I started at the Rangeman building and methodically explored a six-block area. I was looking for a building with secure parking and reflective glass windows. Ranger was all about privacy. I enlarged the grid and found a building on Bender Street that had promise. It was about a half mile from the Rangeman building. It was a three-story townhouse with tinted windows. An alley ran along the back of the townhouse, the backyard was enclosed by a nine-foot cement wall with an automated security gate, and security cameras looked down at the alley from the roof.
I got out of the Buick and waved at one of the cameras. Thirty seconds later my phone chirped.
“Babe,” Ranger said.
I smiled at the camera. “Howdy.”
The gate opened. I got back into the Buick and drove into the paved parking area. There were three black SUVs parked and three more spaces. The back door to the townhouse opened, and Tank looked out. He didn’t look happy to see me. I stepped past him into a hallway that led to the front of the house and a six-man elevator.
“Third floor,” Tank said, holding the elevator for me.
The elevator opened onto a third-floor loft and Ranger. He didn’t look that happy either, but then it’s hard to tell with Ranger. He doesn’t usually show a lot of emotion.
The walls were white. The furniture was sleek black leather. The floors were cement. There was a small ultramodern galley kitchen, a dining room table and six chairs, a corner set aside as an office, a couch and a coffee table in front of a flat-screen television, and a section partitioned off that I imagined was a bedroom and bathroom.
“Is this the Batcave?” I asked him.
“It was a safe house until you discovered it.”
“And now it’s not safe?”
“Now it’s a home,” Ranger said.
“Wow!”
The corners of his mouth twitched into the beginnings of a smile. “Don’t read too much into that.”
“It was a profound revelation. And I don’t know how to tell you this, but your safe house wasn’t that hard to find.”
“Only because you know me so well. And it’s more satellite office than safe house. Was there a specific reason for this visit?”
“I have two problems. The first is Jimmy Poletti. I know Poletti is in the area because he just shot a firebomb into my living room. Unfortunately, I’m not having any luck capturing him. I thought you might be able to help me.”
“Do you have a plan?”
“I have some ideas.”
“And your second problem?”
“It’s you. I don’t like the thought that some freakazoid polonium assassin will have better luck the second time around and you’ll end up glowing in the dark. It’s causing me stress, so I wish you’d find the guy and eliminate him.”
“I’m working on it.”
“Do you have any leads?”
“I think this person is probably Russian. Either mob or military. I’ve apprehended some members of the Russian mob. And it wouldn’t be hard to imagine Gardi moving in those circles.”
“Why Russian?”
“The polonium-210 that was in Gardi’s possession is a relatively obscure radioactive poison that has limited production. To my knowledge it’s currently being produced only in Russia and is available only to well-connected Russians.”
“And you think some Russian mob guy hates you enough to do this?”
“It would require a certain level of insanity, but it’s possible.”
“So how do you find this guy?”
“It’s hard without access to Gardi.”
“Morelli said even the police don’t have access.”
“He’s been charged with nuclear terrorism. He’s guarded by an army of FBI agents, and no one at the federal level is sharing information.”
“I bet I can get you in.”
One eyebrow raised a fraction of an inch.
“I’ve got Randy Briggs,” I said. “He was briefly head of security at Central Hospital, and while he was at Central he filled in weekends at St. Francis. I’m sure he knows everyone’s schedule and all the ways to get onto a floor.”