“Actually, the Vegas cops found Singh.”
“Not when Vinnie tells it. Vinnie's made some improvements on the story. So we all still have our jobs. Vinnie's not going to be selling used cars in Scottsdale. Everybody's happy.”
Everybody except me. I was being stalked by a lunatic. And it was possible that I was indirectly responsible for causing three murders.
“Now that Singh is off the books, I've got a backlog of skips,” Connie said. “What would you like . . . first-?time rapist, repeat domestic violence, assault with a deadly weapon, or possession?”
“What's the possession?”
“Kilo of heroin.”
“Whoa! That's a biggy. That's Ranger's. How about the deadly weapon.”
“Butchy Salazar and Ryan Mott got into a fight over Candace Lalor. And Butchy ran over Ryan with his Jeep Cherokee. Three times.”
“Butchy was drunk?”
“Yep.”
“Give me Butchy.” Sometimes a drunk is an easy catch if you can get him in the morning.
I took the papers from Connie. I didn't need a photo. I knew Butchy. Went to school with him. Didn't like him back then. Wasn't real crazy about him now.
“I'll give you the rapist, too. It's his first time around. Maybe he just forgot to show for court. I tried calling, but all I get is a machine.”
“Have you tried his work number?”
“He's unemployed. Got fired when he got arrested.”
I looked around. “It feels strange not to have Lula here.”
“Quiet,” Connie said.
“Empty.”
“Glorious,” Vinnie yelled from his inner office. “Freaking glorious.”
I hefted my bag higher on my shoulder and I headed out. Tank was standing guard on the sidewalk, in front of my car.
“I have a couple FTAs,” I said to Tank. “One's in the Burg and one's in Hamilton Township. I have to stop at my apartment first to get some clean clothes and stuff.”
“It might be easier if we took one car for the busts,” Tank said.
I agreed. “Do you want to drive or ride shotgun?”
Tank's eyebrows raised a fraction of an inch. Shocked that I would even consider driving. Tank only rode shotgun to Ranger.
“It's the twenty-?first century,” I told Tank. “Women drive.”
“Only in my bed,” Tank said. “Never in my car.”
I didn't have a reply to that, but I thought it sounded like an okay philosophy. So I beeped the Escape locked, got into Tank's SUV, and we chugged off for my place.
We went through the standard routine at my apartment. Tank went in first and did a safety check. The photos were gone from the floor. Residue remained where the police had checked for prints. I gathered a few things together when Tank gave the all clear. Mostly what I wanted from my apartment was hardware. I took the cuffs and pepper spray from my bedside table and dropped them into my shoulder bag. I went to the cookie jar next and added the .38 to my bag of goodies. I knew Tank was fully armed and probably had fifty pairs of cuffs in the back of his truck, but I wanted my own. Am I a professional, or what?
I locked up and we took the elevator. Two-?hundred-?year-?old Mrs. Bestler was in the elevator joy riding. “Going down,” she told us, pressing the button, leaning on her walker. “First floor, ladies' handbags, designer shoes.” She looked up at Tank. “My goodness, you're a big one,” she said.
Tank smiled at her. Big bad wolf reassures Grandma he's not going to eat her for lunch. The doors opened and we got out.