I was patiently contemplating my doughnut selection,
when I sensed a familiar presence behind me. A hand
brushed my hair back, and Ranger leaned into me and
kissed me on the nape of my neck.
“I could get you to look at me like that if I had five minutes
alone with you,” Ranger said.
“I’ll give you five minutes alone with me if you’ll take
over half my skips.”
“Tempting,” Ranger said, “but I’m on my way to the airport,
and I’m not sure when I’ll be back. Tank is in charge.
Call him if you need help. And let him know if you decide
to move into my apartment.”
Not that long ago I needed a safe place to stay and sort
of commandeered Ranger’s apartment when he was out of
town. Ranger had come home and found me sleeping in
his bed like Goldilocks. He’d very graciously not thrown
me out t he seventh-floor window. And in fac t he’d allowed
me to stay with a minimum of sexual harassment. Okay,
maybe minimum isn’t entirely accurate. Maybe it was a
seven on a scale of ten, but he hadn’t forced the issue.
“How did you know I was here?” I asked him.
“I stopped at the bonds office, and Lula told me you
were on a doughnut mission.”
“Where are you going?”
“Miami.”
“Is this business or pleasure?”
“It’s bad business.”
Marjorie finished with her customer and made her way
over to me. “What’ll it be?” she wanted to know.
“A dozen Boston Cream doughnuts.”
“Babe,” Ranger said.
“They’re not all for me.”
Ranger doesn’t often smile. Mostly he thinks about smiling,
and this was one of those thinking smile times. He
wrapped his hand around my wrist, pulled me to him and
kissed me. The kiss was warm and short. No tongue in
front of the bakery lady, thank God. He turned and walked
away. Tank was idling at the curb in a black SUV. Ranger
got in and t hey drove off.
Marjorie was behind the counter with a cardboard box
in her hand and her mouth dropped open. “Wow,” she said.
That dragged a sigh out of me because she was right.
Ranger was definitely a wow. He stood half a head taller
than me. He was perfectly toned muscle, and he had classic
Latino good looks. He always smelled great. He dressed
only in black. His skin was dark. His eyes were dark. His
hair was dark. His life was dark. Ranger had lots of secrets.
“It’s a work relationship,” I told Marjorie.
“If he was in here any longer the chocolate would have
melted off the eclairs.”
“I don’t like this,” Lula said. “I wanted to go after the
pervert. I personally think it’s a bad choice to go after the
guy who likes guns.”
“He’s got the highest bond. The fastest way to dig Vinnie
out of the hole is to get the guy with the highest bond.”
We were in Lula’s red Firebird, sitting across the street
from Lonnie Johnson’s last known address. It was a small
clapboard bungalow in a depressed neighborhood that
backed up to the hockey arena. It was close to noon and not
a great time to roust a bad guy. If he’s still in bed, it’s because
he’s drunk and mean. If he’s not in bed, it’s most
likely because he’s at a bar getting drunk and mean.
“What’s the plan?” Lula wanted to know. “We gonna just
bust in like gangsta bounty hunters and kick his ass?”
I looked at Lula. “Have we ever done that?”
“Don’t mean we can’t.”
“We’d look like idiots. We’re incompetent.”
“That’s harsh,” Lula said. “And I don’t think we’re completely
incompetent. I think we’re closer to eighty percent
incompetent. Remember the time you wrestled that naked
greased-up fat guy? You did a good job with that one.”
Excerpted from Twelve Sharp, copyright (c) 2006, Janet Ivanovich. Reproduced with permission of the publisher, St. Martin's Press. All rights reserved.
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