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“No wine?” he asked.
“You do realize that I have a loaded gun i
n this kitchen?”
“Your gun is never loaded,” Briggs said. “You never even have any bullets. You keep the stupid thing in the cookie jar. You’d do better to throw your gun away and fill the jar with Oreos. At least you could offer your guests a cookie.”
I gave him my squinty eye. “Don’t push it.”
He returned the squinty eye and left.
• • •
The lights from Ranger’s black Porsche 911 Turbo swung into my parking lot precisely at 11:30 P.M. I was waiting in the lobby and, as always, I got a small rush when I caught sight of the car.
The car and the driver were perfectly matched. Lots of power and agility. Wicked fast. Dark. Sexy. Totally desirable and unobtainable. At least they were unobtainable for me. I couldn’t afford a Porsche, and hitching my life to Ranger would also come with a high price.
I left the building, got into the car, and Ranger silently drove out of the lot and headed for north Trenton.
“Do you have any new information on the Bogart Bar man?” I asked.
“Arnold Zigler. Forty-two years old. Divorced. No kids. A sister in Scranton. Parents are deceased. Most of his co-workers seemed to like him. He’d been with the company for ten years as head of human resources.”
“And the co-workers who didn’t like him?”
“Nothing serious. No death threats. Mostly indifference. I haven’t talked to any of them personally. This information has all come from Harry Bogart. You’ll have a chance to find out more tomorrow when you mingle.”
“I have to mingle?”
“Babe, I’m not putting you in there because you’re good at making ice cream.”
“I’m not sure I’m a good mingler.”
“How much am I paying you?”
“You don’t know?”
“It was a rhetorical question.”
It was past my bedtime, and I wasn’t in the best of moods. I wasn’t looking forward to being a snitch at the ice cream factory.
“Well, maybe I don’t even want this stupid job,” I said. “Maybe I’m doing this as a favor to you.”
Ranger stopped at a light and looked over at me.
“I don’t usually pay for favors, but if we’re going in that direction I wouldn’t mind turning this car around and taking you back to Rangeman for the night.”
Yikes. Tempting but at the same time frightening. And then there was Joe Morelli. And the Catholic Church. And my mother.
“Well?” he asked.
“I’m thinking.”
“Think faster, babe. The light just changed.”
“Ice cream factory.”
“It’s only a matter of time,” Ranger said.
