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Even without the kiss, riding in the Porsche at night with Ranger is a sexy deal. The interior is dark and intimate, barely lit by colored lights on the dash. The contoured seats are low. The leather is soft and smooth. The car is powerful and flawlessly engineered. Like Ranger.
Ranger parked in front of the Ivy and cut the engine. The disadvantage to the 911 is that it’s not your average car and is noticed. The advantage to the 911 is that in Trenton only drug lords and Ranger can afford one, so it will never be stolen or vandalized.
We sat for a moment, taking the temperature of the surroundings. There was minimal traffic on the street. No activity around the Ivy. We left the Porsche and entered the lobby. I was in jeans and a sweatshirt. I was looking very pleasant with my ponytail and tasteful makeup. Ranger was wearing black cargo pants, a black T-shirt, and a black windbreaker. Not exactly the boy next door but not a gangbanger either.
We entered the elevator and Ranger looked around and checked his cell phone. “No cameras,” he said. We exited the elevator on the fifth floor and Ranger checked his cell phone again. “No cameras here either. Whoever owns the Ivy isn’t putting money into it.”
We went directly to 5B. Ranger worked his magic with the lock, and we were in. He flashed a penlight around the dark apartment. “Not good,” he said. “This guy is a hoarder. Turn the lights on. We can’t do this in stealth mode.”
I flipped the switch at the door and sucked in some air. There were collectibles everywhere. Stacks of unopened boxes containing action figures. Stacks of books and games. Racks ofknight costumes. Creepy life-sized mummies in gruesome poses. An entire wall of cabinets with shallow drawers. Furniture was mixed in with the clutter. A small couch facing a television set on a card table, and a large desk and office chair in the living room. A small wooden dining table and two chairs in the dining area. An unmade, horribly rumpled bed in the single bedroom. The man obviously had sleep issues.
“I haven’t actually seen the coin,” I said to Ranger, handing him the computer printout. “Benji gave this to me. He took it off an article about the game, The Treasure of Gowa. He didn’t have a photo of the coin we’re trying to find.”
Ranger studied it for a beat and handed it back to me. “Do you know how many coins were made?”
“I looked it up. Every game came with one coin and there were thirteen million games produced. That doesn’t put it in the top twenty games of all time, but it had a good run before the company decided to close up shop.”
Ranger pulled the shades and went to the wall of cabinets.
“Start searching at the far end,” he said to me, “and I’ll start here.”
After an hour we met in the middle.
“I found lots of coins,” I said, “but no Knights Templar.”
“There are more of these cabinets in his bedroom. I’ll go through the bedroom cabinets, and you can comb through the apartment. It was a new acquisition so he might not have cataloged it yet. It might be lying around somewhere.”
I worked my way through the living room and was starting on the dining room when Ranger walked up to me.
“I found a drawer filled with Knights Templar coins,” he said.“Twenty-three to be exact. Six were stamped with the game name and ‘Made in Hoboken.’?”
“Beedle would know the coin.”
I FaceTimed Beedle, showing him all six coins. “Which coin is it?” I asked him.
“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s hard to tell over the phone.”
“Don’t go anywhere. We’re coming over.”
Twenty minutes later we were at Beedle’s house.
“This is tough,” Beedle said. “Some are in better shape than others, but I couldn’t say which coin I sold. It’s not like I’m an expert. I didn’t pay that much attention to it. Maybe Benji would know.”
“Do you know how to get in touch with Benji?”
“Only at the store. He’s just Benji. I don’t know his last name.”
Ranger called his control room and asked for information on the comic book store. Three minutes later we had Benji’s last name, home address, and cell phone number.
“Whoa, that’s cool,” Beedle said. “You’re like the FBI or something.”
“It’sor something,” I told him.
It was close to midnight when we met up with Benji Crup. Ranger had tracked him down at a bar close to his apartment. He was playing darts and chugging beer with two other guys.
“Hey, look who’s here,” Benji said when he saw me. “Did you come in for some brew? We got a pitcher somewhere.”
He spun around, looking for the pitcher. The dart slipped out of his hand and found a home in the thigh of a big guy standing next to him.
