring at the button factory.”
“What do you know about Hannibal Ramos?”
“Oh, man, don't tell me you're spying on Ramos. He's a real bad guy.”
“He doesn't look bad. He looks ordinary.” He had, until he pointed the gun at me.
“Don't underestimate him. He runs the Ramos empire.”
“I thought his father did that.”
“Hannibal manages the day-to-day business. Rumor has it the old man is sick. He's always been volatile, but a source tells me his behavior is increasingly erratic, and the family has hired baby-sitters to make sure he doesn't just wander away, never to be seen again.”
“Alzheimer's?”
Morelli shrugged. “Don't know.”
I glanced down and realized my knee was scraped and bleeding.
“You could become an accessory to something ugly by helping Ranger,” Morelli said.
“Who, me?”
