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“I made the Lazar connection,” Ranger said. “I didn't know there was a third.”
“That's because you're the Stark Street expert and I'm the Burg expert.”
“You handed your cuffs and fake badge over to Connie,” Ranger said. “Why the interest in Barroni and Lazar and Gorman?”
“In the beginning, Barroni was just Burg gossip and cop talk. Now I'm thinking Spiro's gone psycho and he's back in town and stalking me. And Barroni might be connected to Spiro. I know that sounds like a stretch, but Spiro makes bad things happen. And he drags his friends into the muck with him. All through school, Spiro hung out with Anthony Barroni. Suppose Spiro's back and he's got something bad going on. Suppose Anthony's involved and somehow his dad got in the way.”
“That's a lot of supposing. Have you talked to Morelli about this?”
“No. I'm not talking to Morelli about anything. He booted my car. I'm doing all my talking to you.”
“His loss is my gain?”
“This is your lucky day,” I said to Ranger.
Ranger curled his fingers into the front of my jean jacket and pulled me close. “How much luck are we talking about?”
“Not that much luck.”
Ranger brushed a light kiss over my lips. “Someday,” he said.
And he was probably right. Ranger and I have a strange relationship. He's my mentor and protector and friend. He's also hot and mysterious a
nd oozes testosterone.
A while ago, he was my lover for a single spectacular night. We both walked away wanting more, but to date, my practical Burg upbringing plus strong survival instincts have kept Ranger out of my bed. This is in direct contrast to Rangers instincts. His instincts run more to keeping his eye on the prize while he enjoys the chase and waits for his chance to move in for the kill. He is, after all, a hunter of men... and women.
Ranger released my jacket. “I'm going to take a look at Barroni's house and store. Do you want to ride along?”
“Okay, but it's just to keep you company. It's not like I'm involved. I'm done with all that fugitive apprehension stuff.”
“Still my lucky day,” Ranger said.
My apartment is only a couple miles from the store, but it was after six by the time we got to Rudd and Liberty, and the store was closed. We cruised past the front, turned the corner, and took the service road at the rear.
Ranger drove the Porsche down the road and paused at Barroni's back door.
There was a black Corvette parked in the small lot.
“Someone's working late,” Ranger said. “Do you know the car?”
“No, but I'm guessing it belongs to Anthony. His two older brothers are married and have kids, and I can't see them finding money for a toy like this.”
Ranger continued on, turned the corner, and pulled to the curb. There'd been heavy cloud cover all day and now it was drizzling. Streetlights stood out in the gloom and red brake lights traced across Ranger's rain-streaked windshield.
After five minutes, the Corvette rolled past us with Anthony driving. Ranger put the Porsche in gear and followed Anthony at a distance. Anthony wandered through the Burg and stopped at Pino's Pizza. He was inside Pino's for a couple minutes and returned to his car carrying two large pizza boxes. He found his way to Hamilton Avenue, crossed Hamilton, and after two blocks he pulled into a driveway that belonged to a two-story town house. The town house had an attached garage, but Anthony didn't use it. Anthony parked in the driveway and hustled to the small front porch. He fumbled with his keys, got the door open, and rushed inside.
“That's a lot of pizza for a single guy,” Ranger said. “And he has something occupying space in his garage. It's raining, and he has his hands full of pizza boxes, and he parked in the driveway.”
“Maybe Spiro's in there. Maybe he's got his car parked in Anthonys garage.”
“I can see that possibility turns you on,” Ranger said.
“It would be nice to find Spiro and put an end to the harassment.”
Shades were drawn on all the windows. Ranger idled for a few minutes in front of the town house and moved on. He retraced the route to the hardware store and had me take him from the store to Michael Barroni's house on Roebling.
It was a large house by Burg standards. Maybe two thousand square feet. Upstairs and downstairs. Detached garage. The front of the house was gray fake stone. The other three sides were white vinyl siding. It had a full front porch and a postage-stamp front yard. There was a plaster statue of the Virgin Mary in the front yard. A small basket of plastic flowers had been placed at her feet. Shades were up in the Barroni house and it was easy to look from one end to the other. A lone woman moved in the house. Carla Barroni, Michael Barroni's wife. She settled herself in front of the television in the living room and lost herself to the evening news. I was spellbound, watching Carla. “It must be awful not to know,” I said to Ranger. “To have someone you love disappear. Not to know if he was murdered and buried in a shallow grave, or if you drove him away, or if he was sick and couldn't find his way home. It makes my problems seem trivial.”
