“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Do you want a full itinerary?”
“I don't want to get locked up in a safe house.”
“I'd love to lock you up in a safe house, babe, but that wasn't my plan for the day.”
“Promise? Cross your heart and hope to die?”
There was a slight narrowing of his eyes. Ranger wasn't feeling playful. “I guess you have to decide if it's more dangerous to be in the truck with me or to stand out here as a potential target for the sniper.”
I stared at Ranger for a beat.
“Well?” he asked.
“I'm thinking.”
“Christ,” Ranger said, “get in the damn truck.”
I climbed into the truck and Ranger drove two blocks down Hamilton and turned into the Burg. He wound through the Burg and parked on Roebling in front of Mar-?silio's restaurant.
“I thought you wanted to drive,” I said. “That was the original plan, but you smell like rotisserie chicken and it's making me hungry.”
“It's from Lula. She's on this diet where she eats meat all day.”
Bobby V. met us at the door and gave us a table in the back room. The Burg is famous for its restaurants. They're stuck all over the place in the neighborhood, between houses, next to Betty's bridal shop and Rosalie's beauty parlor. Most are small. All are family affairs. And the food is always great. I'm not sure where Bobby V. fits in the scheme of things at Mar-?silio's, but he's always on hand to direct traffic and shmooze. He's a snappy dresser, he's got a handful of rings and a full head of wavy silver hair, and he looks like he wouldn't have much trouble breaking someone's nose. If you're in bad with Bobby V. don't even bother showing up, because you won't get a table.
Ranger sat back in his chair, took a moment to scan the menu, and ordered. I didn't need the menu. I always got the fettuccini Alfredo with sausage. And then because I didn't want to die, I got some red wine to help unclog my arteries.
“Okay,” Ranger said when we were alone. “Talk to me.”
I filled him in on the shooting, the dart, the email. “And what really has me freaked is that Joe's grandma saw me dead in one of her visions,” I said, an involuntary shiver ripping through me.
Ranger was motionless. Face impassive.
“Every lead I get ends up in the toilet,” I told him.
“Well, you must be doing something right. Someone wants to kill you. That's always a good sign.”
I guess that was one way of looking at it. “Problem is, I'm not ready to die.”
Ranger looked at the food in front of me. Noodles and sausage in cheese and cream sauce. “Babe,” he said.
Ranger's plate held a chicken breast and grilled vegetables. He was hot, but he didn't know much about eating.
“Where are you now?” Ranger wanted to know. “Do you have any more leads to follow?”
“No leads. I'm out of ideas.”
“Any gut instincts?”
“I don't think Singh's dead. I think he's hiding. And I think the freak who's stalking me is directly or indirectly associated with TriBro.”
“If you had to take a guess, could you pull a name out of a hat?”
“Bart Cone is the obvious.”
Ranger made a phone call and asked for the file on Bart Cone. In my mind I imagined the call going into the nerve center of the Bat Cave. No one knows the source of Rangers cars, clients, or cash. He operates a number of businesses which are security related. And he employs a bunch of men who have skills not normally found outside a prison population. His right-?hand man is named Tank and the name says it all.