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“My pubic area.”
“Your pubic area?”
I could tell he was struggling with some sort of emotion. Either he was trying hard not to laugh or else he was trying hard not to choke me.
“Give me the gun,” Ranger said.
I extracted the gun from my pants and handed it over.
Ranger held the gun in the palm of his hand and smiled. “It's warm,” he said. He put the gun in the glove compartment and plugged the key into the ignition.
“Am I fired?”
“No. Any woman who can heat up a gun like that is worth keeping around.”
In twenty minutes we were parked across the street and two houses down from Anthony. Ranger cut the engine and dialed Anthony's home number. No answer.
“Try the door,” he said to me. “If someone opens it tell them you're selling Girl Scout cookies and keep them talking until I call you. I'm going in through the back. I'm parking one street over.”
I swung out of the Explorer and watched Ranger drive away. I waited a couple minutes and then I crossed the street, marched up to Anthony's front door, and rang the bell. Nothing. I rang again and listened. I didn't hear any activity inside. No television. No footsteps. No dog barking. I was about to ring a third time when the door opened, and Ranger motioned me in. I followed him to the second floor, and we methodically worked our way through all three levels.
“I don't see any evidence of a second person living here,” Ranger said when we reached the basement.
“This is a real bummer,” I said. “No books on how to build a bomb. No sniper rifles. No dirty underwear with ”Spiro“ embroidered on it.”
We were in the kitchen and only the garage remained. We knew there was something in the garage because Anthony never parked his fancy new Vette in the garage.
Ranger drew his gun and opened the door that led to the garage, and we both looked in at wall-to-wall boxes. Never-been-opened cartons containing toaster ovens, ceiling fans, nails, duct tape, grout guns, electric screwdrivers.
“I think the little jerk is stealing from his brothers,” I said to Ranger.
“I think you're right. There'd be larger quantities of single items if he was hijacking trucks or legally storing inventory. This looks like he randomly fills his trunk every night when he leaves.”
We backed out and closed the garage door.
Ranger looked at his watch. “We have a little time. Let's see what he's got on his computer.”
Anthony had a small office on the first floor. Cherry built-ins lined the walls, but Anthony hadn't yet filled them with books or objets d'art. The cherry desk was large and masculine. The cushy desk chair was black leather.
The desktop held a phone, a computer and keyboard, and small printer.
Ranger sat in the chair and turned the computer on. A strip of icons appeared on the screen. Ranger hit one of the icons and Anthonys e-mail program opened.
Ranger scrolled through new mail and sent mail and deleted mail. Not much there. Anthony didn't do a lot of emailing. Ranger opened Anthony's address book.
No Spiro listed. Ranger closed the program and tried another icon.
“Let's see what he surfs,” Ranger said. He went to the bookmarked sites.
They were all porn.
Ranger closed the program and returned his attention to the icon strip. He hit iPhoto and worked his way through the photo library. There were a couple pictures of Anthony's Vette. A couple pictures of the front of his town house. And three photos from the Macaroni funeral. The quality wasn't great since they were downloaded from his phone, but the subject matter was clear.
He'd been taking pictures of Carol Zambelli's hooters. Zambelli had just purchased the set, and couldn't get her coat closed at graveside.
Ranger shut the computer down. “Time to get out of here.”
We left through the back door and followed a bike path through common ground to the street. Ranger remoted the SUV open, we buckled ourselves in, and Ranger hung a U-turn and headed back to the office.
