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“No problem. You can hang in my apartment until I’m done here. There’s coffee in the kitchen.”
My apartment is utilitarian with secondhand furniture and a bathroom that dates back to the fifties. The best I can say is that I try to keep it neat. Morelli’s house is a man cave with a toaster and a dog. My parents’ house looks like the set from All in the Family.
Ranger’s apartment was worthy of Architectural Digest. Small, ultramodern, well-equipped kitchen. Eating nook off the kitchen. The living room was furnished with a few sleek, comfortable pieces. An office that also served as a den, with a two-seater couch and a flat-screen television, was attached to the single bedroom. The bedroom was dark and cool and masculine. King-size bed with expensive linens. A dressing room where his housekeeper had all his clothes neatly pressed and folded. A high-gloss bathroom that always had the scent of Bulgari Green shower gel escaping from the walk-in shower.
Hanging in Ranger’s apartment wasn’t a hardship. I took the elevator to his floor, let myself in, and went to the kitchen. I helped myself to coffee and looked around. Fresh fruit in a bowl next to an airtight glass container of walnuts and almonds. No donuts. Ranger ate healthy.
I wouldn’t mind going back to bed, but I didn’t want to send Ranger the wrong message, so I stayed in the living room and checked my email. I texted Lula I’d meet her at the deli at ten o’clock.
* * *
¦ ¦ ¦
Ranger came to collect me at nine forty-five. He exchanged his Rangeman shirt for a plain black T-shirt, grabbed a handful of nuts from the jar on the kitchen counter, and we left his apartment.
Stretch, Raymond, and Lula were on the sidewalk in front of the deli when Ranger and I pulled up in his black Porsche Cayenne Turbo.
“What’s the drill?” Ranger asked me.
“I open the door for Raymond and Stretch, and they get the deli ready for the lunch crowd. They get the fry station up and running. They do all the food prep.”
“Does any of this involve going into the back by the dumpster?”
“There are a bunch of vendors who deliver to the back door. Laundry, the butcher, Central GP. They all show up before the deli opens for business. One of us goes out and gets the stuff and brings it in and puts it away.”
“What’s your role besides opening the front door?”
“I fill in wherever I’m needed. Sometimes I help make sandwiches. Sometimes I answer the phone. When Hal was here it gave me a chance to step back and watch the customers.”
“Anyone of interest?”
“Not really. One regular caught my attention, but I think he’s probably just a guy who lives in the neighborhood and doesn’t like to cook.”
Ranger and I got out of the Porsche, I unlocked the door, and we all went in and looked around. Everything seemed to be okay. No dead bodies. No extra shoes. No sneakers-up rats or cockroaches. Ranger went to the back door and stepped out. I followed behind him. It was eerily quiet with no sign of Hal. My vision blurred, and I felt like someone was squeezing my heart.
Ranger pulled the yellow crime scene tape down and threw it in the dumpster. He wrapped an arm around me and kissed me on my forehead. “We’ll find him,” he said.
The Central GP truck rumbled down the back alley and swung into the deli’s parking area. Frankie got out from behind the wheel and handed me the itemized bill.
“You’re early,” I said.
“Yeah, it’s a light day. Didn’t take me as long to load the truck. Tell the boys I had to short them on the powdered sugar, but I’ll make up for it on Monday.”
Ranger and I put the groceries away, and I told Stretch about the powdered sugar, which I suspected was drug code.
“What’s up for the morning?” Lula asked me. “We only got one bad guy to look for, and we don’t know where to find him.”
“Steph’s coming with me,” Ranger said. “We’re going for a walk.”
* * *
¦ ¦ ¦
The area around the deli was mixed. There were gentrified pockets, but for the most part, the buildings were neglected, housing marginally legal businesses and a struggling population of dysfunctional, fractured families with gangbanger kids.
We started our walk in the alley and methodically canvassed the neighborhood. We walked slowly, listening and looking for anything out of the ordinary.
“You think the kidnapper is local,” I said.
