I gave him a salute and got into the car. I wasn't sure we were accomplishing anything but
it was a nice day to be riding around with Ranger. Riding with Ranger absolved me of responsibility. I was clearly the underling. And I was protected. No one would dare shoot at me when I was with Ranger. Or if they did shoot at me, I was pretty certain I wouldn't die.
We drove in silence to Mary Maggie's condo building, parked one row over from her Porsche, and took the elevator to the seventh floor.
Mary Maggie answered on the second knock. Her breath caught when she saw us and she took a step backward. Ordinarily this reaction might be construed as a sign of fear or guilt. In this case it was the normal reaction women have when confronted with Ranger. To Mary Maggie's credit it wasn't followed by flushing and stammering. Her attention traveled from Ranger to me. “You again,” she said.
I gave her a finger wave.
“What happened to your eye?”
“Parking dispute.”
“Looks like you lost.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” I said. Not necessarily in this case . . . but sometimes.
“DeChooch was riding around town last night,” Ranger said. “We thought you might have seen him.”
“Nope.”
“He was driving your car, and he was involved in an accident. Hit-and-run.”
It was clear from the expression on Mary Maggie's face that this was the first she'd heard of the accident.
“It's his eyes. He shouldn't be driving at night,” she said.
No shit. Not to mention his mind, which should be keeping him off the road all together. The man was a lunatic.
“Was anyone hurt?” Mary Maggie asked.
Ranger shook his head.
“You'll call us if you see him, right?” I said.
“Sure,” Mary Maggie said.
“She's not going to call us,” I said to Ranger when we were in the elevator.
Ranger just looked at me.
“What?” I asked.
“Patience.”
The elevator doors opened to the underground garage and I jumped out. “Patience? Mooner and Dougie are missing, and I've got Joyce Barnhardt breathing down my neck. We ride around and talk to people, but we don't learn anything and nothing happens and no one even seems to be worried.”
“We're leaving messages. Applying pressure. You apply pressure in the right spot and things start to break down.”
“Hmm,” I said, still not feeling like we'd accomplished a lot.
Ranger unlocked his car with the remote. “Don't like the sound of that hmm.”
“The pressure stuff sounds a little . . . obscure.”
We were alone in the dimly lit garage. Just Ranger and me and two levels of cars and concrete. It was the perfect setting for a gangland murder or an attack by a deranged rapist.
“Obscure,” Ranger repeated.