Stephanie Plum - Finger Lickin' Fifteen Part 4

Ranger almost always ate breakfast and dinner in his apartment. And lunch was usually a sandwich and piece of fruit from the common kitchen, taken back to his office. There were three small round tables set to one side of the kitchen. Each table held four chairs. Two men I didn't know were eating at one of the tables. Hal and Ramon were at another. The third table was empty. I selected a sandwich and joined Hal and Ramon. I've known Hal for a while now. Hal isn't the sharpest tack on the corkboard, but he tries hard. His nickname is Halosaurus, because there's a stegosaurus resemblance.

"You're my new favorite person," Ramon said. "You got me out of that cubicle. I was dying in that cubicle."

"It's not my favorite job, either," I said, "but I needed the money."

I unwrapped my sandwich and examined it. Multigrain bread, pretty ruffled green lettuce, thin-sliced chicken, a slice of tomato, slices of hard-cooked egg, and salad dressing that was for sure low fat. It looked good, but it would look even better with bacon.

"No bacon," I said, more to myself than to Hal and Ramon.

Hal grinned. "Ranger thinks bacon is the work of the devil."

"Sometimes I walk past Ella's apartment, and I smell bacon frying," Ramon said. "I think she makes it for Louis." He looked over at me. "Have you ever seen Ranger eat bacon?"

"No," I said. "Not that I can remember."

"I think sometimes he cheats and goes to eat with Louis," Ramon said.

"No way," Hal said. "Ranger's pure."

Both men looked at me.

"Forget it," I said. "I'm not commenting on that one."

Hal flushed red, and Ramon gave a bark of laughter.

I finished my sandwich and pushed back from the table. "I'm going for a walk around the building. Is there anyplace off-limits for us worker people?"

"Only the seventh floor. No one would mind if you went into the men's locker room, but there could be a lot of wood if you stayed too long. And then Ranger would probably fire us all," Ramon said.

"I don't want to get anyone fired."

"That's good," Hal said, "because everyone here wants to keep their job."

"Not everyone," Ramon said.

I cut my eyes to him.

"You were on the job last night," he said to me. "I'm sure you know the problem. Everyone Everyone in the building knows the problem." in the building knows the problem."

"Then why isn't the problem solved?" I asked him.

Ramon did palms-up. "Good question. If I knew, I would tell immediately. And so would Hal. And before this happened, I would say every man in the building would tell and would lay down their life for Ranger."

"Maybe it's not in the building," I said to Ramon.

"I would like to believe that."

I glanced at Hal. "What do you think?"

Hal shook his head. "I don't know what to think. It used to be we were a team here, and now we're all pulled up inside ourselves. It's creepy working with people who are looking at you funny."

I stood and gathered my trash off the table. "I'm sure Ranger has it under control. He doesn't seem overly worried."

"I saw Ranger jump off a bridge into the Delaware River in January once. He was going after a skip, and he didn't seem overly worried," Ramon said. "He handed me his gun, and he did about a sixty-foot free fall into black water."

"Did he get the skip?" I asked him.

"Yeah. He dragged the guy out and cuffed him."

"So he was right not to be worried."

"Anyone else would have f.u.c.kin' died. Excuse the language."

I wandered out of the kitchen, walked past my cubicle and down the hall to Ranger's office.

"Knock, knock," I said at his open door.

He looked up from his computer. "Babe."

"Do you have a minute?"

"I've got as much time as you need."

I knew he wasn't just talking about conversation, and there was a quality to his voice that gave me a rush. And then, for some inexplicable reason, I thought about Morelli. Morelli didn't flirt like Ranger. Morelli would say sure sure and then he'd look down my s.h.i.+rt to try to see some b.o.o.b. It was actually very playful, and it felt affectionate when Morelli did it. and then he'd look down my s.h.i.+rt to try to see some b.o.o.b. It was actually very playful, and it felt affectionate when Morelli did it.

Ranger relaxed back in his chair. "I'm pretty sure I lost you for a couple beats."

"My mind wandered."

"As long as it always comes back."

I repeated my conversation with Hal and Ramon.

"This business runs on trust," Ranger said. "Ninety-five percent of the time, the work is mundane. When it rolls over into the other five percent, you need total confidence that the man watching your back is on the job. Knowing there's an unidentified weak link in the organization puts stress on everyone."

I left Ranger and walked through the building. I couldn't listen at doors or rifle through files, because I was always on camera. I peeked into the conference rooms and strolled halls. I stuck my head into the gym but stayed away from the locker room. The garage, the practice range, some high-security holding rooms were below ground, and I didn't go there. The men I encountered gave me a courteous nod and returned to work. No invitations to stay and chat.

I returned to Ranger. "You have a well-oiled machine," I told him. "Everything looks neat and clean and secure."

He almost raised an eyebrow. "That's it?"

"Yep."

"How much am I paying you?"

"Not enough."

"If you want more money, you're going to have to perform more services," he said.

"Are you flirting with me again?"

"No. I'm trying to bribe you."

"I'll think about it."

"Would you like to think about it over dinner?"

"No can do," I said. "I promised Lula I'd test-drive some barbecue sauce with her."

FIVE

I DROPPED INTO the office a little after five. Connie was shuffling papers around and Lula was nowhere to be seen.

"Where's Lula? I thought we were supposed to eat barbecue tonight?"

"Turns out, Lula only has a hot plate in her apartment, and she couldn't get the ribs to fit on it, so she had to find someplace else to cook."

"She could have used my kitchen."

"Yeah, she considered that, but we didn't have a key. And we thought you might not have a lot of equipment."

"I have a pot and a fry pan. Is she at your house?"

"Are you insane? No way would I let her into my kitchen. I won't even let her work the office coffeemaker."

"So where is she?"

"She's at your parents' house. She's been there all afternoon, cooking with your grandmother."

Oh boy. My father is Italian descent and my mother is Hungarian. From the day I was born to this moment, I can't remember ever seeing anything remotely resembling barbecue sauce in my parents' house. My parents don't even have a grill. My mom fries fries hot dogs and what would pa.s.s for a hamburger. hot dogs and what would pa.s.s for a hamburger.

"I guess I'll head over there and see how it's going," I said to Connie. "Do you want to come with me?"

"Not even a little."

MY PARENTS AND my Grandma Mazur live in a narrow two-story house that shares a common wall with another narrow two-story house. The three-hundred-year-old woman living in the attached house painted her half lime green because the paint was on sale. My parents' half is painted mustard yellow and brown. It's been that way for as long as I can remember. Neither house is going to make Architectural Digest Architectural Digest, but they feel right for the neighborhood and they look like home.

I parked at the curb, behind Lula's Firebird, and I let myself into the house. Ordinarily, my grandmother or mother would be waiting for me at the door, driven there by some mystical maternal instinct that alerts them to my approach. Today they were occupied in the kitchen.

My father was hunkered down in his favorite chair in front of the television. He's retired from the post office and now drives a cab part-time. He picks up a few people early morning to take to the train station, but mostly the cab is parked in our driveway or at the lodge, where my father plays cards and shoots the baloney with other guys his age looking to get out of the house. I shouted h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo, and he grunted a response. and he grunted a response.

I shoved through the swinging door that separated kitchen from dining room and sucked in some air. There were racks of ribs laid out on baking sheets on the counter, pots and bowls of red stuff, brown stuff, maroon stuff on the small kitchen table, shakers of cayenne, chili pepper, black pepper, plus bottles of various kinds of hot sauce, and a couple cookbooks turned to the barbecue section, also on the table. The cookbooks, Lula, and Grandma were dotted with multicolored sauce. My mother stood gla.s.sy-eyed in a corner, staring out at the car crash in her kitchen.

"Hey, girlfriend," Lula said. "Hope you're hungry, on account of we got whup-a.s.s s.h.i.+t here."

Grandma and Lula looked like Jack Sprat and his wife. Lula was all swollen up and voluptuous, busting out of her clothes, and Grandma was more of a deflated balloon. Gravity hadn't been kind to Grandma, but what Grandma lacked in collagen she made up for with att.i.tude and bright pink lipstick. She'd come to live with my parents when my Grandfather Mazur went in search of life everlasting at the all-you-can-eat heavenly breakfast buffet.

"This here's a humdinger dinner we got planned," Grandma said. "I never barbecued before, but I think we got the hang of it."

"Your granny's gonna be my a.s.sistant at the cook-off," Lula said to me. "And you could be my second a.s.sistant. Everybody's got to have two a.s.sistants."

"We're gonna get chef hats and coats so we look professional," Grandma said. "We're even gonna get our names st.i.tched on. And I'm thinking of making this a new career. After I get the hat and the coat, I might go get a chef job in a restaurant."

"Not me," Lula said. "I'm not working in no restaurant. After I win the contest, I'm gonna get a television show."

"Maybe I could help you with that on my day off," Grandma said. "I always wanted to be on television."

I took a closer look at the ribs. "How did you cook these?"

"We baked them," Lula said. "We were supposed to grill them, but we haven't got no grill, so we just baked the c.r.a.p out of them in the oven. I don't think it matters, anyways, after we get the sauce on them. That's what we're fixin' to do now."

"We got a bunch of different sauces we're trying out," Grandma said. "We bought them in the store and then we doctored them up."

"I don't think that's allowed," I said. "This is supposed to be your own sauce recipe."

Lula dumped some hot sauce and chili pepper into the bowl of red sauce. "Once it gets out of its bottle, it's my sauce. And besides, I just added my secret ingredients."

"What if they want to see your recipe?"

"Nuh-ah. No one gets to see Lula's recipe," Lula said, wagging her finger at me. "Everybody'll be stealing it. I give out my recipe, and next thing it's in the store with someone else's name on it. No sir, I'm no dummy. I'm gonna take the winning recipe to my deathbed."

"Should I start putting the sauce on these suckers?" Grandma asked Lula.

"Yeah. Make sure everybody gets all the different sauces. Since I'm the chef, I got the most refined taste buds, but we want to see what other people think, too."

Grandma slathered sauce on the ribs, and Lula eyeballed them.

"I might want to add some finis.h.i.+ng touches," Lula said, pulling jars off my mother's spice rack, shaking out pumpkin pie spices. "These here ribs are gonna be my holiday ribs."

"I would never have thought of that," Grandma said.

"That's why I'm the chef and you're the helper," Lula said. "I got a creative flare."

"What are we eating besides ribs?" I asked.