Tank called and told Ranger they had Bogart on video, leaving his office. He had a computer case hung from his shoulder and he was carrying a paper grocery bag. No way to tell what was in the bag.
“We’ve been around the outside of this house,” Ranger said to me. “There’s no sign of forced entry. So Bogart either had his computer case in his car when he went to the office in the middle of the night, or else someone drove him back here to get it.”
“He was wearing his pajama top when he got to the plant. Hard to believe he would have taken the time or had the presence of mind to take his computer,” I said.
Ranger flipped the light off and opened the drapes, and we left the office and the house. He stopped briefly to talk to his man in the Rangeman SUV before getting behind the wheel of the Porsche.
“Let’s see if Dottie is home,” he said. “Are you feeling lucky?”
I thought about it for a moment and decided the answer was no.
The neighborhood surrounding the button factory was asleep. No lights on in any of the houses. No car traffic. Dottie’s house was dark. We parked on the street, went to the front door, and listened. All was quiet. Ranger was still wearing his Glock strapped to his leg. He had cuffs stuck into his gun belt, and he had a big-boy Maglite in his hand. I’d helped him clear a house before, and I knew the drill. He opened the door, stepped in, and I followed. Something went spronnng over my head, an alarm gave three blasts of noise, and I was instantly covered in gunk.
Ranger and I froze for a nanosecond.
“Booby trap,” Ranger said.
Dottie thundered down the stairs. Ranger caught her in a beam of light, and she fired off a shot. The shot went wide, Ranger shoved me to the ground, and Dottie ran for the back door. Ranger threw the Maglite at her. It hit her square in the back. She said “Unh!” and went down to the floor. Ranger had her cuffed in seconds, and he came back to me.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’ve been slimed.”
He flipped the light switch and looked me over. He swiped at the slime with his finger. “It looks like cooking oil, and it smells like bacon and fried chicken. Hang on until I come back with something to clean your face.”
My face and hair were soaked with oil. My T-shirt was soaked and my jeans were splattered with the stuff. I stood perfectly still until Ranger returned and wiped me down.
“Why me?” I asked. “You went through the door first, but you haven’t got a drop of oil on you.”
“I’m special,” Ranger said.
No doubt about that.
He looked up at the top of the door. “She had a bucket rigged from a pulley attached to the ceiling. Pretty ingenious. When the bucket fell it set off the alarm. It might have done her some good if she’d been sober.”
“It obviously wasn’t rigged up when we were here last time.”
“I remember seeing the hook in the ceiling, but it didn’t compute to be a booby trap.”
Dottie was lying flat on her back, looking like a beached whale in a faded multicolored floral muumuu.
“How drunk is she?” I asked.
“Totally wasted. If I hadn’t hit her with the flashlight she probably would have fallen over anyway.”
Ranger hoisted her up, dragged her to the Cayenne, and strapped her in. I was standing by the side of the SUV, and I didn’t know what to do.
“I’m going to ruin your car,” I said to Ranger.
“No problem. It’ll clean up.”
Ranger carted Dottie into the police station and returned with my body receipt. He drove me home and walked me to my door. We knew Morelli was in my apartment because his car was in the lot.
Ranger opened the door for me and helped me in. I was trying to be careful not to get slime everywhere.
Morelli got up from the couch and walked over. He didn’t look all that surprised. He leaned forward and sniffed. “Bacon? Fried chicken?”
“Booby trap,” Ranger said. “You might want to try tomato juice to cut the grease.” He hung my messenger bag on a coat hook next to my door, and he left.
“Did he tie you to the roof rack, or did he actually let you in his car?” Morelli asked.
“What are you doing here? I thought this was poker night.”
“The game broke up early so I decided to surprise you.”
“Get me a garbage bag for my clothes. I need to take a shower.”
“I could help you in the shower.”
“No! Just get me the garbage bag.”
Morelli came into the bathroom and stuffed my clothes into the garbage bag. “Explain the booby trap.”
I told him about Dottie while I soaped up. “I’ll get a big recovery fee,” I said. “She was a high bond.” I rinsed the soap out of my hair and stuck my head out from behind the shower curtain. “Take a look at my hair and tell me if it’s clean.”
Morelli got up and sniffed at my hair. “It still smells a little like bacon, but it’s not bad. Especially if you like bacon.”
I went back behind the shower curtain and shampooed my hair again. I stuck my head out. “How is it now?”
“It’s fine,” Morelli said. “If you scrub it any more it’s all going to fall out.” He pushed the shower curtain aside and did a slow appraisal. “Anything else smell like bacon? I’m getting hungry.”
TWENTY-SIX
IT WAS DARK when Morelli left my bed at five o’clock. I opened my eyes, thanked him for his help with the bacon problem, and went back to sleep. When I woke up again the room was still dark, but there was something off. The fog of sleep cleared, and I realized someone was moving in the living room. I heard the rustle of clothing and the soft scuff of a shoe. I called out to Morelli, but there was no answer.
I was wide awake now, trying to steady my heartbeat. I lay absolutely still, straining to hear another footfall. The red LED on the light switch by my bedroom door suddenly disappeared, and I knew someone was in my room, blocking the LED with his body. I was paralyzed with terror. Completely scrambled brain. I think my mouth was open, but I didn’t hear any screams coming out of it.
I heard him move toward me, saw the glint of a knife as it reflected the light from my bedside clock. I rolled to the other side of the bed and grabbed the table lamp on the nightstand. He lunged at me and I swung the lamp, smashing it against his face. I saw the knife fly out of his hand, heard it clatter against my dresser. He was very close, and I could see that it was the clown. I could smell the greasepaint on his nose and feel his breath hot against my face. He grabbed my throat, and I kicked out and must have caught him in a strategic spot because he doubled over on a gush of expelled air. I jumped away, and ran out of the room, through my apartment, and into the hall. I took the stairs two at a time to the third floor and rapped on Mrs. Delgado’s door. She lived directly above me and was an early riser. I knew she’d be up watching the morning news on television.
She came to the door, all smiles, lipstick on, dressed for the day.
“How nice,” she said. “Would you like some breakfast? Some tea?”
I was wearing bed hair, an oversized T-shirt, and panties, but Mrs. Delgado took it all in stride. She’d been through an apartment bombing, a kitchen fire, and an explosion with me, and I suppose nothing surprised her. Still, I didn’t want to start her day with a description of my near-death experience. And I especially didn’t want it to get back to my mother, who saw Mrs. Delgado in church every Sunday.
“I was h-h-hoping I could use your phone,” I said. “I have . . . a m-m-mouse in my apartment. I need to call an exterminator.”
“Of course,” she said. “There’s a phone in the kitchen. Let me make some fresh coffee.”
I called Ranger and asked if he could come clear my apartment of rodents.
There was a beat of silence. “Do these rodents have names?”
“Clowny.”
The line went dead, and I knew he was on his way.
I kept my eye on the parking lot while Mrs. Delgado made coffee. A Rangeman SUV drove into the lot four minutes later. Not Ranger’s car. The SUV pulled up to the back door, and two men in Rangeman black fatigues got out and entered my building.
“My exterminator is here,” I said to Mrs. Delgado. “I should go downstairs to let them in.”